#mcu bucky x reader
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#thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#bob reynolds#robert reynolds#red guardian#alexei shostakov#yelena belova#sentry#the void#bob reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x reader#yelena belova x reader#marvel#mcu#lewis pullman#florence pugh#david harbour#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#ava starr#eyeless stuff#sebastian stan
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Bucky Barnes in Thunderbolts* New Avengersâ end credit scene (2025)
#wake up babe new hd pics just dropped#his hair is the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen#thunderbolts*#prince bucky#thunderbolts#new avengers#bucky barnes#winter soldier#Buckyâs new hair#mcu#bucky barnes x reader#yelena belova#john walker#captain America#white wolf#james barnes#Steve Rogers#sebastian stan#sebastian stan x reader#marveledit#mcuedit#marvel gifs
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The Soldier and His Mission
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
Word Count: 1K
Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.
You shouldâve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.
One second, the mission was wrapping upâjust another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handlerâs voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.
Bucky Barnes was gone.
The Winter Soldier stood in his place.
And yetâhe didnât hurt you.
Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.
Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.
A shield.
âââ ââ
ââ
â âââ
Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.
But the Soldier wasnât leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.
Not to eliminate.
To protect.
At first, it was just hovering. You movedâhe followed. You satâhe stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you werenât looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.
âThis is a problem,â Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. âI mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.â
âHeâs not attacking anyone,â Natasha pointed out.
âYet,â Tony shot back.
You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Buckyâsomething normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.
Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.
The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.
Bucky was on you instantly.
His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.
âIâm okay,â you assured him, but he wasnât listening.
Instead, he took the cold pack you hadnât even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Buckyâs shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.
He was still in there.
âââ ââ
ââ
â âââ
The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tonyâs frustration. But as Natasha had pointed outâhe wasnât hurting anyone.
Unless they posed a threat to you.
That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.
âFor the record,â Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, âI was letting her win.â
Bucky wasnât convinced.
âââ ââ
ââ
â âââ
It wasnât until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.
âBarnes, I have to actually examine her,â Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bayâs equipment.
âNo,â he replied flatly.
âBuckyââ you tried.
âThe room is secure.â
âThatâs not theââ
âShe does not require assistance.â
âI do require assistance,â you corrected. âBecause I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.â
Bucky didnât move.
You exhaled slowly.
âOkay,â you said, shifting tactics. âThen stay.â
That got his attention.
âIf you want to make sure nothing happens to me,â you reasoned, âthen you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.â
His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternityâ
ââŚUnderstood.â
Progress.
âââ ââ
ââ
â âââ
When it finally broke, it wasnât dramatic.
There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.
Just a moment of quiet.
You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Buckyâs overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wristâboth flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.
And then you heard itâhis breath hitching.
A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.
You blinked sleepily, looking up.
Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wideâhis real eyes.
ââŚDoll?â His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.
You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. âHey, Buck.â
His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didnât resist.
He just buried his face in your neck and held on.
âââ ââ
ââ
â âââ
âYou scared the hell out of me, you know,â you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.
âI know,â he admitted, voice rough.
âYou threw Steve like a ragdoll.â
ââŚYeah.â
ââŚKind of hot, not gonna lie.â
A laugh. Quiet, but real.
And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#self insert#winter soldier#winter soldier x reader#winter soldier x you#winter soldier x y/n#james barnes x reader#James barnes#james barnes x y/n#james barnes x you#bucky barnes self insert#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fluff#fluff#marvel mcu#mcu fandom#marvel imagines#marvel fanfiction#magical-reid
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Y/N: Bye Bob!
Y/N: Bye Bucky!
Y/N: Bye Yelena!
Y/N: Bye John!
Y/N: Bye Ava!
Y/N: Bye Alexei!
Y/N: Bye Bob!
John: You said 'Bye Bob' twice.
Y/N: I really like Bob.
#marvel incorrect quotes#incorrect marvel quotes#incorrect mcu quotes#thunderbolts incorrect quotes#incorrect quotes#thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#marvel thunderbolts#robert reynolds#robert reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x you#bob reynolds#sentry#lewis pullman#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky x reader#yelena belova#yelena belova x reader#yelena belova x you#john walker#john walker x reader#john walker x you#alexei shostakov#red guardian#ava starr#the avengers#the new avengers#marvel x reader
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A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesnât expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he canât keep to himself anymore.
Word Count: 16.5k
Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Buckyâs past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love
Authorâs Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, Iâd love to hear what you think! Also, Iâve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if thatâs something youâd be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy âĄ
Divider by @cafekitsune âĄ
Masterlist
The air smells of memory.
As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.
Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avengerâs compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someoneâs installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.
There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.
This version of the compound is lived-in.
Itâs unnerving.
He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldnât. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.
He doesnât trust this. He doesnât trust any of it.
Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And heâs not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world thatâs supposed to be some mirror image of his own.
It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.
He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.
In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didnât do it. Clint insists he did. Here, itâs perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.
He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldnât feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.
This could still be his universe somehow.
Even though it isnât.
And even though he doesnât want it to be.
He never wanted to be part of the mission.
He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didnât matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.
Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.
He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.
And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, itâs only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didnât even try to mask.
And it made his heart clench.
You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.
You asked why Tony couldnât just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.
You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.
You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.
You asked how much they even knew about this universe.
Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. âWe donât know much,â he admitted. âThis universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.â
Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.
âSHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,â Steve went on. âStarkâs readings say itâs stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.â
Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.
The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.
Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.
He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didnât truly know if he even got this.
He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.
When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldnât meet your eyes for too long.
And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.
The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.
Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.
In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.
Thatâs what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasnât lived the same kind of life.
He reaches the second floor and hesitates.
The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. Itâs like something alive and trapped.
He turns left.
Your room is down this hall.
Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldnât assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you donât see until itâs already unmade you.
But his feet are already moving.
Itâs not like heâs planning to go in.
He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.
He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. Itâs cracked open. Thatâs weird. You usually always have it shut.
Your voice isnât behind it. Youâre not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.
He steps closer.
The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someoneâs been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.
He knows itâs yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.
Heâs memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.
He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when youâre near.
He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.
Eyes open, eyes closed.
In dreams, in silence.
In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.
Heâs mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you canât reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you donât need.
He knows how your arm swings when you walk.
Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.
And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.
Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.
Itâs not an accident.
It never is.
He carries you like a story he hasnât told yet.
And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.
Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.
He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.
He doesnât understand.
Why would he-?
No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesnât carry his past like a loaded gun. Or itâs just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.
Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.
To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.
Itâs a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.
Heâs seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you canât say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.
This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.
He knows what it means. He knows you.
But the painting doesnât belong here. Not like this. Itâs intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.
Someone like him.
His stomach twists.
Maybe it is him.
He doesnât like that thought. Doesnât like how it makes his heart trip over itself.
He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didnât want to argue. And he stops breathing.
Because you're not there.
But the room is.
The room is here.
And thatâs almost worse.
Itâs too familiar.
Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.
The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.
But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.
The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.
And thereâs a sweater messily folded on your dresser.
A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.
Like you were just here.
Like maybe, if he stays long enough, youâll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.
He doesnât touch anything.
Heâs afraid to.
Because this version of the world remembers you.
The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.
He walks the room like an intruder in someone elseâs dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.
He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.
And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.
But itâs only silence, mocking him.
He wants to sit.
He wants to stay.
Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, youâll be beside him again.
He knows it isnât true.
This isnât his world.
This isnât his home.
And this isnât his you.
But the ache doesnât care about reality.
The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.
Thereâs a coat draped over the back of a chair.
His coat.
Not one like it.
His.
The leatherâs too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. Thereâs even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you werenât a tailor but youâd seen enough war movies to fake it.
He steps inside without meaning to.
The room smells like you.
Itâs your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.
Itâs the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.
Thereâs a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.
He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.
You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.
He reaches out for it.
Stops.
His hand is shaking.
Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.
Itâs not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.
Itâs the two of you.
He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.
Youâre laughing. And he looks-
He looks in love.
Like he has everything he ever wanted.
His breath hitches.
He steps back.
Back again.
Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.
His ears are ringing.
None of this makes sense. Not fully.
He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.
The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. Thereâs a candle on the windowsillâburned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.
Thereâs another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.
He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like itâs foreign and familiar all at once.
His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.
He shouldnât be here.
This isnât his room. Itâs not his place. Not his world. Heâs just a shadow slipping through someone elseâs life.
The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.
He has a job.
A mission.
A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. Thatâs the only reason heâs here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.
He doesnât belong to this life.
He doesnât belong to you.
Not like this.
Especially not like this.
He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.
The room creaks as though it knows heâs not supposed to be here.
So he leaves.
Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.
Because of what it could mean.
He closes the door behind him. Doesnât let it latch.
He is leaving your room because he has to.
Because heâs still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isnât letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasnât real. Or wasnât his.
The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.
His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.
Thereâs a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.
And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.
These things shouldnât exist here. But they do.
Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.
The picture frames are all straight here. No oneâs taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.
Someoneâs sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Samâs. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is âeco-friendly but manly.â
The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.
Itâs yours.
You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.
The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.
He walks slower now. Like heâs afraid heâll wake something up.
He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.
He tells himself itâs for the layout. That heâs retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really itâs you. Itâs always you. He knows youâre here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isnât ready for. Or worse - see you in a way heâll never forget.
His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.
The light changes first.
The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.
And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.
He stops breathing.
Because there are you.
Standing with your back to him.
You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.
The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.
You are moving through a rhythm you donât know heâs watching.
Youâre cooking something - he doesnât know what, canât smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.
Itâs domestic.
Effortlessly soft.
The kind of moment heâs never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.
His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.
But it cleaves him open.
Because you move the same.
You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you donât know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.
He watches.
Rooted to the floor.
This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesnât tear his heart apart.
Youâre not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way youâve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.
But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.
Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you donât know youâre humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.
The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. Itâs almost too much. Itâs absolutely too much.
Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.
He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.
His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.
You donât see him.
Heâs not ready for you to. He knows he shouldnât let you see him.
Not here. Not like this. Not when youâre standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Buckyâs - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like youâre thinking about something else entirely.
And for one breathless second, he forgets.
He forgets this isnât his kitchen.
That this isnât his world.
That the you standing there isnât the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.
That youâre not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesnât mind drowning in.
But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.
Because heâs seen you like this before.
In his own kitchen, in his own universe.
Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.
You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.â¨You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.
Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.
And now, he just watches.
This version of you doesnât turn around. Doesnât feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.
He grips the doorframe.
Tries to swallow the pain.
Because this is what heâs always wanted, but it isnât his.
And it wonât be.
But he canât stop looking.
He knows he should move. Now.
Heâs not supposed to linger.
Not supposed to look.
Not supposed to feel.
Heâs a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.
But you-
God.
You are gravity and he is weak against it.
You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.
And he canât help it.
He looks.
He stays.
Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.
You are the only thing in this place that hasnât changed.
The only thing that feels right.
And thatâs the worst part.
Because you feel like home.
And youâre not his.
You might never be.
But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isnât real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldnât undo him in ways the war never could.
You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. Itâs branded into this whole place.
He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.
You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.
Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body heâs only ever worshiped in dreams.
You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didnât feel it, just enough to pretend it doesnât mean something.
He doesnât understand how this version of you still reads like poetry heâs already memorized.
He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.
For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.
As though you are the world. His world.
You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You havenât seen him yet. Youâre focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.
But he is frozen in place. His muscles arenât working.
He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though youâve caught a scent you know too well.
And then you look up.
You see him.
Buckyâs mind is running on empty cells.
Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.
Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.
He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.
âBuck-â your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. âYouâre back.â
He doesnât move. Canât.
The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.
You donât give him time to speak. You donât give him space to even think.
Because youâre already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.
You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though theyâve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.
He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.
Heâs too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldnât.
Youâre warm. Youâre so warm.
You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasnât earned.
âWhy didnât you tell me you were back?â you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. âI thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.â
Bucky canât speak. He canât do a single thing and thatâs absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. Heâs not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.
Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and itâs too much.
The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.
But you donât know that. You donât hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.
He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. Youâre beaming. And he is blinded.
Youâre looking at him as though heâs something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.
And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.
Bucky freezes.
All the air leaves his lungs.
His heart stutters in his chest.
Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though youâve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.
Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.
But he doesnât stop you.
He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isnât him. Not the right one. That the man you think youâre kissing is a ghost wearing someone elseâs memories.
But he doesnât. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice heâs been carrying in his chest for too long.
Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream heâs buried too deep to name, one heâs never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesnât know if heâs breathing or if that became something irrelevant.
He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasnât changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.
His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didnât earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.
You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.
Your hands are on his face and youâre kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.
His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.
Your body is pressing forward as though itâs coming home.
His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesnât speak.
This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.
But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.
âGod, I missed you.â
And everything collapses.
The words strike like ice water down his spine. Itâs like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isnât real. This isnât real.
Youâre not his.
Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.
You think heâs your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.
And so he breaks the sky.
He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.
Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you donât know. Not when you think heâs someone else.
And even though itâs you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - itâs not the version of you heâs imagined this with.
And itâs not right.
The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion heâs never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didnât offer him.
Heâs just a stranger behind familiar eyes.
You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.
Your smile falters. Disappears.
His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.
And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.
And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.
Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe youâre the one who crossed a line.
And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.
You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though youâre suddenly unsure of yourself.
And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.
âBuck, I-â you start, your voice soft and hesitant. âIâm sorry. That was⌠I shouldnât have just- I didnât mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-â you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.
Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isnât his.
Itâs killing him.
That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.
You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.
His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasnât caught up yet.
Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.
He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that wonât stop bleeding.
âNo!â he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. âHey- no, no, you didnât- You werenât- Iâm not-â
But he doesnât know what to say.
He wants to tell you itâs okay, that you didnât do anything wrong, that itâs him, itâs all him, itâs always him, itâs never you.
He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you donât know youâve given him.
But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.
And all he does is stand there.
Breath shaking.
Heart breaking.
Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.
Because you didnât give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.
And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.
He feels sick.
And now you look like youâre folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.
âI just got excited,â you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. âI missed you and I didnât- I thought youâd- Never mind. Iâm sorry.â
Youâre already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didnât just break the air between you. As though you havenât just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.
And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.
Because itâs not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.
He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him arenât even a thing.
Because in his world, youâre his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. Youâve patched him up after missions. Youâve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. Youâve fallen asleep on his shoulder. Youâve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. Youâve told him - more than once - that youâre here for him.
But youâve never kissed him.
Youâve never touched him as though you owned the moment.
Youâve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.
And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.
And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.
Because he couldnât be the right Bucky.
He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.
âNo- no, hey,â he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. âItâs not your fault. Itâs not you. I just⌠I mean, I didnât think-â He knows heâs not making this better at all right now.
He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.
You search his face, your eyes too deep.
A trembling nod.
âOkay,â you say. âI just thought- I donât know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I shouldâve given you a moment.â
And there it is.
The softness.
The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one heâd go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.
He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That heâs not the man you think he is.
He almost does.
But his throat is choked up.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.
Because you think you did something wrong.
âNo,â he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. âYou donât need to apologize, sweetheart. I-â he hesitates, and you see it. âI missed you, too.â
He screwed up. Completely.
You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Buckyâs shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesnât belong to you anymore.
And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.
You look at him as though heâs a wound.
As though heâs something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though youâve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.
Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like youâve already seen him flinch once and youâre afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.
âBuck,â you say, slow, quiet. âAre you okay?â you ask and itâs not just a question. Itâs a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasnât let anyone touch. Youâre peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe youâve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.
But not this version of him.
Not here. Not now.
And it does something sharp to him.
Because heâs not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after heâs flinched from your kiss, after heâs stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.
He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where theyâve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He canât swallow them. He canât spit them out.
You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.
âDo you need anything?â you ask, as though youâve asked him this a thousand times before. âWater? Food? A shower? A-â you falter, â- a second to breathe?â
Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. Youâre hurting and youâre still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it wonât burn you if he doesnât take it.
He doesnât deserve this.
He doesnât deserve you.
Not when heâs not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.
His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.
âIâm fine,â he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.
Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.
âOh,â you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. âOkay.â
And there it is.
That thing he canât stand.
That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe youâd overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.
It crushes him.
Because he made you feel that way.
He made you feel as though youâre making it worse by caring.
He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.
He doesnât deserve your tenderness. He doesnât deserve your care. He doesnât deserve the way youâre moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. Youâre trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.
You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though itâs been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.
âIâm almost done here,â you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. âIf you do want something.â
You say it as though youâve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.
Bucky can feel his heart cave in.
Youâre still looking at him like that. As though heâs someone youâd give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isnât just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.
Even when he pulled away, even when he didnât say a damn word, you didnât get angry. You didnât accuse him of anything. You just worried. And youâre still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like theyâre nothing when they mean everything.
It makes him feel like a thief.
Because heâs not your Bucky. And he doesnât know what yours did to earn you, but he canât possibly live up to it.
His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.
You wouldnât have kissed him if you knew who he really was.
And still, he wants to say yes.
Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate youâd hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.
But itâs not.
Itâs yours.
And itâs his job to leave it untouched.
âIâm good,â he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.
You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.
He hates that look.
That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know heâs not telling the truth but donât want to press. Maybe youâd rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.
âOkay,â you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. âJust let me know if that changes.â
And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.
And Bucky just stands there.
Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.
And youâre cooking for a man who doesnât exist in your world.
And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.
He wishes this was real.
He wishes it were him.
He wishes it more than heâs wished for anything in his life since he lost it.
Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all heâs done is survive.
He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.
The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.
He watches you move like heâs memorizing. As though this is the last time heâll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world canât steal it. Where time canât take it. Where even regret has no reach.
Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didnât need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. Youâre pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. Youâre waiting. Giving him the space he didnât ask for and that he doesnât actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than heâs ever learned to give himself.
And you are so familiar. Youâre the same here. Even in this place thatâs slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesnât recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.
Even if your kindness isnât meant for him.
Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesnât even understand.
Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.
Bucky doesnât know how to be that man.
He wants to be.
But he doesnât know how.
Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends thatâs protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like itâs medicine and doesnât let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.
But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.
Because what would he even say?
Hey, I canât sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.
And what would you say to that?
Would you smile?
Would you run?
He doesnât know. Heâll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.
But this Bucky did.
And now this is the price.
Standing in the compoundâs kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things heâs never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.
He wonders if youâd greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.
If youâd light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.
If youâd wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.
He aches with the idea of it.
He wants this.
He wants you.
And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when youâre laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.
He wants this.
You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.
But he hasnât. He knows that.
Heâs just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you donât want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they donât actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesnât mean anything. Not to you.
Not like it means to him.
And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.
You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. Heâll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.
And this version of you belongs to someone.
Even if itâs just a different version of him, itâs not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything heâs done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesnât know how to be soft.
He doesnât know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesnât know how he got so lucky. Doesnât know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.
Heâs not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesnât. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.
Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think heâs not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.
Bucky thinks heâd kill to have what that punk has.
And he hates himself for that.
But he canât help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.
It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.
Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, youâd feel betrayed. Youâd feel wronged. Because this wasnât yours to give and it wasnât his to want and now youâre both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.
But youâre here. And heâs here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.
And he canât stop wanting.
He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.
He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.
He wants to be the one you light up for.
He wants it so bad it hurts.
But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.
And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.
And maybe thatâs why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.
He canât stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything heâs ever tried not to need.
He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.
Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.
âI should, uh,â he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. âIâve gotta take a shower.â
He bites his lip in frustration at himself.
Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.
âOkay,â you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you werenât able to overshadow. âYouâll tell me if you need anything?â
He nods too fast. Too tight. âYeah.â
And then he leaves.
Because if he doesnât, heâs going to do something worse than kiss you back.
Heâs going to beg.
And he knows he has already taken too much.
And he needs to turn away.
Because he has something to do.
Because this world isnât his. And he wasnât sent here to collect the storyline heâs too afraid to build on his own.
Heâs here for a mission.
He wasnât sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.
He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, itâs like heâs leaving something behind heâll never quite be able to touch again.
He almost turns around.
Almost says your name.
Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.
But he doesnât.
Because he doesnât get to ask.
So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.
****
âDid you run into anyone while you were there?â
Steveâs question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.
Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someoneâs fingers drumming absently on the table.
The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.
The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind thatâs been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.
Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.
And he knew this was coming.
Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.
Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.
The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.
The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tonyâs vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesnât matter.
They have it. He got it.
But thatâs not what anyone is talking about right now.
Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when youâre sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and youâre watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesnât sit right.
âBucky,â Strange says, voice low and still too loud. âI need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-â
âI know the damn rules,â Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didnât belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.
He canât stop thinking about you.
He doesnât want to talk about it.
He dreads talking about it.
âThere was someone,â he says, and the room quiets.
You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.
He can feel you watching him.
You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And itâs so difficult to just look at you because he swears thereâs a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.
âWho?â Strange asks.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.
âYou,â He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. âI saw her.â
You blink.
âYou ran into Y/n?â Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.
Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.
He canât look up anymore. Canât look at you.
He doesnât need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.
He pushes through.
âShe was there. She saw me.â His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.
Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. âThatâs not ideal.â
Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.
âDid you talk to her?â Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.
He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.
âYeah,â he sighs, quieter now. âWe, uh- we talked.â
Silence.
Strangeâs eyes are boring through him. âHow close did you get?â
Sam leans forward. Bucky doesnât look at him.
Youâre staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You havenât said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.
âI donât think that matters-â Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.
âIt matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-â
Bucky laughs, but itâs hollow, breathless. Rotten. âWhat the hell is an emotional tether?â
âItâs you,â Strange answers simply. âAnd her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.â
âJesus,â Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.
His palms wonât stop sweating.
He hasnât felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers theyâd need to break before he forgot his own name.
The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.
He doesnât want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.
So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.
âShe hugged me.â
A pause.
He doesnât look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steveâs shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesnât know where youâve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesnât think you even realize youâre doing it.
âShe hugged you?â Sam repeats, brow raised. âLike⌠greeted you?â
Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. âSomething like that.â He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesnât.
âWhat happened before that?â Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.
âI-â Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. âI walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I donât know the details.â
âAnd she hugged you,â Steve adds.
âYeah,â Bucky sighs.
He doesnât mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.
And youâre watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.
âAnd you just let her?â Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. âYou didnât say anything?â
âWhat do you think I should have said?â
âWell, I donât know, man-â
âDid I say anything? Or⌠she?â
Itâs your voice.
And it makes his stomach flip.
His eyes snap to you. But youâre not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.
He shifts in his chair. âYou- She asked why I hadnât told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.â His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.
âAnd?â Steve asks, too gently.
âShe kissed me,â Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe heâs trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.
There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.
Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.
And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.
âShe kissed you?â Natasha says, brows high.
Bucky exhales. Nods.
âWhat kind of kiss?â Sam blurts, leaning forward again. âA welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?â
Steve sighs exasperated.
âNo, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.â
His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. âIt was- not friendly.â
And the room really freezes. Stunned.
Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.
You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Buckyâs stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. Heâs not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And itâs all turned inward.
Samâs eyes narrow. âSo she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.â
Bucky doesnât answer. Heâs trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.
Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. Itâs not anger. He knows that heat, and this isnât it. Itâs just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though youâve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.
And he hates it.
Bruce clears his throat carefully. âThat implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.â
Tony makes a face. âSo weâre saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.â
âLooks like it,â Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.
âHoly shit,â Clint remarks unhelpfully.
They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesnât wreck something fundamental in Buckyâs ribcage.
And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. Itâs hot and awkward and strangely intimate.
Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone elseâs. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.
He says nothing.
He feels terrible.
Because a part of him still wants it.
Still aches with it.
Not the kiss. Not the accident.
The life.
That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that donât demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesnât have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.
He wants that version to exist so badly.
And it makes him feel like a monster.
Youâre sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.
You are you. You are right there. And you donât even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.
The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Buckyâs knuckles, the tightness of his body.
Thereâs a long pause.
Then Tony exhales. âWell, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.â
âTony,â Natasha warns lowly.
Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.
âDid you tell her anything?â His voice is edged. âDid she suspect something?â
Bucky doesnât answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.
âNo,â he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. âI didnât tell her anything.â
Strangeâs eyes narrow. âNothing?â
Bucky shakes his head. âNothing.â
Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. âHer behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if sheâs acting off.â
The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.
âShe was hurt,â he admits, and the words punch out of him. âI froze up. She thought sheâd done something wrong. But she didnât suspect anything.â
Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.
Youâre watching him as though youâre trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.
He swallows hard.
âI didnât tell her anything,â he says again, and itâs not for Strange this time. Itâs for you. âI didnât compromise anything. I was careful.â
âYou were compromised,â Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. âEmotionally. Whether you said something or not.â
Bucky doesnât argue.
Because yes. He was. He is. He doesnât even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though youâd been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.
He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.
He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If heâs back. If heâs home. If youâre in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If heâs grateful. If he deserves you.
And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.
Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe youâve been wanting to say something for a while now.
He doesnât hear the others anymore.
Theyâre voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window heâs no longer looking through.
Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.
And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.
Small. Thin. Stupid.
Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.
And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.
Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when itâs terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe youâll see something in him that youâll want to keep.
Maybe heâs not beyond that.
Maybe heâs not on the edge of the world after all.
His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.
Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.
Heâs a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and heâs remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but canât ever forget.
You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compoundâs side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe youâre going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.
But you donât.
You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldnât.
But Bucky doesnât stop hoping.
Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.
Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.
Heâs not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.
Heâs not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.
But maybe he could become that man.
Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.
Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, youâll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.
In this one.
In your voice, when you say his name.
In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.
In your eyes, when you donât look away.
And he knows he would do anything to earn that.
He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.
His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.
The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that havenât realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Samâs laughter breaking loose and grating on Buckyâs nerves.
The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. âAlternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?â
âSounds like heâs living the dream,â Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. âYou finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.â
Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He canât tell anymore. He canât hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.
âHell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,â Sam remarks, amused.
Clint chuckles. âAh, Barnes just grew a pair.â
âWell, thatâs kind of a big deal, isnât it?â Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.
âAlternate-universe Barnes has game,â Sam says delighted.
âLucky bastard,â Clint mutters under his breath.
They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they donât say louder than the ones they do. Itâs how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.
But Bucky isnât laughing. He isnât smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.
He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.
With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.
The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you canât seem to look at him anymore.
He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesnât go down.
Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.
But Bucky feels sick.
Because heâs seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.
God.
Heâs such a fool.
A lovesick idiot.
Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though heâs spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he canât have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.
But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.
When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesnât hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.
As though youâve made a decision.
You donât look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.
And you leave.
No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.
Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesnât respond to Steveâs âBuck?â Doesnât glance at Strange, whoâs looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.
All Bucky sees is the hallway.
You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.
Not like this.
He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.
Youâre so graceful even when youâre upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength thatâs always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows youâre hurting.
He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when heâs unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.
âHey,â he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. âWait- can you- can we talk?â
You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you canât help it.
You donât turn around at first. Youâre breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.
You turn.
And itâs worse than he thought.
Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and youâre biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didnât bother you.
He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.
But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.
You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.
âCan we talk?â He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.
You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. âIf you want.â
He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.
âI know it probably sounded bad in there,â he says, voice rough. âI didnât want it to come out like that. Like I was⌠caught up in something.â
âYou donât have to explain yourself, Bucky,â you say quickly, voice too neutral. âYou didnât know. I get it.â
But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasnât stopped thinking about it since.
âI didnât tell you- I mean, tell her,â he blurts, breathless. âI didnât tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didnât say anything.â
You blink at him. âOkay.â
âShe thought I was him. I- I didnât say anything because I- I wasnât supposed to engage and I wasnât planning to. I swear I wasnât planning to.â
You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.
Bucky steps closer. Heâs aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.
âYou kissed me,â he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, âbut I didnât- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.â
He stops. Swallows.
And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing thatâs lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.
He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.
But not if it means breaking you to find it.
Youâre watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He canât tell if itâs pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows itâs tearing him apart.
âI know it wasnât me she kissed,â he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesnât want to be spoken. âAnd I know it wasnât you, either. But it made me think that maybe-â He breaks off, exhales. âI know itâs not fair to say it, but-â
âThen donât.â Your voice is soft when it comes.
And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.
But your face isnât cruel. Itâs sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when theyâre holding too many emotions all at once.
âIâm not her,â you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. âIâm not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, thatâs not me.â
âI know,â he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesnât dare.
âNo, I donât think you do.â Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. âShe looks like me,â you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. Itâs not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. âShe sounds like me. But sheâs not. Sheâs not me, Buck.â
And then you turn as if youâre about to go. As though you canât stand another second of standing still in front of him.
âNo- donât,â he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. âPlease.â
You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.
He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when youâre trying really hard not to cry.
Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.
âWhat?â There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.
Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.
âShe hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like sheâd done it a thousand times before.â His voice is shaking, even if heâs trying not to let it.
âAnd I didnât stop her. Not for a second,â he goes on, quiet. âI shouldâve. I shouldâve pulled away sooner, but I-â
You pull your arm back, but he doesnât let go.
âWhy are you telling me this?â you question him, voice breaking in the middle. âWhat am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?â
There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.
He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.
âI didnât stop her,â he says lowly, slowly, âbecause, for a second, it felt like you.â
The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out.
âFor a second, it felt like something Iâll never have,â he confesses, barely audible now. âAnd I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasnât just a kiss to me.â
You donât speak. You donât move. Your chin trembles.
You look at him as though you want to say something but canât trust yourself to do it.
âIâve been trying to bury it,â he admits, voice strained. âThis thing in my chest. This want. Itâs been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe youâd never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasnât really you. And I- I didnât want to come back here and pretend I didnât feel it anymore.â
You donât move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you donât know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.
âIâm not asking for anything,â he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. âNot expecting anything. I just- I couldnât let you walk away thinking it didnât mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.â
Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.
Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if thatâs what you need.
His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.
He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl heâs tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.
The cold creeps in like a punishment.
He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesnât look away.
âIt meant something,â he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where heâs kept the truth folded up too long. âIt meant something because I love you.â
The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesnât shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. Itâs too much. Heâs too much. Too much and too late and heâs saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.
âI love you. You. Only you,â he repeats, and this time itâs quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.
He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he wonât ever be allowed to knock on again.
But you donât run.
You just stare at him.
Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, itâs like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.
You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.
And Bucky is not breathing.
Doesnât know how he will ever take in a breath again.
Then you move.
Fast. Sharp. Certain.
You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.
Itâs not gentle.
Itâs not careful.
You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now itâs surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.
It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.
He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.
Heâs still.
Because this is you.
You.
One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then heâs moving.
He melts.
His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.
And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything heâs been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.
He is kissing you back as though heâll never get the chance again.
His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question heâs been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like heâs been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.
Itâs not a careful kiss.
Itâs years of aching packed into the space between your lips. Itâs soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. Itâs a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.
The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though heâs living out every dream in which heâs imagined this before.
He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though heâs trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.
His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.
Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.
His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything heâs feeling.
He moans softly into you, doesnât even realize itâs happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.
When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.
His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.
When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.
He stares at you as though heâs seeing the sun rise for the first time.
âI love you too,â you breathe against him.
Bucky shivers.
It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.
Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.
And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if heâs lucky.
âI loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.â
- Christopher Poindexter
#avenger!bucky#avenger!reader#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fic#mcu bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader onshot#bucky barnes x avenger!reader#bucky barnes x reader angst#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky x reader angst#bucky x reader fanfiction#bucky x you#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#james bucky barnes#bucky x y/n
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How about something smutty for the Thunderbolts headcanons đł Like how each of them would react to you making them cum in their pants
thank you so much for requesting and feeding my hyperfixation!! below you will find four separate baby blurbs for bucky, john, yelena, and bob. each section will have it's own summary, warnings, and whole lotta smut! enjoy :D
BUCKY BARNES X READER â you're with him in wakanda when he's cured of the trigger words in his head. he's able to touch you for the first time without feeling scared of himself. (established relationship, post-cacw | 1k words)
Bucky Barnes canât remember the last time he felt this free. Maybe sometime in 1942, he guesses â before he got drafted, before Hydra captured him, before they put those goddamn words in his head. It feels weird that theyâre gone now; to be without the dark cloud of impending doom that, at any moment, someone could utter the words and heâd just snap.Â
But now, freshly cured and living on the Wakandan countryside, he can touch you for the first time without being terrified of himself.
âYouâre so pretty,â he mumbles as his vibranium hand trails up the expanse of your bare back. He keeps his flesh one on your thigh, smoothing his thumb over the plush skin there, and tilts his scruffy chin to smile up at you. Heâs got you straddled over his lap, barely clothed and bathed in golden candelight, like some kinda angel brought to life.
âYouâre pretty,â you correct with a lovesick grin, raking your hands through his silky, growing locks.
Bucky leans instinctively into your touch. âDonât make this about me,â he says, squinting.
âIt is about you,â you remind him with a giggle, ducking down to kiss his neck. âIâm supposed to compliment youââ Your lips brush his pulse in a chaste kiss. Bucky fights back a shiver. ââSupposed to make you feel good.â
âYou do,â Bucky sighs a contented moan, pulling you further into him. âYou always doâŚâ
His vibranium hand curls up your back and towards your shoulder. His other one holds tightly to your hip. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck until your bare chest is flush with his scruffy one â until your clothed cunt brushes his cock, half-hard and throbbing within the confines of his boxers.
A moan rumbles in Buckyâs throat. You feel it against your lips when you press them to his adamâs apple. âDo you want to?â you murmur against him, voice low like honey. ââCause it kinda seems like you want to.â
Buckyâs head is too clouded to respond properly to your teasing. He just nods his heavy head and flexes his hips beneath you in a desperate attempt to relieve the pulsing ache in his boxers. You let him, and with his consent, begin to rock slowly over his lap.Â
âSay it,â you whisper in his ear.
âWant it,â he pants in yours. âWant you.â
âYou have me, Buck,â you slur, trying to peer at him through the haze in your vision. Your panties drag over his stiffening cock and leave a damp spot at the center of them. You find yourself chasing your high just as much as Buckyâs.Â
You snuck a few sips of alcohol to quell your worry before watching Ayo recite the wretched words back to the man haunted by them. You feel the consequences creeping up on you now and find yourself rambling before you can stop it, half-deluded with pleasure.Â
ââM already yours. My pussyâs alreadyâ shit,â you whimper in time with Buckyâs groaning when your clit drags over his lap. Through pants, you beg him, âSay you wanna fuck me. Please. Donât wanna cum âtil youâre inside me.â
âOh, fuck,â Bucky whines, face screwed and eyes shut tight. He tries to form the words in his head, but all he can think about is how wet you are â and how his leaking cock has left a damp spot in his underwear â and how the combination of both makes the friction between you so dizzying. âI wanna⌠fuckââÂ
âUh-huh,â you tease with a slow nod when you sense heâs getting close. âYou can do it, Buck. Câmon. There you go.â
He canât tell if youâre trying to coach him into saying the words or push him headfirst into an orgasm. He hopes itâs the latter, âcause he feels himself bursting into his boxers a second later.
âFuck!â he blurts when he cums, half-muffled and half-whined, like it pains him.Â
He holds your hips in both hands, keeping you still above him in a crueler grip than he means to. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of crackling candles and his groaning. He tilts his face to the ceiling and moans into the golden darkness with his eyes squeezed shut. The sudden orgasm racks through his body in so many shivers up his spine, three warm ropes spit into the confines of his boxers.
ââM sorry,â he pants when itâs done, still slightly airy from the aftershocks. âIâm sorry, I didnâtâ Didnât mean to.â
âItâs okay,â you promise with a soft laugh as your own building pleasure begins to subside. You cup his scruffy face in your palms and try to kiss him through the smile on your lips. âYou deserve it, Buck,â you whisper against his mouth, between your delicate kisses. âYou deserve everything.â
Bucky shakes his head between your palms and smooths his fingers over the bruises he unknowingly stamped into your skin. âDonât care about everything,â he murmurs lowly. âJust you.â
Your eyes narrow in a sarcastic squint, though you canât hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. âDo you think we can get Shuri to erase the cheesiness from your brain, too?â
âSure,â Bucky scoffs, smiling still, as he shoves you playfully onto your back. You giggle when you hit the mattress, caging your smile between your teeth as the man crawls back between your legs. He lies flat on the mattress, face-to-face with your clothed pussy. âI bet youâd like that, wouldnât you?â
You nod, obviously sarcastic. âMhm. Very much.â
âMaybe Iâll just go get her then,â Bucky murmurs, punctuating his quip with a kiss to your inner thigh as he spreads them apart. You shiver when his scruff scrapes your delicate skin. âTell her to put me back under the iceââ
Your feet lock behind his back to keep him against you. Bucky laughs and curls his arms around your thighs as you prop yourself on your elbows to shoot him a death glare. âYouâre not going anywhere, Sergeant Barnes.â
And, truth be told, Buckyâs exactly where he wants to be.
JOHN WALKER X READER â john hates when valentina pairs the two of you on missions together. until he doesn't. (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)
John Walker canât stand you most days. Youâre too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to put yourselves in situations that might kill you. He hates that Valentina paired you together just as much as he hates that he cares so much about your well-being.
He knows itâd be easier to let you get yourself killed, to have one less thing to worry about, but he somehow ends up kissing you instead.
âI canât fucking stand you,â he grumbles through labored breaths, with your spit still shining on his swollen mouth. He cages your body between his larger one and the unforgiving wall behind you. The men guarding the vault outside surely wonât mind the sexual tension rising inside it, seeing as theyâre half-dead already.
You smile in the face of his anger until the fresh cut on your mouth starts to sting. âBut you can fuck me?â you pant, eyes glazed over as they dart back and forth between his dilated ones. âI mean, you want to, right? âS why you locked me in here, isnât it?â
âI locked you in here because there were three guys outside trying to kill you, if you forgot.â
âTwo,â you correct in a witty deadpan. âI killed the third one.â
âAnd I killed the other two, who gives a shitââ
âYouâre obsessed with me, Walker,â you grin, pulling him close by the belt loops on his suit.Â
Despite his near palpable rage, he melts into you with ease. The blonde man stumbles closer until heâs towering over you â hair messy from his helmet, face bruised, ocean eyes staring daggers into you.
âWell, thatâs very presumptuous of you,â he gripes.
âI donât think it is,â you lilt lowly and nudge his clothed crotch with your thigh.Â
You watch the words of an argument form and dissolve on his tongue all at once. John exhales hard through his nose as his eyes go glassy. He hadnât realized how hard he was until you pressed yourself against him â how sensitive he was â how long it had been since heâd had any sort of release.
âAdmit itââ you whisper, pulling him closer until his stiff cock is pressed between your bodies. He smells like cologne and copper pennies, likely from the blood darkening his navy blue suit. Youâre almost sure youâd be able to feel his racing heart from here, if it werenât for the thick layers separating you. ââYou love meâŚâ
âI hate you,â he corrects, though his dark eyes cloud with lust.
Your smile widens. The cut on the corner of your mouth begins to weep all over again. John reaches for your jaw without thinking, cupping his palm there and swiping the crimson away with his thumb.Â
âNo, you donât,â you coo with a shake of your head. The room goes quiet then, filled only by Johnâs heavy breaths and the clinking of his belt as you undo the buckle. You keep him close with one hand around his belt loop while the other creeps around the front of him. His breath catches in his throat when your fingers dip beneath the hem.
You donât think he realizes how heâs rocking himself against your thigh. Or the way he subconsciously shakes his head in agreement.Â
âYouâve always thought about this, havenât you?â you continue mercilessly, grinning when your fingertips meet the coarse thatch of hair above his cock.Â
John nods his heavy head and leans further into you, propping himself on the wall as his eyes flutter shut. He deserves this, he tells himself, for saving your ass a hundred times over. You owe him one, really.
âI know you have,â you whisper in his ear. âI bet youâve gotten yourself off to the thought of me a thousand times.â
Again, John nods in response without ever really noticing it. Just like he doesnât really notice the release building within him â like a creeping hand up his spine, or a tightening knot in his lean stomach. He just keeps rubbing himself against you, chasing a high he barely knows is there.
âBut I think when you imagined me making you cumâŚâ you trail off and smile when John moans against your pulse. ââŚYou always thought itâd be inside me.â
John tenses at the thought of fucking you. Heâs left trembling above you as a sudden orgasm racks through his body. The quiet room fills with his poorly heldback groans and your giggling while he cums in his pants. He feels the evidence, warm and wet, blooming in his boxers â just like the red-hot embarrassment exploding in his chest.Â
He pulls away to find you grinning like the devil.
âTold ya,â you monotone and pull your hand from his boxers, only slightly mourning the fact that you never actually got to touch him. âYouâre obsessed with me.â
John scoffs, like he has any room to be ambivalent after humping your thigh like a dog. He zips up his pants, belt buckle clinking as he fastens it again. âYou ruined my suit,â is all he can think to say as you walk past him.
You roll your eyes and wrench open the heavy door to the vault, stepping over the bloody bodies littered on the other side of it. âBill me,â you call over your shoulder.
YELENA BELOVA X READER â yelena is full of adrenaline after a mission, and you only know one way to calm her down (established relationship, post-thunderbolts, cw for very brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)
Yelena Belova has you flat on your back. The rest of the Avengers tower is dark, quiet, and asleep â each of you recovering from the latest mission in the sanctuary of your bedrooms. The blonde Russian girl is too full of adrenaline to rest, though, never mind how much she could probably use the sleep. Sheâs a relentless force on top of you â because of the adrenaline, of course, and not because she nearly lost you.
She tugs your pants down your legs with a pair of merciless hands, bruised knees digging into the foot of the mattress across from you. The mattress squeaks with each of your movements, and you fight back a laugh. âBe gentle, Belova!â you scold in a whisper. âWalkerâs gonna hear.â
(John had the misfortune of his bedroom being one story below yours. And the floors were surprisingly thin. Or so he says.)
Yelena scoffs, face screwed. âI donât care,â she mutters, voice accented and low like honey. âLet him hear.â
She makes a big show of climbing back over your body, moving much more violently than normal over the worn bed frame, so it creaks louder beneath her. âYelena!â you snap quietly through gritted teeth, but hold her gently by the hips when she straddles you just the same.
âWhat?!â she exclaims, louder than necessary for the late, late night, as she tugs her shirt over her head. She throws the fabric to the side, discarding it with the rest of your pajamas littered on the floor â leaving both of you in mismatched sets of old, cotton underwear.
âGod, youâre such a child,â you grouse and cross your arms beneath your head.
Yelena grins. âStop flirting with me,â she lilts lowly and ducks down to kiss you.
Your eyes flutter shut when her plush lips trail from your jaw down to your neck. âWe should rest, LenaâŚâ you tell her, sighing when her teeth scrape your pulse. âWeâre gonna be sore in the morning.â
You feel her mouth curl into a smile against your skin. âI hope so.â
âChild,â you repeat.
Yelena gets relentless rather quickly, feral in a way only a previous world-class assassin could be. She forgets about the exhaustion and the bruises that ache to the bone, littered across both your bodies. Her head fills only with thoughts of making you feel good, touching you like it could be the last time she ever gets to.
âLena, Lena, Lenaââ you echo, reaching for her wrist where her handâs shoved into your panties. âSlow down,â you laugh.
âWhy?â she whines.
You find her pretty face contorted in a girlish pout when you cup her cheeks in your hands. âBecause we have all night,â you coo, smoothing your thumbs over her flushed jaw. âWe donât have to rush.â
Your words strike something deep in her chest. She refuses to let the vulnerability show.Â
âI know that,â she scoffs, trying to look unbothered as you smooth the top of her tank top down her chest. You tuck it beneath her breasts, and her pink nipples perk when the cool air hits them.
âGood,â you hum, lifting your head to take her left breast in your mouth.
âI justâ I wanted to make you feel goodââ she whines in her low Russian accent, voice cracking when you nudge her clothed cunt with your thigh. ââOhâŚâ
You smile into her chest, teeth scraping her sensitive nipple. Yelena keeps you pressed against her with a hand on the back of your head. Your arms curl around her back to keep her flush to your thigh. You feel the warmth of her cunt against your skin, and the wet spot slowly forming there.
The stubborn girl turns into a puddle above you, in more ways than one. You feel her shuddering as she buries each of her moans in your hair. Your mouth leaves her nipple with a quiet pop, and a thin string of saliva threatens to connect you when you pull away.
âAre you gonna cum, Lena?â you coo, swollen mouth curling into a soft smile. âIâve barely even touched youââ
Her fingers tighten in your hair. âDonât stop, donât stop,â she pleads in a broken voice.
You return to her chest, sucking on her sensitive nipple until she keens. She exhales a hoarse moan above you, flexing her hips over your thigh to keep her clit flush to your skin. She lets out several pretty âUh, uh, uhââs before tensing suddenly above you.Â
Yelena holds her breath, grips you tight by your shoulder and the back of your neck, and begins to tremble over your thigh. âOh, shitâŚâ she moans, then sighs. âOh, shitââÂ
It comes out more disappointed the second time, as she pulls back from you to flash you a girlish pout. âWhat?â you laugh, mouth shining with spit, as you smooth a rouge blonde tendril behind her ear.
âI was supposed to make you feel good,â she whines, Russian accent sounding deep in her mouth. âI had it all plannedâ Iâve been thinking about it all day.â
âWell, then itâs a good thing weâve got all the time in the world, right?â
Yelenaâs frown curls into a more devilish grin at your words.
Neither of you get any sleep that night. Walker, included.
ROBERTY REYNOLDS X READER â a year after the void nearly destroyed new york, you're still teaching bob that it's okay to feel good (new-ish relationship, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)
Robert Reynolds is still getting used to touching you. Heâs spent nearly every day with you since you found him â learning how to use his powers for good, how to touch you without hurting you, how to be human again. Itâs been a year since then, and heâs starting to get the hang of it. But sometimes he thinks you have more faith in him than he does in himself.
You kiss him hard enough to bruise him on the center of the living room couch, with Sunset Boulevard playing quietly on the large TV behind you. Bobâs anxiety is only partly quelled by the rest of the Thunderboltsâ absence, but heâs still slightly scared of himself â what if The Void returned and swallowed him whole again? Who would be there to stop him from hurting you if it did?
You donât seem half as panicked about the whole thing as your lips stamp wet kisses up and down the expanse of his long neck. âYouâre so pretty, Bobby,â you murmur into his warm skin. âSuch a pretty boyâŚâ
Bob swallows hard at your praise, adamâs apple bobbing in his throat. He shifts uncomfortably beneath you on the sofa when he feels his cock twitching in the confines of his sweatpants. Thereâs a need for release inside of him that he canât ignore, but he cares more about keeping you safe. Safe from himself.
You pull back, mouth swollen from your assault on his neck. âCan IâŚ?â you smile and trail off, hands sliding down his clothed, lean chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.
Bob doesnât know what youâre planning. It excites him as much as it frightens him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish until he finds the words. âOh. Iâ I donâtâ I donât know,â he stammers through an awkward chuckle.
You shrug despite the pang of disappointment in your chest. âItâs okay. We donât have to do anything you donât want toââ
âItâs not that!â Bob blurts, rushing to hold you by the waist when you threaten to move off him. (He forgets, for maybe the first time ever, to be scared of touching you.) He swallows hard at the look you give him, blinking wildly with glassy eyes. âI just⌠I donât wanna hurt you.â
âYouâre not gonna hurt me,â you assure him with a pretty laugh. âYou donât even have to touch me.â
Bobâs brows furrow. âWhat?â he wonders aloud.
You donât answer him with words. You just flash him a mischievous smirk and shift on the couch until youâre no longer straddling him. You press your lips to his â once, twice, and then a third time â in a silent reminder to relax before your mouth trails down his neck once more.Â
You move past his jaw, to his pulse, and down towards his collarbone, sinking further onto your knees as you kiss down his body.
Bob exhales a shuddering breath and tilts his heavy head towards the back of the couch. He feels his hands start to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists, instead.
âRelax, baby,â you murmur between the kisses you press to his clothed sternum. âLet me make you feel good.â
Bob tenses beneath you when your hands brush his cock, growing harder in his boxers by the second. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the need swelling inside him. âUm⌠Maybe we shouldâŚâ he stammers, voice shaking. âMaybe we should, like, slow down?â
He covers his desperate plea with a wavering half-smile.
You nod, now fully on your knees between his spread thighs, and give him a kind, tight-lipped smile in return. ââCourse. Iâll go slow. Promise.â
You feel Bob trembling beneath your hand when you lift the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fine hair sprinkled on his lean stomach as you press chaste kisses to every inch of revealed skin. He takes in a shaking breath, burning red hot under your touch.Â
He doesnât know how to tell you how sensitive he is â how, if he thinks about you and your soft touches for too long, that heâll explode. So he doesnât. He just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about anything other than the way youâre making him feel just now.
âIâll take care of you, Bobby. I promise,â you slur between languid kisses, holding his shirt up with one hand while your other teases the hem of his boxers. âIâll make you feel so goodââ Your lips brush the coarse hair peeking from his waistline. You flash him a pair of glassy, mischievous eyes.Â
âAnd maybeââ A kiss. âIf youâre real goodââ Another, a bit lower this time. âIâll let you fuck meââ
Bob face twists. His brows furrow, his eyes shut tight, his nose scrunches at the bridge. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, growing so tense beneath you that it makes him tremble.Â
You just freeze, frightened that you mightâve done something wrong. You did just promise to take it slow, after all â and here he is now, cumming in his boxers.Â
He feels the warmth of his orgasm wetting the plaid fabric and sticking awkwardly to his skin. He fails to stave off the pang of embarrassment searing his chest.
âIâm sorry,â both of you blurt at the same time.
Bobâs eyes snap open, still slightly glazed over. âYouâre sorry?!â he gapes. âWhat are you sorry for?â
You falter for a moment. âI donât know,â you answer and start to laugh.Â
The pretty sound fills the quiet tower, and Bob canât help but laugh along with you. He tilts his heavy head back against the couch as you rise from your knees, straddling him once more and avoiding the sensitive mess in his pants.Â
âDid it feel good, at least?â you ask, smoothing your palms over his trembling shoulders.
Bob nods and swallows hard. âYeah,â he mumbles, then clears his throat. âI havenâtâ Havenât been with anyone in a while, so⌠I guess you could say Iâm⌠a little out of practice.â
âDonât worry about it, okay?â you coo, ducking down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Even with his eyes closed, he can hear the smile in your voice as you whisper, âIâll whip you back into shape in no time, Reynolds.â
#published by bug#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#bob reynolds x reader#bob reynolds smut#robert reynolds smut#yelena belova x reader#john walker x reader#sentry x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#thunderbolts imagine#thunderbolts#thunderbolts x reader#yelena belova x you#yelena belova x female reader#john walker x you#john walker x y/n#thunderbolts headcanons#robert reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x you#robert reynolds#robert reynolds imagine#mcu headcanons#mcu drabble
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eighteen hours.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members
It started like any other assignment.
A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtowerâs mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinicalâtoo white, too bright, too final.
Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didnât want to hear.
âBarnes, Yelena, Alexei, BobâBucharest first. BogotĂĄ by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.â
You stiffened.
âWalker, Ava, andâŚâ
She looked straight at you.
âYouâAlgeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. Youâre expected to stay mobile and out of range.â
The silence afterward said everything.
That pause before your name wasnât a slip.
It was surgical.
Across the table, Buckyâs jaw tensed. He didnât look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.
This wasnât routine.
This was designed.
The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.
But neither of you moved.
Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the tableâthe kind of small, hidden touch that wasnât meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.
Weâll find each other.
However we can.
â
Packing was mechanical.
Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.
Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitchâthen gently steered you down a side corridor.
He didnât stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary roomâonce used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.
He shut the door behind you.
âJust for a minute,â he said, voice low. âJust wanna be where you are.â
You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed itânot tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.
You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressedâhands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.
âI hate this,â you muttered into his neck.
âI know.â His voice was steady. Anchoring. âBut weâll be okay.â
His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lowerâteeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.
You gaspedâpart surprise, part pure heat.
âBuckyââ
âGonna leave a few. Let âem wonder how many more are where they canât see.â
He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skinâhigh enough that your tactical suit wouldnât cover all of them.
When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.
âYouâre mine,â he murmured. âEven if they split us across the damn planet.â
You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribsâgrounding yourself in the solidity of him.
âYouâll text me when you can?â
âEvery chance I get.â
âEven if itâs just one word?â
âEven if itâs just a photo.â
You smirked. âOf what?â
He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the worldâeven though you both knew better.
âIâm waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.â
You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.
âYouâre such a menace.â
âYou love it.â
âUnfortunately.â
When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.
âWeâre good?â
âAlways.â
And then you slipped outâhis warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.
â
The first few days werenât unbearable.
Busy hours blurred the worst of itâbriefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.
But the nights were something else entirely.
By the third night, sleep wouldnât come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other sideâempty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.
It didnât.
Youâd already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the windowâwarm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.
You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.
Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip lowâsweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.
The angle was deliberate.
Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.
Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.
Bet youâd wreck me if you were here.
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.
â
His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.
The lighting was shitâwhatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spillâbut it didnât matter.
He was shirtless.
Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.
Hair a little messier than usual, as if heâd just run a hand through it before taking the shot.
But the part that made your thighs press together?
His sweatpants.
Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, reallyâthe waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.
Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.
Like heâd taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.
Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.
You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.
This was manageable, you told yourself.
Just teasing. Just playing.
It would pass.
â
It got worse.
What started as playfulâjust a little edge, a little funâturned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.
Bucky cracked first.
The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.
You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.
âWoke up with my hand around my cock,â he rasped, voice low, wrecked. âThought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.â
A pause. A harsh exhale.
âAnd fuck, baby⌠I nearly lost it.â
You played it three times.
Nearly dropped your comm on the third.
â
You didnât just tease back. You retaliated.
The next photo was a mirror shotâdeliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.
This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?
He didnât respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.
Youâre not playing fair.
My cockâs been hard since sunrise. Havenât touched it. Saving every second of this for you.
You sent a quick clip laterâjust a few seconds long. You didnât even speak in it.
Just six seconds. The camera angled lowâyour hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escapedâbroken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimperâhis name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.
Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
â
Then came Ava.
Youâd crashed hard that nightâexhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one heâd picked out. It had become a habitâwearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.
Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.
The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.
She wasnât trying to be cruel when she played it back.
She just raised an eyebrow and pressed playâa grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of himâno, feeling him.
âMmh⌠Buckyâplease⌠inside me⌠deeperâoh god⌠pleaseââ
Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.
You couldâve died.
âJesus,â Ava had laughed, not unkind. âWant me to send it to him? Yâknow, for motivation?â
You didnât answer fast enough. She already hit send.
â
He didnât laugh.
He didnât even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.
Locked himself in the bathroom of the BogotĂĄ safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his earâplayed over and over again like a goddamn drug.
He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his flyâreached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.
Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.
He closed his eyes and whispered, âFuck, baby⌠what are you doing to meâŚâ
But he didnât stroke.
Didnât move.
Didnât dare.
Not without your hands.
Not without your thighs tight around his hips.
Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.
So he tucked himself away againâbiting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.
Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:
This was supposed to help.
All these videos. These fucking pictures.
Itâs making everything worse, doll.
I need you so bad, I swear Iâm gonna lose my mind.
â
He stopped sleeping properly.
The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carriedâthat calculated, steady presence of commandâwas cracking.
Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left handâthe metal oneâwouldnât stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasnât your voice moaning his name.
The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.
âSafehouse Deltaâs too close to the highway,â he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. âWeâll reroute south. Four klicks. Weâllââ
He trailed off.
Everyone stared at the map table, then at Buckyâwho was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.
His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.
âWeâll send Bob first toââ
But Bob was already looking sideways at him.
âYou gonna pass out?â
âNo.â
âYou look like your brainâs buffering.â
âI said Iâm fine.â
But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.
Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.
âAlright,â she announced loudly, âIâm just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.â
Bucky didnât even turn his head.
She kept going.
âYouâre clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. Youâve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like itâs a fetish. Whichârespectfullyâgross.â
Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.
âYou need to jerk off or jump off a building,â Yelena finished, deadpan. âPick one.â
Bucky finally looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.
âIâm not jerking off.â
That shut them up.
Yelena blinked. ââŚOkay. Thatâs not where I thought that was going.â
âIâm saving it. All of it.â His hand twitched again. âShe deserves every goddamn second of it.â
A pause. The silence stretchedânot awkward, just charged.
Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.
Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, âRomantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.â
â
Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.
He pulled up your last photo again.
Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:
Iâd spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.
He groaned into his palm.
Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.
Didnât move. Didnât stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.
âYou better be ready for what Iâm gonna do to you,â he muttered into the dark.
â
It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.
The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.
Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usualâthe kind that didnât come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.
Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.
Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.
Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, âGo get your man.â
You didnât smile. Not yet.
Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.
Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.
The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneathâmusk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.
It was quiet. But not empty.
He was there.
And the second he saw you, his face lit up.
âHey,â Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. âYouâre home.â
That acheâthe one locked in your chestâsnapped clean open.
You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly himâwarm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.
He didnât devour you. Didnât grope, didnât rush.
He just held you.
One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.
You clung back like it might hold you together.
His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in itâthe way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.
âI changed the sheets,â he murmured softly. âLit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe youâd want a hot shower first.â
Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.
You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.
âYou remembered.â
âOf course I did.â His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. âYou always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.â
That earned a small laugh from youâquiet, but real.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.
âI missed you,â he said. âLike breathing stopped.â
You kissed him, soft and slowâlips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.
âMissed you more.â
He didnât rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder onceâright over the old bruise he left weeks agoâand whispered:
âIâve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But Iâm not rushing it. Not until youâre ready.â
Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.
âGo on. Iâll be right here.â
â
You hadnât even closed the door behind you.
The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the missionâbut your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.
You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.
Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.
The ache youâd ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.
You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voiceâhis lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.
You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.
And thenâ
âMmhâŚâ
Just a sound. A breath.
But it came from somewhere deepâunconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.
The floor creaked.
You turned, startledâand everything inside you tightened.
He was there.
Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like heâd sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.
And he was naked.
Completely.
You hadnât even heard him undress. But there he stoodâbroad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.
His eyes drank you in.
Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched againâanother thick drop of precum beading at the tip.
âBabyâŚâ
His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.
âPleaseâŚâ
âPlease stop torturing me.â
But he didnât move. Not yet.
Like he was waiting for your permissionâeven now, even while unraveling at the seams.
You reached for him.
One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chestâfelt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.
He whimpered.
The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.
âYouâre real,â he whispered. âFuckâyouâre here.â
You smiled softly. Nodded.
He stepped into the shower with youâno hesitation this time.
The water soaked him instantly, but he didnât care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.
His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.
âMissed you,â he rasped between frantic kisses.
âMissed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when Iâm inside youâfuck, baby, Iâve been dying.â
Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.
His cock bumped against your stomachâhot, heavy, leaking.
He gasped. âTouch me⌠please, justâlet me feel you.â
You did more than touch.
Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.
âJesus, sweetheartââ
His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.
âYouâre soakedâŚâ
He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.
You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.
âFuck,â he hissed. âTight⌠tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?â
You bit his jaw. âI didnât even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.â
That was all it took.
He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.
âHold on to me,â he breathed. âThatâs it⌠Good girl.â
He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And thenâ
He sank in.
One thrust. Deep. Full.
You both cried outâvoices echoing in the tile and steam.
The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.
He fucked into you with short, desperate thrustsâburied all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.
Your orgasm ripped through you without warningâsharp, wet, loud.
âJames, IâIâm coming!â
âIâve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.â
You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.
He followed seconds afterâburied deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.
âYouâre mine,â he whispered. âNot letting you out of this room for days.â
You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.
âGood. Iâm not going anywhere.â
â
Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.
No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasnât over. It had only begun.
He laid you on the bed like something sacred.
Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where heâd left itâdelicate, sheer, wicked.
You reached for it with trembling fingers.
But Bucky caught your wrist gently. âLet me,â he said.
His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.
He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to teaseâtranslucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.
âI thought about this every night,â he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.
âFantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, justâbreathing through it. Didnât touch myself. Not once.â
His voice cracked. âDidnât want to waste a single drop that wasnât for you.â
You whimpered.
He hovered above you nowâfully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.
But he didnât rush.
Didnât even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.
Mouths met softly, then harder.
Tongues sliding slow.
His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.
You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, âCome here. Let me ruin you.â
He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.
âFuck, baby,â he gasped. âYouâre soaked through.â
You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. âYou did this,â you whispered. âWith every text. Every picture. Every breath.â
He was gone. Let you take full control.
You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him inâsinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.
âJesus Christ,â he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.
âStill so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.â
You started to moveâslow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didnât make it easy.
âYou gonna come again just from riding me?â he asked, breathless.
You nodded. âAlready close.â
He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.
âThere you go⌠let me feel you. Let go for me.â
And you did.
Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn waveâcrashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.
He didnât last much longer.
You kept grinding, whispering filth into his earâhow full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still werenât done.
That tipped him.
He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.
You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.
âYou alright?â he asked, voice scratchy.
âIâm feral,â you whispered back. âAnd Iâm not finished.â
He chuckled, still panting. âGood. âCause Iâm not tapping out anytime soon.â
â
Later.
The wine sat untouched on the desk.
The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.
The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.
And you?
You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.
Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to himâhips hovering, your whole body tingling.
He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.
âYou sure?â he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.
You didnât answer.
You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowlyâinch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.
Both of you moaned. Loud.
Deep.
Almost pained.
Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hardâyour ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.
âOh, fuckââ
His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.
âJesus, sweetheartâyouâre still so fuckinâ tightâŚâ
You started to moveâslow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.
âYou ride me like itâs the only thing keeping you alive,â he growled.
âLook at that assâfuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.â
You moanedâhead tilted back, chest rising and fallingâsweat glistening between your breasts.
And thenâhis fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.
âI wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.â
Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.
âBucky, IâI think Iâfuck, Iâm gonnaââ
âDo it. Come on, baby. Youâre dripping, youâre so fucking closeâlet it happen.â
You broke with a cry.
Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.
Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hitâ
You squirted.
Hard.
Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.
âGoddamnâfuck, look at you. Youâre gonna make a fucking mess, arenât you, baby?â
He didnât stop.
He snapped his hips up into you, relentless nowâgrinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.
âStill want more?â he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.
âI can feel how much you need it. So greedy for meâso fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.â
You couldnât answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.
âYou gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?â
âYesâJames, pleaseââ
And you did.
A second wave slammed into you.
You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted againâwetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.
Bucky lost it.
âShitshitshitâ Iâm comingâfuck, babyâIâmââ
He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.
You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.
âHoly fuck,â he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.
âYou just⌠soaked me, baby.â
You half-laughed, half-whimpered. âI couldnât help it. You broke me.â
âGood,â he growled, kissing your neck. âYou can break me next.â
â
You shouldâve been done.
You shouldâve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.
But you werenât.
The ache still lived in your bones.
The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.
And when Buckyâs lips brushed your templeâslow, tender, tremblingâyou felt it in him too.
He needed more.
You both did.
The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still⌠the hunger hadnât dulled.
âYou okay?â he whispered against your throat.
âNo,â you rasped, voice cracking.
âI need you again. Right fucking now.â
Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thighâalready stiffening again.
âJesus, doll⌠youâre insatiable.â
He kissed your jaw. âYouâre gonna be the death of me.â
Then he shiftedâslow but deliberateâand suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wristsâsoft, warm, not tight.
âJust wanna keep you here,â he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.
âLet me take care of you.â
Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.
And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.
âJamesââ
âShhh,â he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.
âGonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.â
His tongue dragged through your foldsâslow, warm, filthy.
The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bedâbut he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.
âYouâre so fucking wet,â he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.
âJesus, baby, you taste like both of us⌠fuck. Youâre perfect.â
He devoured you.
Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the roomâevery slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.
You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.
His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precisionâsoft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.
âBuckyâfuckâbaby Iââ
Your voice broke.
Your hips bucked.
You were so close again, already, alreadyâ
He pulled back.
âNot yet,â he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.
âNot until you beg for it.â
You sobbedâfrom the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.
âPleaseâplease, baby, I canâtâjust let meâlet me come, pleaseâ!â
That broke him.
He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentlessâtongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.
You exploded.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightningâyour whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.
âGood girl,â he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.
âOne more, baby. Just one more for me.â
You didnât even get to respond.
Didnât even breathe.
Because his tongue never stopped.
He kept suckingâsoft at first, then harderâuntil another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldnât move.
You came again.
Harder.
Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.
He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.
Pressed his forehead to your belly.
âYou okay?â he whispered.
âI donât even know where I am,â you panted.
âAnd I think I like it.â
â
Laterâ
Maybe thirty minutes.
Maybe five.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.
You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the insideâtoo full, too stretched, too tender to be still.
And thenâ
The mattress dipped behind you.
You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.
He slid in closeâchest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.
His lips brushed your shoulder.
âStill want me?â he asked, voice soft as fog.
You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.
âAlways.â
You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.
He kissed your spine.
Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.
âIâll never stop wanting you.â
One hand lifted your top leg, just slightlyâfingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entranceâslow, so fucking slowâuntil he finally pushed inside.
âJesus Christ,â he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.
âYouâre still tight. Still fluttering around me.â
You whimpered.
He thrust deep.
Steady. Gentle.
Every movement an unspoken prayer.
No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motionâhis cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything youâd already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.
âI could live here,â he breathed. âI want to live here.â
Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.
âYouâre so good to me,â he murmured. âSo fucking good.â
âStill feels like a dream,â you whispered.
âThen donât wake up. Just⌠stay right here. Let me have you like this.â
Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasnât painâit was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.
âTell me youâre mine again,â he whispered, voice breaking.
You choked on a moan.
âIâm yours, James. Always.â
You came firstâslow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, kissing your shoulder.
âLet go, doll. Let me feel you.â
He wasnât far behind.
He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you againâslow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.
You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.
He didnât move. Didnât pull away.
His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.
âYou okay?â he asked eventually, voice quiet.
You nodded.
âI think Iâm in love with you again.â
He smiled against your skin. âGood. I never stopped.â
â
Your body was trembling again.
Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climaxâbut the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.
The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.
Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.
And yetâ
Your core still throbbed.
Your nipples still ached.
Your cunt still ached for him.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worshipâsomething like worry.
His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.
âHey,â he murmured, voice gentling. âYou with me, sweetheart?â
You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.
âBreathe for me. Câmon.â
His thumb stroked your cheek.
âYou look wrecked.â
âI amâŚâ
Your voice came out hoarse.
âIâm so tired.â
That broke his heart a littleâyou could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.
âThen letâs stop, okay?â he offered softly. âLet me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.â
But your hand was already moving.
Shaky, slowâbut determined.
You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.
Still hard.
Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like heâd never finished.
His breath caught.
âBabyââ
âDonât stop,â you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.
âPlease, donât stop. I need you.â
He looked stricken.
âI donât wanna hurt you,â he murmured. âI donât wanna take too much.â
âThen be gentle,â you gasped, stroking him slowly.
âBut donât pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.â
His restraint cracked like glass.
With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss youâsoft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.
âTell me when to stop, baby. Or I wonât.â
You nodded.
Wrapped your arms around his neck.
Pulled him into you.
He guided your legs open with reverent handsâwatching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.
But not done.
âI love you,â he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.
âSo much it hurts.â
You barely had breath left to answer.
âThen have me,â you whispered. âTake whatâs already yours.â
His cock slid into you slowâso slowâinch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like heâd never left.
He moaned into your throat.
âFuck, baby⌠still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.â
He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.
âYou tell me when to stop. You hear me?â
âDonât stop,â you whimpered. âJust keep giving me all of you.â
And so he did.
With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waistâevery inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.
âYouâre incredible,â he rasped. âYouâre still taking me like itâs the first time. My perfect girl.â
Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.
You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tightâfluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.
âThat's my girl,â he whispered, voice shaking. âSo fucking good for me.â
And then he followedâhips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.
He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.
âNo more unless you ask,â he murmured against your hair.
âIâll only give you what you want.â
â
The sky was beginning to lighten.
A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtowerâs windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.
You couldnât remember the last time youâd fully caught your breath.
Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didnât fade.
Buckyâs palm slid over your thighâsoft, slow, as if testing your response.
His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. âSweetheart⌠we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.â
But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.
âI want more,â you whispered. âPlease⌠take me there.â
He exhaled like youâd just saved his life.
Guiding you gently toward the windowsâyour legs shaky, but movingâhe kissed your shoulder and whispered, âIâll be gentle. Just let me see you.â
The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.
The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflectionâflushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.
âFuck,â Bucky exhaled when he saw you.
âLook at yourself, baby. Look what Iâve done to you.â
You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.
âStill dripping,â he muttered. âEven now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?â
âI need it,â you whispered. âStill need you.â
He didnât make you wait.
Not this time.
He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrustâyour bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.
âBuckyâfuckââ
He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.
âThatâs it. Just like that,â he groaned. âSo fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.â
His hand slid around your throatânot squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.
âYou were made for me,â he said. âFucking built for this.â
âHarder,â you begged. âPleaseâplease donât stop.â
âLook at your reflection,â he rasped. âLook how good you look. Look how youâre taking me.â
You opened your eyesâand the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.
He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.
âGonna come,â you sobbed. âCanâtâBuckyâI canât hold itââ
âThen donât,â he growled. âCome for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.â
You shattered.
Legs giving out.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the groundâarm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.
âFuckâfuckâgonna fill you againââ
His hips snapped hard, once, twiceâand then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.
You stood there for a long timeâpressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.
âYou okay?â he whispered.
You nodded faintly.
âGood. âCause weâre not done.â
â
The sun was climbing now.
Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.
Your whole body achedâbut not in the way that begged for rest.
It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldnât let go.
You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Buckyâs hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.
Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.
âYou better be looking for food,â you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.
You heard the footsteps.
But they didnât head for the fridge.
Buckyâs body pressed into you from behindâsolid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.
âI am hungry,â he rasped, his voice low and feral.
âJust not for that.â
âBucky,â you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. âI canât even feel my legsââ
âGood,â he whispered. âYou donât need âem.â
Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.
Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.
You didnât even get the chance to speak.
He lined himself up and pushed in fastâno prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.
âFuck, Buckyâ!â
âStill so wet,â he growled behind you.
âStill squeezing me like you want more.â
His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.
This wasnât slow.
This wasnât tender.
It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didnât careâbut because he still needed you that badly.
The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.
You dropped your head onto your forearm.
âWe⌠already did thisâeight times,â you whimpered.
âI know,â he growled, fucking into you deeper.
âAnd youâre still fuckinâ perfect. Still taking it all.â
âYouâre gonna kill meââ
âThen what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.â
He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipfulâeven in this chaos.
Your whole body clenched.
âYou want one more?â he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.
âYou got one more in you for me, doll?â
âYesâyesâpleaseâjust one moreâ!â
You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.
Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last timeâhis cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.
He didnât sag against you. Didnât drop.
He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel himâfull, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.
âJesus Christ,â you whispered. âYouâre still hard.â
âTold you,â he murmured, breath warm against your ear.
âI could do this for days.â
âJamesâŚâ
He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.
âIâll stop if you need me to,â he whispered.
âJust say the word.â
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.
ââŚI think my soul already came twice.â
Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.
âRest, baby. Iâll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.â
â
You didnât know what time it was when you finally woke.
Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasnât.
Buckyâs arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.
Your body ached in the best waysâsore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hipsâbut it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.
You blinked. Shifted slowly.
He stirred.
âHey,â he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.
âYou okay?â
You turned to face himâcarefully, slowlyâand found his eyes already open, watching you.
âMhm. Everything hurts,â you whispered. âIn a good way.â
Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.
âTold you Iâd wreck you.â
âYou did. Multiple times.â
He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.
No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.
You melted into it.
Pressed your forehead to his.
His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.
âMissed this,â he whispered. âMissed you.â
You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.
Then let the silence settle over you both for a whileâsafe, sacred, slow.
Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.
Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shortsâthough judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.
His arm was around your waist the whole walk.
Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.
â
The squad was already gathered around the Watchtowerâs long dining table.
It was pasta night.
Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.
John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.
âOh look,â he said dryly. âIt lives.â
You flipped him off without stopping.
âSomeone got their back blown out,â Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.
âWe heard everything,â Alexei boomed. âWhole floor shook.â
âI had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,â Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.
Yelena didnât even look up from her plate.
âI placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.â
You covered your face with your hands.
Bucky didnât blink.
Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.
âWe couldâve made it nine.â
You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.
And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the tableâwarm, firm, possessiveâyou didnât move it.
You just smiled.
And yeahâŚ
You werenât done.
đ @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes fic#bucky x reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky x you#bucky barnes one shot#ŕŞââ´ by elle#mcu!bucky fic#mcu!bucky
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who did this to you? đ b.b
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader
warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps inânot just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)
author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!
It started small.
A shift in the way you smiledâno longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtowerâs echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.
The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didnât exactly operate in peacetime.
But BuckyâŚBucky saw more.
You were the teamâs secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operativeâs dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.
You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.
You made things work. You made the team work.
You were the light that steadied them all.
But lately⌠that light had gone out.
Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasnât just habitâit was an instinct. A soldierâs reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.
He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.
You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual springâstarted hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.
When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gestureâyour entire body jolted like youâd been hit. Not just startled.Â
Terrified.
The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.
You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. âSorry, nerves,â youâd said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.
And then the bruises.
They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.
You were clumsy sometimesâeveryone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.
But these werenât accidents.
There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.
A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hardâsomeone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.
Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report youâd dropped. Your blouseâs collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.
His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.
He didnât say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.
The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.
He began checking your schedule.
Not overtly. Just⌠looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.
You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny storiesââThe deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,â or âSome lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.â But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.
One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.
You smiledâagain, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.Â
âYeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Buckyâ
But being tired didnât leave marks on someoneâs throat.
And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadnât felt in years.
He knew pain. Heâd lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.
Something far more dangerous.
And whoever had hurt you?
Theyâd just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.
Still, Bucky didnât act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sureâof what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.
The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didnât unravel with questionsâit needed patience.Â
Stillness. Safety.
So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.
The others had trickled out one by oneâYelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didnât ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.
The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.
You were still there. Of course you were.
You always stay late now.
âHey,â he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.
You didnât jumpâbut he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.
Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.
The one he recognised too well.
The one he used to see in the mirror.
âCan I talk to you?â His voice stayed quiet, gentleâlike coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldnât crowd you. He wouldnât touch you. But the one thing he wouldnât do is walk away.
You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.
âSure.â
But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.
He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind himânot all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.
You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didnât move.
He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. âIâve been noticing some things.â
You didnât answer.
âI donât mean to scare you,â he added. âI just⌠Iâm worried about you dollâ
Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.
You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.
âI know somethingâs going on,â he said. âAnd I donât need the details if youâre not ready. But I need you to know that⌠you donât have to do this alone.â
Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.
âYouâve been flinching at every touch,â he went on, his voice nearly breaking. âYou donât smile anymore. You avoid everyone like theyâre gonna hurt you. And those bruisesââ
âDonât.â Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.
Buckyâs breath caught. But he didnât move. âOkay,â he said immediately. âI wonât push. I swear.â
The silence that followed was thickâtrembling between confession and collapse.
And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. âI didnât mean for anyone to notice,â you whispered, voice so soft it almost didnât reach him.Â
âI thought I could handle it.â
Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. âYou shouldnât have to handle it.â
Your chin trembled. âI didnât want to be a burden. Everyoneâs got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?â
His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. âWho did this to you?â
You didnât answer.
But your silence was answer enough.
His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. âTell me who put their hands on you.â
You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. âBuckyâdonât. Please. Itâll just make it worse.â
He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didnât move toward you. Didnât crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.
But it wasnât at you.
âI would never let anyone hurt you again,â he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. âBut you have to let me help.â
Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.
Because he didnât look at you with pity.
He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw youâreally saw youâand it didnât make him walk away.
And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.
You told him everything.
From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.
Two nights ago, heâd come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.
You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didnât question it.
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.
âI'm gonna kill him,â he said, barely above a whisper.
âNo,â you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. âJust⌠just get me out of there.â
âYou donât have to ask,â he said.
He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtowerâs bay doors.
You hesitated. âI donâtââ
He handed you his helmet and said, âYouâre safe with me.â
And you believed him.
The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire rideânot from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.
At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.
âTell me what you need,â he said.
You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.
The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.
You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.
When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.
âI canâtâŚâ you whispered, finally falling apart.
Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.
âItâs over,â he murmured into your hair. âYouâre not going back there. I wonât let you.â
You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.Â
You were leaving.
Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it wasâand how you didnât want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldnât bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasnât a spotlightâit was safety.
And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.
There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the airâwarm, masculine, grounding.
âBathroomâs through there,â Bucky said gently, âand the guest roomâs yours for as long as you want it.â
You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.
He handed you a folded pile of clothesâone of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.
âYou can sleep in these,â he said. âIâll set up fresh towels, and if you need anythingâanythingâyou come get me.â
You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Buckyâs shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.
You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Buckyâs home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tensionâbut peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.
You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.
Safe. Protected. Free.
You woke up with a gasp.
The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebsâsuffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.
Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.
The room swam around youâfamiliar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.
You couldnât stay.
Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didnât knock. You didnât need to.
Buckyâs door was cracked open.
He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadnât slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. âI had a nightmare.â
His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instantâsoldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.
âHey,â he murmured, voice low and soothing. âYouâre okay. Iâm right here.â
His hands came to your shouldersânot forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasnât from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.
Your lip quivered. âCan I stay?â
He nodded before you even finished the question. âAlways.â
You didnât hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memoryâsoft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.
You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.
Bucky moved with care. He didnât rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.
His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didnât assume. Didnât take. Just waited.
When you shifted ever so slightlyâjust enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.
You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.
âIâve got you.â
The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldnât keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.
You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.
For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.
You were safe.
Not because the nightmares were goneâbut because Bucky was here when they came.
The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Buckyâs apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.
For the first time in over a year, you hadnât woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.
You padded out of the bedroom in Buckyâs oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabricâcedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.
Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.
âHey, sweetheartâ he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. âHope youâre hungry.â
You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little thingsâthe way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.Â
Later that day, the team found out.
Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtowerâs armoury after morning briefings. âWhatâs going on with (y/n)?â she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. âShe barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.â
Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, âI care about her too,â he gave her the truth.
Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.
It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.
John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.
âGive me your passcode,â he said steadily.
You hesitated. âWhy?â
âBecause if this assholeâs still texting you, Iâm blocking him. And if heâs tracking you, weâre disabling it right now.â
You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.
âOkay,â you whispered.
Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, emailâgone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.
Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the sideâa digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.
âIf he tries anything online, youâll be notified. But he wonât get through. I made sure of it.â
You couldâve cried.
Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always thereâon your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.
âI know what itâs like,â she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. âTo feel hunted.â
You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you werenât alone.
Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.
âYou like those little orange cracker fish?â he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. âI bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.â
You stared at him, stunned.
âI donâtââ
âShush little one,â he said, winking. âYou part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.â
Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.Â
But real.
Alexei beamed like heâd won a medal.
Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
When you needed to go to the mall for more clothesâthings that werenât tainted with memoriesâYelena and Bob went with you.
Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.
âYou should feel safe in your skin,â Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. âEven if youâre still growing into it.â
Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.
You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelenaâs savage sarcasm, at Bobâs quiet mutterings when tech didnât work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.
There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. Youâd found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.
And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes heâd hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes heâd offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.
You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.
One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.
âWhat?â you asked.
âYouâre glowing,â she said quietly.
You blinked. âIâI am?â
She gave a rare, small smile. âLike someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.â
One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.
âYou okay sweetheart?â he mumbled.
âYeah,â you said.
He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.
You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.
He didnât move. Didnât ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.
It was the safest youâd ever felt.
It had started out as a good night.
One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didnât feel like something you had to fake.
The team had dragged you outâgently, persistently, lovingly.
âCâmon,â Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. âBurgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.â
You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.
But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.
The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.
Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexeiâs booming voice.
You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.
Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.
Bucky stilled beside you.
Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didnât recogniseâthick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.
Like he still owned the air you breathed.
Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. âHeyââ
Your exâs eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.
âWell, look who it is. Didnât think youâd crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when youâre spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?â
The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.
Yelenaâs fork clattered onto her plate.
John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.
âTake that back,â Bucky growled.
Your ex only sneered, moving closer. âWhat, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didnât think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.â
You flinched.
Bucky didnât.
âI know what you did to her,â Bucky said, low and lethal.
Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. âWhat? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Donât tell me you havenât noticed.â
Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. âThe next time you touch her,â she said flatly, âwill be the last time you have hands.â
Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didnât move an inch. âTry it,â he warned. âGive me a reason.â
You saw itâthe twitch in your exâs jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.
But Bucky didnât just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.
With his metal hand.
The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.
Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.
âIf you ever look at her again,â Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, âif you so much as breathe in her goddamn directionâI will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.â
His voice didnât rise. It didnât need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.
Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Buckyâs grip.
âDo you understand me?â
A choked nod.
Bucky dropped him like trash.
Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. âYou want to try luck?â he asked them casually. âI havenât punch anything in weeks.â
The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.
âYouâre not worth it,â one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.
Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.
Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.
Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.
He crouched in front of you, hands open. âYou okay?â
You nodded shakily, tears welling.
Yelena handed you a napkin. âHeâs gone,â she said quietly. âHeâs never coming near you again.â
John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.
And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.
âHe doesnât get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.â
You leaned into him, trembling.
âI was so scared,â you whispered, barely audible.
Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. âI know, sweetheart. But itâs over. He canât hurt you anymore. Not while Iâm breathing.â
And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.
You had them.
You had him.
You were safe.
You didnât speak on the way home.
No one made you.
Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thighâanchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.
You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.
The silence between you and Bucky wasnât heavyâit was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.
When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You shook your head.
He didnât ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.
âCan I stay?â
You nodded.
Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.
You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.
âYouâre not weak for being scared,â he said. âYou know that, right?â
Your throat tightened. You nodded.
âBut heâs never going to get to you again. I wonât let him. None of us will.â
You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.
And then you whispered, âI donât know how to stop being afraid.â
Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.
âYou donât have to. Not right away. But youâre not alone anymore. Weâll fight it together.â
You closed your eyes.
And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.
Not because the fear was gone.
But because for the first time in so long, you werenât carrying it alone.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didnât catchâbut it didnât matter.
It sounded like safety.
It felt like home.
a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their buckyâsomeone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)
#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky smut#bucky fanfic#bucky angst#bucky barnes angst#bucky fluff#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes au#bucky x you#james bucky barnes#thunderbolts*#james buchanan barnes#bucky fic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fluff#sebastian stan#sebastian stan smut#sebastian stan angst#sebastian stan fluff#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan x you#marvel#mcu#marvel au#marvel fanfic
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Indeed
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#james buchanan barnes#james bucky barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x reader#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes imagine#bucky#bucky barnes x you#bob reynolds#bob reynolds x y/n#bob reynolds x reader#bob reynolds x you#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts!bucky#thunderbolts#john walker#mcu#marvel#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bob x reader#tfatws#tfatws bucky#buck#james barnes
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if u got depression u know the amount of effort it took for him to do those dishes
#bob thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts mcu#mcu fandom#mcu#marvel cinematic universe#marvel bucky barnes#marvel#bob reynolds#bucky barnes x sam wilson#steve rogers x reader#steve x bucky#john walker#yelena black widow#yelena belova#alexei shostakov#captain america the winter soldier#captain america civil war#captain america#steve rogers#sam wilson#ava starr#ant man#deadpool#deadpool and wolverine#logan howlett#bucky barnes x steve rogers#sambucky#stucky fic#tony stark
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#thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#bob reynolds#robert reynolds#red guardian#alexei shostakov#yelena belova#sentry#the void#bob reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x reader#yelena belova x reader#marvel#mcu#lewis pullman#florence pugh#david harbour#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#ava starr#eyeless stuff#sebastian stan
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this bucky with this steve
#god the HAIR THE BEARD#sorry not even remotely sorry#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts#new avengers#bucky barnes#mcuedit#captain America#nomad steve rogers#Sabrina carpenter Juno#marvel#mcu#bucky edit#bucky barnes smut#steve rogers smut#bucky barnes x reader#steve rogers x reader#infinity war#imagine#marvel smut#marvel imagine#sebastian stan#Chris evans
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me and my husband | bucky barnes
summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.
pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.
warnings: explicit. 18+ only, MDNI. afab!reader. marriage of convenience. many mentions of alcohol and drinking! yearn city over here, reader is a chronic people pleaser, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, tad bit of angst. flashbacks to endgame, mention of steve and nat death & grieving. mention of benjamin poindexter. vague timeline. oral (female receiving), piv sex, unsafe sex, no use of y/n.
wc: 10.6K (FUUUCK)
a/n: oh my holy guaca-freaking-mole. this. took. fucking FOREVER to write. i hope yall like it, i really do. anyways.. self-indulgent! yippee!!
EDIT: i forgot bucky cant get drunk. please pretend he can for my sake.
heavily inspired by love me more by byexbyez (aka the better written version of this trope, lol)
The soup you made earlier in the day had gone cold. Chicken noodle. It wasnât your favorite, but your husband usually asks for it when you offer to cook. Your husbandâs late again, but that wasnât out of the ordinary. He was busy. He always is. Life as a congressman isnât easy. Itâs monotonous, boring, and soul-sucking. As much as the empty yet somewhat grand house bothered you, you learned to get over its suffocating hallways.Â
The sound of keys jingling in the door knob breaks you out of your little trance. The key sounds act as a little warning that someoneâs coming in. Bucky enters quietly and he knocks off his shoes and removes his worn out tuxedo jacket and leaves on the coat hanger next to the door.
âLong day?â You ask. Bucky didnât expect you to be up still, proven by the little jump he does when he hears your voice. He sighs, itâs just you.
âYeah, when isnât it?â He responds. You let out a light breath disguised as a laugh.
âMade soup. Itâs a bit cold now, but I can go warm it up if youâd like.â You say as you start heading to the kitchen.
âIâm not that hungry.â Bucky replies. Buckyâs reluctance to eat made you bitter, however there was no use. Behind closed doors, there was no need for pretending. Bucky had asked you to sign that marriage license, however long ago, but there was no sentiment tied to it. It was simply a means to an end.
âYou should eat Bucky. Iâll leave it out.â You respond, trying not to push too much. Bucky simply nods, a sign heâs not too interested in continuing chatting. At least when the topic is about him. Stage fright, maybe.
Bucky nervously fidgets with the cuff of his shirt. After a moment, Bucky lets out a deep breath and breaks his silence. âYouâre gonna hate me.â
Your immediate reaction is anxiety. âWhat did you do?â You say, cocking your head slightly.
âThereâs a charity event tomorrow.. â
âYeah, and?â
âI made a promise I would come.â Bucky says. What Bucky means to say is, âwe would comeâ, but he thinks laying you into the news slowly will make your reaction easier to handle.
You would be fine with it, usually. You knew that these superficial galas and events came with Buckyâs profession. The only problem was that your mother was visiting the city for the day, and you had full-day plans for dinner and catching up. Bucky knew about them, as you told him the moment it was planned.
Your lack of a response was enough for Bucky. âIâm sorry. I know you have plans with your mother.â He says, apologetic enough to seem genuine.
âAnd I have to go?â You ask.
âIt would look weird if you didnât.â He responds. Itâs always about looks, isnât it?
âRight.â You reply, already planning out a long apology text to your mother, who would definitely understand. Canât help but feel bad. You whip out your phone to start texting your mother.
âIâm buying a dress for you to wear tomorrow.â Bucky says, hoping that works as an incentive.
âDid you choose the dress, or did your secretary? You know I like her taste in fashion better.â You grin at Bucky for a second, then you look back down at your phone to begin typing your large paragraph of an apology.
âShe helped.â Bucky laughs weakly. He canât help but look at you frantically typing.
âWell, Iâll leave the soup out if you want it. You should eat something. âGonna be a long day tomorrow too.â You say, finally, after you send your apology.
Bucky purses his lips and nods. âOkay. Thanks.â He says, so casually.
If anyone had seen how the two of you talk, they would assume you were roommates. Which you essentially were. The two of you werenât very romantic, at least when the both of you were sober, or while you werenât in the public eye, of course. Any non-public romantic passes were swiftly ignored the next day. Itâs not that you didnât find Bucky attractive, because you most certainly did, it was mainly the fact that Bucky made it clear from the beginning this relationship was strictly for political gain. Nothing really so hot and heavy about that.
âIâll see you tomorrow morning then, Bucky.â You yawn as you head to your bedroom, which was a guest bedroom that Bucky randomly assigned you.
âSee you. Be ready by 6PM.â Bucky tells you off-handedly. You give him a thumbs up as you walk to your room.
Itâs hard for you to go to sleep, usually. Itâs partially your fault. You know that being on your phone before bed isnât best for getting the optimum amount of sleep. However, you find yourself researching your husbandâs political moves every night. Bucky hasn't been able to pass a single bill since he joined Congress, so you note to yourself to avoid talking about that while at the event tomorrow. You hated studying in school, but yet you find yourself studying every night. You have to present yourself as a good wife, or at least a believable one.
You sigh, shutting off your phone after reading a large amount of hate comments on Buckyâs surprising political career. People donât like change, or at least the fact that an ex-assassin somehow got into office. You shrug it off. Weirder stuff has happened, anyway.
You groan as you get out of bed. You accepted the fact you just werenât going to get your desired hours of sleep tonight. Maybe itâll be easier to go to bed after a glass of water?
You walk downstairs into the kitchen to get your glass of water. You enter to see Bucky, sitting with his laptop, with a bunch of paperwork splayed all over the kitchen island. Bucky hears the sounds of your footsteps, and he smiles at you weakly when he sees you. Heâs tired, itâs clear by the look on his face.Â
You walk over next to Bucky, looking at all of his work. Just a bunch of political mumbo-jumbo; nothing of interest to you. You rub Buckyâs shoulder and neck, trying to massage what you can without seeming too touchy. Bucky groans a little, and heâs broken out of his little trance. He realizes just how tired he really is.
Bucky pats your hand on his shoulder and gently takes your hand off him. Youâre not sure if that gesture was too affectionate. It shouldnât be, but you canât risk making anything awkward. âThanks.â Bucky mumbles, his voice almost at a whisper. He rubs his eyes and yawns.
âYou should go to sleep. Youâll work better after sleeping.â You tell Bucky, as you always do. You see an empty, used bowl. Bucky ate your food. You find yourself smiling.
âYou like it?â You ask, heading towards the pot of soup that was sitting on the stove. You mix the soup around.
âIt was perfect, thank you.â Bucky grins.
You grab a spoon and taste the soup you had made.
What the hell was Bucky talking about? It was the most watery, unflavorful soup you had made yet. And the soup you usually make is nowhere near gourmet. âWhat the hell are you talking about? This is ass.â You grimace at the taste.
Bucky grins and shrugs. âTasted good to me.â
âHYDRA mustâve fucked you up bad.â You joke. Were HYDRA jokes too far? You were about to find out.
To your relief, Bucky let out a light laugh. âGuess they did. Iâm just lucky that someone is willing to cook for me at all.â
You smile at Bucky, while continuing to stir the pot of soup. âItâs not a big deal. Iâm glad youâre willing to eat it.â You say, while adding copious amounts of salt and herbs to make up for the lackluster taste.
After a moment, Bucky reveals, âI called your mom.â
You turn around. âYou did?â You ask, looking a little concerned. Your mother didnât know the true nature of you and Buckyâs real relationship. When you had told her the news, she was excited that her only daughter was getting married, but she was furious about the fact that she had never known about him before. Which is understandable. However, it wasnât like you had much time before the fake marriage ceremony to introduce him.
You had asked for a wedding. With a nice dress. As a kid, you had always dreamed of having a perfect wedding, where most of the focus was just on you and your future partner. Bucky tried to deliver, but the wedding just didnât feel complete. Probably from the lack of true feelings on either party, or the fact that you had to prepare for a new life under spotlight and public scrutiny soon.
The wedding you had was small, mainly just family and select friends. The only proof of the weddingâs existence was a photo you had taken with Bucky at the altar, along with the grotesque amount of photos your mother insisted on taking. You told her to keep the photos private, to which she begrudgingly agreed. All that, and yet the wedding also didnât feel complete without Natasha there, as she was the woman who had introduced the two of you to one another many years ago.
Itâs still weird Natâs gone. You thank her for a lot of things. She provided you with your first job in the city. She convinced Tony that the Avengers needed a manager to handle all of their public appearances. She then convinced Tony that it should be you, and even with Tonyâs unbearable stubbornness, she got you that job. It was there when you met Bucky, or the Winter Soldier, as he was named at the time.
âShe wasnât too mad about you canceling.â Bucky says about your mother, which knocks you out of your trance.
âShe wasnât? Thatâs a relief.â You respond.
âIâm still sorry that you had to cancel. Iâll make it up to you one day.â Bucky promises. While youâre sure Bucky means to keep the promise, heâs always so busy with work, so you wonder how long youâll have to wait for Bucky to make it up to you â with whatever he plans to do.
âItâs fine, Bucky.â You shrug off as an instinct.Â
Bucky looks remorseful, but he doesnât say anything more about it. âGood night then.â
âNight.â
In the morning, you wake up to an empty house. Bucky leaves for work early in the morning. You work from home â something you had wished for a while â but you have to admit, it gets pretty lonely. After a long day of pointless powerpoints and spreadsheets, you get a text from Buckyâs secretary.
âMr. Barnes will be bringing your dress for tonight in 30 minutes.â She texts you, overly formal. Youâve told her that thereâs no need to be formal, but she insists as sheâs on the clock.
Bucky gently knocks on your door. You turn to see him with a box in his hands. âSurprise.â
You grin. âWow, a present for me?â You say as you open the box. Itâs a gorgeous white dress with gold accents. What a surprise â thereâs no way Bucky picked this out himself.
âMia.â Bucky mentions his secretary, notioning that it was her idea. You look up at him and nod. âMakes sense.â
You check your watch. 4:30PM. âI should start getting ready soon.â
âYouâll look good either way.â Bucky compliments, seeming more affectionate than it should. You clear your throat. âThatâs kind of you, Bucky.â
âIâll leave you to it.â Bucky says, leaving the box on your bed.Â
You say bye, as you start unfolding the dress. How the hell do you put this thing on? The dress had two strips of loose fabric, which were meant to be tied together in the back, similar to that of a halter top. At least you think theyâre meant to be tied. You brace yourself to fit into this dress. You squeeze in a little, as the dress is a little tight in the back.
The dress was cute, from what you could see. The dress still needed to be tied, and there wasnât a way for you to reach the back of the dress. You sigh a little as you try your best to make a knot. âBucky?â You shout out.
âYeah?â He calls out from downstairs.Â
âCan you come up?â You ask.
You can hear Buckyâs footsteps slowly come closer to your room. You turn around. The top of the dress folds over the waist of the dress. You turn around, your back facing the door, as your chest is exposed, and youâre not so keen on giving Bucky an unwanted surprise when he enters your room.
Bucky enters your room, surprised to see your torso exposed. He clears his throat and asks you what you need. You tell him to tie the back, instructing him on how to assemble the knot.
âTie it tight.â
Bucky hums a little âmm-hmâ. As he finishes the knot, you turn back around to show off the dress. âHow does it look?â
Bucky grins a little. âPerfect.â
â
Later, you and Bucky enter the fancy ballroom. Charity events were a bore to you, as bad as that sounds. It always surprised you how much money people had to just give so freely, as you had grown up with so little. Perhaps it was best not to focus on that. Itâs good that these people are donating so much for good causes.
Bucky had cleaned up, his hair was slicked back and he was in his best suit. Your hair was tied up and curled neatly. It had taken forever to do, so at least it turned out nicely. You accessorized with gold jewelry, to match with the gold accents of the dress, of course.
Buckyâs arm lays on the small of your back. Servers pass by with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, to which you pick up naturally.
Small talk between politicians killed you. You could not think of a bigger waste of time. You could feel the venom in each of the politicians' voices, but itâs hidden by smiles and charming personalities. You know what you have to do. Smile big, and only speak when spoken to. Best to avoid any slip-ups.
âYouâre doing great, just focus on me.â Bucky whispers into your ear. You cough off the warm feeling in your chest.
âCongratulations on the wedding. Still in the honeymoon phase, are you?â A wife of a congressman asked.Â
âVery much so.â Bucky responded, looking at you with love in his eyes. Heâs a good actor. You smile back as you place a hand on his chest.
âShe gets me through my day.â Bucky adds, and a flurry of âawwâsâ follow suit. You swiftly push down the growing lump in your throat. Gotta act natural.
As you and Bucky break away from the group of people, you find yourself by the sidelines, people-watching. Bucky had left to go network, or whatever it is that he does. You had him in your line of sight, which comforted you in this large crowd.
You drink your champagne, unassuming.
âMrs. Barnes?â A man asks out to you, seemingly out of nowhere. You jump a little at the surprise.
âDidnât mean to scare you.â The man laughs as he slowly inches up to you. Your neck cranes upward to look at the manâs face, as heâs much taller than you.
âOf course not,â You grin, âYou just caught me off guard.â
The man rubs the back of his neck. âMy apologies.â You shrug it off.
âI was trying to reach Mr. Barnes, but he seems to be occupied.â The man sighs as he shoots a glance at Bucky.
âAm I just your next best option, then?â You ask, smiling.
The man turns back to you. âOf course not.â He insists with a charming smile. Youâre quick to brush it off and assure him itâs alright.
âBenjamin Poindexter. Most people call me Dex.â He reaches his hand out with a grin. You tell him your name and shake his hand, his grip steady and firm.
âAm I allowed to call you Dex?â
âCall me whatever you like.â He says with a wink. You laugh. As your eyes wander back into the crowd, you see Bucky stare from across the ballroom. You notice that he isnât paying full attention to the man heâs talking to. You pay no mind and go back to your conversation with Dex.
You invite Dex to people-watch with you, and itâs easy to convince him.
âThese events are such a drag.â He mentions off-handedly. You let out a sigh of relief. âArenât they?â You respond, more enthusiastically than you have been this entire time at this gala.
âJust a huge flaunt of money.â Dex notes.
âIt is. At least itâs for a good cause.â You try to reason.
âIâm sure they could do that without all the pointless attractions.â Dex sighs. You laugh as you stare at all the grand decor, live music, and grand meals. Itâs true, this entire thing was just so obnoxious to you. âYou get me.â You say.
Dex grins at you as he lightly places his hand on your shoulder. âAt least you look lovely tonight.â
âAre you flirting with me, Dex? You know Iâm a married woman.â You roll your eyes and grin, your eyes pointed towards the ground.
âOf course not,â Dex responds, âUnless youâd like me to.â
Your eyes widen at his boldness and laugh Dexâs advances off. âYouâre funny.â
Dex doesnât respond, his only response being the faint upward curling of his lips. Before you get to speak again, Bucky appears by your side.
âIâm sorry, could I steal my wife from you for a second?â Bucky says with a tight-lipped grin.
âOh, of course-â Dex starts to say, only to be cut off by Bucky swiftly grabbing your hand and dragging you out of there.
âOh, Bucky, Dex â or Benjamin â wanted to speak with you-â You try to say to your husband.
âYeah, yeah. Iâll get to that later.â Bucky says, not paying attention.
âAre you okay? What are you doing?â You whisper to Bucky once he fully removes you from Dexâs presence.
âHow do you think I look when my wifeâs too busy giggling with another man?â Bucky mutters into your ear. You pull back.
âIt wasnât like that-â You say, naively.
âCourse it wasnât,â He spits out, and a brief silence follows.
After taking a deep breath, Bucky says, âJust stick by me for the rest of the night, okay?â
You frown slightly, your face turning sour. âRight, okay.â
The rest of the night killed you. Every boring conversation felt even longer than it had before. It wasnât helping that Bucky kept his grip on your waist tighter than usual. You counted down the seconds until this stupid gala was over, all with a big smile on your face.
You couldnât ignore the looks Dex would shoot at you occasionally, but you didnât let your gaze linger.
The car ride back home was quiet. You couldnât tell if Bucky was still angry, his face was unreadable.
You two finally get back home, and the door shuts with a click. Bucky immediately lets out a deep sigh. You take that as a sign to initiate your go-to unwind routine, which usually consists of ordering Chinese and drinking. Hopefully Bucky will warm up to you again with some food in his stomach.
âChinese?â You ask, waiting for Buckyâs go-ahead.
âYeah. Sounds good.â Bucky says, his voice void of any emotion.
You fight the urge to ask Bucky if heâs still mad at you, best not to disturb the lion.Â
The ring of the doorbell notifies you that the takeout was finally here.
âSo, talk to anyone interesting tonight?â You ask as you and Bucky sit down next to each other at your small dinner table.
âNever.â Bucky lets out a light breath of amusement. He watches you as you crack open wooden chopsticks for the both of you. You frown slightly at the uneven crack of the chopsticks.
As you hand over better separated chopsticks to Bucky, you stand up to grab drinks from the kitchen. âBeer?â You ask.
âAlways.â He says as he chews on his noodles.
You grab a beer from the fridge, opening it up for Bucky. You grab a wine glass for yourself, pouring your favorite red wine into it.
As you hand over the beer to Bucky, he nods his head as a way of thanking you.
The dinner between the two of you is silent. Not that thatâs necessarily weird, as you and Bucky have grown accustomed to uncomfortable silences.
âIâm sorry.â You apologize mindlessly. âFor Dex.â
Bucky sighs as he finishes chewing his greasy noodles. âItâs fine. Just.. I donât want anyone to suspect anything.â Bucky admits.
âRight.â You say, not putting up a fight. The idea of making Bucky angry makes your stomach bubble up in anxiety. You donât want Bucky to smell your worry, so you bite your cheek to stifle it down.
â 13 YEARS EARLIER (POST CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER)
âHe doesnât talk a lot, but I think he just needs some time to readjust.â Natasha says as the both of you walk past the room of the new addition to the Avengers Tower. HYDRA had called him the Winter Soldier, but Steve calls him Bucky. Steveâs very adamant the rest of the Avengers (and also you) call him Bucky too.
It was your first week at your new job of being the Avengerâs manager. Youâre still not sure how Natasha managed to snag this job for you, but it was better to not to question anything. You just couldnât believe your luck.
Tony seemed apprehensive towards letting you in, but whether he liked it or not, the Avengers were becoming public figures, and they needed someone to manage their schedules. The rest of the Avengers didnât seem to mind your presence; you were sure they had bigger things to worry about â like the state of the universe, for example.
Natasha had known you for at least a year prior to you moving to New York. She had saved you in an attack in your small hometown. You had no idea what she was doing in a small town like yours, but she had many secrets. You were just thankful she was in the right place and the right time.
As you and Natasha mindlessly tour the tower, you bump into a man much taller than you. It was Bucky.
âOhâ sorry about that.â You apologize instinctively.
Bucky looks at you bewildered. Well, you note that he kind of just always looks that way. It must be hard for him. You knew he was still fighting off the last bits of HYDRAâs brainwashing. It was best to just let him do his own thing, even if his hard stares felt like they were burning holes into your skin.
â PRESENT
You and Bucky finish eating the take-out noodles. They never get any less greasier. Thereâs spots of grease along Buckyâs mouth. You laugh and gesture to his mouth. âGot something on your face, Bucky.â
âAh, shitââ Bucky groans as he tries to wipe it off with his hand. Itâs unsuccessful, heâs just spread it around instead of getting rid of it.
âHere.â You say as you grab a napkin and start wiping his mouth for him. Bucky tilts his head up towards you as you hold his face. You wipe his lips, cheeks, and chin. Youâre too focused on cleaning Buckyâs face that you donât realize how flustered Bucky looks. âDone.â
You go to wash the oil off your hands in the kitchen sink. Bucky clears his throat to regain composure.
Little moments of soft domesticity like this make this makeshift marriage feel more real. Sometimes, itâs hard reminding yourself that itâs not.
âI should go to bed soon.â You note. You donât want to end the night early, but you donât want to seem too desperate for Buckyâs presence.
âCourse. Right.â Bucky says. His lack of willingness to keep you around makes you frown. But you know there wasnât anything to expect. At least itâs a guarantee that youâll keep seeing him around.
The next morning, you wake up earlier than Bucky. Itâs quite rare, knowing your sleep schedule. Thereâs sounds coming from Buckyâs bedroom. Muttered curses and frantic scribbling. You knock on his door. âCan I come in?â
Bucky looks at the door, his eyes tired. âOh, yes, come in.â
He looked like a mess. He had fallen asleep at his desk. He was still wearing his suit from last night. That mustâve been uncomfortable, not to mention dirty. âBuckyâ are you okay?â You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.
âMmm, yeah. Perfect.â Bucky says as he stares at his endless pile of paperwork. You sigh as you turn Bucky towards you in his spinny-chair. âI have to go to work soon.â He yawns.
âYeah, you do.â You respond. He wasnât close to ready. âCome on, get up.â
Bucky doesnât protest. He lets you drag him into his walk-in closet. There were a plethora of suits that all looked the same. You pick the first one you see, and shove it into Buckyâs hands. âPut those on.â You tell him as you turn around, to give him privacy.
Bucky does as you say, yawning as he does it. He would usually resist your attempts to help him, especially with tasks so mundane as this, but he was too tired to think. You grab a random necktie and wrap it around Buckyâs neck. Luckily for you, you had spent many hours studying on how to tie a necktie for the day of your wedding. You tie the necktie with swiftness. Itâs a little lopsided, but itâll do. You adjust his tie one last time, patting your hand on his chest as you finish. âGood.â
Bucky smiles weakly. âThank you, I donât think I could get anything done without you.â
You let out an amused breath. âIâm barely any help.â You say, as you pick up from stray clothes from off the floor.
Bucky softly smiles and shakes his head, while looking at the large mirror. âIâll take all the help I can get.â
âWhenâs your next day off?â
âTomorrow.â
âGood. You need the rest, Bucky.â You say. Bucky grins weakly, looking at the ground.Â
A pause.
âYou know, Iâm not sure what the hell Iâm even doing.â He admits.
It sure was weird seeing Bucky open up. In the grander scheme of things, Bucky wasnât being vulnerable at all. However, Bucky isnât one to talk about himself â at all, really. Emotions made him feel antsy. Especially his own.
âPolitics isnât easy, Bucky. Iâm sure youâll grow into it.â You attempt to say some comforting words. You rub one of his shoulders to ground him, or something.
âNo.â Bucky laughs lightly as he shakes his head. âI donât know the first thing about this shit.â Bucky couldnât admit that his whole sham of a political career was just a ploy to ethically inch himself towards Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Val was hiding something, and Bucky was going to figure it out. That didnât mean his wife had to be dragged into this.Â
You purse your lips, unsure of what to say.Â
âSteve would know what to do.â Bucky sighs. Nowadays, Bucky hasnât mentioned Steve as much as he used to, but that didnât mean he never stopped thinking about him.
â 4 YEARS AGO (POST ENDGAME)
There wasnât much noise from the Avengers anymore. Everyone had gone their own way, feeling lost after the loss of Tony, Natasha, and Steve. You feel sick to your stomach whenever you think about Natasha. Your friend, gone just like that â all for some stupid orange stone. You couldnât bear to see Clint, his grief clouded him and invaded the space to those around him. You wish you could help him, but you couldnât even help yourself. You're just grateful Clint at least has his loving family around him.
As you walk around Central Park, you see a familiar face. Bucky. His metal arm stuck out like a sore thumb. The two of you had become acquaintances, and maybe even friends? You could never read him. You also hadnât talked to him in a while, as he was too busy helping save the fate of the universe. You know, the usual. As you walk up to him, you tap his shoulder and ask, âThis spot open?â
Bucky looks up at you and grins weakly. He says your name and scoots on the bench to invite you in.Â
âHow are you holding up?â You ask a dumb question. Everyone was grieving.
âFine.â Bucky lies. You lean back on the bench.
âWish I could say the same. I donât really know what to do with myself.â You laugh, awkwardly.
âYeah. Same.â Bucky says, seemingly distant.Â
You and Bucky sit in the silence for a second. âTalked to anyone recently?â You ask.
âSaw Sam a couple of days ago. Heâs really busy right now.â Bucky sighs.
âHowâs he?â
âStressed. Steve giving him the shield really put a lot of pressure on him.â
âCanât imagine what heâs feeling right now.â
Thereâs another awkward silence as your topic of discussion runs its course.
Thatâs when you had an idea. You two shouldnât have to continue living in limbo. You were gonna ask Bucky to hang out, so the both of you guys could be less alone together. Innocent and easy, yeah?
âLetâs get drinks, Bucky.â You ask. He seems confused, but anything sounds better than rocking himself to sleep.
âReally?â
âWhy not? Iâve been sitting around for weeks. Steve and Nat would want us to keep living, donât you think?â You reason.
âI think youâre right. That sounds good.â He says as he gives a small grin.
You get up from the bench and give a hand to Bucky, âCâmon, I know a place.â
Hours passed by, and the night didnât go quite as well as you planned. You heavily underestimated how much alcohol you could tolerate, as you hadnât drank in quite some time, and Bucky got carried away trying to drown out his sorrows. Luckily, you could still control yourself, at least when you really focus.
You managed to call an Uber to your apartment. Bucky wraps his arm around you as the two of you stumble into your house. Bucky was sure to regret everything tomorrow morning. But for now, he took his chance to let down his inhibitions and connect with someone else. Bucky hadnât stopped talking about Steve, which was fine, since you just replied with your own grief about Natasha. The two of you flop on your couch.
âCanât believe heâs really gone.â He hiccups. âMe neither.â
âHe was the greatest.â Bucky mumbles as he lays his head on your couch.
âNatasha was so kind.â You mumble.
âI donât know what Iâm going to do.â Bucky says.
You look at Bucky, his eyes low and fluttery. His lashes look beautiful as Bucky blinks. You sigh as you continue to peer into Buckyâs soul. Bucky would normally feel exposed, but he feels a sense of company he hasnât felt in a long time. âMe neither.â You say.
Thereâs a lingering silence. Steve and Nat wouldnât want the both of you guys drinking yourselves to death over them. The two of you knew that, but it was easier said than done.
âI just feel so alone.â Bucky says as he looks at you. You grab Buckyâs hand, squeezing it tight. Youâre unsure of what to say. You should say something comforting, but you feel the same. You feel the same agonizing isolation he feels. You muster up something somewhat comforting to say. âIâm here, youâre not alone.â You say. You wish emotional maturity didnât feel and sound as corny as it did.
Bucky looks at you. Itâs softer than the gaze he would look at you with when the two of you met first at the Avengers Tower. He breathes slowly before he says, âIâm sorry.â
Bucky cups your jaw, and inches himself closer to you. He places a kiss on your mouth. You back away from him a second. He curses to himself, did he mess it up? Maybe he misread the bonding experience the two of you both shared. Maybe you didnât feel as alone as him, or maybe you didnât need this as much as he did.
You lean back in, kissing Bucky roughly. Your mouths morphed into one. Quick breaths are taken in between kisses. It was as if kissing was your life-line, and if either one of you were to break it, you would die. Your nose was pressed so hard against Buckyâs face, it felt as though it could break. Your hands were clasped around Buckyâs jaw, your fingers spilling onto his neck. You could feel his heartbeat thunder against his throat. His face was scruffy from his stubble. He felt rough in your hands.
As you break away from the kiss, the both of you take deep gasps of air. Bucky doesnât seem to mind, as he pins his focus on your cheek and jaw. He peppers kisses all along your cheekbones, nose, jaw, and neck.
âJesus, Bucky..â You whisper out.
The night continues, and you wake up the next morning with you and Buckyâs clothes scattered all over your bedroom floor. Your head felt like it could pop. You felt nauseous as you propped yourself up in your bed. Your twin XL bed wasnât enough space for you and Bucky. He was nearly falling off the side. You still had enough memories from last night, thankfully. You werenât sure how Bucky was going to react to it. Shit, maybe this was a bad idea.
â PRESENT
You and your mother had re-planned your previous plans. Your mother was a kind break from the rest of the things on your mind. As you and your mother sat at an outside table outside a quaint little cafe, she let out a little sigh as she looked at you.
âYou know, the rest of the family still wants to meet him.â She mentions Bucky.
You loved your mother, but you didnât love her nagging. âYeah. Yeah. Theyâll meet him soon.â
âYou always say that.â Your mother says, as she takes a sip of her coffee. You sigh as you ignore your mother.
After a moment, you finally respond. âI sent them our wedding photos. Surely thatâll hold them over for now.â
âTheyâre all so nosy. They want to meet him in person.â
You frown. âBuckyâs shy. Itâll happen eventually, mom â trust me.â
âWhatever you say.â
Your apprehension for having Bucky meet your family was understandable. Your family was a lot to deal with, as with every family, you assume. You were scared that Bucky would get scared. Youâre not worried about Bucky leaving you over anything, as you were safe as long as Bucky was still a congressman with a âfamily-manâ reputation to uphold. The possibility of Bucky leaving after his term ended made you feel uneasy. Hopefully he likes you enough to keep you around.
â A YEAR AGO (PRE THUNDERBOLTS*)
Bucky had called you to meet him at a nearby bar where he was at the moment. Bucky and you had become proper friends. Friends who donât really talk about that time they hooked up approximately 3 years ago. You had heard whispers from people of Buckyâs potential political career. Of course, it didnât make sense to you. But you werenât one to discourage one from their goals.
You walk into the dingy bar, and wave to Bucky. âHow are you, Bucky?â You say as you sit in the seat next to him, making small talk.
âFine. As good as I can be.â Bucky shrugs, his beer hanging loosely in his hands. You order your usual drink, and Bucky tells the bartender to put it on his tab. Always the gentleman.
âSo, whatâd you call me for?â You ask.
âGood company. I donât need an excuse to see you, do I?â
âCourse not, Buck â Just didnât expect it.â You say. Youâre always the one who asks Bucky to hangout. The bartender hands you your drink. You thank them swiftly and look back to Bucky.
âItâs good seeing you, really.â Bucky says.
âIs it?â
âDonât make me repeat myself,â Bucky laughs lightly. âYouâre a good break from politics.â
âWhat are you even doing in politics, anyway?â
Bucky groans. âItâs all for public image, really,â He admits. âWanna do some good out there, you know. Itâll help the public like me after my whole âWinter Soldierâ thing. You know.â
âI think you helping to save the universe did enough for your public perception.â
âPeople donât like to forget the past.â
âFair.â
Of course, Bucky didnât mention Val. No reason to drag his friend into his ploy. The night went on, and you and Bucky continued catching up. You made sure not to overdrink, only feeling a little looser now than when you walked through the bar doors.
âPeople donât really believe my whole campaign. My manager has been saying I need to make my reputation look better.â Bucky mumbles to you.
âHow?â
âWell, he suggested I make myself look more family-oriented. Married with kids, and all that.â
You smile as you laugh into your drink. âGood luck with that.â You turn to Bucky silently observing you. His gaze makes you feel exposed. âSomething on my face?â
âNo, sorry. Just thinking.â
âWhatever you say, Bucky.â
You and Bucky walk out the bar; quite put together, thankfully. You tighten your grip around the handle of your shoulder purse. âWell, it was nice seeing you.â
âCourse, you too.â Bucky says as you tap your phone, trying to find yourself an Uber.
âWait.â
âHm?â
Bucky cleared his throat, looking nervous and antsy. âYou can say no. This is going to sound crazy.â
You furrowed your brows and smiled, timid. âWhat? Just say it, Bucky, youâre making me nervous.â
âYou can say no.â
âJust fucking say it, Bucky.â
âFine.â Bucky says. He still takes a moment to collect himself, his heartbeat beating out of his chest.
âWould you consider marrying me?â Bucky finally musters the courage to ask.
You stared at Bucky, your anxious grin still not leaving your face. Heâs right, he does sound crazy.Â
âWhat are you talking about, Bucky?â You laugh as you shake your head.
âIf I asked you, would you marry me?â Bucky repeats himself.
âYouâre drunk.â You laugh off his question, awkwardly.
âYou know how I am when Iâm drunk.â
âYou being sober doesnât normally include you proposing.â
âYou can say no.â
âWhy are you even asking me that?â
Bucky flicks his fingers in anxiety. He asked out of desperation, the pressures of appearing family-oriented to the public weighed on him. Also, the fact you were previously the manager for the Avengers could also help with his public perception bullshit. You being attractive also helped. He wouldnât say that out loud though, he had class.
âDoesnât have to be real. Just has to look it.â Bucky says. âYou can do your own thing, I can do mine.â
âThis for your politics?â You guess correctly, rubbing your forehead.
Bucky sighs. âYeah.â
âIâm not sure, Bucky.. This is a lot to askââ You say, before getting cut off by Bucky.
âJust think about it. You can say no.â
You bite your bottom lip. âIâll think about it.â
Itâs been a few days since Bucky asked you to marry him. You hadnât texted him since, being too scared to do so. Bucky beats himself over it. He was sure he messed up a good friendship for something so stupid; of course youâd say no. What was he thinking?
You walk back into your dark, empty apartment. The dishes you had refused to wash piled in your sink. Itâs eerily silent. And cold. Your landlord was neglectful, proven by your heater that had been broken for weeks. You made up for the cold by buying more blankets. You couldnât buy another portable heater just yet, you were late on last monthâs rent. You were trying to find work after being blipped and after the Avengerâs disbanded.
You groan, your head laying back on the edge of the couch. Buckyâs offer didnât sound so crazy. Youâve been to Buckyâs house a couple of times. A proper heater and A/C sounded more and more appealing. Not worrying about how youâre going to pay rent sounded more and more appealing. Not being so alone sounded appealing as well.
In your moment of desperation, you text Bucky back. âOkay. Iâll do it.â
â A WEEK AGO FROM PRESENT DAY
You were busy wiping the countertops as Bucky came back home. Bucky didnât drink as much as he used to. You were surprised to smell alcohol off of Buckyâs clothes.
âIâm home.â Bucky calls out as he drops his bag down on the floor.
âBucky.â You grin. You were happy that the house wasnât going to feel as daunting as it did when you were alone. Buckyâs good company, whether or not you liked to admit it.
Bucky smiles at you. The smell of alcohol invaded your nostrils. âYou drank?â
âOnly a few drinks. One or two. Maybe three.â Bucky says. You roll your eyes, smiling softly.
âJesus, Buck.â
âIâm not drunk.â
âSure you arenât.â
âNot.â Bucky says as he sits on the couch.
âNeed anything? We got some leftovers, if youâd like.â You offer. Bucky looks back at you, tempted. You heat up food for him, and hand it to him carefully. âItâs hot, be careful.â
âWhat would I do without you?â Bucky says with his mouth stuffed with food.
âProbably die.â You say, as you pick off food from his face. Bucky giggles. âYeah. Probably.â
Bucky brings his plate to the sink and starts to wash it. You attempted to do it for him, but Bucky insisted. He wanted to prove he didnât need your help with everything â not that he really minded the help.
Bucky comes back to the couch. Later, heâs mindlessly watching TV as youâre attempting to read the book you promised to finish about 3 months earlier. His hot body lays on top of you. Like a custom heated, weighted blanket. Buckyâs hot body clashes with his abnormally cold metal arm. Youâve usually found yourself placing your hands on top of Buckyâs arm, as to cool your hands that are always hot. You and Bucky have formed your own mutualistic relationship. In terms of body heat.Â
The walls Bucky usually has up are lowered, thanks to the alcohol. He gently inches closer to you, resting his head on you. You smile softly. Heâs usually like this when heâs a little tipsy. You canât blame him, you know a lot of touchy drunks. You gently play with the ends of his long hair. Bucky nearly purrs from the soft sensation. Heâs like a cat in your touch.
You lay on the couch, to which Bucky adapts and lays on your stomach, his arms wrapped around you. How silly. You continue brushing your hands through his scalp. The soft companionship makes you feel warm inside.
You had finished about 30 pages of your book when you realized that Bucky hadnât spoken or moved much in a while. He had fallen asleep on you. You laugh as you look at the large man on you. It was a funny sight, for sure. You go back to reading your book. Reading usually makes you sleepy, though. Itâs not a surprise that you fall asleep not too soon after.
â PRESENT
You fidget with the ring on your finger. It was a plain, gold band. You didnât want to run through Buckyâs pockets when trying to pick out a ring. It would be nice to have a pretty ring, though. Bucky was going to come back home anytime now. He texted you that he was going to pick up food on the way back. You had nothing to do, no more work for the day and no food to cook for someone. It felt weird, but you tuned out the little itch in your head to be useful by mindlessly doom scrolling.
Bucky opens the door with his keys. He groans as he knocks off his shoes and takes off his jacket.
âWhatâd you get us?â You ask, from the couch.
âThai.â Bucky mumbles as he lifts up the large bag to show you. He sounds tired.
âOh, my favorite.â You say as you grab the large takeout bag from Buckyâs hands. You place the bag on the dinner table, and rush to grab cutlery for the two of you.
âActually.. I think Iâm gonna eat alone.â Bucky says as he grabs his food and laptop to bring to his room.
âOh. Okay.â You say, disappointed. You donât want to shove your company onto Bucky, so you just agree. Compliant wife, or whatever. Bucky didnât stay long, he immediately headed towards his room. Did you do something wrong? Why was being like this?
After Bucky had got up and left for his room, you grabbed your portion of the food and brought it towards the coffee table in front of the TV. Eating alone while watching TV reminded you too much of your life before you decided to âmarryâ Bucky.Â
After approximately 30 minutes, Bucky walks out his bedroom, with his takeout trash in his hands. You get up, walking towards Bucky. âI can get that!â You say, desperately trying to help out.
âOhââ Bucky says, surprised.
âYou need anything, Buck? I can go fill up the tub, or clean your room. Ugh, Iâm sorry I didnât clean before, I really shouldâve, thatâs on meââ You ramble. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name.
âStop. Itâs.. itâs fine.â Bucky says, looking overwhelmed and overstimulated. You bite back a whimper as you nod your head. You so desperately want to be a helping hand, and yet now, you just feel like an overwhelming burden. âSorry.â
Bucky purses his lips. âIâm just going to go to bed.â He says, as he throws his trash away by himself.
âRight. Okay. Goodnight.â
The next day, you stay at your friendâs place. You had the day off, and you thought it was best to spend the day with someone that wasnât Bucky. Or your mom. During the day, you think back to how Bucky was last night. He has a lot on his plate. Maybe you really were being too much. As much as you didnât wish for it to happen, you couldnât stop thinking about Bucky.
The idea that you had planted into your own brain, the idea that Bucky might leave you after his term ends, haunted you. It seemed silly. He wouldnât just leave, right? Well... thereâs been no signs that Bucky would necessarily stay. He wasnât obligated to, and neither were you. You wouldnât leave, though. Youâve grown accustomed to your new life with Bucky. Bucky on the other hand, might want to return to his life of peace and quiet he had before he married you. God, this whole thing made you feel sick.
Your friend had seemed worried about you, but you were adamant you were fine. You didnât allow her to worry about you. Nothing for her to worry about, after all.
It was late at night when you returned home. Using the keys Bucky gave you, you tried to enter as quietly as you could.
Buckyâs at the dinner table, looking concerned. He eases once he sees you.
âWhere have you been?â He asks, standing from his chair.
âAt a friendâs place.â You tell him. The conversation sends you flashbacks to your teenage years; when your parents would be worried sick about your whereabouts. Is this what your relationship with Bucky has amounted to? Some kind of parental relationship?
âYou shouldâve texted me.â
âRight.â
âIâm being serious.â
You feel uneasy, and also annoyed. Why the hell did Bucky care? You two werenât actually together. Roommates donât have to always know where the other one is. That doesnât change with Bucky â whoâs basically your glorified roommate.
âSure.â You mumble.
Bucky glares at you. âWhat the hellâs your problem?â He asks. You donât get into fights with Bucky often. Fighting also makes you anxious. Perfect combo for you.
âNothing, Bucky.â You say, as you hang your bag and outdoor clothes on the nearby hangers.
âObviously thereâs something bothering you. Just spit it out.â
You roll your eyes, which makes Buckyâs jaw clench. Bucky doesnât need to pretend he cares. âLetâs just leave this alone.â You say, as you try to head to the bathroom, to freshen up before going to bed.
âNo. Whatâs going on with you?â Bucky says, as he grabs your arm, holding you back.
You stare at Bucky, taken back by his audacity. âFine.â
Bucky drags you to the couch. The place where a week ago, you were sure Bucky and you had a proper, domestic moment. Maybe he didnât think much of it. He was tipsy, after all. Would Bucky still want to be tender with you if he didnât have a couple drinks in him? Did you sicken him that much?
âWhy have you been avoiding me? Did I do something? Pleaseâ just tell me.â Bucky pleads, hints of worry speckled in his soft, blue eyes.
Being vulnerable never came easy to you. The feeling of burdening others with your mundane emotions made you feel sick. Feelings of anxiety bubbled from your stomach to your chest.
âI.. havenât been avoiding youââ You say, before youâre swiftly cut off.
âYou have been. Iâve texted you multiple times today.â Bucky says, matter-of-factly. You clear your throat, feeling too exposed.
âOkay, well..â You find yourself trailing off again.
âJesus Christ.â Bucky says, while also saying your name, distressed. âJust fucking say it.â
Buckyâs attitude was out of control. You scoff with your eyebrows furrowed, staring holes into Bucky.
âStop fucking doing that.â You say, biting your bottom lip in uneasiness.
âI will if you just fucking let me know whatâs been up with you.â
âFine! Fine.â You say, trying to sort your thoughts. How much are you willing to expose to Bucky? Are you really willing to spill to him that you actually do like him? Well, not that youâre like, in love with him or anything, but the idea youâve planted in your head that Bucky might choose to leave you after he leaves his failing career in politics lingered in your brain. Shit, who were you kidding. You were in love with Bucky. You were in love with Bucky and it was eating you up alive. Youâre not used to being so open. It feels so invasive.
âYou can tell me anything.â Bucky attempts to be comforting, but heâs unsure of its effectiveness. He grabs your hands, and rubs loving circles with his thumbs. How unfair.
âYou know, itâs stupid..â You say.
âNot stupid.â Bucky responds.
âI was just mad.. That you seemed distant. Last night.â You let out.
Bucky lets out a deep breath. âRight.â
âItâs stupid. Itâs not like you always have to be around me.â You try to explain, but Bucky cuts you off short.
âNo. It makes sense. Iâve been really stressed out recently.â
âNo, no, right, right. That makes sense. I told you, itâs stupid.â You find yourself rambling over Bucky again. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name yet again.
âStop. Breathe. Itâs fine, really.âÂ
You take a deep breath in. It makes you feel less like youâre about to pass out, but the antsiness never leaves your chest. Bucky places a hand on your knee that had been bouncing like crazy. You didnât even realize it was shaking.
âWell, that canât be it, right?â Bucky urges you to continue. You pick at your ring, a tic youâve picked up on during the last couple of months.
âI just.. feel-like-a-burden-to-you.â You say quickly, hoping the faster you say it, the faster this whole conversation will end.
Bucky furrows his eyebrows. He looks almost.. hurt? âWhy would you think that?â He says, almost too lovingly. What a considerate asshole.
âI just.. I know I overwhelm you. I just want to feel useful. Make you feel like you didnât make a mistake in choosing me as your fake wife.â
âI fully knew what I was doing when I asked you.â
âI canât help it.â
âYou donât have to prove anything to me.â Bucky says, quietly.
You fight back the urge to say, âYouâre just saying that.â He was just being nice. God, you hate that he managed to fish all this out of you. You felt so bare. Bucky knocks you out of your trance by saying your name.
âLook at me, okay? You donât have to prove anything to me.â He says, with a face too genuine it makes your stomach churn. You spin your ring around your finger. How easy would it be to just give it back to him? Heâs just gonna leave you anyway when he decides to leave politics.
âYou should have this back.â You say, gesturing to the ring. You didnât mean to be so dramatic in the way you decided to hand back Bucky his ring. Just fell out that way.
âWhat are you doing?â Bucky asks, looking bewildered.
âYou shouldnât feel obligated to keep being with me even after your term ends. This whole thing was to appear family-oriented to the public, right? So, when youâre done, you should be able to do your own thing. I donât want to hold you back.â You let the words flow out your mouth. While it did make you feel like a burden had been lifted off your shoulders, with the way Bucky looked at you, it didnât do much for making you feel any better.
âWhat?â
You sigh, biting your lip. Little droplets of blood bead at your lip from where you bit. You wipe it away, hoping Bucky doesnât overanalyze how youâre acting.
âYou should be able to meet someone else, you know. Someone you actually want to spend the rest of your life with. You donât have to do this whole charity thing, you know.â
âCharity?â Bucky repeats, baffled. âIs that what you think?â
âYou know, Iâm surprised you hadnât seen anyone during the time we were together. Missed opportunity, I think.â
âJesus,â Bucky says, his words tinged with a slight tone of disappointment. You hate the way it makes you feel.
Buckyâs quiet for a moment, but you could tell small bits of anger was boiling inside him.
âThat why you were so close and personal with that fucking guyâ what was his name.. Dex? You thought I was out here, doing the same shit?â Bucky says, his jealousy reaching his throat, choking on his own words.
âI..â You struggle to find the words. âI wasnât doing anything with that guy.â
âYou know, the way you looked at him made me feel fucking sick. Jesus, Iâd never want anyone to feel the way I felt then.â
âJesusâ Bucky, youâre making me sound like some kind of monster.â You scoff.
âAnd youâre making me sound any better?â Bucky retorts. Buckyâs words make you choke up on your own. âYou make it seem I was just trying to use you.. Like I donât appreciate you, at all.â
âWhich isnât true.â Bucky adds, at the last second.
You groan, sinking into the couch. It would be convenient if the couch swallowed you whole, right about now. It would save you the trouble.
âTalk to me.â Bucky pleaded, again. His eyes were glued onto you. His fleshy hand felt clammy.
âYouâre going to hate me.â You mumble. âI could never.â
You take a deep breath in, trying to compose yourself the best you can. Youâre so anxious, you can barely find the words you want to use.
âGod.â You say.
âI fucking love you, okay? As if itâs not glaringly obvious. Fuck.â You say, to Buckyâs surprise. âI want to feel helpful, I want you to want me around you, and I want you to want me the way I want you.â You say, truthful, for once.
Bucky doesnât know what to say. Well, heâs happy, of course. Thrilled, one could say. He didnât want to jump at his chance to be with you so fast, out of fear of looking starved and desperate. But life was too short to worry about how he was perceived. His grin spread from cheek to cheek. You didnât know if that was necessarily a good thing or a bad thing. His stupid, beautiful fucking face shone at you.
âSay something. I feel like Iâm gonna vomit.â You say quietly.
âJesus Christ. You know how long Iâve been waiting to hear that shit?â Bucky says before he clasps your face, bringing you towards his face with a clash. Bucky kisses you like he did that one night many years ago. But yet, now, itâs more caring. More careful. You melt like a puddle in his hands. This is everything you wanted, but your fear of underperforming haunts you.
âJust let me guide you.â Bucky breathes out, saying the perfect thing. Itâs like he could read you. He knew you through and through. Buckyâs tongue slips into your mouth with ease. He lovingly kisses your top and bottom lip. He did exactly what you needed. He guided you through it.
Bucky grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up and taking you to his bedroom. He mindlessly opens the door. Heâs too busy being engrossed by your presence. Itâs intoxicating. Bucky feels his way through his room. He lays you gently on the side of his bed.
âFuck.â He whispers out, as he grabs the side of your face, lifting your gaze up to reach his. You looked so beautiful under his touch, and he was dedicated to making you never doubt how much you mean to him again.
Bucky sits beside you, shoving his mouth on yours again. His tongue follows down the path of your throat. His hands slowly graze the sides of your thighs. You felt soft in his hands. It made him feel insane. Bucky let out small praises, whispers of âSo gorgeousâ and, âI needed thisâ exit his mouth. You took your hand, the hand that wasnât clasped around Buckyâs face, and palmed at Buckyâs unmistakable boner. Bucky lets out a deep groan. âJesus.â
Bucky reacts by swiftly removing your top, still kissing you. He was desperate to see you. You unbuckled Buckyâs belt, and unbuttoned his pants. âTell me what you need.â Bucky says.
You laughed into the kiss. You felt the growing knot in your stomach expand. You needed Bucky as much as he wanted you. âI want to sit on your face, Bucky.â
âCourse you do.â Bucky responds, as he pulls off your clothes. Bucky lifts you over him, so youâre straddling his chest. It was embarrassing, having Bucky feel the growing wet spot from your core on his skin. You couldnât really think much of it though, you had bigger things to think about right now.
Bucky adjusts himself just perfectly under you, his eyes looking at you, filled with lust and care. You fall forward on the headboard of the bed; the first touch from Buckyâs tongue on your pussy making you reel forward.
Bucky was an animal. His tongue drove into you like a machine. He would spend time easing you into it, but he was selfish. He needed you, and guessing from the sounds youâre making, you needed him too.
âFuckâ Oh my god!â You moan out.
You rest your arms over top of the headboard for support. You leaned your head on top of your arms, only making the bottom of your face visible to Bucky. He reaches his hand towards your chest and pushes you back, notioning that he wants the full view.
âFuck. Fuck, Buckyâ IâŚâ You whisper out as you lean your arms back to support yourself on Buckyâs torso. Your boobs jiggle over Buckyâs face in a mesmerizing way. Bucky wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on it. Youâre so wet already, itâs proven by the ridiculous sounds Buckyâs mouth is making while eating you up.
As you inch closer and closer to your high, youâre cut off by Buckyâs frantic slapping on your thigh. You get up from off of him immediately, to which he gasps in a big breath of air. He was nearly drowning in your pussy. Which, honestly, Bucky wouldnât mind it if thatâs how he was going to go. His mouth is filled with remnants of your arousal, to which he swallows easily. Thereâs even some in his nostrils. Jesus. How fucking grotesque.
âYouâre gonna kill me, darling.â Bucky laughs out. âYouâre gonna kill me first.â You breathe out.
Bucky grins as he grabs you and flips you on your stomach with ease. He takes off his boxers as quickly as he can, eager to feel you. The cold feel of the blankets and pillows is a nice contrast to how hot your body feels against Bucky. Bucky grabs your ass, lifting it up as his erection springs out his boxers.
The first thrust into you feels like heaven. Bucky fills you up, and your pussy stretches around him. Bucky swears this is heaven. Bucky pounds into you with ease, the bed shakes under the two of you.
âSo good. Oh my godââ You manage to say out loud. Bucky leans over you, reaching his fingers to your sensitive clit. The sensation is nearly too much. Your eyes roll back into your head, and youâre only a little glad that Bucky canât see just how much of a mess heâs making you.
âJesus, baby. Youâre being so good for me.â Bucky mumbles lazily. Heâs becoming nearly undone. He feels as though he could cum any moment now. âTaking it so well, yeah?â Bucky asks.Â
The only answer you could give him was a nearly inaudible, âMm-hm.â
Bucky laughs. He slowly envelops his hands with fistfuls of your hair. He pulls your head back to look at him. You have one hand on the bed, one hand on the headboard. Your eyes peered all the way back at Bucky. âTell me, tell me how good youâre being for me.â
âIâm.. fuck, Iâm being good for you, Bucky.â You mumble out, mindlessly. Bucky loved seeing you come undone by him. Made him feel good. You feel tears prick up in your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. You canât keep holding on for much longer, your high was near. Pathetic moans exit your mouth repeatedly. You were gasping for air, and you bit on your bottom lip to help you deal with the pleasure consuming you. Bucky thrusts get sloppier and more inconsistent, the closer he gets to his own release.
Bucky continued pounding into you. âDo you even remember that fucking loserâs name?â He groans out, mentioning Dex. To be fair, you werenât far from forgetting your own name. You shake your head no rapidly. âI donâtâ I donât remember his name.â You babble out.
âGood. God, youâre so good under me.â
âOh myâ gonna, gonna cum, Bucky.â
âCum, pleaseâ oh my god.â Bucky begs you, his mind getting too clouded by his own pleasure.
You do what he asks of you. You cum around his cock, and he revels in the sensation. He fucks you through the high, which nearly makes you scream out. Bucky had already planned on leaving this stupid politician shit behind him. But seeing you like this, all fucked out for him, was the icing on the cake. He could have you like this all the time, with no shitty and pointless job to hold him back.
âCum inside of me.â You beg, desperate. Bucky bites back a guttural moan from that. His thrusts are becoming incredibly sloppy. He does as you ask of him, and cums inside of you. The feeling drives you insane. Bucky falls on top of you, the weight of him crushing you. Bucky rolls off of you, his breath shaky and uneven. Bucky presses hot kisses on your back and neck.
After a moment of recovery, you turn to Bucky, giggling. You felt safe with Bucky. Bucky wrapped his arms around you, kissing your head softly.
âStill think Iâm gonna leave you?â Bucky asks, his tone light.
âJesus fucking Christ, Buckyâ Shut the fuck up.â
#marvel#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#thunderbolts#bucky barnes smut#smut#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky fanfic#bucky x y/n#winter soldier#the winter soldier#james buchanan barnes#congressman bucky#congressman barnes#can you tell im an ex stucky shipper by the way i write steve and bucky#reformed stucky shipper now sambucky shipper#marvel fic#avengers#marvel mcu#marvel cinematic universe#thunderbolts x reader
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dead of the night â bucky barnes
bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. heâs got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. youâre too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts
note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me
thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words
You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think itâs your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like youâve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise itâs still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night?Â
You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up.Â
Bucky Barnes.Â
You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, heâs not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and youâre not really sure whether youâre friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be.Â
You hit the answer button.Â
âBucky?â Youâve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.
âHey.â He sounds tired, his voice strained. âHey, Iâm so sorry, doll, I know itâs late.âÂ
No kidding. You ignore the fact that heâs called you doll, âcos if you think about it too long youâll be here all night. âWhatâs the matter?â You ask. âItâs one in the morning, Bucky.âÂ
âI know, Iâm sorry, but itâs urgent. I need your help.âÂ
His words make you sit up straighter. Buckyâs been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like heâs been waiting for something to happen. Heâs been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentinaâs assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because heâd wanted you to cover for him today while he âtook care of something,â in his own, ominous words. Heâs been MIA all day and you havenât heard from him until now.
Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel.Â
âAre you okay?â You ask on instinct.
âIâm okay, yeah, Iâm fine,â he says, brushing you off. âWe, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.âÂ
Your brain ticks. âHold on, we?âÂ
You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A manâs rough voice followed by a womanâs smoother one â and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into?Â
âThere's, uh, five of us,â Bucky says, like that makes it any better.Â
Thereâs a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what heâs telling you. He ⌠wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? Youâre dumbfounded.
âIâ what?â Is all you can manage.Â
Thereâs another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. âIâm sorry,â he says suddenly. âI shouldnât have called, Iâll justââÂ
âNo, wait,â you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know heâd never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are whoâre with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? âItâs alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?âÂ
Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitorsâ sake than your own, and because itâs Bucky.
Bucky, whoâs been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when youâd mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (Heâd come round to pick it up and youâd cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when youâd gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You donât remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it.Â
Youâre tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when thereâs a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky.Â
Itâs me.Â
You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it.Â
Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Buckyâs at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They donât look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - itâs absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is⌠John Walker?Â
âUm, hi?â You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didnât expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. âWhat can I do for you?âÂ
The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. âFunny,â he says bluntly. Then, softer, âCan we come in?âÂ
You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, heâs looking at you like Iâm tired, I need help, just let us in please and Iâll explain.Â
You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look â it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, youâd surely be dead by now.Â
âAlright,â you say. âWipe your shoes, please.âÂ
Everyone files into your living room. Itâs not a huge space but itâs enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down.Â
âWho is this, again?â The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you.Â
âWe work together. Sheâs my assistant,â Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. âY/N.âÂ
âHello,â you say awkwardly.Â
They all just stare at you. You know what theyâre thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistantâs place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? Youâre asking yourself the exact same thing.Â
âY/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.â Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. âTheyâ I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.â
âRemind me again why we couldnât just go to yours?â Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question.Â
âValentinaâs watching my place,â Bucky explains. âShe knows by now that Iâve got you guys with me, sheâll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.âÂ
This only confuses you further. Valentina is ⌠watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant â it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you shouldâve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.
The others seem to understand Buckyâs explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly.Â
You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. Theyâre all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, theyâd probably be the toughest looking group youâve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.
âIâ yeah, okay,â you say. Theyâre already in your living room, already know where you live, whatâs it matter now? âYou can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. Thereâs water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.âÂ
The brunette â Ava, Bucky called her â gives you a tight smile. âThanks,â she says, and collapses on your sofa.Â
The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed.Â
Pleasantries over, you grab Buckyâs arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you donât give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him.Â
âBucky, whatâs going on?â You whisper harshly. âWho are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?âÂ
Youâre so busy bombarding him with questions that you donât notice the way heâs holding his arm, not until youâve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and thereâs blood all over the sleeve.Â
âOh,â you say stupidly, then even more so, âBucky, youâre bleeding.âÂ
Bucky grimaces. âI know, doll.âÂ
You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face.Â
âItâs looks bad,â you say, forgetting youâre not supposed to care about him as much as you do.
You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.
âLetâs, um,â you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything thatâs happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. âI have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.âÂ
You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why heâs bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where youâre rummaging through the cupboard above the sink.Â
âY/N, IâmââÂ
âDonât say youâre fine,â you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, âAre any of your friends hurt?âÂ
Bucky pulls a face. âTheyâre not really my friends,â he says. âAnd no, none of them are hurt, theyâre just tired.âÂ
You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what youâre looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.
You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid.Â
âShow me?â You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection.Â
You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, itâs not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way.Â
Still, you frown. âHow did you manage this?â You ask him.Â
Bucky looks for a second like heâs reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, âI sort of flipped a truck?â he says. âLong story.âÂ
Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain whatâs going on.Â
âRight⌠Iâm gonna clean it, okay?â You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. âIt might hurt.âÂ
Bucky looks like heâs trying not to roll his eyes. âIâm tough, doll.âÂ
You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what youâre doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesnât protest. Actually, he doesnât make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like heâs looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, heâs always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where youâre pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how youâre desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it.Â
You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut.Â
Youâre unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. âSo, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?â You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Buckyâs face stops you short. âTheyâre⌠theyâre not assassins, are they?âÂ
Bucky purses his lips. âWell, youâre not very far offâŚâÂ
He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentinaâs really been up to. Project Sentry â putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects.Â
Then he tells you about how he tracked Melâs phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a âpredicament,â and âsaved their asses,â as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why theyâre now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, whoâs vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches.Â
By the time heâs done explaining, youâve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. Youâre not annoyed, you get why he didnât tell you. Still, you wish heâd asked for your help earlier.Â
âSo, youâre going after Bob?â You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded.Â
Bucky nods. âI guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentinaâs hands, you know?âÂ
You nod back. âYeah, I get it. Wonât it be dangerous, though? Going after him?Â
You say it before youâve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, whoâs really just the guy you file documents for. You donât owe him anything.Â
Bucky smiles. âDonât worry, doll. Weâve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.âÂ
You frown. âYouâre not an assassin.âÂ
You donât care what heâs done in the past, you canât see him as anything else but lovely. Heâs brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches.Â
Still, Bucky shrugs. âUsed to be.âÂ
You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When youâre done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink.Â
âThank you,â he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. âYou make a good nurse.âÂ
For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. Heâs very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin.Â
âThatâs me,â you say, faux casual. âBest nurse and assistant youâve ever had, huh?âÂ
You might be imagining it, but youâre pretty sure Buckyâs eyes flicker to your lips. Heâs distracted as he murmurs, âUh huh.âÂ
A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You canât feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin.Â
âBucky,â you whisper.Â
âMm,â he hums back. Heâs definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. âWhat, doll?âÂ
You blink rapidly. Heâs so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne youâve smelled on him before.Â
âIâ what are you doing?â You whisper, starting to panic.Â
Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like heâs being pulled towards you and canât stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles.Â
âI want to kiss you,â he murmurs, so quiet itâd be impossible to hear him if he werenât this close. âCan I?âÂ
You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and youâve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasnât bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.
âOkay,â you manage, heartbeat turning frantic.Â
You see a flash of his smile before heâs pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. Itâs chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he canât help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch â your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really donât, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.
Too soon, Bucky pulls away.Â
You blink at him. Heâs still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heartâs a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear.Â
His hand lingers at your jaw.Â
âSorry,â he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like youâre made of starlight. âIs it okay that I did that?âÂ
You nod. âYes,â you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but youâre so dizzy that thereâs no space to be embarrassed about it. âIâ yeah.âÂ
Bucky smiles, but itâs not smug. If anything, itâs achingly fond. âIâm sorry I called. I shouldnât have roped you into this. I just ⌠didnât have anyone else I could call.âÂ
You shake your head. You wonât say it, but right now youâre infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. âItâs okay.âÂ
Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. âNo one will hurt you while Iâm here, okay? And weâll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.âÂ
You nod around his hand. Itâs hard to digest anything heâs saying while heâs touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though.Â
âOkay,â you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but youâre much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, heâs moving away.Â
âI think you should get back to bed,â he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. âItâs past two.âÂ
âRight,â you nod, not wanting to, but youâre too dizzy and too tired to protest.Â
You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose heâs just better at hiding it, or maybe youâre just very sick in love.Â
You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Avaâs head on Yelenaâs shoulder, drool falling from the blondeâs open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.
Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that thereâs nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other.Â
âDo you want toâ?â You start.Â
âI can sleep in theââ he says at the same time.Â
You both pause.Â
âSleep in the what?â You ask him, incredulous.Â
Bucky grimaces. âThe car?â He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it.Â
You roll your eyes. âYouâre absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.âÂ
Itâs ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, youâre both dead tired and youâve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. Whatâs it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? Heâs just kissed you, hasnât he?Â
You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put.Â
âY/NââÂ
âYou said you wouldnât let any of them hurt me,â you say firmly. âHowâre you gonna do that from the car?âÂ
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.Â
âI⌠don't know,â he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, âAre you sure?âÂ
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Heâs too gentlemanly for his own good. âYes, Iâm sure. Come on.âÂ
You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because heâs stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know heâd put between you, youâd be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep.Â
Itâs half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest.Â
You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up.Â
âY/N?â He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special.Â
âYeah?â You hum back.Â
âThank you,â he says earnestly. You suppose heâs thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. âIâll make it up to you, I promise.âÂ
A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then,Â
âWith a pay raise?â You joke weakly.Â
Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, âWhatever you want, doll.âÂ
You grin to yourself. Now thatâs something you can fall asleep to.Â
-
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I Would Let the World Burn



Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Non-superhero!Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: You attend a public Avengers event as Buckyâs girlfriend for the first time, but things spiral from nerves to chaos in a matter of seconds. And when youâre caught in the crossfire, Bucky unleashes.
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings: violence; injury; PTSD elements; emotional distress; explosions; mass panic; allusions to death; protective!Bucky; nobody hurts his girl; seriously, heâs a little feral here
Authorâs Note: I need protective Bucky all day and all night omg. Thank you so much, my love, for this absolutely amazing request!! I hope you'll enjoy âĄ
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist
The lights are everywhere.
Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.
The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.
The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.
You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if theyâve decided youâve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.
Youâre not supposed to be here.
Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.
You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you donât release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.
Itâs the first time youâre out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture whoâs been speculated to be the former Winter Soldierâs girlfriend.
Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.
Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasnât let go of you once.
You look up at him.
And heâs already looking at you.
He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.
His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if itâs a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.
You know he feels how tense you are.
He frowns, and itâs so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.
âHey,â Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. âYou okay, sweetheart?â
You try to nod. But you canât lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.
âI just-â you manage, but itâs a little shaky, you look around. âI feel out of place.â
Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. âWhy?â
You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.
Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and itâs stupid how it grounds you.
âIâd rather be anywhere else,â he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. âIâd rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I donât care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.â
You laugh, and it trembles out of you.
His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. âBut if I have to be here - then I'm glad itâs with you.â
The way he says it - quiet, low, as if itâs something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.
You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because itâs not you and the Avengers. Itâs you and Bucky.
His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. Heâs not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.
You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.
You let out a breath. Itâs just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.
Then it explodes.
Thereâs a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though itâs trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.
You donât even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.
He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesnât look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.
Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.
You cough, eyes watering. Thereâs debris. Someoneâs car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tonyâs suit whirs to life across the square. Natashaâs already sprinting. Sam is in the air.
Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.
âStay here!â he orders. Itâs his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. Heâs never used this voice on you before.
âBucky-â
âY/n, stay down,â he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. Itâs filled with fear. âDo not move until I come back for you.â
Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you canât do anything. âNo- Bucky-â
He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. âStay. Here,â he growls. âI canât do this if Iâm worried about you.â
His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesnât tell you.
He waits for you to nod, although he doesnât have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.
You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, thereâs another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.
You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.
But the panic moves toward you.
You donât see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly youâre on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.
Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.
You donât see the soldier until you turn your head and thereâs a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.
âY/n!â
Itâs your name. Itâs Buckyâs voice. Itâs not a shout. Itâs a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if heâs afraid of what heâll find when he gets to you.
From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.
And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.
He moves as though heâs been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.
Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before itâs cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the manâs throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.
Itâs not strategy. Itâs not mercy. Itâs pure rage.
Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.
Bucky doesnât stop.
âBucky-â you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.
In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Buckyâs whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.
Heâs at your side in half a breath.
âBaby,â he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. âNo, no, no. You werenât supposed to be- I told you to stay-â
âI tried,â you defend weakly, dizzy. âI didnât- Iâm okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-â
But heâs not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. âI shouldnât have brought you here. Shit, I shouldâve known-â
âHey.â You grab his wrists. âBucky.â
He stills, but he wonât meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. âIâm okay.â
But heâs too far in his head.
He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if youâre made of moonlight and scripture, as if youâre hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.
His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.
The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.
Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.
But not for him anymore. He doesnât seem to hear anything. Doesnât seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.
He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.
He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.
You whisper his name.
Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.
And he almost drops to his knees.
âIâve got you,â he rasps, hoarse and urgent. âYouâre okay. Iâve got you.â
You know you are. But he doesnât.
Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because heâs holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.
He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. Heâs warm and shaking.
He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands donât stop touching you.
Heâs a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.
You, safe.
You, whole.
You, alive.
âBucky,â you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. âI told you, baby. Itâs not that bad.â Your voice is soft. Slow.
âYou were on the ground.â His voice cracks.
âI was on the ground for like two seconds-â
âYouâre bleeding.â
âIt stopped, baby. Okay? Thereâs no fresh blood.â You are close to whispering.
Bucky doesnât seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.
And then he says it.
âI wouldâve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.â Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesnât know how to carry anymore. âI wouldâve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didnât see your breathing. I donât care who saw. I donât care what they think-â his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. âI canât be okay without you.â
You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesnât say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But itâs something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.
He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.
Heâs holding you so close to him, as if heâs never intending to let go ever again.
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Yelena: Letâs just hug it out. Come on, hug it out.
Everyone: [struggles into a group hug]
Bucky: Who took my wallet?
John Walker: Sorry
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