#bucky down bad for alpine

[buckyseternaldoll]

Snowy Alps: Alpine.

Summary: Bucky brings home a stray cat. Alpine brings home a new routine.

Disclaimer: fluff, domestic bucky, stray cat adoption, alpine supremacy, soft cuddles, pet store chaos, bed-sharing (with cat), light teasing

The door slid open with a gentle swoosh, and Bucky stepped into your shared Watchtower unit, a takeout bag in one hand, your steaming cup of coffee in the other, and—most notably—white cat fur clinging to the black of his jacket like he’d wrestled a snowstorm on the way home.

“Baby?” he called out, voice lighter than usual.

You peeked from the couch where you’d been curled up with a blanket and a book. “Hey, welcome back.” Then your eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re covered in something… fuzzy.”

He blinked, then glanced down. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. About that.”

He set the food down and shrugged off his jacket, revealing even more fur speckled along the sleeves of his black long-sleeve shirt. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. Instead, he practically beamed as he sat beside you, still riding the high of his afternoon discovery.

“There’s this cat,” he began, already breathless with excitement. “At the café downstairs. All white. Like—not cream or off-white. White-white. Snow.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “And she attacked you?”

“No,” he said, eyes softening as he looked at you. “She curled up on my lap while I was waiting for your pastries. Like she just decided I was furniture. Didn’t flinch when I pet her. She even rolled over so I could scratch her tummy.”

“She showed you her belly?” you laughed, heart fluttering at how gentle he sounded. “That’s trust. Instant soul bond.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” His knee bounced slightly. He was trying to contain himself, like he was unsure if this would sound silly—but you already knew the answer.

“So… I wanna bring her home,” he said, glancing at you, hopeful but cautious. “If you’re okay with that. I already checked—she’s a girl. I’d name her Alpine. Like the snowcaps in the Alps. Pure white. Peaceful. It just… felt right. I think she reminds me of that part of me I never got to have.”

That last part made your chest ache a little—softly, sweetly. You leaned forward, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his stubbled cheek.

“I love it,” you said. “And I love her already. Let’s go get Alpine.”

—

Later that evening, you were both back at the café. The little white cat was still perched in her usual spot by the patio, paws tucked under her like a loaf of bread.

Bucky crouched down and softly called, “Hey, Alpine…”

Her ears twitched. She lifted her head, saw him—and without hesitation, padded straight over. She hopped onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, head bumping against his chest before she curled against him.

“Yup,” you murmured, watching him hold her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “You’re hers now.”

He scooped her up carefully, and she made no fuss—just settled in with a quiet purr, trusting and content.

—

The evening ended with a smooth vet visit—Alpine was healthy, just a little underweight—and a very enthusiastic trip to the nearby pet store that felt, quite honestly, more like preparing for a royal homecoming than a casual adoption.

The moment you stepped inside, Bucky froze like a soldier facing an unexpected new mission.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered, surveying the rows of colorful packaging and towers of cat furniture like they were tactical assets on a battlefield. You watched his eyes dart from brand names to ingredient lists with the same intense focus he used when analyzing mission files.

He lingered in the litter box aisle for an embarrassingly long time, crouched in front of three nearly identical models with his brow furrowed. One had a carbon filter, another promised “maximum odor control,” and the third came in sleek matte black.

“This one looks like it belongs in Stark’s bathroom,” he grumbled.

“Then she’ll probably hate it,” you replied, laughing as you nudged him. “Just pick one that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

“She deserves something classy,” he insisted, eventually settling on a simple beige model with a privacy hood and golden trim. “She’s got dignity.”

The indecision didn’t stop there. In the food aisle, he hovered like a man trying to choose the perfect wine for a Michelin-starred dinner. He held up one bag of premium organic kibble like it held the answer to the universe.

“This says wild-caught salmon,” he mumbled, reading the back. “But this one has freeze-dried duck. Which one’s better? Which one screams ‘I love you and I respect your primal instincts’?”

“She’s a five-pound cat, Buck.”

“She’s my five-pound cat,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t give her anything boring. What if she hates me?”

Then, with sudden intensity, he looked at you and said, completely serious: “Should I just buy raw steak? Like… once a week? A little Friday night ritual? We could call it Alpine’s Ribeye Hour.”

You burst out laughing. “No, babe. No ribeye hour. She doesn’t need red meat marbled to perfection.”

A staff member nearby chuckled and gently stepped in. “If she’s not on a raw diet, that much red meat might upset her stomach. Fancy kibble and wet food will do fine. Maybe throw in a few freeze-dried treats.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred instructions.

“I just want her to feel safe,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Like she’s somewhere soft and permanent.”

“She already does,” you reminded him softly.

Eventually, you both left the store with a small cart piled high: a tall cat tree (“She deserves the high ground,” Bucky declared), a pastel pink ceramic bowl set (“Matches her tiny murder princess energy”), a soft faux-fur bed, several mouse-shaped toys, a bag of treats shaped like little fish, and a feather wand Bucky couldn’t stop playing with while waiting in line.

“She’s gonna think we’re insane,” you said.

“She’s gonna think she won the lottery,” he replied.

—

By the time you were both back at the Watchtower—inside your cozy, shared space that passed for a home more than a mission base—Alpine was already out of her carrier and trotting forward like she’d been here before in another life.

Tail held high, she made her rounds with purpose. First the kitchen, where she sniffed the legs of the island and examined the corner near the fridge. Then the couch, where she clawed lightly at the throw blanket you’d folded earlier that morning, as if testing the texture for naps. She darted into the hallway, disappeared into the bathroom, and reappeared with what looked like a stray cotton swab in her mouth.

“She’s inspecting her kingdom,” you whispered.

“No—she’s checking for weak spots in our defenses,” Bucky replied seriously, crouching to retrieve the cotton swab from her mouth. “Classic flanking maneuver.”

Eventually, she made her way into the bedroom, pausing only once to look over her shoulder and chirp—a soft, curious sound that neither of you had expected to melt your hearts the way it did.

You followed her inside, and watched as she leapt effortlessly onto the bed. But not just anywhere. No. She walked with clear intent to Bucky’s side—his pillow still creased from that morning—and plopped down like she owned it.

“I…” Bucky blinked. “I think I’m the chosen one.”

“You are,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re covered in fur and she already slept on you once. You’re marked.”

As if to prove it, Alpine stretched and rolled sideways, exposing her belly to the ceiling as she purred and rubbed her face into Bucky’s pillow like she was stamping her signature all over it.

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she might vanish. But when he sat on the edge of the mattress, Alpine stood, walked over, and—with the most casual entitlement—climbed halfway up his leg like a tiny mountain lion scaling familiar terrain.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to move. “She picked me again.”

You grinned, arms crossed. “Yeah. She’s definitely got good taste.”

Alpine nuzzled her cheek into the dark fabric of his pants before curling into a loaf at his feet, purring like a little motor. The kind of sound you could feel if you stood close enough—warm and steady.

Bucky’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “She’s home.”

—

Dinner was easy that night. The two of you ate on the small dining table tucked against the window, city lights sparkling far below. You passed each other bites between conversation and quiet laughter, half of your attention stolen by the soft presence now occupying the middle of the table.

Alpine had curled up just to the left of Bucky’s plate, nose tucked under her tail, the tips of her ears twitching ever so slightly. Her soft, rhythmic purring filled the space like background music—comforting, cozy, like a fireplace crackling.

Bucky just stared at her for a long moment, chin resting on his palm, spoon suspended in his other hand.

“You good, Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t even look away from her. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I’m full already. Could listen to that purr all night.”

You snorted into your drink, setting it down with a smirk. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve lost my queen position to a white cat with jellybean toes?”

Bucky finally turned to you with the softest look—like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life—and said, “Nah. You’re the queen. She’s just… the royal advisor. Or a tiny fluffy tyrant.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her paw.”

“She does,” he admitted, completely unbothered. “And I’d do anything she asked.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be jealous. Watching him like this—gentle, light, his guard down so far it was practically gone—you felt the warmth of this little family settling into place around you.

And across the table, Alpine purred on. Content. Safe. Home.

—

Night fell quiet over the Watchtower, the kind of stillness only broken by the hum of distant aircraft traffic and the occasional creak of the unit’s HVAC system. In the soft light of your bedroom, all was warm and calm. Alpine was nowhere to be seen for now—last you saw, she’d been investigating the inside of Bucky’s tactical boot.

You were already under the covers, curled into Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm stretched behind your pillow and his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns over your shoulder. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just the kind of closeness that spoke in silence—shared warmth, steady heartbeats, fingers laced under the sheets like they belonged there.

“I love this,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed into your hair. “Me too.”

But then, after a beat, you felt him shift. Just slightly. Then again—shoulders squirming, fingers pausing on your back.

“Bucky,” you said, suspiciously. “Why are you moving?”

He hesitated… then whispered like a kid asking for dessert past bedtime, “Can I… go pet Alpine now?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been waiting all day to cuddle with her,” he said, completely sincere. “I thought maybe she’d sleep on my chest tonight or curl into my arm or something.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You traitor. I lose my spot to a rescue cat in less than twelve hours.”

But before either of you could move, there was a soft thump from the hallway—then the elegant click of tiny paws against the wooden floor. Alpine strutted into the room like she owned the lease.

“There she is,” Bucky whispered excitedly, already shifting up onto one elbow with a smile spreading across his face.

You watched, amused, as Alpine paused at the edge of the bed, assessed the situation like a military tactician… and then, with no hesitation whatsoever, padded to your side and flopped down against your stomach. Not between the two of you. Not on Bucky.

Just you.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

Alpine let out one satisfied purr, stretched long across your middle like a sash, and closed her eyes. Her white fur glowed in the soft bedside lamp, her little pink nose twitching like she’d claimed her spot and would not be moved.

“…She picked you,” Bucky said, sounding personally wounded.

“Oh no,” you gasped, not hiding your grin. “Oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I believe you’ve been rejected.”

“I fed her salmon bits tonight,” he said, genuinely baffled. “I carried her around PetSmart for two hours like she was royalty. I said she was my girl!”

“She was your girl,” you teased. “But clearly, she has her eye on the throne now.”

He narrowed his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Betrayal. In my own bed.”

You reached over with a smirk, gently shifting Alpine so she now lay in the middle between you both. She didn’t curl into a tight ball, like she had before—instead, she stretched out flat and long, paws extended forward, belly facing up proudly as if to say yes, I own you both now.

Her purring started almost instantly—loud and deep, vibrating against the mattress like a lullaby.

“Well,” Bucky murmured, giving her a fond scratch behind the ear, “if she’s in the middle, then at least I get joint custody.”

You smiled, snuggling closer, your arm brushing his over Alpine’s fluff. “Looks like the bed’s not just ours anymore.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re both here.”

And under the soft hum of Alpine’s purring, the three of you slowly drifted off to sleep—safe, warm, and home.

[mercurial-chuckles]

Yield to me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (ft. adventurous Alpine) WC: ~950 ish Warnings: Fluff | Reader rescues a kitten | Whipped Bucky | Roommates-to-lovers trope | Mutual pining | Yet-to-be-named kitten (Alpine) being adventurous | Reader being reckless | Metal-armed supersoldier to the rescue | Concerned Bucky | Angry Bucky | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything! A/N: This is my submission for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 01 Prompt: Mind your own damn business" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Indulge Away!

You got this.

Taking a deep breath and mustering some courage, you took another careful step. The ledge creaked, making you wobble.

Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe not.

In theory, it had looked so fucking doable from your bedroom window, but in reality, it was a monumentally bad idea.

Shit. What now?

Meow.

"Hold on, baby," You muttered, clinging to the window frame because it was the only thing stopping you from plummeting five floors down. The kitten let out another meow as it clung to the edge, two tiny paws already slipping from the sill.

"THE FUCK DO YA THINK YOU'RE DOIN?"

You nearly slipped from the shock of Mrs. Batton's screeching up at you from the fourth floor. She was out of her window, puffing on a cigarette.

"Nothing," you called back with a wince, trying to calm yourself while adjusting your grip on the narrow ledge.

Adrenaline surged as you took another shaky step, inching closer to the terrified furball. Your neighbors were out of town. Otherwise, you could have saved her from the inside of their apartment. But that wasn't an option. It'd also be too late to call 911. And your supersoldier roommates weren't home. So your only shot had been sliding over the tiny ledge from your apartment, and now here you were.

"How in the world did you get there?" You wondered out loud, looking at the kitten.

You'd seen her once in the lobby earlier this week on your way to the mailroom. She'd come right up to you, and you'd cuddled with her for a moment until a couple of people walked in. Then she jumped out of your arms and ran off. You tried to follow her but eventually lost sight of her. You'd assumed she belonged to someone in the building. However, with the strict no-pets policy, you'd wondered who was sneaking one in.

The kitten scrambled, mewling helplessly. You lunged, snatching her into your arms just as her back paws lost hold. She yowled and clung to your shirt with tiny, sharp claws, burrowing into your neck.

"It's okay, sweet girl. You're safe," you whispered, heart pounding otherwise, still clinging to the frame with one arm as you assessed your next move.

Shit. You did not think this through.

That's when Mrs. Batton shouted again, "ARE YOU GONNA JUMP?! SHOULD I CALL 911?"

Meow.

"Gosh! Mind your own damn business!" you snapped, a little harsh, maybe. You'd apologize later with some cookies. If you lived.

You glanced at the fire escape just a few feet away. Four steps. Four steps, and you could land safely on the platform, slide back into your room, and question your and the little kitten's insane life choices.

Bravely, you took one more step. Nope, you couldn't make it. Maybe you should ask Mrs. Batton to call the cops.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?"

Oh no.

You whipped your head around, nearly losing your balance in the process.

"Bucky?"

He stood there, phone to his ear, half out of your window, tactical suit still on, staring at you horrified.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, pocketing his mobile and climbing onto the fire escape. You, meanwhile, were clinging to the frame with a sweaty hand. Bucky rarely spoke to you in that tone. You'd seen him use that tone on Steve on various occasions, a privilege of sharing a flat with two super soldiers.

"I…"

Meow.

Your arms tightened around her.

"She was about to fall, Bucky," you shouted unnecessarily. With enhanced senses, he could hear just fine, but your ears were ringing loudly, scared out of your wits.

Bucky looked livid. It made your stomach drop to the ground, promising to take you along.

"Hold on tight," he ordered. Your pulse tripped unhealthily.

He jumped onto the tiny sill and held out his metal hand. You nodded at him and then tried to hand the kitten to Bucky, but she clung to you, claws ripping into the fabric of your shirt and skin tightly.

"Don't worry, baby. He's got you. You're safe," You cooed.

He gently took the kitten from your arms. The little thing curled against his metal arm, and he brought her to his chest instantly.

You both exhaled in relief. One crisis managed.

You shifted your footing, trying to prepare for your own escape, but Bucky's sharp voice stopped you cold.

"Don't fucking move."

Your breath caught, and your heart galloped.

You didn't dare argue. Not like you were in a great state to do so anyway.

He secured the kitten inside your room, sliding the window mostly shut so she wouldn't wander out again. And now he was headed back for you.

"Take my hand," he said urgently, stretching out his gloved palm, his eyes locked on yours. You hesitated.

"I'll never let you fall," he added softly, and somehow your stomach did a cocktail of dance forms.

"Do you trust me, doll?"

"I do, Bucky. It's just my hands are clammy, and that section is a little wonky…"

He glanced at the spot you indicated and back at you. The twitch in his jaw was clear from where you were standing.

Bucky groaned, evaluating the situation. Then, he placed his feet back on the fire escape railing, turned around gracefully, and leaped onto the ledge beside you.

Were you not hanging on the edge, you'd be swooning at that seductive move right there. But mooning over your crush could prove fucking lethal right now.

Bracing himself with his right hand on the fixture of your window, Bucky stretched out his metal arm again. Sweet baby Jesus! He was tall, alright.

"Gimme your hand," he said, voice strained.

You whimpered shakily and reached out, terrified that your sweat-slicked fingers might doom you both.

Bucky didn't reach for your palm but took your elbow and pulled you close, and you were airborne for a few seconds before being pressed against him. His metal arm wound around you tightly, and you could feel his muscles rippling as he straightened out.

"Fuck!" He muttered, sighing into the crook of your neck. "I've got you. Close your eyes for me, okay?" he said.

"Wrap your legs around me," he ordered, and you did. You buried your face into his chest. God! He was strong and smelled so damn fine. You were giddy that you felt so fucking safe in his arms.

Bucky swung you both to safety on the fire escape landing.

"Holy shit." You let out a breathless, nervous laugh.

But before you could wiggle out of his arms, Bucky held you, guiding you toward your window. He sat you down on the sill, his palm flexed roughly on your thigh, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist. Then, he hugged you.

You felt his whole body shaking, breath coming out ragged, his sharp nose tickling the expanse of your shoulder and neck, making your heart plummet.

You tried to say something, but honestly, you were breathless. All you could do was wrap your hands around him, hoping to calm him. This was the first time you had this much body contact with Bucky. It had always been a small touch of fingers when passing a glass or a plate. You'd always been mindful to respect his personal space.

You let out a gasp, your face heating up when he squeezed your sides.

His rough, fingerless-gloved fingers tilted your chin up, daring you to meet his gaze, and you did, reluctantly. His blue eyes were so intense, they made you shudder.

"You're okay," he whispered, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. Then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead gently, making you freefall into the perfection that was Bucky.

You blinked up at him, utterly and irrevocably taken aback. Because Bucky minded his business, mostly, while you'd been rotting in your one-sided affections for him. This display of his worry left you gaping.

And right then, he grumbled softly, "God! You're a worse punk than Steve." A nervous, surprised chuckle escaped you without your volition.

"I'm gonna seal that damn window shut. Never do that to me again. You understand?" he growled against your lips, his nose grazing yours.

With all that intense, barely restrained anger absolutely entrancing you, you nodded dumbly.

Well?

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[buckysleftbicep]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[marvelstoriesepic]

Soft Spot

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Alpine is determined to gain access to your room while you are resting.

Warnings: Bucky’s conversation with a cat lol; Bucky being jealous of a cat; fluff; feelings; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: I just needed to write a little something and this came out. Hope you enjoy! Also, I probably will be posting the next chapter of like a Phoenix tomorrow. This is a part of a series with a loose timeline, but you can also read this as a stand alone. Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“Nah, Alp, c’mon now.”

Bucky sets his mug of tea down on the kitchen counter with a quiet clink - he never used to drink tea before moving in with you, but living with you changed that.

The little white kitten Bucky and you adopted from the shelter a few months ago paws insistently at your bedroom door, tiny claws scratching against the wood. She lets out a sharp, impatient mewl.

Bucky sighs, before striding over to her hurriedly and scooping the little ball of fluff into his arms before she can make more of a racket.

“Alpine,” he warns, almost too firmly considering he is talking to a cat. “Cut it out, yeah? You’re gonna wake her up.”

The kitten wiggles in his hold, clearly unimpressed. She meows again. Loud. Indignant. Bucky huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head and scratching her behind her ear.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, glancing at the closed door to your room. “Ya miss her. But she’s had a rough couple weeks, alright? Stress n' exams, you know, the whole damn deal. She needs the rest. Can’t have you climbin’ all over her like the little menace you are.”

Alpine stares at him with those big blue eyes, as if she understands every word but refuses to accept the reasoning. Another sharp meow, this time more of a protest.

Bucky sighs dramatically, shifting her into one arm and rubbing her chin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t gimme that look. I ain’t the bad guy here, buddy. Just tryna let her sleep.”

Alpine doesn’t seem to hear a word.

Before Bucky can react, the little furball twists her tiny body and slips right out of his grasp, landing softly on the floor.

In an instant, she is back at your bedroom door, paws crawling, tail flicking, and meowing like she is under torture.

Bucky groans quietly, dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus.” He crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches her.

He reaches out, rubbing slow and soothing circles on her soft white fur. “You just wanna be near her, huh, girl?” His voice is softer now. He sighs, deep and heavy, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I get that.”

Because Alpine loves you. She doesn’t hide it - follows you everywhere, curls up in your lap, meows until you give her attention. She’s got no hesitation when it comes to showing how much she adores you.

And that is what Bucky envies.

Because Bucky loves you too. He just can’t show his affection that outright. He’s your best friend. Your roommate. And that’s the part that stings.

He would do anything for being able to show you how much he adores you without crossing the line he is afraid to.

His chest tightens long enough for him to really feel the ache and he stands up, exhaling through his nose with a resigned breath.

“Alright, you little punk,” he mutters, shaking his head as Alpine turns those blue eyes back up to him. Expectant.

Slowly, he reaches for the door handle, giving the kitten another warning glare. “Just for a quick visit, yeah? No bouncin’ on her. No wakin’ her up, got it?”

Alpine meows.

Bucky huffs, pushing the door open carefully.

The small cat whooshes past Bucky the second the door cracks open, a blur of white fur darting straight for your bed. He barely stops himself from calling out, biting back a curse as he runs a frustrated hand down his face.

Damn cat’s got a one-track mind.

But he can’t really blame her. You’re on his mind probably even more often.

He steps inside, deliberately avoiding the creaky floorboards. He’s been in your room often enough to have memorized them by now.

Alpine reaches your face and bumps her small head against yours with a high chirp before rubbing along your cheek.

You don’t stir in your sleep.

Curled up on your side toward the direction of the door, hands tucked near your face, you’re completely dead to the world, your breaths slow and even.

Bucky guesses the stress from the last weeks must have finally caught up to you because you don’t even twitch when Alpine starts licking at your fingers.

“Alpine,” he whisper-yells, stepping closer, ready to scoop the little cat up and drag her outside before she wakes you.

But Alpine starts to circle, once, then again, before settling right against your hip, tucking herself into a comfortable little ball. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Bucky stops in his tracks, hands on his hips, shaking his head with an amused smirk on his lips.

“You’ve got no idea how jealous you’re makin’ me right now, Alp.”

Something tugs and turns in his chest, watching the way you sleep so peacefully, completely unaware of anything. Of how easy it is for Alpine to curl up against you and claim you like it’s the most natural thing to do.

He lets out a breath, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Alright,” he utters in a whisper. “Guess I’ll just stand here like an idiot while you get all the cuddles.”

Alpine flicks her tail.

Bucky stands there for a moment, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you.

The way your brows are at ease, your face soft and relaxed - peaceful and serene in a way he hasn’t seen in too damn long.

And oh how it calms something deep inside him.

The past few weeks had been brutal on you. It was a mess of late nights, long assignments, and that damn stubborn streak of yours keeping you from slowing down, no matter how many times he told you to.

You pushed yourself too hard - always do - and every time it drives him up the wall.

He hates seeing you stressed and he did what he could. Brought you tea, draped blankets over your shoulders when you were too caught up in your work to notice the chill. Left food by your side when he knew you’d forgotten to eat.

And you accepted it all - gave him those sweet little smiles accompanied by a thanks, Buck in that soft voice of yours that always knocks the wind out of him - but you never really listened.

Never listened when he told you that pushing past exhaustion isn’t the solution. That not having a clear head is worse than not being prepared at all.

But now you are finally resting.

For the first time in what feels like months, you are letting yourself breathe.

And Bucky feels like a weight is falling off his shoulders, a tension he was gripping finally loosening.

He exhales a deep, relieved sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

Alpine stirs slightly at your hip but stays balled up, her soft purring filling the room beside your deep breaths.

It’s then that Bucky notices the book half-tucked against your arm. You must have been reading before finally crashing, trying to quiet your mind enough to let yourself sleep.

He steps closer, cautiously, eyes flickering to your face to make sure you don’t wake up.

For a second, he worries it’s one of your damn textbooks - because if you fell asleep studying for god knows what now, he is going to have to give you some words.

But as he leans over you slightly, fingers brushing the covers and gently pulling it away from your arm, he lets out a pleased breath. Just a novel. Good.

He carefully marks the page, folds the book shut, and sets it on your nightstand.

Bucky straightens, and he knows he should walk back out - really, he should - but his eyes stay on you a little longer. He almost feels like some kinda creep just standing here, watching. But hell, he can’t help it.

You look so damn adorable with your little pout. So damn beautiful with your hair falling just so, features so soft, color in your cheeks.

His breath hitches unintentionally and his pulse skips, his heart only a trembling thing in his chest.

Taking in a deep breath, he takes a hold of your blanket and gradually tugs it up over your shoulders, up to your chin.

The fact that Alpine gets dragged along with it and the grumpy chirp she lets out gets ignored by him. She glares at him in annoyance but does not move from her spot.

“Mhm… Buck…?”

Your voice is thick with sleep, soft and drowsy, and it nearly knocks Bucky off balance. Literally. His foot catches on the floor and he stumbles slightly, heart lurching in his chest like the idiot he is.

His gaze snaps to your face. You blink up at him, slow and unfocused, brows scrunching in confusion. Eyes half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, your voice slurring slightly.

Jesus. You’re so damn cute like this.

Bucky clears his throat, forcing himself to school his expression. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos in a whisper, gentle and soothing. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He shoots Alpine a pointed look, but the cat, as usual, doesn’t seem to give a damn.

You shift slightly, nestling deeper into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut again. Without thinking, Bucky brushes his hand through your hair, over your cheek in slow and soothing motions to coax you back into sleep.

You hum in contentment. That little sound does something to him, settling deep within him.

And hell - if his heart doesn’t clench at the sight of you like this. So soft, so sweet, so damn beautiful it hurts.

A lightness swells beneath his ribs. An airy flutter dances.

He focuses on the way your breathing evens out, the way your body melts back into the bed.

And when he’s sure you’ve slipped under again, Bucky lets himself lean down, lips ghosting over your temple in the lightest of touches, giving you a soft kiss. He lingers just a second, long enough to whisper against your skin, voice barely more than a breath.

“Sleep tight, doll. You better dream of me.”

And with one last glance, so full of longing, he forces himself to pull away. He lets Alpine stay with you, despite the fact that he wants to be the one who gets to do that.

But he slips out of the room as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind him with a faint click. Leaving with you the racing of his heart you caused and the ache of something he isn’t sure he’ll ever have the guts to say out loud.

“Her, because she makes life poetry, she turns every bit of it into art.”

- butterflies rising

[jobean12-blog]

Cookie Crumbles

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: You and Bucky are neighbors and you’ve been subtly flirting for weeks so when his Birthday comes around you make him his favorite treat.

Author’s Note: This was inspired by a lovely little ask my dear friend @lizette50 and because I love these gifs and Bucky and it’s his birthday! Yay! Thanks a bunch sweets and thank you all so much for reading! Much love always❤️❤️❤️

Warnings: cookies and fluff and sweetness🥰

Knock, knock.

“Shit.”

“Bucky? You there?”

“Shit, shit. Fuck.”

“I can hear you.”

“One sec doll.”

He puts down his food and sighs, assessing the damage.

“Fuck.”

The moment he opens the door he forgets the sauce on his shirt, the sight of you stealing all coherent thoughts from his brain.

“You…ok?” you ask as your eyes fall to the red stains on his crisp white shirt and metal arm. “Did you and Alpine get in a fight?”

He laughs. “Nah doll. Just made a mess eatin’ dinner. Come on in.”

He moves aside and holds his door open. You brush past him, and he gets hit with a whiff of the smell of your shampoo, his eyes closing involuntarily and his chest expanding with an inhale.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” you cheer, turning and throwing your arms around his neck.

For a moment he’s too shocked to move but then he circles his arms around your waist and pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck.

“Shit!” he says again.

“More shit?” you ask as you laugh into his chest.

“I probably got sauce on you now!” he explains as you slowly pull away and look down at your shirt.

“Looks like I managed to stay clean,” you giggle. “But whatever that is it looks good.”

“It is,” he responds.

You look back down at the stain on his shirt and swipe your finger through the sauce, lifting it to your lips.

“Mm, definitely yummy.”

His eyes fall to your lips and track the movement of your tongue when you lick them clean.

“Want some?” he says, his voice hoarse.

“After I clean you up.”

You grab his metal hand and bring him to the sink, carefully sliding it under the water until most of the sauce washes off.

“I think there’s still some in between the pieces,” you muse as you turn his wrist back and forth.

“I can get that out,” he says with a smile.

You watch as he steps back and removes his shirt, then with a few smooth movements detaches his arm from his shoulder. When he opens the dishwasher you can’t stop your giggle.

“Really?” you ask.

“Yup. Works great!”

“But we can’t put your shirt in there…”

You tap your chin and then call him back to the sink. Using the cold water, you run the back of the stained section under the water then use the dish soap to gently massage the spot.

“If it’s still not out after we do this a couple of times we can try some white vinegar. Then you can wash it.”

“Thanks doll face.”

“No problem!”

He waits patiently as you work out the stain and when you’re satisfied you hand him back his shirt.

“Wow, not bad!” he says.

You preen with a lift of your chin and a smile and then grab his food, being sure to lean over the counter so when you take a bite the sauce drips onto the foil.

“Mm,” you say through a mouthful. “Worth the stain.”

“You can have the rest,” he says.

“Nah, just wanted a taste.”

You look up and find him staring at your mouth.

“What?”

He steps closer, tentatively lifting his hand and brushing the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.

“Sauce,” he explains before licking it off his finger.

You swallow hard and give him a breathy thanks. The silence stretches between you and the tension builds until finally you blurt out, “I made cookies…for your birthday.”

“Cookies?” he repeats as if the word is alien.

“Yeah. That’s why I came over. To tell you I made cookies.”

“I love cookies.”

“I know you do.”

“Can I have one?” he asks. “Or five.”

“You can have as many as you want. Come on, I just took them out of the oven before I came by.”

“Hang on doll, just lemme get my arm.”

He opens the door to the dishwasher and slides out the rack, grabbing his metal arm. With ease he pops it back onto his shoulder and does a quick set of movements to make sure it’s comfortable.

When he meets you by the door you grab his metal wrist and search the spot where the sauce spilled.

“Really does work,” you say with a smile.

“Every time,” he answers with a wink.

Sliding your fingers down toward his hand you close them around his and tug him out the door and across the hall.

As soon as you get into your apartment you’re enveloped in the smell of buttery sweetness and melted chocolate.

Bucky lets out a wanton moan. “Man, it smells good in here.”

Once you’re in the small kitchen you hand him a napkin and a cookie, watching as he bites off half of it.

He closes his eyes and pops the other half in.

“More please.”

You slide the plate over. “Have as many as you want Buck. They’re for you.”

He grabs another and eats it, the crumbs falling and sprinkling all over his white tank top. Your eyes fall to his chest, and he follows your gaze.

“Oh man. I’m such a…”

“You’re fine,” you tell him. “Cookies make crumbs.”

You gently slide your hand over his chest and brush the crumbs off and onto the counter.

“And they don’t stain,” you say with a chuckle.

“Not unless it’s melty chocolate chips.”

You agree with a nod and bite into a cookie.

“See now you have some melted chocolate on your chin,” he points out.

“Oh.”

You reach up to wipe it clean, but he beats you to it, his thumb lingering on the spot as his eyes wander over your face.

“Thanks for making me cookies doll.”

“Of course,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

He doesn’t remove his thumb from the corner of your mouth and leans in closer. His free hand cups the other side of your face and his eyes fall to your lips.

You stop breathing when his mouth finds yours, tender and hungry all at once. The kiss is worshipful but clearly restraining an appetite like you’ve never experienced.

As soon as his lips connect with yours, your fingers curl into his tank top, and his metal hand leaves your face to slide slowly down your back and flatten the front of your body against his.

He moans like he’s never tasted anything so good in all his life and he needs more to survive. He comes up for a brief gasp of air, searching your face for any sign of apprehension and when he sees only the same desire reflected in your eyes, he dives back in.

Bucky’s phone goes off, jolting you both out of the moment. He breaks the kiss, his breathing harsh and he stares at your mouth for a few long moments before reaching into his pocket.

“Sam,” Bucky says with a growl into the phone.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Sam sings from the other side. “How’s it goin’?”

Bucky smiles at you, tightening his hold at your back and keeping you tucked close.

“Thanks. Best birthday ever and I’m gonna have to call you back later.”

Before Sam gets the chance to say goodbye, Bucky hangs up, his phone falling to the counter as his lips find yours again.

[dissolved-g1rl]

𐙚⋆°｡⋆ his hair gets in the way

It started at work, Bucky hadn’t really noticed it that much. Only when he had to look down at paperwork and his hair would loom forward, flopping over his peripheral. Then at the gym, any running or anything particularly that has to do with working out became him having to brush his hair behind his ear every two seconds. At home you notice it a little, every so often you’ll see him brush it back or run his fingers through it. You like it long, more to run your fingers through, not to say you don’t understand his grievances.

He looks at you from the bed, seeing you with a hairband as you lean over the sink, rinsing off your face wash. Bucky doesn’t think he could wear a fuzzy headband with a bow to punch bad guys in the face. “I think ‘m gonna cut my hair.” He murmurs when you lay down in bed, turning off the overhead light, opting for the lamp on your nightstand. “What? Why would you do that? I thought you wanted to grow it out.” You ask shifting to face him, cozying up next to him. “It’s…annoying. I always have to adjust it.” He murmurs. “It’s just in an awkward stage still, once ‘s a little longer you can start tying it back.” You say resting your head on his chest, he rubs your back and hums at your suggestion. “Or…I have some clips, bobby pins too, just till it’s ponytail length.” You add on, rubbing his side, over his ribs.

You end up on his lap, sectioning the parts of his hair that flop forward but aren’t long enough to tie back. “Look how cute, I have Hello Kitty ones ‘n I have plain ones too.” You say excitedly showing him the barrettes. He doesnt know who Hello Kitty is, he likes saying hello to your kitty, and to Alpine, beyond that he’s clueless. “Ummm let’s just go for plain baby.” He says patting your back, closing his eyes when he feels your fingers drag through his hair. You have a brown barrette that is a little darker than his actual hair color, clipping it into place behind his ear. Doing the same to the other side, “Wow, look at this pretty face, all on display!” You croon warmly, cupping his cheeks, he rolls his eyes at your fuss accepting your kisses on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. “So handsome, so—” Another kiss, “So handsome, like an angel.” You squeal squeezing him tightly. “Woah.” He smiles, looping his arm around your middle. “Damn, okay, the clips are a yes then.” He croons enjoying the feeling of getting smothered. He doesn’t know how he lived without your love for so long, sometimes he thinks you’ll make him sick with your sweetness, it can’t be good for his heart.

The morning after you tie his tie like any day, pour his coffee, and hand him his arm from the drying rack. You send him off with two exact kisses and a pat on the chest. The press has a lovely time getting picture after picture of the pastel barrette behind congressmen Barnes’ ear wondering who could’ve possibly gotten the usually aloof man into something as cute as Hello Kitty…

strawberry divider by @kodaswrld

line divider by @cursed-carmine

a/n: based on thunderbolts buck :3 (i need him.)

[theundercoversquid]

Cat Sitting

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Your Buckys catsitter, and well, maybe Alpine isn't the only one you need to look after

Warnings: Bob

Masterlist

Walking up to the old Stark tower, come Avengers tower, come whatever the hell this was, was not how you were expecting to spend your Friday evening. Yet here you were. Alpine, Buckys cat, cuddled to your chest. Her harness was on and her lead in hand. But the cat was happy pressed against you. Purring contentedly as you narrated your thoughts to her.

"The things I do for your dad." You murmur to the cat, looking up at the towering skyscraper.

You had always been Buckys' go-to person when someone had to look after Alpine, I mean, what were friends for? But when he asked you to drop Alpine off here instead of his flat, you had been confused. But went through with his request anyway. You knew that Bucky wouldn't let anything bad happen to Alpine, and that meant, by extension, you. It was a close-run thing about who Alpine loved more, you or Bucky.

Heasitenly, you recheck the message that Bucky had sent you before stepping into the building and walking up to the lifts. Pressing the call button, you wait for one to arrive, anxiously stroking Alpines fur as you wait.

When a lift dings to tell you it has arrived, you step in. Pressing the floor Bucky had told you to, and feeling as if it takes you up.

When the lift comes to a stop, you step out into the seemingly deserted building.

"Hello." You call out hesitantly. "Bucky!" You call a bit louder this time as Alpine jumps out of your arms, landing on the ground. But still, you make sure to keep hold of her lead. Not quite trusting this strange environment.

But only silence greets you, and then the sound of shuffling feet has you turn to see a man heading in your direction, well, more like shuffling hesitantly in your direction.

"Hello?" You greet the strange person. But their eyes are firmly set on Alpine as they shuffle towards her before bending down to give the cat some fuss.

You wait for a few moments as they give Alpine some fuss before finally butting in.

"Excuse me," You call softly. Casing their head to suddenly turn to you, looking sheepish. "You wouldn't know where Bucky is by any chance." For a moment, you feel like you are going to get lost in his eyes. But you shake yourself out of it.

"Oh, sorry," the stranger murmurs, a hand coming up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sweater. "Bucky got called out last minute, but he warned me you would be coming around. he told me to tell you that he will be back soon. You can wait if you want, or you can leave Alpine with me." The stranger murmurs.

"I take it that means that you are Bob, then," you murmur. Leaning down to unclip Alpine's lead, giving her the space to roam if she wants to. Not that it looks as if she wants to go anywhere with Bob giving her fuss, so you also croach down storing the spoiled cat.

"Oh," Bob murmurs, not looking at you as he instead looks at Alpine. "You know who I am?"

"Bucky mentioned you." You admit with a shrug, also looking at Alpine instead of the man opposite you.

"What did he say?" Bob asks. Somehow, his voice seems almost even quieter, with a hesitant edge to it, as if he doesn't truly want to know what Bucky has to say about him.

"Not much." You admit truthfully. "After the attack on New York, I called him to make sure he was alright. I had seen him on the news, but I wanted to make sure he was really alright, you know. He told me some of what went down. Told me bits and pieces, I know he wants to tell me the whole story, but it's not the sort of thing you say over the phone. Then, when it came to dropping Alpine off, he mentioned that you may be around."

"That's all?" Bob murmurs, half glancing towards you, as if he wants to look at you but can't bring himself to.

"Pretty much," you shrug. "Why? Is there something else he should have told me?" You question before pausing. "You aren't allergic to cats, are you?"

"No." Bob blurts out suddenly, and you don't know which of your questions he is answering. "I mean no," Bob murmurs. "No to all of them."

"That's good." You nod. "It would be a bit awkward if you were allergic to cats, given Alpine is going to be loving with you.

"What about you?" Bob murmurs. "Do you live with Bucky and Alpine?"

"Oh no." You laugh. "Just an old friend. Well, not that old, given how old Bucky is. But I have been a friend of his for quite a while. Steve introduced us to each other. Brings back memories being back at this place."

At that Bob finally looks up at you, he hesitates, looking as if he is going to say something, but before he can pluck up the corage you can here the sound of the lift going of, filled by the sound of the doors opening and overlaping voices greet you as the others emerge from the lift. All talking over each other about something or another.

But at the sight of you and Bob crouched down to the ground giving fuss to a snow white cat, all conversation halts.

"Alpine!" Bucky call, grinning as he spots his cat. Alpine has also spotted Bucky stands up, running at him, before she throws herself at him. The man catches her effortlessly as he cradles her to his chest, giving her fuss.

"Who are you?" A woman with bleached blond hair standing next to Bucky asks, her accent thick.

Standing up, you hesitantly wave at the group, telling them your name. "I'm an old friend of Buckys and sometimes cat sit for him." You pause for a moment, hesitant before you carry on. "I also have Nat's cat." You murmur. "Liho. She used to leave her with me." At the mention of Nat, both the woman you're assuming to be Yelena and an older man's heads snap to look at you, their eyes intent. "I was going to bring her as well, but she was determined she didn't want to come." With their eyes intent on you, you can't help but carry on rambling. "I can bring her around if you want to meet her." You finally offer a trial.

"Yes," the older man nods. "That would be good." His accent also thick.

"I'm going to go now." You announce feeling awkward. "Call me if you need any more cat sitting," you tell Bucky. Edging around the imposing crowd as you make a bid for the lifts.

"Wait. A voice called, forcing you to stop and turn around. All eyes have now turned to Bob as he seems to shrink under their gaze. "Do you maybe want to stay?" Bob murmurs. "You could stay for supper."

"Oh," you murmured, a little surprised at the sudden request. Turning to look at Bucky, not sure what to do. But you can see him already nodding. Agreeing with Bob's suggestion. "I would love to." You start before trialling of, "It's just that I have some things I need to do, and then I will need to get back to Liho." You murmur.

"Oh," Bob deflates a little, taking what you have said as a not ever, when in fact it is a not now.

"That doesn't mean I would want to come for dinner some night." You amend quickly. "Just not tonight."

Bob seems to perk up a little at that, as everyone else just seems to carry on, staring at you. Well, everyone but Bucky, who had gone back to giving Alpine fuss.

"I'm going to go now," you murmur, making a bid for freedom. You end up practically running out of the Avengers Tower. Rushing out into the street, you know you have safely blended into the crowd.

You truly did mean your offer, you would love to stay for the supper. But tonight was not the night for it. Not least because you hadn't had the time to mentally prepare for it.

When Bucky had asked if you could pet sit Alpine, you had thought absolutely nothing of it. It was rather a common that you had to look after the snow white cat.

When he had asked if you could come to the Avengers tower to look after Alpine, you hadn't thought that much of it. Poor Alpine had just moved to a new home with new people. It would make sense that Bucky would want her to get used to that new environment.

What had made you suspicious, however, was Buckys' insistence that he had left instructions on the counter that you had to read. You had pet-sat Alpine enough times that you knew her as well as you knew your own cat. For heaven's sake, Alpine was practically your second cat.

But no, Bucky had some new instructions you just had to read, and being the trusting person that you were, you just chalked it up to being instructions about the new location. When to take the bins out. That sort of thing.

So you packed up the clothes you would need for the week he was going to be away. Also, packing up all of Liho's things.

Then, when everything was finally ready, you headed across to the Avnerger towers. From what Bukcy had told you, he had given Alpine breakfast before leaving that morning. So you were arriving an hour or two later.

When you get into the complex, the doors to the lift open. Silence greets you as you step out into the main room, but you can't see anyone or anything around.

"Alpine!" You call gently as you make your way into the kitchen. At your words, you can hear a soft thump followed by hurried paws as Alpine rushes to make her way to you.

Liho is still half asleep, swaddled in a pappus, so you open your other arm up to Alpine, who happily leaps into it. Purring as you cradle her.

Then, with two cats, one in each arm, you turn to read the instructions that Bucky had left you.

The instructions start normally enough. How the hob works, when to take the bins out, how the heating works and all those sorts of things. There are then a few comments on where Alpine likes to sleep, in case you can't find her. Then, when you turn that page, you can see that the title is simply: Bob.

Which confuses you? As far as you were aware, Bucky had gotten another cat, and if he had, why would he give it the same name as his teammate and the person that he lived with? But still you read his instructions, and as you read them, you feel more and more sorry for this poor cat.

When you get to the end, you fold the piece of paper up. Tuck it in your pocket before you head off around the facility. Two cats are still cradled to you as you go.

"Bob!" You call softly so as not to startle the cat.

What you were not expecting was for Bob the human to suddenly sit up on the sofa he had obviously been lying down on. His sudden appearance startles you. But somehow you remain upright and with both cats still in your arms.

Bob seems equally startled to see you as you both stare at each other with wide eyes for a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Bob suddenly asks before his eyes widen again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." He rushed to amend, but you assured him it was all right.

"I'm cat sitting." You explain to him. Gently lifting Alpine up in your arms. "Though I have yet to meet Buckys' new cat."

"New cat?" Bob questions, looking confused.

"Yeah," you nod. "He left me a note about him." You explain as you pull the note from your pocket. Holding it out to Bob.

Tentatively, Bob takes the paper from your outstretched hand

You watch him as he reads it. His face changes as he gets further down the paper.

"Uh," Bob murmurs. "I think that's me."

"Oh," you murmur, not suddenly making sense. "I'm going to kill Bucky." You murmur, your head dropping down to land on Lihos head as the cat meows at you.

Bob seems to take your reaction the wrong way.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want to." He rushes to assure you. "I can look after Alpine for you."

"Nope," You shake your head. "It looks like I have two cats and a human to look after." 

With that, you deposit both cats onto Bob's lap. "Now, when did you last eat a proper meal?"

Bob pauses. Taken aback by your words, he strokes the cats. But then you can see as he starts to think about your questions.

"Well, that's answer enough, you tell him. Turning your head towards the kitchen, any allergies or dietary restrictions?" You call over your shoulder.

"Uh, no?" Bob calls back.

"Perfect." You call over your shoulder before you step into the kitchen.

Now, maybe when you had first entered the Avengers, you hadn't been expecting to have to look after two cats and a human. But you weren't going to leave Bob alone in the tower by himself. Who knows, maybe the company may do him a little bit of good.

But that wasn't to say you were going to kill Bucky when he got home.

[callsign-swan]

Cover up

The Thunderbolts* are onto him, but Bob has the perfect little cover up.

Part 2 to sneaking around (can be read as a standalone)

"She's cute."

Bob stopped, the elevator doors sliding shut behind him. For a good moment, everybody else had the vision of him being dragged to the floor, the back of his sweater caught.

But that didn't happen.

Bob swallowed as he looked at Yelena. The woman that had become his best friend since he'd learnt to enjoy life again, since he found somewhere he belonged.

It didn't feel right to lie.

"She? Who's she?" John asked, unintentionally saving Bob's ass. Giving him the time he needed to think of a good lie.

Well, it would have been a good lie, if he didn't look so damn panicked.

"I was at the shelter!" Bob said quickly. "Gonna adopt a cat."

"We don't need another cat," Bucky said from the sofa, his flesh arm against his forehead as he laid there. On his chest, Alpine seemed to purr louder.

But Bob doubled down. "This would be my cat," he explained, his forehead beginning to sweat. "Company while you guys are saving the world."

"Bob's a cat guy," John muttered as he walked away. "Who knew?"

But Yelena wasn't buying it. Of course she wasn't; she was the one that had witnessed Bob out on a date. She was the one who had seen him buy flowers, seen him kiss her forehead and hold her hand.

So, she once more followed Bob. "Buying a cat my ass!" She called after him as they walked the corridors of the watch tower. "You were on a date!"

"It wasn't a date!" Bob insisted, his hands doing most of the talking. "We're just... friends."

"Friends don't treat each other like that, Bob," she insisted. "Friends don't buy bouquets of flowers that nice for each other. Friends don't kiss each others foreheads and hold hands."

For a moment, Bob stared at her. She was right, he was more than friends with that girl, but Yelena was dead wrong. He made a mental note to get her some flowers. Maybe not kiss her forehead, not if he wanted to keep breathing.

"Just..." he sucked in a breath. "I'm not ready to tell the others yet. Can we keep this between us?"

Lips pursed, arms folded over her chest, she was the image of a stern mother. But then she dropped her arms. "We can keep this between us," he said and patted his shoulder.

Bob let himself smile before he disappeared into his room.

***

"Stop squirming," he whispered to the little bundle in his arms. The elevator carried them both up and Garfield wouldn't stop.

Garfield. She wasn't even an orange cat. She wasn't even a male. Nothing about her said Garfield, but that was her name.

The absurdity of the entire situation hadn't yet hit Bob.

Maybe it was because she was at the shelter with him, playing with the dogs (he couldn't handle having a dog) and cuddling with the cats. She had been the one to pick Garfield.

"It's bad luck to change her name," she told him as she carried the pet carrier, Bob's hand on her back.

"Trust me," Bob said, stopping outside of her apartment. "I don't need anymore bad luck."

So the grey cat with the sweet pink nose was Garfield.

Her story wasn't a tragedy. A home with kids and she didn't like kids. Bob could work with that. Bob could give her a good life.

"Oh my god he really did it," Yelena muttered, looking up from her game of cards.

Garfield raised her head from the crook of Bob's elbow (he'd taken her out of the carrier as soon as they were inside).

"Everybody, this is Garfield," he said, placing her carrier down to scratch the top of her head. "This is definitely who Yelena was talking about the other week."

All eyes were on him. "Garfield?" At least three people asked.

"Like, the 'I hate mondays' guy?" John asked.

"He's not Garfield coloured," Ava finished.

"She," Bob corrected.

The New Avengers stared at him, unblinking. "She?" Bucky asked. "She's called Garfield?"

"Bob-" John stopped himself from adding two more letters, from turning it into a name full of bad memories. "Bob, you gotta change her name."

"I can't," he answered. "Bad luck."

John's eyebrows raised. "Bad luck?"

"'S bad luck to change a cats name once you've adopted it." Plus, she loved the name, but the New Avengers didn't need to know that.

When Garfield yawned, the room seemed to soften. Earth's new mightiest heroes gave a collective 'aww' and moved closer.

While they all stared at her, pet her grey fur and let her sniff their hands with her pink nose, Yelena looked at Bob. One point to him, she guessed. Plus, Garfield really was the cutest little cover up.

[crowsofdarkness]

Bucky realizes he's in love.

cw's below the cut: small mention of smut, language, but most of all tooth rotting fluff. this is written in Bucky's pov.

The soft breeze blew through our opened window, dancing with the long curtains, as I laid in bed with her head on my chest, fingernails trailing down the bareness of my skin. I held her tighter, her smell engulfing my sense of and I fluttered my eyes shut at the familiarity. 

Roses. She knew how much of a sucker I was for that smell and made everything about her that smell. 

There was a tune playing throughout the speakers in our shared home as I adjusted the sheets over our naked bodies, the actions of our lazy Sunday replaying in my mind. 

I found myself becoming obsessed with the feeling of her head on my chest and she carefully traced the scars on my shoulder where flesh met vibranium. She knew about my past, everything I had done as The Winter Soldier, and even if I hated myself for it, she didn’t. She loved everything about me, the good and bad. There were plenty of times she could have left after many nights of nightmares but she refused. 

Her love for me was bigger than the tragic memories. 

I had lost hope after Steve left to go back in time, leaving me alone. But when she came into my life, hope began to fill my veins; hope for a happy ending finally. I never believed I deserved one but she began to prove me wrong. 

Any time I began to over think any small thing, I looked into her bright eyes and I couldn't stop myself from catching a breath because she made me lose it all over again. When I look at her, that’s the end of all of the bad thoughts.

Years together and I can’t stop the nervousness or butterflies in my stomach when we stare at one another. 

Her soft lips kissed the scars, something she had always done, and I wrapped my arms tighter around her while my own lips brushed a kiss to her forehead. The smile that graced her beautiful features awoke those damn butterflies once more. 

It had been years of loneliness and heartbreak but the second she came into my life, everything changed. She worked at the local coffee shop and was there every time I had gone in for a coffee and to read. After the second time, she had memorized my order. 

Small black coffee with a chocolate croissant. 

The moment I realized I was in love with her was when she had my order waiting for me, seconds before I arrived at the shop. 

She had become everything I wanted when I thought I couldn’t find anyone. 

Her petite fingers traced the graying stubble along my chin and I fell into the touch. 

“We should probably get up,” I muttered against her hairline. “Alpine hasn’t been fed.” 

She groaned while burying her face deep into my neck. “But I’m comfy.” 

A sly smirk pulled at my lips. “How about I bend you over the bed and fuck that pretty little hole again?” 

Her eyes met mine, lips parting as she mimicked a fish, the words feeling foreign on her lips. 

God, I love the way she couldn’t find the words to say. 

Our Sunday afternoon had drifted fast into the night and we were seated on the floor of our living room, two large pizza boxes that were empty sat a few feet from us. The television played one of her favorite movies but that did nothing to stop her from fidgeting, her nerves getting the best of her. 

“Doll, you need to sit still. It’ll be alright,” I assured her with a squeeze to her knee. 

She shook her head. “I can’t! We leave tomorrow for Greece and I suddenly remembered there’s a list of things to get done.” 

We had this vacation planned for years and now that it was fast approaching, she was a nervous wreck. But I didn’t mind. I was so in love with her that I would run anywhere with her because the two of us were enough. 

“Come here,” I pulled her into my chest with my vibranium arm and she quickly melted into my embrace. 

Whenever we were in one another’s arms, it felt like home. No matter where we were. Everything I had gone through in my life, good or bad, I knew it was all worth it because it led me to her. 

We shared a deep kiss, one that others would say belonged to two people who were so in love with each other. 

[therapyandprozac]

Title: Lollipop

Rating: Explicit

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: consent king, edging, ruined orgasams, oral f! and m!receiving, fingering, super soldier stamina, brief face fucking(he looses control), arm is vibrator hehe, honorifics, so much cum talk, cream pie, lil breeding kink

Description: Upon rereading and editing all I can say in my defense is ovulation got me down bad. Oh and I kept the TSwift references to a minimum but ya know not zero, whoops 😏

You toyed with his business card between your dexterous fingers, debating the morality of calling your tutor at 11:37pm. Reflecting on the one and only session you had with him, just a few hours ago his eyes laid on yours for the first time. Piercing blue eyes undressing you slowly in his head through the lesson, you did the same to be fair. Imagining pulling that long scarf down, revealing his neck. The sound his coat would make falling gently to the floor, as your hands would explore his crisp white button down…

Shaking your head back to reality, to the ten digits printed in silver lettering on the sturdy cardstock dancing within your hand. The day dream just solidified your conviction, holding the card firmly in your hand now. You call the number, expecting an answering machine given the time.

“Bit late don’t you think?” He answers the phone with a question.

“Y-yeah sorry,” You stutter out before introducing yourself being cut off halfway.

“You think I didn’t save your number in my phone?” Sassy is the only word you can think to associate his voice with.

“I made that good of an impression, huh?” with a smile you respond.

“Doll, you’re the sexiest person to ever step foot in my classroom, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remember you.” Your eyes widen as you blush, you’re so happy he’s not here to see that.

“So if I said that I called because I couldn’t get you out of my head,” A dark chuckle comes from the other line. “What would you say to that?” You finish your suggestively open question.

“1719 Alpine Street, come to me.”

“Oh gods yes sir.” He hangs up the phone and you race for your keys before seeing yourself in your doorway mirror. ‘Oh hell no.’ You think to yourself before running upstairs to change. Stripping your comfy clothes fully before getting to your closet. You pick a long sleeved black lace dress, sure you’re only wearing it for him to take it off of you, but as you look back into the mirror, it’s definitely worth it. A long drive filled with anticipation and shifting thighs, as you imagine his intoxicating eyes and all of the times his tongue swiped across his lips during your lesson. As you pull into his dark driveway you can’t wait to be wrapped up in his arms.

Sauntering up to his front door, you knock once before the door opens with a whoosh, his metal hand grasping the knob. A Henley dark blue almost black, sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, it hugs his incredibly well toned form. Dark grey sweatpants hang loosely, doing nothing to hide the fact he's been anticipating your arrival as well. He invites you in like he’s not bulging right before your eyes.

“So happy you called.” He whispers once the door is closed, grabbing your wrist and pulls you into this incredible kiss, chaste and simple but unforgettable. Having a look around as he steps to the nearby bar grabbing two glasses and a full bottle he leads you to a den type living room with a roaring fire in the fireplace.

“Your house is beautiful, professor.” You look at the fine detailing around the room you’re in.

“It’s Bucky,” he hands you the bottle of wine. “Check the seal.” You inspect the bottle, it's brand new.

“Thank you.” You whisper hesitantly at his wordless understanding of your fears.

“Always check.” He nods with you while he opens the bottle with a corkscrew. Filling both glasses nearly all the way full you chuckle.

“You trying to get me drunk sir?”

“Without question, yes.” He winks “But firsts,” pulling the drink away when you reach for it, placing them on the coffee table he turns back to you. “What do you want from tonight?” He isn’t touching you, though you can see in his eyes that he wants to cling to your flesh like his life depended on it.

“What do you mean?” You ask genuinely.

“You called me, I invited you over and kissed you, that’s all that’s happened so far. So I repeat, what do you want from tonight?” His face remains unreadable giving you full choice in this situation. He looks in his mid 40’s, very well put together and you are loving how consent driven he is. Stepping into his personal space not touching him but close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.

“When I met you I knew you were different, fuck am I glad I was right.” Your right hand grabs his large bicep. “I want you Bucky, your fingers,” Lacing your left hand in between his fingers. “your mouth,” your lips place gentle kisses up his neck. “your cock.” You whisper against the skin of his ear. A chuckle escapes him but his hands remain by his side, what more do you have to say to get him to touch you. “Fuck! Fuck me please!” You shouted.

“When I saw you I wanted to taste you, your sweet cunt taunting me under your skirt.” Licking his lips he hums a distant look in his eyes. He pushes you onto the couch before dropping to his knees, he places the glass in your hand.

Before kissing up your legs, once you’re about halfway done your glass he starts gently parting your legs. Peppering kisses up your thighs as he groans smelling you with a deep inhale he closes his eyes and savors the time between your legs, you see a smile on his lips before his tongue slips past them and up your dripping slit.

A hum from deep within his chest as he dives in, his nose stimulating your clit in an odd but very welcome way. Your hand reaches down and grips his thick fluffy hair, rolling your hips against his face. He gets the message and wraps his large hands around your hips and pulls you in tight. Gasping and groaning you grind against him, his licking and lapping make you pant and moan.

Your orgasam is barely held at bay when one of his hands leaves your hip and his fingertip traces your entrance teasing you. His eyes lock to yours, crows feet grow around his intense eyes as he smiles, he plunges two long fingers deep inside you.

“Gods yes, Bucky fuck!” You shout as you cum, your fingers twisting in his hair. His fingers do not stop as he stands up and licks his lips, you move to take off his pants needing him.

“No, no sweet thing, one more.” He smiles patiently though you're pawing at him.

“Want to touch you sir.” Gasps sweet gasps escape your lips desperate for air or release.

“Patience doll, all in good time. If tonight is all I get, I want to savor you.”

“Why do you think this is the only time?” You say between pants and gasps.

“I don’t, but just in case my kitten.” He purrs before adding another finger into your hungry cunt. Your back arches as he curls his fingers, there’s a slightly blank expression on his face. As if he is memorizing every movement of your body and sound that slips across your lips.

“Kiss me?” You pant sounding more desperate than you intended too.

“With pleasure.” He speeds up his pace as he leans forward with a gentle smile on his face. After leaving a breathtaking kiss he takes off his Henley, you intake his bulky and perfectly toned form. A hum from deep within your chest as your eyes wander over his scars and rippling muscles. He continues stripping, moving to his slacks and boxer briefs. The “V” of flesh that leads your eyes down and between his thick thighs, saliva swells as you imagine how heavy and full he’d feel in your mouth. Sitting on the bed across from you, you speak up.

“Can I eat you please.” You stare eagerly at his throbbing erection.

“Gently.” He chuckles.

“Only want to lick and swallow you sir.” You can see in his eyes that it's been a while and you smirk. “I have a question, professor.” Crawling up the bed on your hands and knees, licking up his thighs. “If I suck two from you,” Up on your knees resting against his chest by now, looking down at him with your fingers gripped in his hair. “Could you still fuck the absolute devil out of me?”

“Doll, I could fuck you through tomorrow.” His lip where it meets his nose twitches as he holds the dominance over the situation, despite this potentially submissive position you’ve put him in.

You smile and purr before wordlessly adjusting to be on your knees bent over his cock, fluttering your lips up his shaft licking occasionally. Teasing is the point, you wanted to make him wait, make him shake and beg for mercy. The image in your head drives you to lick a long wet stipe from his balls to the tip. Irregular breathing from above drives you to take his aching cock into your hot mouth. Taking your time sucking and toying with the tip, feeling him shift impatiently you reach one of your hands to hold his balls gently only playing with them when he would get antsy and want for more. You work his shaft slowly down your throat, soft pulses up and down just agonizingly slow he is a groaning mess.

“Please please kitten.” Hips jolting as the words fall whimpering past his lips, loving the way he squirms under you. “Don’t stop, fuck please, doll yes!” You suck him hard and deep throat him, how could you not he’s begging so beautifully. Humming and lapping around him, balls fondle between your fingers, as he wraps his hands into your hair finally taking control as he fucks into your throat. Choking around him as he cums, so far down your throat you don’t even taste him until he pulls out. “Fuck, are you okay? I got carried away.” You look up at him, nodding with glassy eyes, a wide smile and saliva running down your chin.

His thumb wipes your chin with a cocked smile, his hand traces up your thighs to your pussy. Two fingers run from the bottom of your hole up to your clit, using your slick as lube he violently shakes his metal hand.

“Ahh woah Bucky fuck.” His hand feels like a vibrator, you lift your head and bite his neck. His right hand finds your nipple, squeezing and rolling the swollen bud between his fingertips. “No why, just fuck me Buck please!” You beg as he ruins your orgasam, whining and being shut up by lips on yours.

“We,” He starts between violent kisses, getting on his knees to match your stance. “Like to edge each other, we should,” He grunts as he pushes you onto your back, feeling where your legs are bent together, up to your pussy. “do something with that one day.”

“Stop planning for the future and put your cock in me Buck please.” Wrapping your long legs around his waist.

“Like learning things about you.” he pants against your lips. “So demanding,” pushing himself inside you, your head falls back as your spine arches. “Didn’t know you before today,” Soft hip rolls he uses to punctuate his words. “But I’ve been waiting for this, for you.” He whispers against the shell of your ear, while his cock is deep inside you. You roll your hips desperately, foggy headed all you can think about is the feeling of him filling you in a way no one ever has and his lips glued to your neck.

“Professor Barnes, you fit perfectly li- like you were made for my cunt.” He huffs his head rolling, light headed as all the blood in his body rushes to his cock.

“You’re so tight and warm, shit,” He pants. “Don't know, think you were made for me.” You’re loving the way his well put together speech pattern is falling apart as he gets closer and closer.

“Just for you sir.” You gasp as he speeds up his thrusts. “Bucky,” your voice just a whisper. “Can I cum please?” A whimper slips his lip.

“You asked so nice, doll. Please cum around me, let me feel how tight you can grip me love.” He whispers into your ear, repositioning himself into a deeper angle just right. You shout as your orgasam rips through your body.

“Fuck Bucky, how are you so,” A moan rips “so deep? Can feel all of you Buck, your veins pulse against me, torcherously hot, I feel everything, I want more. Do you know what the matepress is, sir?” You whisper just barely audible, he hums and moves your body with great ease into position. “I could see it in your eyes, something deep and dark, let it loose please.” You look up into his icey eyes. “That need within you, fuck me like you’ll find it in me sir.” His hips follow your command.

“Don’t say shit like that, I’ll never let you go.”

“I hadn’t finished.” You blush between moans and gasps as he perfectly satisfies what you asked for. “Fill me, cum deep inside me please.” Tears sting at your eyes as a fantasy and a dream of a man collide in this moment.

“As you wish.” He says before biting a large chunk of your flesh definitely enough pressure to leave a bruise. You gasp and moan. “Cum for me princess, you’re so desperate for it, pull what you want from me baby.” He whispers and licks over his bite mark. Still thrusting into you with great strength, your legs start to shake as your last orgasam drags out of you, but pulls him deeper into you.

“Take what’s yours doll.” He bottoms out, breaking the crest of your cervix finally as he cums, holding himself in place deep inside you.

“It’s so warm, sir you fill me, fuck me, so good Bucky. Mine!” You shouted, glad he didn’t have neighbors who would’ve most definitely heard. Your brain stops working as you black out. When you come to you are clean and tucked in tightly next to your large tutor.

“Mine.” He echos your last coherent thought with his metal arm grasping around your throat in a way that should be threatening, but just makes you melt into his body.

“Yours sir, all yours if you’ll have me.”

“When we wake up do you want to go on our first date?” Placing soft kisses up your neck, you laugh and nod sleepily, excited for what life has in store with the one wrapped around you.

[orellazalonia]

Pain Pills and Confessions

Summary: You’re loopy after surgery and nothing is safe. You flirt with Bucky annd ask if he’s single, despite being his partner. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 400+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You’re not entirely sure what happened.

One minute you were heroically launching yourself at a HYDRA agent to protect a rookie (again), and the next, you were waking up in the medbay with a suspiciously familiar metal hand cradling your face and a very annoyed Bucky Barnes glaring down at you like you’d personally insulted his cat.

Which, to be fair, you did once. You told him Alpine looked like a "tiny arctic war criminal." But that was weeks ago.

“Hey, handsome,” You slur, grinning. “You got a name or should I call you ‘emotional support beefcake?’”

Bucky blinks. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” You sing, pointing at him dramatically, except you miss and somehow jab your own face. “Ow.”

“Cho said you’d be loopy from the pain meds, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad,” He mutters.

You gasp like you’ve been mortally wounded a second time. “Bad? James Buchanan Barnes. I am a delight. A national treasure. You should be honored to bask in my narcotic-fueled brilliance.”

“You have three stitches in your abdomen and a mild concussion,” He says patiently.

“Is that code for ‘hot and mysterious’?” You whisper.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you…”

You perk up instantly. “You do! You do love me!” You squirm on the bed, trying to sit up, tangled in your blanket like a confused sea slug. “He said it! He loves me! Write it down!”

From somewhere to your left, Bruce sighs. “We’re writing it down.”

You point wildly. “Put it in the group chat. Make it a pinned message.”

Bucky leans over to gently guide you back against the pillows. You resist by attempting to boop his nose. You miss again. “You’re really fast for a guy who looks like he listens to jazz and watches birds.”

“I do watch birds.”

“I know,” You whisper like it’s a conspiracy.

Bucky grumbles something about sedatives but doesn’t leave your side. He lets you hold onto his metal hand like it’s a teddy bear and watches you blink up at him like you’re seeing stars. And then, you speak again.

“Hey, Bucky?”

“What now?”

“Are you single?”

He snorts, sarcastic. “Still not.”

“Oh, good.” You close your eyes, content. “I was gonna be really sad if you had a girlfriend. ‘Cause I’m in love with you.”

“You are my girlfriend.”

You nod, serious. “Then I have excellent taste.”

Later, when you’ve finally passed out, Bucky’s still by your side, fingers laced with yours as he watches your monitors beep steadily.

Bruce walks in, looks at the chaos still lingering in the air, and shakes his head. “She asked the vending machine to marry her.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “Did it say yes?”

“…no.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to fight it.”

Bruce sighs. “You’re both nightmares.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “But she’s my nightmare.”

[tweedcola]

I'm very new to posting here but please enjoy 4.1k words of soft Bucky smut!

Do It Properly

You’re not sure what wakes you in the end. Whether it’s a creaky floorboard, a rustling of your sheets or merely the change in the air that another person brings. Whatever the reason, you open bleary eyes and squint into the darkness, reaching for your phone to check the time. You only notice another presence in your bedroom when he clears this throat and steps forward to the end of your bed.

You let out a tiny ‘eep’ of surprise before your mind registers who the shadowy shape belongs to, but you recover quickly enough to ask, “Bucky?”

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes; centenarian, former Winter Soldier and current cat-dad stands looking defeated by your feet.

“Hey,” he responds hoarsely, and you scramble for the switch on your lamp, desperate to see him properly.

The light starts low, gradually brightening the room as it warms up, bringing Bucky into visibility. He looks… well. You’ve seen him worse, definitely. He has this issue (you think it’s an issue, he doesn’t see the problem) in which he throws his whole body into fights with reckless abandon, his own well being taking a backseat when you’re not on missions to remind him that he should look after himself. That he needs to look after himself so he can come back home to you.

His right hand is bandaged which means it must have been pretty bad – they generally don’t bother wrapping up the super soldiers as most of their injuries have faded by the following morning, but it’s his face that really makes you gasp.

“Buck!” you whisper, horrified, as he shuffles forward, bashful under your gaze. “What happened?”

He shrugs off his jacket and you’re hit with the scent of gunpowder and smoke as he chucks it unceremoniously on the floor by the desk chair where Alpine is curled up. Al activates with an inquisitive puurp? arching his back in an elongated stretch to greet his daddy. Bucky turns to scritch the feline’s ears, rolling his shoulders at the same time. You take that to mean, don’t ask but you can’t ignore the angry red welts around his neck, the dark purple blooming under both eyes and Bucky’s wince when he huffs a laugh at Alpine when he kicks his back legs against his fingers as he tickles his tummy.

“Bucky…” you try again, shucking back the covers and reaching for his shoulder. You kneel on the bed and run your hand down his back soothingly, pretending that you’re not looking for further injuries. “You get your nose broken honey?”

Bucky ducks his head and looks at you through his eyelashes pitifully.

“Sam set it back already. Took the shield to the face,” he admits slowly, enjoying your touch as you ease the muscles in his shoulder and at the base of his neck with your fingers, searching out the pressure points that make him groan.

“Why, what’d you say?” you tease, gently.

Bucky huffs again, then cringes as it causes him pain, slumping close to lean on you.

“Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbles into your neck, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. His left hand comes up to play with the strap of your tank top and you shiver against the cool metal. “Steve doesn’t enunciate. He only warned me to duck after he threw the damned thing. Jerk didn’t stop laughing the whole way home.”

You press your lips together and stroke the back of his head, making sure he stays buried in your neck so he can’t see how you’re struggling to hide your amusement.

“And this? You get on Sam’s bad side too?” you stroke his neck lightly, brushing against the vicious bruising that decorates the delicate skin there. Bucky stiffens almost imperceptibly, and you realise that he can’t talk about it. Not yet anyway. You know he’ll come to you when he’s ready.

You heave a sigh and push at his shoulder until he straightens, tilting his chin up to look you in the eye. “You just let me know if I need to go kick bird-boy’s ass, yeah?” you grin, peppering kisses over his eyebrow, betting that it’s a pain-free area before pulling him close again.

“Thanks baby,” Bucky answers on a heavy sigh. You continue threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, knowing the comfort of your touch is what he needs right now, rather than a dissection of his latest mission. You need the contact too, the physical reminder that he’s safe in your arms for the time being, though you make a mental note to ask the Captain why it looks like someone tried to garrotte your boyfriend. Honestly, what good is Steve if he’s not watching Bucky’s six when you’re not there?

You remain kneeling on the bed, letting Bucky use you as a crutch for as long as you can bare the weight of the 240-pound super soldier but eventually you have to push at his shoulder to get him to draw back. He harrumphs disappointedly but you know he’s not serious when his eyes drop from your face to skim along the length of your body, his right eyebrow raising appreciatively at the thin camisole and itty-bitty lace panties you’re wearing to counter the heat.

“Damn babydoll…” he begins, his hands hooking around the backs of your thighs to tug you along the bedspread, slightly closer to the edge. “You look good enough to eat.” He gives you a wolfish smile that has you admittedly a little weak in the knees and goes to duck towards your tits but you push at his forehead with a scoff.

“Uh-uh Barnes, don’t even think about it. You need a shower.” With your hands on his hips, he allows you to keep him at arm’s length while you slide from the bed and steer him towards your bathroom, his expression shifting from predatory to a dopey pleased grin as he allows you to take care of him.

“You gonna join me, sugar?” he asks, leaning against the sink as you turn the knobs and crank up the heat to a frankly dangerous degree because Bucky really doesn’t like the cold. You turn to catch him stifling a yawn into his fist, still fully dressed and you gesture at him impatiently.

“I don’t know, you gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself Sergeant?” You start unbuckling and tugging at his clothing, fighting with the supple leather that moulds to his arms as Bucky endeavours to stay awake. It’s a testament to how tired he actually is when you drop to your knees to wrestle his trousers down his legs and he doesn’t make a lewd joke, though you do see his half-hard length give a valiant twitch in his boxers before you tug those down too.

You help him into the shower, thankful that you don’t see any other bruising on his body but knowing that doesn’t mean he isn’t hurt before you go to gather his clothes up into your arms. You don’t get that far though, as the glass door slides back open behind you and you’re tugged into the near-scalding water still in your sleep clothes.

“Buck!” you squawk, pressing yourself away from the water ineffectually as the spray soaks the front of your vest anyway. He crowds you up against the tiles that are already slick with condensation, effectively ensuring that no part of you has stayed dry.

“Mmm, you said you’d join me…” he mutters into your shoulder, nuzzling against your damp skin as his hands play with the lace covering your backside.

“And you said you’d keep your hands to yourself,” you huff playfully, reaching for the bar of Imperial Leather soap because old habits die hard and for Bucky the saying is doubly true. You lather the soap between your fingers and start moving it along his shoulders and back where you’re able to reach.

“No…” he drawls, slipping his fingers beneath your panties to stroke over the skin of your hips and ass as he presses his now very interested cock against your lower stomach and rocks you against him. “I didn’t answer and you interpreted my silence as agreement,” he murmurs. “I was very careful about that.”

You draw back and are faced with his incredibly pleased smile, almost impish in his glee that he’s managed to wrangle you into the shower with him for him to do as he pleases. You don’t have the heart to shatter his illusion with the truth, that you’d follow him anywhere under any conditions.

He tickles the soft skin between your thigh and hip and you squeal. You love seeing this side of Bucky, almost child-like in his mischief, even if the activity that you’re doing is very adult.

“Hmm, very clever…” you muse, drawing the soap down his right arm before sliding it up the other, ridding his skin and left arm of two days of sweat and gunpowder before starting to work on his chest. Bucky lets you work for a few quiet moments, watching your movements with half lidded eyes. You glance up at him and snort at the expression on his face; he’s hard for you but obviously can’t decide if he’s more sleepy or horny.

“Relax Buck,” you implore, working soap over his hips and kneading the bone there before making your way down his lower back, eliciting a sinful moan when you hit a knot and the muscle releases.

Bucky mumbles something into the skin of your neck between sweet kisses and you use one hand to tilt his head to the side when you ask him to repeat himself.

“Magic hands,” he slurs, rocking himself in time with your ministrations. “Magic, angel hands. Y’so good to me darlin’.” He pulls back and busies himself with playing with the strap of your tank top. “Wanna be good to you too.” Bucky’s hands drift southward to the waistband of your underwear, dipping his fingers in and teasingly raking his nails over the sensitive skin of your pelvis.

You shudder and feel his cock jump in response. Abandoning your task, you let the soap slide from your grip, ignoring the dull clunk as it hits the porcelain of the tub and instead wrapping your hand around his length and giving him one firm stroke from root to tip.

Bucky grunts, his hips jerking forward towards you. His hand slips fully between your thighs and you let out a sigh when his clever fingers part your folds to trace over your clit gently. Your natural slick mixes with the hot water still beating down on you both creating a heavenly slide that Bucky uses to his advantage, his movements becoming slightly rougher as you pant in his ear.

“That’s it baby, that feel good?” his voice is gruff as your desire heightens and he dips his forefinger into your core up to the first knuckle just to feel you clench around him when he strokes over the top of your clit just right. “Mmm, certainly seems like it feels good.”

You just have the wherewithal to register the slightly mocking tone in your boyfriend’s voice and retaliate with another firm tug on his member, the soap suds lingering on your palm making the glide smooth and slick, cutting off the rest of his sentence when it devolves into a whine.

You continue to jerk him slowly, reveling in the stuttering mess that you’re able to reduce him to with such a simple touch.

“Mmm, so sensitive honey,” you coo into his ear, increasing your pace incrementally. Bucky is completely at your mercy, his hand slackening in your panties and the coil in his stomach tightening with your movements. He rocks upwards on a gasp before straightening and grabbing desperately at your wrist.

“Stop – stop,” he pants, squeezing the base of his dick to stave off the orgasm that had crept up unexpectedly. “Fuck, almost made me blow my load in your hand baby, shit.” Your giggle sets him off with a growl and Bucky hoists you up into his arms, shredding your underwear with a wolfish grin.

“Bastard,” you say playfully, nipping at his bottom lip as he steadies you on a convenient shelf that you’ve only needed to replace three times since Bucky moved in with you.

“You gotta learn doll, none of your underwear is safe around me.”

As if to prove his point Bucky grabs a fistful of your top at chest level and you can see the gears turn in his head as he gets ready to yank and separate the body from the straps –

“Wait!” you call, throwing out an arm to catch his. “Just gimme a minute, damn,” you mutter, peeling the offending piece of clothing from your body and letting it drop to the floor with a wet thwack. “Running out of pyjamas thank you very much, some hopped-up super soldier keeps shredding all my clothes.”

There’s no remorse on Bucky’s face as he eyes your tits hungrily and you wonder when you lost your soft, sleepy boyfriend to this sex-starved menace. Deciding to tease him just a little more, you cup your chest, stroking lightly over your nipples and watch as his pupils dilate fully.

Bucky feels barely restrained, watching as you enjoy the delicate grace of your own touch and damn near drooling, desperate to get his mouth on your tits. He’s captivated by your movements.

“You okay there, Sarge?” you question, punctuating your words with a soft gasp as you apply more pressure to the sensitive peaks of your breasts. You arch your back a touch, your chest lifting just an inch or two closer and Bucky is salivating.

“More,” he requests, the whimper in his voice dampening the order. He recognises the tone for what it is – a plea – and he’d give almost anything to have his hands on you but – god – the way you’re writhing and panting before him, the slick folds of your cunt on display when you let your thighs fall open – Bucky can’t help but think you’re a goddess. He watches you for a minute longer, his body so tense that even the slightest touch might shatter him but what’s a goddess for if not to be worshipped? And Bucky will supplicate at your feet for eternity for you to rid him of his wrongs and cleanse the days before you. He’s been the luckiest son of a bitch for over a year now and he knows he’ll find heaven within you, that you lay peace and forgiveness down before him with simple caresses and erase his guilt with your lips.

You gift him a coy smile and let your hands drop, twining your fingers with Bucky’s and drawing him close until he’s stood between the ‘v’ of your legs, sharing your breath and feeling the heat rolling off your skin.

You tilt your head up and slant your lips against his, dragging his hands up your body to replace where yours had been on the mounds of your chest, encouraging him to squeeze and play as he wishes as you hook your calves over his hips and urge him closer still.

You chance a quick glance up at his face to find that he’s completely enraptured with your chest, snorting a laugh even as he feathers his thumbs over your nipples, raising goosebumps up your arms.

A shudder runs through Bucky’s body when he feels the tip of his cock brush against the heat between your legs and he tilts his hips forward to glide his length along you, delighting in your gasp when he grinds down against your clit.

“You want this?” Bucky asks, his expression split between cocky and desperate as he rocks against you, spreading his hands over your lower back and digging his fingertips into the meat of your ass.

“Mmm,” you whine, your head lolling back to rest against the shower tile, waiting for him to start pushing forward, for that first divine stretch that feels like nothing else –

But it’s not forthcoming. You crack your eyes open and lift your head questioningly.

“Please baby,” Bucky whines, pressing his hips into yours again. You reach up to stroke his cheek and just stop yourself from frowning.

“You need me to say it, Buck?” you ask softly, still running the tips of your fingers along his stubbled jaw, enjoying the scruff that pulls at your fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah –“ each breathless plea is punctuated by an eager grind against you and you bite your lip against a moan when you feel his cock throb from where it’s trapped between your bodies.

“Okay honey,” your voice is shaky with desire for your man but you fight to keep your tone clear so he knows exactly how much you want him. “Please fuck me Bucky – I want it so bad, needed it the whole time you were gone – ah!”

You’re barely through your sentence when he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt before stopping just as quickly as he’d begun.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

“Mmm,” you whine in response. “Need you to move honey.”

He raises his head and shoots you a look. It’s one that you don’t get very often but you cherish the pinched eyebrows and lip trapped between his teeth as he fights to stop himself from coming prematurely.

“Needja to be patient baby,” he gasps out, his hands clutching at your thighs bruisingly as his Brooklyn accent slips into place. You can almost see his thought process as he runs through baseball statistics and multiplication tables in his head. You’re sweating by the time the tension finally drains from Bucky’s shoulders and you can’t stop yourself from clenching down on him when he gives a couple of gentle test-thrusts.

“You’re not helping,” he grunts, as he gets a better grip on your slippery skin to hoist your legs higher, and you’re honestly not sure if he’s speaking to you or your pussy.

You don’t have time to dwell on it though, as Bucky lets you know he’s ready with a sharp snap of his hips and a grunt from deep in his chest when you dig your nails into his shoulders in surprise.

“Careful with the claws, kitten,” Bucky groans before really laying into you.

You cling to one another as his hips snap into yours orchestrating a rhythm of skin hitting skin that is only amplified by the water. The bathroom echoes with your lovemaking, even as you bite at your lip – it’s still the middle of the night and you share walls with two other apartments in this block, not to mention your poor downstairs neighbours.

It only takes a few moments for Bucky’s rough strokes to build your pleasure high enough for you to stumble and a sharp moan of his name escapes you.

“Oh god honey,” Bucky pants, uncurling his left arm from around your waist to reach out and grab the top of the shower door for stability. “That good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you pant, “S’good Buck, it’s good.” Your words escape you in a staccato, hiccoughing rhythm that he punches out of you in time with the movement of his hips. You tip your head back and Bucky takes the opportunity to litter a series of sweet kisses against your neck, whispering words of devotion in between the brushes of his lips, drinking in the ecstatic sounds that you’re making.

“Fuck sweet girl, you’re so good, s’good, don’t wanna leave, never gonna leave ya again, love you so much baby,” Bucky’s inner monologue escapes without direction as your pleasure climbs, his words encouraging your end almost as much as his movement.

“Please – please Bucky,” you stutter out, dropping your hand between the two of you to stroke at your clit, your desperation for an orgasm acute after being without him for too long.

“Me, honey, let me,” Bucky insists, leaning his upper body away from you slightly to find the best angle. His practiced fingers find you easily and you feel yourself clench involuntarily around him when his thumb massages you in just the right pattern. The moan that you let out is quiet but so desperately needy that Bucky hisses when his cock throbs in response but by that time it’s too late for you anyway.

You dive off of the precipice, arching your back and feeling your pussy pulse uncontrollably as you’re ignited from the inside. Bucky pushes in to the hilt one final time before he too lets go, whimpering quietly as he joins your bliss.

You remain entwined beneath the water for a few long moments, relishing in the feel of one another before Bucky tilts his head back to look at you, his eyes still hazy with lingering pleasure. You know he’s not able to get drunk but if you saw him like this at any other time you’d assume he was intoxicated. You snort internally and go to make fun of his pussy-drunk expression when –

“Marry me.”

You slap your hand against the shower wall, groping desperately for the button that will halt the stream of water beating against the glass because you think that you just heard your super soldier boyfriend propose to you while he’s still very much inside you.

“What, Bucky-what?!” you finally locate the off switch and shower ceases, leaving the pitter-pattering of water droplets as the only sound in the room while you and Bucky stare at one another. “Did you just – ”

“No.” His response is short and sharp, cutting over the end of your question, as though he can’t bear to hear the words leave your lips. When you blink at him, he has the gall to look guilty and his shoulders drop in defeat. “I said – I – ” he takes a moment to clear his throat twice before speaking again.

“I said marry me. I’m sorry.”

Silence reigns again while you absorb the shock of his words.

“Bucky…” you begin slowly, wriggling back slightly to bring attention to his cock still buried to the hilt and his hips still fit snuggly between your thighs. “…are you proposing to me while you’re still balls deep?”

Bucky groans and lets his head drop to your shoulder as your laughter rings out but you wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze him as close to you as you possibly can, hooking your ankles one over the other at the small of his back so he can’t escape you.

“I – I had a plan, and a ring –” he starts to explain into your neck but you silence him with a tug to his hair so that you can meet his eyes. The concern etched on his face disappears almost as soon as he sees your joyful expression and he gifts you the softest, sweetest smile in return before taking a deep breath in and you just know what’s going to come next.

So you reach up quickly and place the tops of your fingers over his mouth.

This man – this man who has been through so much more than anyone should have to, who has survived horror and death and the loss of his autonomy only to come through the other side still able to love – deserves to have exactly what he wants. He deserves to have this moment, his proposal, exactly as picture perfect as he’s always imagined. And so although you know you’ll say yes, that you’ll marry him in a heartbeat, you halt Bucky’s next words.

“Wait,” you instruct gently. “Just wait. Do your plan – give me the ring.” You don’t explain further but brush your lips against his once, twice and whisper, “I love you.”

“I love you sweetheart.” Bucky responds just as quietly, and you feel the full force of his devotion and adoration hit you when he rests his forehead against yours briefly.

The moment is ruined when he steps away from you to turn the shower back on to wash away the evidence of your lovemaking with a mumbled; “It’s a good thing you didn’t say yes, Sam woulda never let me live it down if I’d proposed like that.”

You shuffle under the warm spray and wrap your arms around Bucky’s waist to gaze innocently up at him. “Oh – I’ll definitely be telling Sam about this,” you state. “My pussy game is so good that I got a marriage proposal? Bucky, I’m telling everyone.”

Your squeal echoes off the tiles as Bucky growls and digs his fingers into your waist in retaliation, grinning wickedly, and barely able to stop himself from sprinting to his underwear drawer to recover the ring nestled at the back.

He’ll do it properly tomorrow.

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

Cuddles

Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: just a quick Drabble/Imagine about Bucky needing cuddles

Warnings: cuddling, vague mentions to Bucky having a hard time but nothing graphic or especially angsty, just some sweet fluff, Alpine!

A/N: this is the first time in a hot second that I've done a fic that isn't bullet points, so fingers crossed it turned out alright 😅

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

Imagine Bucky needing cuddles after a rough day.

Maybe a mission goes badly, or he's just been in a bad mood, or Fury and him had an argument or something, but regardless he's had a bad day and all he wants is a peaceful night at home. Alpine greets him at the door as he kicks off his boots, purring as she butts her head against his leg. Bucky smiles and lifts her up, scratching her head.

She lets out a happy little chirp as he carries her into your shared bedroom, and there he sees something that immediately brightens his day.

“Hey, Pretty Girl,” he murmured, “where's my Doll, huh?”

There you are, asleep and curled up on your bed, wearing his hoodie. It made his heart swell. Bucky set Alpine down on the bed, and the white kitten curled up into your side, purring loudly. You stirred, half-awake as you felt the mattress shift. Two strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to a firm chest. A stubbly face nuzzles into your collarbone, pressing little kisses to your neck. You smile, your boyfriend coming home is one of the best parts of the day.

“Welcome home, Baby,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to Bucky's temple and running a hand through his hair, “how was work?”

“You have me, Sweetheart,” your free hand reaches down to hold his metal one, gently toying with his Vibranium fingers, “we'll stay here as long as you want.”

“‘Don’t wanna talk about it right now,” he pulls you closer to him, “just wanna hold you.”

He lets out a happy little hum and nuzzles against you.

Later, the two of you will get out of bed and he'll tell you about his day over Chinese takeout and little kisses. But for now, Bucky is more than content to lay here, snuggled up and drifting off into a peaceful nap with you and Alpine in his arms.

[ronearoundblindly]

Scrappy

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

Summary: You transform into a human, revealing to Steve and Bucky that you are not just Alpine, the beloved cat.

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Warnings for mentions of nudity and past trauma (nothing specific), arguing, language (because everyone is in shock), and canon-level violence (toward a bad guy). Angst with a happy-ish ending, since that will be elaborated on later. Zero editing. None of it is strictly not-safe-for-minors, but remember, your media consumption is your responsibility, yours alone, and no one else's. WC 2.1k

You were never supposed to participate, yet here you are chasing a man you know only as “Duplicate” through the woods. Bucky and Steve took off in other directions after what they thought were sole (two) version of the guy, but you have an advantage they do not: you can smell the real Duplicate in a cluster of trees.

You also have a disadvantage: in cat form, you cannot yell loud enough for Bucky and Steve to hear your discovery, and the attempts at crying have spooked the man bolting toward the road. If he makes it there, you suspect he’ll get away, possibly even steal one of your boys’ bikes to do so.

The spike of adrenaline drives you further, faster, harder. You can feel the energy is temporary. You have to stop Duplicate.

Luckily, he’s not particularly fast zigzagging through the trees, so you swipe at his ankles and legs, landing several swats and a bite, but then the cover of forest opens up to a ditch below the north lane of freeway.

One final push, and you have to make it count.

You jump, breathe straining in your lungs, chest tight from fear of failure, fury steadying your claws as they dig into his shoulders, and you pull to drag him down with all your strength.

He crumples with a wail, right on top of you. Between you’re flailing and his, no one manages to get up or out of the lock. It’s a mess of arms and legs, a din of angry grunts and curses, until Steve makes it back to wrench Duplicate off of you and fling him into a waiting left hook of Bucky’s powerful vibranium fist.

Only a few blows later, he’s unconscious, and you’ve scrambled to your feet.

“Oh, OH, shit, sorry,” Steve began to look in your direction, but swiftly covers his eyes and turns away. “I’m sorry, miss. We--we’re here to—did he hurt you?”

Bucky stares openly…at eye-level.

You transitioned from a 16-in long feline with white fur to a woman with no fur.

You’re naked.

“Wha—WHAT THE HELL!”

Steve makes a tutting noise as if Bucky’s forgotten his manners, seems to attempt an apologetic smile your way, and immediately corrects his gaze to the ground again.

With wide eyes, Bucky slowly, carefully, and deliberately says your name out loud. He even repeats it before a dumbfounded “you’re Alpine?”

Steve’s whole body snaps ramrod straight. “What?”

The pressure in your chest swells too big for your ribcage. It hurts. You panic.

They grow taller and taller in your vision, Bucky pleading for you to wait, but when he steps closer, your shaking becomes four legs bolting back to the tree line.

“You know that woman? Did you KNOW ABOUT—“

The screaming continues until you tuck yourself beneath a high root not too far into the woods. You can’t see them, only hear.

“I did not—shut up,” Bucky says to Steve. “I didn’t know, but I recognize her.”

“Buck, you gotta be shitting me. Your cat?!”

“Stop yelling, dude. You’re scaring her.”

“I’m scaring HER?”

The pang bubbles over, so what would be a sob comes bursting out as a high-pitched, pathetic cry, as weak as you felt in human form.

“Yes,” Bucky grits, more vicious than anything you’ve ever heard him say. “You are.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve hisses. “Twenty seconds ago, I didn’t think I’d spent months calling a grown woman ‘babygirl.’ That’s embarrassing…and so insulting.”

“I leave the bathroom door open. How did you think I feel?!”

There’s shuffling as Steve whispers his reply of “that’s just common courtesy, jerk. Why would—“

“I DIDN’T KNOW. Now, just—can you just stay here and make sure this asshole doesn’t—“

“She could be anywhere by—“

“Just do it, Steve,” Bucky grumbles. “We can’t risk him waking up before Containment gets here, and I’m going to go find Alpine.”

“Apparently, that’s not her name,” Steve snips. Footstep crunch through leaves and grass for a moment. “Hey, why have you seen her face?”

“I think—“ Bucky specifies he’s guessing “—her father came by after she ran away. Canvased the whole neighborhood passing out her picture. Actually, he thought she was kidnapped? Maybe?”

“You didn’t kidnap a woman, did you?!”

“No! Of course not. He was convinced she’d never run—ya know what? This is wasting time. I’m—“

You don’t want to be discovered within seconds of Bucky breaching the trees, so you run, hearing, “damn it,” before the footsteps quicken in pursuit.

You race along the tree line until banking a sharp turn to throw him off. For a minute or two, it seems to work. The energy has drained from your body, and you lie down to recover. Your blood rushes past your sensitive ears. That’s all you can hear till…

“Pretty girl, I won’t harm you. I would never harm you.” Stealthy as a ghost, Bucky creeps past the nearest log of deadwood. “I just need to know you’re okay.”

He scans his surroundings before his gaze lands directly on you.

You offer a defiant meow.

“Tired, huh?” He crouches down beside you, his flesh palm landing on your heaving chest. “Your heartbeat is so fast. That’s it. Take some nice, deep breaths. There. That’s better.”

Bucky takes a seat, saying nothing more, just monitoring you, making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He doesn’t need to say anything because it’s clear he remembers your face—your real face—and your story—the version your father tells, at least. Bucky doesn’t give you any excuses. There are no platitudes of ‘everything will be fine’ or ‘all is forgiven.’ After a long time, he simply strokes down your back how he knows you like it.

“Hey, Alpine?”

You side eye him and merp softly.

“Would you like to go home?”

With one last huff and a glance forward, you get up off the ground, grateful his face is not visible from this far below and your own face isn’t readable from that far above. Soon, you notice he’s falling back several paces and turn to tilt your head questioningly.

Bucky points. “Bike’s that way, sweetheart. Is it okay if…I mean, can I just carry you?”

You follow his finger into darkness and dense wood that looks the exact same as everywhere else, realizing you’re lost. You’d be lost without Bucky now in more ways than one.

You stride to his legs and wait to be hoisted through the air, limp and settled automatically, the familiar sweet spot in arms lulling you to rest.

“Good job today,” he whispers. “Couldn’t have done it without ya.”

Out of habit more than choice, you begin to purr, and Bucky scratches between your ears.

“You’d let me know, right? If you didn’t want something? If you hated this?”

You keep purring, eyes shut because it’s too hard to look at him, to see that he knows. You still haven’t made any sort of answer by the time his boots hit pavement.

He stops.

“Alpine, I’m sorry, but you need to use your words. Are you okay?”

A crackling, sad meow escapes you.

“You wanna go back home?”

This time, your chirp is a bit stronger, and you finally open your eyes.

There’s light everywhere, red, white, and blue, flashing endlessly like waves in moonlight.

Bucky swings his leg over his motorcycle and puts you down on the seat, unzipping his jacket as he always does to let you crawl in.

“Wait,” someone calls from all the commotion, and here comes Steve. “You…you found her?”

You scurry to hide, squeezing through the tight leather and Bucky’s rigid side, your feet poking out until you make space. If you thought it was difficult to face Bucky, you weren’t prepared for the sickly surge of Steve knowing what you really are.

“She’s fine,” Buck says simply. “We’re going home.”

“I—I gotta debrief. I can’t leave.” Steve sounds so…broken.

You can’t help but wiggle to get a peek and end up popping up from Bucky’s collar, your ears flattened, looking enough like an alien with fangs that Steve actually smiles.

“Woman, you are not riding like that,” Bucky grumbles.

“Hi” is all Steve manages, but it’s as soft as ever. “I’ll…can I come by later?” His eyes are locked with yours. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. We won’t—“ you feel Bucky’s nod more than see it in unison with Steve’s “—not until you’re ready.”

“Cap! Captain, we’re heading out!”

Steve’s smile falls, and though he’s poised to reply, again he can’t find the words. He only waves and jogs off with his head down.

You slither around beneath the jacket until in your normal spot for riding.

“What’re you, a snake now?” Bucky snorts, playfully adding, “weirdo,” and revving the engine.

This journey home is different. When you first rode the bike with him, Bucky made sure to put a hand under you at every stop, a security check of sorts, and then once you were comfortable, he seemed so proud to have your head poking out that he just enjoyed watching kids and passersby get a kick from it. He doesn’t go full speed this time. The streets are more empty than usual. Bucky doesn’t make to touch you as he stops.

Instead, he motions to this store and that.

“You like donuts? That place is pretty good.”

“Don’t go there unless you want soggy pizza. Way too much sauce. Do not let Steve tell ya different. It’s awful. Man has no standards.”

“Great shepherd’s pie at that pub. We’ll go someday. Goes well with a pint if you enjoy that sorta thing.” He shrugs. “I can’t anymore. Least, not for anythin’ but the taste…”

A clothing boutique shuts off their display lights just as you two zip past.

“Shit, honey, we gotta get you some duds. Tomorrow, maybe.”

You hop down and walk beside him on the way into the apartment, making a b-line for the couch once inside. Pointedly, Bucky sighs, heading to the bathroom, shutting the door very carefully, and cursing several times…quietly.

You’d laugh if you could.

He returns after a trip to the bedroom, a stack of clothes placed in front of you neatly, and he asks if he should give you privacy.

You don’t move from your tightly curled ball.

“Can you control it?”

You just blink.

“Do you want me to stay out here?”

He takes the lift of your head as a ‘yes.’

Bucky sits in his usual corner, rubbing his hands on his thighs awkwardly until he spots the remote on the coffee table.

He shoots you a glance and raises an eyebrow. “Next episode, m’lady?”

When you get up, stretch, and saunter over to him, he swipes the remote and gets comfortable, tipping the blanket off the back of the couch to drape over you.

You watch but hardly pay attention, your head in his lap as you fall asleep.

Your dreams rehash the fight with Duplicate. In one or two reenactments, you purposefully change to human. You’re the one punching him out. You’re the one saving the day. In one or two, Steve looks at you like a goddess, full of awe and admiration. In more than two, he screams in horror, and the last of those jolts you awake.

Bucky may not sleep deeply often, but when he does, his snoring is loud. It’s the first thing you notice, even before realizing it’s your palm pushing up against him to orient yourself.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry.” Steve whispers from at your feet—holding your human feet steady in his own lap. “You’re okay. You’re home.”

The blanket which swallowed your cat form barely covers the length of you now, and you tuck it tightly against your chest, heart hammering to keep you aware. You can feel the shrinking urge, the one that pulls you into a creature of protection, a shielded beast of caution, and it must show on your face. Perhaps your eyes change color or your ears begin to point. You don’t know, but Steve now does.

He slides farther under your legs, reaching a finger beneath your chin. His skin is warm when truly touching yours. You imagined it would be, but you never knew until this moment.

“Stay with me,” he pleads. “It’s alright.”

But what you’ve known from day one—the truth in Steve Rogers’ blue gaze—is that he can’t lie. If he says it’s alright, then it is, and if he orders you to stay…

…then you will.

[Next Part: Cozy]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

A/N: I cried writing this. I was also way too excited to post it, so tahdah, you get more two days later!

[holylulusworld]

GRA (1) - Grumpy old man

Summary: You're roommates.

Pairing: TfatWs!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: grumpy Bucky, banter, jealousy, vomiting, a hint of fluff

Grumpy Roommate Adventures

Square filled for buckybarnesbingo 2021 (expired): Square 20: AU: Roommates

He huffs while studying the newspaper. “Hmm…all those young people died this week,” Bucky grumbles as you sneak behind him to glance at whatever he’s reading.

You shake your head. Who reads the newspaper these days? We get news from apps or online newspapers.

“Stop being a grumpy old man, Barnes. Be happy you’re still young and full of energy…” You snicker because the people he called young are a ninety-five-year-old man and a ninety-nine-year-old lady.

Bucky makes a face, glaring in your direction as you are busy preparing a bowl of cereal.

You’re the cocky addition to the crazy bunch of people sharing a house. Sam and Bucky’s cat are the other two. And, of course, the biggest grump you ever met—James Buchanan Barnes.

The icy soldier, or whatever people called him in the past. You’re too tired of and disinterested in gossip to care about bad pet names.

“Who forgot to bring out the trash?” Sam calls from the living room. “It reeks, guys.”

“It was Bucky’s turn,” you lie and grin at Bucky, who narrows his eyes. “What?”

“I told you not to call me that!” He hisses in your direction. “And no. It wasn’t my turn to bring out the trash!”

“But you are the trashcan man!” You argue, pointing at his metal arm. “You’ve got the arm and all. I’m so weak and need help with carrying heavy stuff.”

He huffs, knowing you didn’t like he offered to carry your neighbor’s bags last week. Bucky is not interested in the quirky blonde but liked that you got angry and grabbed his hand.

“You can bring out the trash,” Bucky bites back. “I’m not going to do it again. You’ve got legs, so walk.”

“Big grump!” You grunt and slip off the chair to bring the trash out. It’s your turn, but you had hoped Bucky would lend you a hand too. “I guess you must be busty and brainless to get your help!” You snap at him before storming out of the kitchen.

“It helps not to be a grump!” He calls after you, laughing as you turn around and stick your tongue out.

“You’re an old, grumpy man, Barnes! Don’t you dare steal my cookies again! I won’t share!” You give him the stinky eye before turning to bring the trash out.

Sam watches you walk past him. You mutter under your breath when you get out of the house, only to face your neighbor. The busty blonde bitch tries to flirt with your roommate all the damn time.

“Y/N,” she coos and immediately walks toward you. “What a nice surprise to meet you here. How are you? Where’s James?”

“Uhm… I live here.” You roll your eyes. “Why would I not be around to bring the trash out? And I don’t know where the old man is hiding.”

“Oh! I thought your strong roommate would help you with that.” She cranes her neck to observe Bucky following you outside. Alpine tugged under his arm; he watches you fight with the trash can.

He smirks because you curse and mutter while stuffing the trash bag into the trash can. “Do you need help?” Bucky asks, earning a grunt from you. “I can lend you a hand, doll.”

“He’s so nice and dreamy,” your neighbor swoons, while you feel the bile rise in your throat. Urgh…the milk was not good. Clutching your stomach, you groan. “What’s wrong?” She screams when you spit your breakfast on her shirt.

“Fuck…the milk…urgh…” You groan and turn around to puke into the trash can, emptying your stomach.

“Shit, doll.” Bucky suddenly stands behind you to rub your back. “Did you not check on the milk? I think it was expired.”

He easily picks you up in bridal style, ignoring that your neighbor is whining about her shirt or that you puked on your shoes. “Let me down,” you weakly say. “I need to shower.”

“I’ll help you,” he shrugs when you glare at him. “What? I take any chance to get you naked…”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[houseofhyde]

last train home. ii. homesick

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts synopsis. as bucky's professional life hits an all time high, his personal life takes a nosedive into tragic territory. after a night of networking and the announcement of a lawsuit, he finds himself breaking rule #2: don't walk you home. read part 1 here ! warnings. no use of y/n, ex!reader, lawyer!reader, exes to ??? , exes with feelings, angst, fluff, mutual pining ( so bad i feel physically sick writing it ), alcohol consumption, nonsexual nudity, bucky has one (1) sexual thought, diva alpine makes her official debut, bucky is still down bad, he is also still serving stalker realness, no sambucky divorce, thunderbolts* spoilers!!! reader inclusivity. she/her pronouns, has hair ruffled by wind ( but no explicit mention of length, texture, or colour ) word count. 6.2k hyde’s input. "darling hold my hand" nothing beats a jet2 holiday! and right now you can save 50 pounds per person! that's 200 pounds off for a family of 4! read on ao3.

There is an ache in Bucky’s arm.

It has been there since this morning, blue eyes opening to white ceilings above, wooden floors below, and the beginning hum of a pain that would last all day. He and agony are no stranger to one another, having walked side by side now for years, decades, a whole century. This time it is different, though. This time, it is stemming from his left arm.

That does not stop him from throwing his entire weight behind the swing of his other arm.

“Don’t need you going easy on me, Barnes,” Sam grits through his teeth, body stance signalling he is prepared to strike. “Use that damn robo-arm of yours so I can beat you even at your best.”

Sam’s delivery is sharper than his. Harder. No hurt quells his strength.

“Can’t,” is Bucky’s simple explanation before he is tensing his muscles and awaiting the chance to swing once more. “Got this pain in it.”

Sam gets the chance to bat again, before him, and the impact echoes even through netted walls.

“Could be phantom limb syndrome,” his voice is monotone, devoid of interest despite the side glance he spares him. This is how it has always been between them, a friendship founded on the pretence of nonchalance and unexpressed loyalty — even now, as recent events put it to the test and force them to butt heads, exchange blows. “Torres was telling me about some physical therapist a few weeks ago, could pass her number onto you.”

In place of a response, Bucky’s next hit strikes a little harder. He regrets it nearly instantly, jaw clenching as the throbbing sensation burrows itself deeper into his shoulder, beating in sync with the heart inside his chest.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam warns, arms curling up atop his shoulders before landing a devastating blow.

Bucky lets the wooden bat slip out of his grasp and clatter to the ground. Hands find hips while his gaze locks onto Sam through threaded metal, who is too focused on his next target to even spare him a glance. “What look?”

“That look. The one where you get all frowny and look at me like you’re trying to kill me with your mind.”

“Would you rather I kill you with my fists?”

“I’d like to see you and that sore arm try. Watch ou-” He barely gets the warning out before Bucky cuts him off, vibranium arm effortlessly catching the baseball hurtling full-speed ahead at his face while his eyes don’t move an inch away from Sam.

Alongside the ache in his shoulder, Bucky had woken up to two messages: an unknown address, followed by meet me @ 12.00, need batting practice. With the tension between them these past three weeks having grown thicker than syrup, and the weight of the unaddressed Avengers issue threatening to flatten the sanctity of their friendship, Bucky had half expected to be the target of Sam’s batting practice. Relief is not a big enough word to describe what overcame him when he showed up and found two separate batting cages booked and awaiting the pair.

It is not from lack of trying that the heroics topic has gone undiscussed. Bucky has tried to bring it up, time and time again, from the very first of Sam’s calls he answered post-Void. Post-you. Post-those goddamn shoes. Sam never let him get more than a word out, suddenly cutting the call short, or being pulled away to train his falcon protégé, or any excuse under the sun he could come up with to walk away from the conversation, leaving Bucky to sink deeper into the guilt of silence.

Sam’s avoidance is a ticking timebomb that has long outran its countdown and threatens to explode any time now.

“I’m serious, Buck. I know you got that weird, broody shtick, and you ain’t the biggest fan of any therapy but there’s no court order forcing you to go this time, just me. One session won’t kill you,” too busy talking, Sam misses the next ball fired his way, striking out for the sake of chastising Bucky with a plea to accept help. “At least give Shuri a call, could be a fault with the arm.”

The stern expression on Sam’s face is too familiar and, for a moment, Bucky swears he sees that same worry Steve used to look at him with. The same worry you looked at him with when he showed up at your door, tear tracks running down your face and his hands around your waist.

The question weasels its way out of him before he can think better of it, “D’you see her much?”

“Who? Shuri?” A moment for silence, realisation. There is only one name that Bucky will not speak. “Oh. Oh. Yeah, I see her enough.”

“Recently?”

“Yes, recently. Why the sudden interrogation, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Another ball fires in his direction. Bat still on the ground, he steps out the way and lets it crash against fencing behind him, a noise that rings throughout the whole batting cage. It is not loud enough to silence Bucky’s thoughts. “I just wondered… You know if she’s been seeing anyone?”

“Romantically or like… Hallucinations?”

“Romant- Why would it be hallucinations?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, man. Didn't you and your little team just defeat the whole of New York City’s trauma flashbacks, or something?” The force Sam puts behind his next bat would have anyone relieved to hear he never got a dose of the super soldier serum, out of fear for how unstoppable he would have been with it. A strange sense of pride for him blooms in Bucky’s chest, immediately dampened by an onslaught of guilt. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

The bomb finally detonates.

Breathing does not seem to come easier to Bucky, like he expected. Instead, the shame multiplies and the voice that tells him he is in over his head with this whole hero thing grows louder. “Look, Sam-”

“There’s something I wanna tell you about, I really do. But I can’t yet, legally. So you just gotta believe me when I say this, Buck,” Sam is looking at him through the batting cage, and a part of him wants to scream that he is sorry. Unfortunately, Bucky has not yet learned to stomach that word, it does not come easy when there are so many reasons to say it. “It  ain’t personal, it’s just business.”

The bat finds its way back into Bucky’s hands. It is easier to endure the ache in his arm in the name of whacking another baseball than it is to open up. The pair let silence settle back in, but the tension is lighter, less smothering. Once a blanket of shame, now a mere handkerchief poking out their pockets, its presence known yet easily ignored.

“So me and you…” There is a nonchalance in his voice that does not match the speed his thoughts are running at. “We’re good?”

“Me and you? Good,” Sam is back on the ball, eyes trained ahead and barely sparing him a glance. “Captain America and the Winter Soldier? Not good.”

There is guilt, but at least they are good.

Good is not great.

Good is fragile.

But Bucky can work with ‘good’.

There is a rhythm of sounds between them. The constant and timed clashes of wooden bats against leather balls. The occasional grunt from either man, when too much force is put behind a swing and they pull a muscle in their ageing backs, usually followed by a whistle of approval from the other watching as they deliver a swing worthy of being drafted by the MLB. Eventually, Bucky feels comfortable enough to intercept their shared music with a chuckle.

“Call us by our made up names again and I’ll ask Sarah to dinner.”

“She knows better than to date someone past their sell-by,” Sam bites back, an up-turn itching at his lips that gives away his own comfort in finding a moment of camaradarie between them. “Besides, it’s not like your dusty heart’s even for sale.”

Bucky finally finds a breath.

In truth, the breath finds him, with a splitting headache born from the grating voices of strangers and an itch in his skin begging him to flee from prying eyes. Solace appears on the horizon, an open door leading onto an empty balcony, his own little refuge away from all the glitz and glam of the gala.

The event had been Valentina’s idea, something about needing to officially introduce the public to the New Avengers — he had a tendency of tuning out most things she said, the cadence of her words doing wonders to his easily irritated nerves. Unfortunately, him and Ava voting no on the matter was made mute against the other’s resounding yes. Fortunately, though Alexei gave a passionate plea, the team were unified in their vote against showing up in their superhero outfits.

As metal fingers loosen at his tie, he is not too sure the tailored suit feels any more natural.

Ice clinks together as he takes a sip of his drink, the burn of whiskey pairing well with the cool breeze. Clouds swirl above, painting the night sky in hues of grey and lending a soft rumble of moving air as background to Bucky’s brooding.

Unsureness stains all his decisions lately. Beneath the title of Avenger and the eyes looking to him to lead, there is a desire to be useful, helpful, good. Blood stains his history, perhaps now he can try to make things even, make things better, save two lives for every one he has taken. But, would that be enough? Is there such a thing as ‘enough’ when it comes to the Winter Soldier?

Valentina certainly thinks so, branding his name and placing it top of the list for every press release she organises. Steve Roger’s oldest friend, Captain America’s original side-kick, now leading his own team in honour of his lost buddy! She knows how to spin a pretty tale, but Bucky still feels bile burn at his throat when he thinks too hard about it.

There was a time he had wanted to leave the fight behind, bury the Winter Soldier alongside Steve, return to living as James Buchanan Barnes. Then he woke up to his hand around your throat and reality slapped him in the face: the fight is as much a part of him as he is a part of it.

Footsteps are approaching. The pronounced click of heels meeting marble flooring has his shoulders tensing in a pavlovian response, pulling in a deep breath and turning to see whichever journalist, business woman, or government official has come to harass his momentary respite. The glass pressed to his lips lowers before he can even take a sip for confidence, and his eyes cannot help but widen as they take in the approaching figure.

A vision wrapped in blue, one delicate leg peeks out the slit of your dress every second step you take towards him, one hand clutching a purse while the other holds a dirty martini captive. There is a distinct cloudiness to the drink and a garnish of three olives. Bucky does not mean to find solace in such mundane facts, yet he cannot help that it makes him think of better times: two bar stools sat side-by-side, the world around you fading to a blur as Bucky let himself be absolved by your tender heart. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as though there is still a trace of you on them. He used to complain about your drink’s briny essence but it never once stopped him from kissing you, no matter how olive-y you tasted.

He thinks of kissing you, now.

Crossing the invisible barrier of steps between you, pulling you closer, and letting his mouth melt into yours. You could breathe hope back into his lungs, shake the chip off of his shoulder, and prepare him for another round of blabbering fools, just to count down the hours until you would let him take you home and pry you both out of the fancy regalia before collapsing in a heap of giggles and moans atop whatever surface was closest. But that is not something Bucky gets to do anymore.

You are not even really here, are you? Just a cruel fantasy, a figment of torture created by his own imagination, sent to tease him with a part of the life he could have had if he was not so…  Him. The illusion is good, Bucky cannot deny it. So real, he can smell the salt of your drink, see the glittering gloss on your lips, hear your voice.

“What kind of host hides from his own party?”

For a second, Bucky holds onto the hope that you are a product of his mind, so he can try visualising your arms wrapping around him and pulling him into the calming scent of your shampoo. Once the moment passes, however, he is back to staring at a very real and present you, with his eyes wide and his hands shaky.

The ice in his drink clashes once again as he takes a swig.

“What can I say?” He hates how his voice comes out, like prey backed into a corner by its predator. “I live to disappoint.”

“Is that the new slogan?” You do not miss a beat, smiling his way as the words come out. “The New Avengers: Here to Disappoint!"

“Ouch,” a frown creases over his forehead and a pout has creeped its way onto his lips. He masks it with another sip. “I forget how snarky you are with a martini in your hand.”

You raise your glass at him, both eyebrows jumping up before you welcome in a mouthful of the cocktail. A stain marks where your lips have touched. Bucky has never been jealous of a glass before.

“You used to lo-” a simple slip of the tongue. You catch it before it can do any real damage. “Like that snark.”

“Who says I ever stopped?” He cannot keep looking down at the lipstick print, but gazing into your eyes threatens a hazard beyond his control. He settles for admiring the whips of your hair, dancing in the night’s breeze. Your lack of response leaves him needing to clarify. “Liking it.”

Silence rushes in with the wind.

Nothing about the world around you is truly quiet. The streets below are a symphony of beeping horns and chattering strangers. Classical music floats out from Valentina’s PR extravaganza, pairing awfully with the authentic noise of New York City. But, for a moment, sharing space upon a small balcony, a bubble of tranquility surrounds you both.

Bucky breathes easier than he has in a while.

“Congratulations on the whole Avengers thing, James,” your sudden sincerity falls on thankless ears, a snort of laughter his only response for you.“I mean it! Stop laughing!”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry!” Apologies creep in through clusters of laughter, bubbling up from his chest and overpowering the sound of the world around you. As he doubles over and nearly stumbles, your hand is quickly there to steady him, a gentle aid holding onto his left arm. The realisation of how close you are to touching the vibranium part of him — nothing but his suit in the way — is enough to kill his amusement. “Just… It’s still new. Doesn’t feel real yet. Or sound right, honestly.”

Trust had never come easily to Bucky, even before he lost an arm and his freedom. With you though, it is different. It always has been, from the day you first sat down across from him, freshly touched down in Wakanda and presenting him with the papers that would put him on the path to being pardoned. Even back then, no more than a stranger doing her job, you wanted to bring Bucky home, back to the streets he grew up in and the city he left behind.

He could not be blamed for falling, not when you made it so easy for his restless soul to seek peace in your presence. When the court ruled in his favour, he found himself wishing you were worse at your job, if only to make the process last a little longer, to keep having a reason to need you around beyond his own selfish desires.

“I’m proud of you, but I’m not surprised,” so softly spoken, it is barely a whisper. Even without the super soldier hearing, Bucky is sure his ears could tune out an entire stadium just for you. “I always saw you as a hero. Guess I never realised you needed such an official title to make you believe it.”

Bucky’s eyes finally find yours. Constellations await him, reflected in your pupils and tempting him closer. His feet move on their own accord, inches feeling like miles as they shuffle across the marbled floor. Despite the sorrow in your gaze, you are shooting a smile his way, more than he deserves. It is your turn to remove some of the distance, reaching over the space between you both to gently clink your glass against his own.

“To new beginnings,” you toast, and it throws him back in time.

Nearly three years ago, tucked away inside a bar in Brooklyn. Him in a wrinkled suit, you still dressed for court. Both of you smiling, victory blessing your tongue as you toast the very same words to Bucky’s pardoning, while sourness stains his throat at the thought of saying goodbye.

The wind whisks him back into the present, back onto the balcony, where the rumbling above grows more violent and goosebumps prick at the exposed skin of your arms. A rogue lock of hair falls over your face. His hand is fast to correct it, reaching up to brush it back. He rarely gets the chance to see your face anymore, he will not allow anything to deny him the full view of it.

Slipping down to your cheek, his hand lingers. There is barely any gloss left on your lips. Would you mind him stealing the rest?

He wants to say your name.

Something else comes out instead. 

“You look beau-”

“Bucky, there you are! Val wants everyone present for her spee…” His hand falls back down to his side as you turn your face away and confront the sight of Mel and five familiar figures appearing at the balcony’s opening “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt! If you could just… finish up and then join us that would be great! Or just join us now, I’m sure Val wouldn’t mind you being seen as a taken man-”

“You weren’t interrupting anything, don’t worry,” you cut Mel off. Your heels click as you take a few steps back from him, hand smoothing over the skirt of your dress and eyes looking anywhere but his own. “He’s all yours.”

This time, he does say your name.

You do not acknowledge it.

Instead, you set down your glass atop the balcony ledge and begin to dig through your purse.

“You’ve just made my job a lot easier, actually. I’m here on behalf of my client, Sam Wilson,” a poignant pause marks the moment you find what you are looking for, hand extracting a folded yellow envelope. You do not even look at him as you hand it over to Mel. “I’m afraid you’re all being sued for an infringement of copyright. We’ll see you in court.”

The ache in his shoulder doubles, while the knife in his heart pierces right through into his back.

It ain’t personal, it’s just business, Sam’s words echo in his ears.

It feels pretty personal to him as you grab your drink off the ledge, down a final sip, and walk away, disappearing among the crowd of faces Bucky does not want around. He just wants you to come back to the balcony, to before Mel and the others interrupted, to when he could pluck the stars out of your eyes and let himself foolishly think you came to this gala for him.

“She reminds me of my first love,” Alexei muses, unknowingly twisting the knife even deeper. “So beautiful, but so very mean.”

Bucky is vaguely aware of the phone ringing in his pocket.

Answering is not at the top of his priority list. The swaying blue fabric across the street holds his attention, instead. For every step he takes, you manage a swaying three. He had not intended to watch over your journey home, just like he had not meant to leave the gala.

From the moment Valentina’s speech had ended — an exhausting 17 minutes after it began — he searched for you among the crowd. Every time he spotted you in the distance, talking with strangers or sipping on a new martini, you slipped through his fingers like sand. Gone before he could even hold you, disappearing around corners and sinking beneath waves of faces. When he finally got close enough to call your name, you had already unknowingly led him halfway down the block. Though he swore, after showing up at your door three weeks ago, to no longer bother you with his silent presence, Bucky could not force himself back into the party, not with you towing the blurry line of sobriety. So he’s keeping his distance whilst keeping you safe, walking side by side yet divided by the road between each pavement.

Irritation is scratching at the door to his mind, an ire that bubbles in his loins as the night grows colder and your shoulders remain bare, nothing to shield your skin from the biting winds of winter. What little chance there is of the alcohol polluting your system keeping you warm is thrown out the window when a thunderous rumble creeps overhead and the heavens open up.

The first drop of rain has barely touched his skin before he is diving out into the road, feet racing to cross over gravel as a car blows its horn at him. You are none the wiser, oblivious to the change of weather in your continued stroll. By the time he steps foot onto your side of the street, polka dots of water smatter your pretty dress and your footsteps land a little more cautiously.

Rain falls cold on his back as he tugs off his suit jacket.

“Bucky!” Sunshine incarnate beneath a stormy sky, you are radiant joy as he shelters you beneath dark wool. A ditsy smile takes over your features as two hands reach for his face, smushing his cheeks a little more harshly than you intend to in your drunken stupor. “You’re so handsome.”

“And you’re so drunk,” he muses, fighting against your unsteady figure to keep you out of the rain.

“I am!” You gasp, divulging into a fit of giggles. “Thank your new boss for providing an open bar.”

“Valentina is not our boss,” Bucky is trying not to think too much about how easily you still slot against his side, like a puzzle piece he has been missing for too long.

“Aww, our!” The excitement in your voice is unadulterated, so free of mockery that it sends his heart into a frenzy and burns the tips of his ears. After drinking past the snarky phase, Bucky’s favourite version of drunk-you arrives: happy, excitable, unguarded. Luckily, the passing of time has not changed everything. “You’re already talking like a team, it’s adorable.”

Beneath the sanctuary of his jacket, Bucky guides you home, a journey so ingrained in his bones that he barely needs to pay attention to what turns you both take, too busy admiring the way remnants of rain dance upon your eyelashes, and your grinning lips no longer possess any gloss, left behind on glass rims as evidence of your presence at the gala. 

When his mind tries to remind him of your other memorabilia, the putrid shade of the yellow folder, he is quick to shut it out.

By the time you both reach your apartment building, the jacket is soaked right through and the pair of you are a rain-covered mess. One struggled step up drenched cobbled stairs is all it takes for Bucky’s protectiveness to spike, shrugging his jacket back on before reaching for your side.

“Darling,” the word curls off his tongue so easily neither of you have the chance to take note of it. “Hold my hand.”

Before you can reach for his left side, he has already threaded the fingers of his right hand with yours. With a supportive squeeze, he watches you take the next step towards your building’s door, shadowing your every move with his own, a vibranium palm hovering over your lower back, ready to catch you should you fall.

Through a heavy door and straight into the elevator from hell that shudders enough to make the soldier feel uneasy, you show no qualms in letting your body rest against his, starry eyes blinking back clouds of sleep as the tin-box deathtrap creeps up towards your floor. One ding and even more careful steps later, Bucky is steadying your waist and plucking the keys out your hands.

“You have to-”

“Pull the handle towards me,” the door opens on cue, revealing a single warm light cast out from a lamp in your living room and a white haired feline prowling curiously towards the entry. “I remember.”

Just as Bucky is trying to conjure up the most formal, emotionally unaffected voice to say goodbye, your hand latches onto him once more and tugs him into your apartment. His mind is begging him to protest, to be rational and get the hell out of your home before he sees something — someone — he really does not want to see. His heart leads him, though, aching to see you to bed safe as he watches you nearly trip over yourself in a fight to kick off your shoes.

Freed from your heels, you let yourself fall down to your knees while Bucky neatly tidies them away into your shoe rack and eases some of the tension in his shoulders — there is no sign of any men’s shoes.

“You brought her in,” it is not a question, but a statement, thrown your way as he watches you envelope a familiar cat into your arms.

The last time Bucky had seen her, she was still a kitten, too skittish to let him pick her up yet curious enough to approach him on the street and, eventually, eat out of his palm.

“She brought herself in, actually,” the giddiness in your voice has fallen into something more gentle, nose nuzzling into the fur of her head. “Came home from work one day and found her scratching at my door. It took her a few days to trust me but now we’re family. Aren’t we, Alpine?”

A knot is forming in his throat while he watches you both cuddle into one another, a white tail curling around your wrist and a gentle purring filling the silence between you.

“She must have followed a trail of your scent to my door,” you look up at him from the floor, smiling like you are not breaking his heart with your words. It is an ache he cannot even accept, tainted in his own guilt for leaving in the first place, for not being able to trust himself to stay and keep you safe. “I think she missed you. I decided to keep her, so we could mourn you together.”

You are up and walking away from him before he can fully make sense of the pain overtaking his chest. He watches the white feline perch herself back onto a cat-post, eyes as blue as his own staring back at him curiously. Something crashes to the ground from the right — beyond your bedroom door — and it kicks him back into gear, crossing the threshold of your room only to find you balancing on one foot and surrounded by a pile of clothes, freshly fallen out the top shelf of your closet.

He forgot how much of a hazard drunk-you can be, a threat unto yourself with every split decision you make.

“Aha!” You dive down into the pile of miscellaneous clothes, eager hand grabbing up whatever you had been hoping to find. “There you are!”

Bucky feels sick.

Worse than sick.

If the shoes were a sucker punch in the chest, then this is a 12 gauge shotgun fired right at his heart.

Clutched in your hand sits a plain black t-shirt, no doubt left behind by the owner of those damn shoes or whatever other gentleman caller had come knocking at your door and crawling into your bed. Curiosity may have saved Alpine, but it is killing him, burying him alive beneath words he has no right to speak aloud and actions that led you both to this situation: worse than strangers, as untethered as ghosts. If your relationship died with his hand around your throat, it is back with a vengeance to make sure it is him who chokes this time.

“Bucky,” and you are still saying his name like nothing is wrong, like there are no tears brimming in his eyes. Or maybe it is that you have your back to him, one hand struggling to grab at the zipper on your dress. “Do you mind?”

Yes would be the smart answer.

I have to get back to the gala would be even smarter.

Bucky is not very smart.

As he pinches the zipper between two fingers and gently drags it down, he tries not to think about what hands helped you into the dress. Your own, or his? The faceless stranger that Bucky has no right to hate, yet a piece of him does so, anyway.

“It was unfair,” he can hear the pout on your lips.

“What?”

Have you noticed how slowly he is undoing your zipper, pausing every few teeth and admiring each inch of skin he is revealing?

“Our breakup!” When he pauses this time, it is out of shock, caught off guard to hear you so plainly address the rupture of your relationship. “I wanted to live with the delusion of you someday missing me so much you’d have to get blackout drunk and call me… But no, it has to be the world's cruelest joke that your freaky soldier serum won’t let alcohol affect you!”

The zipper reaches the bottom and the dress slips off you with an elegant ease, pooling at your feet and leaving you completely bare before him, only a lacy splash of white wrapped around your hips sparing you any kind of modesty.

What would happen, he wonders, if he reached out and touched you? Would you care, enough to slap him and tell him to get the hell out of your home? Or would you lean into him, relax, let him return to the territory of your skin and trace over every inch of you he already knows? It would not stop at touching, not if you let him. He would be selfish and need more of you, a thirst on his tongue that would not be satiated until the pair of you lay boneless on your mattress, entangled and incapable of being torn apart.

He is not brave enough to find out, not when you are clutching another man’s shirt in your hand.

“Didn’t need to get drunk to call you,” or miss you. He does that every day, sober.

“You called?” You are turning around to face him, unfazed by your state of undress. He tries to keep his eyes from wandering, but he is only a man and your breasts are inches away from him. “When?”

“S’while back… Maybe a year ago,” he can barely enunciate anymore, mind in overdrive as you and your curious eyes inch just that little bit closer. “You changed your number.”

“I did?” You gawk, and then your shoulders drop. “I did. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call?”

He could tell you the truth, but what would it change? You are no longer his, at the end of the day, and the person to blame for that greets him every morning in the mirror.

You give no protest when he tugs the cotton from your hand, pliant in your pass over of the shirt. You just keep watching his face, searching for something he is not going to say.

“Arms up,” he commands and you obey.

The shirt slips over you like it was only ever meant to keep you safe, a perfect fit upon your rain-dampened skin. The very thing he will never be. Still, he cannot force himself to look away as you press your face into the sleeve, inhaling a lingering scent of musk.

The pair of you fall right back into an old rhythm, the tipsy dance to get you over to your bed and beneath the sheets is still the same as it used to be: you dragging your feet more than lifting them, Bucky’s hands hovering at your side awaiting a potential disaster, him pulling back your sheets, you tucking yourself beneath them. The only thing that has changed is he no longer crawls in beside you and pulls you against his chest. Now, he takes two steps back from the bedpost and watches you struggle to get comfortable.

“Why didn’t you kiss me?” You do not see the way he freezes, hands too busy fluffing your pillow and tugging the bedsheets up to your chin. For a moment, he weighs the possibility of you having secretly developed telepathy in the past two years and thus having peaked into his mind at some point this evening. What you mumble next shatters the thought, but it only makes him feel worse. “You always used to kiss me when you thought I looked pretty.”

“You look beautiful,” he finally says, this time without the interruption of Mel and the rest of his team.

But you are already laid back on the pillow, eyes shut and arms curled around yourself, and his words fall on deaf ears.

It is better this way, less complicated. Even if it does not feel like it in his turbulent heart.

He makes it to your bedroom door quietly, avoiding pressing on the floorboards that he knows creak, but you stir as he flicks off the light, a gentle click all it takes to reawaken your mind.

“Bucky,” you call his name softly. He is wrestling with his desire to stay. Ask it of him and he is bound to fold. “Please don’t be angry at me.”

He thinks of that yellow folder, of Sam’s lawsuit, of the legal battle you have just declared against him this evening, at the very event that was meant to commemorate what everyone has told him is the greatest achievement in his life — they clearly do not know about all the times he has made you smile.

“I don’t know how to be angry,” his own voice is just as soft, scared to wake you completely. “Not when it comes to you, doll.”

“Good,” there is that word again. He is good with Sam, he is good with you. But he is not good with himself: his shoulder aches, his heart is heavy, and he is homesick for a home he walked away from. “It was you who left this shirt here, can’t get mad at me for wanting to keep a piece of you.”

Just like that, you slip back out of consciousness and leave him to wrestle with the weight of what you just said.

When he reaches your apartment door and grabs at the handle, something brushes against his leg. Blue eyes stare up at him from the floor and, when he remains still, the white cat pushes her head against him again.

Her fur is just as soft as he remembers, if not a little cleaner than her days on the street. You are taking good care of her, another piece of evidence that he is not needed in the picture. For either of you both.

Alpine meows, and he swears he hears a twinge of disapproval. 

“You take care of her too, yeah?” It is a heavy burden he is putting on the feline, trusting her to watch over the thing he holds dearest. He has no doubt she will do her best. “And maybe bite a few ankles, preferably men’s.”

Bucky still hears her meowing as he closes your front door.

His phone lights up — Valentina is calling, no doubt to berate him back to the gala.

He takes the train back to his apartment, instead, and crashes into a restless slumber, now painfully aware of the shirt missing in his drawers.

+ extra hyde ! · propaganda i'm not falling for: the sambucky divorce · everyone say "thank you bucky" for being hot and tragic enough to bring me out of my +6 month long writer's block. · upcoming fics include: manchild inspired bucky smut, last train home part 3, an obiwan soulmate au oneshot (+20k), and another man's jealousy (15k)