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targaryenhues · 2 days ago

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Blooming From Within

🍼 based on this ask.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: It wasn’t planned, but it was never unloved. Bucky’s ready—and he’s never looked at you like this before.

Disclaimer: unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms (fatigue, fever, early ultrasounds), emotional softness, no smut, just pure fluff and devotion, baby fever, husband material Bucky, prenatal care

Word Count: 2.8k

You never asked him to pull out. Not once.

There was trust—steady, intimate trust—and besides, you’d been taking your Depo shots religiously. Every appointment made, every three-month window counted down and scheduled on your phone. Bucky never questioned it. Neither did you. You’d been careful. Responsible.

But your body had been whispering something different lately.

It started as a flicker—barely a thought, just an off-feeling in your chest. The kind of gut instinct you couldn’t shake even when you told yourself you were being paranoid. You weren’t nauseous. You weren’t even late yet. Your next cycle wasn’t due for another few days. But the feeling was strong. Heavy. Familiar in a way that scared you.

You told yourself it was stress. You tried to brush it off.

Still, that same afternoon—while Bucky was stuck in a debrief with another congressional committee—you found yourself quietly slipping out to the pharmacy and buying a pregnancy test. Just one. Just to shut the feeling up. You didn’t tell him.

You waited until he left again the next day, locked in his office for hours, drafting policy proposals and doing interviews you never had the patience to watch in full. You stayed in the bathroom, reading the test’s instructions over and over again. Your hands trembled a little as you peed on the stick and set your phone timer. Three minutes.

You weren’t expecting anything. You told yourself that. But you exhaled so hard it almost hurt.

When the timer buzzed, your hand hovered. You picked the test up.

Two lines. One faint. But undeniably there.

You stared at it for longer than you meant to, pulse crawling up your throat.

Could be a false positive. Could be a fluke. The box did say early testing wasn’t always accurate. So you tucked the test into the back of the bathroom drawer, locked your phone, and waited for your period to come.

It didn’t.

—

The next evening, Bucky was humming low under his breath in the kitchen, layering lasagna sheets like some war hero–turned–domestic god. You told him you’d set the table. Instead, you went into the bathroom again.

This time you brought five different tests. Two of them were digital.

Your hands didn’t shake as much this time, but your heart still did. You weren’t even sure what you wanted the answer to be. You weren’t planning for this. You’d never even let yourself imagine it.

You waited on the cold tile floor, knees to your chest, staring at the row of tests on the counter.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Double lines.

Pregnant.

It was real. It was all real. And somehow you weren’t surprised. Your body had known.

But you didn’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next day either.

You read somewhere that early pregnancies could be fragile, and maybe you needed time—to adjust, to breathe, to even believe it yourself. You thought: twelve weeks. That’s when I’ll tell him. When I’m sure everything’s okay.

So you kept the secret. Quiet. Close.

It wasn’t hard at first. You felt fine. No morning sickness. No major symptoms. Just… tired. A little lightheaded sometimes. But nothing dramatic.

Then one morning, you woke up shivering with fever, body aching like you were coming down with something nasty. It was the first time Bucky saw you that way—slumped on the couch, bundled in a blanket, half-asleep with your forehead damp with sweat.

He panicked.

You never got sick. In your whole time together, you’d only ever had one cold, and you still powered through like a soldier. But now? You could barely keep your eyes open.

He made soup. Texted Sam. Cancelled his meetings for the next three days. Sat on the floor beside the couch, cradling your feet in his lap, running his metal hand over your skin to gauge your temperature. You’d never seen him that still, that focused.

When you saw him reaching for the phone again, you reached for his hand.

“Don’t,” you croaked softly. “I’m okay. It’s just a fever. Probably something nasty going around.”

“You never catch anything nasty,” he muttered, brows still furrowed.

You gave him a tired smile, voice hoarse but teasing. “That’s because you’re the one who’d shut down completely if you were the one in this blanket.”

He huffed a soft, reluctant laugh. But he still looked worried. He didn’t call the doctor—but only because you insisted.

Bucky took the next three days off entirely. No briefings. No dinners. He nursed you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made warm broths. Pressed cool cloths to your forehead. Cooked whatever you wanted, even when your cravings barely made sense. He watched over you like you were breakable.

And somehow, he still didn’t suspect.

Not once did he mention your period. Not once did he count the days.

By day four, the fever was easing. You could move again. Shower. Change clothes. Brave through small chores like folding laundry or wiping down the kitchen counter. You were still tired—bone tired—but you masked it when Bucky was around. You smiled more. Sat up straighter. Made jokes just to ease the look in his eyes.

And when he was gone—when he left for Capitol meetings or early morning roundtables—you slept.

You slipped out once, too. Quiet and careful. While he was caught in back-to-back interviews, you went to the clinic alone and met a doctor. You wanted to know. Needed to hear it from someone else.

Five weeks pregnant, the doctor said.

You held your breath as the ultrasound wand moved across your stomach. There was nothing but a soft blur of shadows.

No heartbeat yet.

But the doctor smiled gently and told you not to worry—it was too early.

“Come back around week eight,” she said. “We’ll most likely see the heartbeat then.”

It didn’t mean anything was wrong.

So you nodded. Took the list of supplements they offered. Bought the vitamins. And started taking them in secret, tucking them behind other bottles in the cabinet, swallowing them quietly when Bucky was too busy reading news reports to notice.

You hadn’t told him yet.

But you were sure of it now.

Your body wasn’t whispering anymore. It was humming—quiet, steady, certain.

You were pregnant.

And someday soon, you were going to have to tell the man you loved that his whole world was about to change.

—

You didn’t tell him right away.

You waited. Waited for something firmer, clearer. Something that said yes, this is real, not just a whisper in your body.

So three weeks after that first quiet visit, you went back to the clinic. Alone again. Your palms were cold, pressed between your thighs as you sat on the edge of the exam table. The nurse adjusted the wand and angled the screen toward you.

“There,” she said softly. “Right there.”

A tiny rhythm blinked on the monitor—irregular, still faint, but undeniably alive.

A heartbeat.

You covered your mouth with both hands. You didn’t cry, not quite, but your eyes went glassy with warmth. It wasn’t fear this time. Not even nerves. Just… awe. A slow rush of something that felt bigger than joy.

You were a mom now. A tiny life was growing inside you, and it already had its own pulse. Its own tiny rhythm that matched nothing in this world but itself.

And suddenly the fear about telling Bucky didn’t feel as heavy. You still didn’t know exactly how, but you knew one thing for certain: he’d be a good dad. Maybe the best. You’d seen it already—in the way he took care of your fever like it might steal your breath. In the way he looked at you like the world never made sense until you existed.

You spent the next few days curating a box.

You tucked in both ultrasound scans—the first one, and the newer one from your latest visit, where the baby looked more like a little lima bean than a blur. You carefully cleaned and dried the pregnancy tests, lined them up in order, like stepping stones leading to the truth. And in the corner of a baby blue velvet pouch, you placed one tiny pair of LEGO-sized shoes you’d found at a novelty store downtown. No laces. Just molded plastic. They made you laugh the second you saw them, and you figured Bucky would too. Humor was how you both survived the hard stuff.

You tied it up with twine and hid the box in your nightstand drawer. Waiting for the right moment.

—

That moment came quietly.

It was a weekend. The kind that moved slow, where the sunlight stretched across the sheets and neither of you had anywhere to be. He was spooned around you, your back to his chest, one arm slung across your middle, chin nestled in your hair.

“You look…” he hummed, low and lazy, “kinda glowy lately. You know that?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Glowy?”

“Yeah. Like you’ve got this extra something. Little dash of beautifulness I can’t quite figure out.”

You smiled against his forearm, heart thudding louder now. You turned in his hold until your cheek rested on his chest, hand splayed over his sternum. The rhythm of his heart was steady under your fingers.

“I’ve got something for you,” you murmured.

That got his attention.

“Yeah?” His brow ticked, lips curving at the corner. “What kind of something?”

“Sit up,” you whispered, voice softer now. “And close your eyes.”

He did—without teasing, without hesitation. You could see him trying to guess by the way his jaw shifted slightly, but he kept his eyes shut, a little grin playing at his lips.

You reached for the drawer, fingers brushing the twine-wrapped box.

“Okay,” you said, voice just a little shaky. “You can open them.”

Bucky opened his eyes.

And went still.

The grin slipped from his mouth, lips parting slowly. His eyes scanned the open box in his lap—the scans, the tests, the tiny plastic shoes—and everything inside him shifted in that moment. His brows drew together. His mouth moved but no sound came out at first.

Then—

“Wait…”

His voice cracked slightly, low and careful.

“You’re…?”

You nodded.

He blinked twice, still looking at the contents of the box like they might dissolve if he stared too hard. Then he looked up at you.

And you didn’t expect it—how fast he moved. One second he was sitting there, and the next his arms were around you, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your neck like he couldn’t hold himself together otherwise.

The first words he said were not about the baby.

“How are you, baby? How’s your body?”

You blinked against his shoulder, caught off guard.

“Are you okay? Have you been in pain? Was that fever—was that because of this?” He leaned back just enough to cup your face, eyes flicking over every part of you like he was cataloging anything he’d missed. “Have you had morning sickness? You didn’t say anything, you—Jesus, sweetheart, are you okay?”

You laughed, breath catching a little at how serious he looked. “You’re asking all the questions like you’re the one growing it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I’m serious. I’m trying to catch up.”

You kissed his jaw, smiling. “I’m okay, Buck. No morning sickness, no pain. The fever passed. I’ve been tired, that’s all. And I’ve been taking my vitamins.”

He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that breath for weeks. His eyes finally flicked back to the box.

You watched him, amused. “You’re not curious about the baby, love?”

He blinked. “Shit. I didn’t even ask.”

You smiled gently, heart soft. “I know.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m just… I’m so used to it being us. You’re the only thing I’ve ever really had.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He looked down at your belly—not showing yet, not even a hint—and placed his hand there. Just rested it, like he was trying to feel something through the skin.

“How far along?”

“Thirteen weeks yesterday.”

He looked up, eyes shining with something thick and quiet.

“And the baby’s okay?”

You nodded. “Healthy. Measuring right on track. I even heard the heartbeat last week. It’s strong.”

He pulled you back into him again, holding you even tighter this time. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“You’re gonna be the best mom,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “God. I’m so fucking in love with you.”

And you just smiled—because at that moment, the world felt steady. Full.

You didn’t know what would come next, but you knew you’d face it with him. With his hand on your belly, and yours over his heart.

Together.

—

Time slipped by like soft wind. Weeks passed in a rhythm that grew more familiar by the day—naps in sunlit rooms, grocery lists that included pickles and strawberries, quiet Saturday mornings with Bucky curled around you like a human blanket. You were twenty-four weeks along now, and it felt real in every sense. Visible. Tangible.

Bucky had never missed a single checkup—not once. And today was no different. He was already in the waiting room with your hand held tight in his, thumb brushing little circles into your wrist like it was muscle memory. His eyes had this light in them—like he couldn’t wait to see his kid again.

Every time he heard the heartbeat, he got a little quiet. You’d learned to read the change in his face—how his smile turned a bit softer, his eyes just a little glassier. He never said much in those moments, but his grip on your hand would tighten, and he’d kiss your temple like he couldn’t help it.

He was attached. In love. With both of you.

He’d even taught himself how to read ultrasound scans—seriously taught himself, like some people learn how to restore motorcycles. The last visit, before the tech even said a word, Bucky had leaned forward with this quiet little grin and whispered, “She’s a girl, isn’t she?”

The technician had paused. Blinking. Then turned to look at the screen again.

“…I didn’t even say anything yet,” she’d laughed. “How did you—?”

You chuckled, rubbing your belly, voice warm.

“He’s just overjoyed. And very skilled at everything.”

Bucky blushed and ducked his head, but you saw the quiet pride on his face. And he’d earned it—he really was learning. You found three pages of names tucked inside his notebook, all neatly written in his sharp, precise print. Girls’ names this time. Ones he liked the sound of when said with your last name. Or his.

—

Despite how overwhelmed he sometimes looked when he stared at your growing belly like it still surprised him… Bucky never let the nerves get louder than the joy. And he never once forgot you in the process.

He treated you like you were royalty. No—like something holier than that.

He came home during lunch hours just to eat with you, even if it meant rushing back into meetings with food stains on his shirt. He brought flowers one evening. Plums the next. There was no pattern—just whatever reminded him of you. Your body started to ache in the evenings, so he massaged your hips, your calves, your shoulders, murmuring low praises as he worked out the knots.

He got serious when your OB mentioned blood sugar.

“I’ve been reading about gestational diabetes,” he said one night, flipping through a folder of printed articles. “You’ve got me now, doll. That means no extra spoonfuls of honey. And you’re down to one coffee a day, max.”

You gave him a look. “Are you going to monitor my espresso shots?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “And I’ll replace them with kisses. More effective.”

Even weekends became little love letters. He’d take you out—to museums, parks, bookstores, lakesides. Nothing too crowded. Nothing that would make you tired. He kept a blanket in the trunk of the car just in case you needed to lie down somewhere. Always thinking ahead. Always thinking of you.

It wasn’t just something he started doing after you got pregnant. It was simply who he was. It was in his DNA. This quiet devotion. This way he loved you in every language—words, time, touch, gifts, acts. He spoke all five fluently. And with you, he was always fluent.

—

Sometimes, late at night, you’d lie awake and watch him sleep beside you—his hand resting over your belly without even thinking, as if that was where it belonged. As if he already knew what it meant to protect someone too small to be seen.

You felt blessed. Not in the way people toss the word around lightly.

But truly, deeply, humblingly blessed.

To have him by your side.

And to be carrying his child.

You had never been more certain: this was the kind of love that stayed.

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

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Fire & Sky

Continuation of the: spirt fire & smirks series

The sky was clear, but the tension crackled through the comms like a brewing storm. The mission was always going to be risky — low altitude, tight turns through hostile territory. But you and Jake had done this a hundred times in training. You trusted your skill. You trusted him.

“Stay on my six, Spitfire,” Jake’s voice came through your headset, steady, even as adrenaline thrummed beneath his words.

“I’m right here, Hangman. Just don’t show off too much — I don’t need to see your ego in high-def.”

Even with the danger, you heard the smirk in his reply. “Can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.”

And then it happened. The sharp ping of warning alarms. The gut-wrenching sound of impact.

“Missile incoming—Y/N, break right, now!”

You pulled hard, but it wasn’t enough. The enemy fire clipped your plane’s wing. The jet shuddered violently, metal screaming as it lost control.

“Mayday! I’m hit! I’m hit!” you called, trying to stabilize, but you were going down fast.

“No. No, no, no— Y/N, eject! Now!” Jake’s voice cracked through the comms, panic breaking through his practiced calm.

You barely had time to respond before you yanked the ejection handle, the force ripping you from the cockpit. The last thing you saw was the ground racing up to meet you.

“Where is she? Where the hell is she?” Jake barked into the radio, his jet banking hard as he scanned the terrain below, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

“Hangman, we’ve got a fix on her chute location. Coordinates incoming.”

But it wasn’t fast enough. Not for him.

Jake pushed his jet harder, eyes scouring the dense trees where your parachute had disappeared. His hands gripped the controls so tightly his knuckles were white.

She’s okay. She has to be okay.

“Y/N! Spitfire, do you copy?”

Static.

“Baby, please…” he whispered to no one, to you, to the universe.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he spotted the tangled mess of your parachute caught in the treetops. His breath hitched. There — a flash of your flight suit. But you weren’t moving.

The second his boots hit the dirt, Jake was running. He didn’t wait for backup. Didn’t think about protocol. All that mattered was getting to you.

“Y/N!” he called, voice ragged. Branches tore at his flight suit as he pushed through the brush.

And then he saw you — crumpled beneath the chute, blood at your temple, your breathing shallow.

“God, no… no, no, no…”

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they hovered over you, afraid to touch, afraid he’d hurt you more. But he had to.

“Spitfire, sweetheart, I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your eyelids fluttered, a groan escaping your lips. Jake exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

“Hey, stay with me, alright? Don’t you dare check out on me now.”

His hands cupped your face gently, brushing dirt and blood away. His voice broke as the tears came, unbidden and unstoppable.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought I was gonna watch you fall outta the sky, and I—I can’t do that. I can’t do any of this without you. You hear me?”

You tried to speak, but he shook his head, brushing more hair back, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Save it, baby. Just focus on breathing. Help’s on the way. I’m not leaving your side.”

You managed the faintest of smiles, and Jake choked on a sob, kissing your forehead.

“I love you,” he breathed, words that had been on the tip of his tongue for so long. “I love you so damn much. And I’m gonna get you outta here. I promise.”

And as the medevac team arrived, Jake held onto you, heart pounding, refusing to let you go. Because this mission wasn’t over — not until you were safe, in his arms, where you belonged.

The beeping of the monitors was steady, a metronome that both calmed and tortured Jake as he sat slumped in the stiff plastic chair beside your hospital bed. His elbows rested on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth, as if he were praying — maybe he was.

You were pale against the white sheets, bandages at your temple, a deep bruise blooming along your jaw. The doctor said you’d been lucky — a concussion, some cracked ribs, a lot of cuts and bruises, but you were going to be okay.

Jake hadn’t left the room since they brought you in. His flight suit was still dirty, torn at the sleeve where he’d shoved through branches trying to get to you. His knuckles were scraped. His eyes were red from the tears he’d tried to hide, from the fear that still gripped him like a vice.

And then — the softest sound.

A groan, barely audible.

Jake shot upright so fast the chair nearly tipped over.

“Spitfire?” His voice was raw, hopeful, disbelieving.

Your eyes fluttered open, squinting at the too-bright lights, dazed and confused. “Jake…?”

He was at your side in an instant, sinking to his knees so you could see him, so you knew he was right there. His hand found yours, fingers trembling as they laced with yours.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. I’m right here. God, you scared the hell outta me."

You blinked at him, trying to focus, your voice hoarse. “What happened…?”

“You went down. The mission… your chute — but it’s over. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Your brow furrowed as the memory came back in fragments. And then, despite the pain, you gave him the faintest smirk. “Did you come charging through enemy lines for me, Hangman?”

Jake let out a broken laugh, the tears brimming again, this time from relief. “Damn right I did. I’d tear the whole damn world apart if it meant getting to you.”

You squeezed his hand, your strength returning bit by bit.

That’s when Jake lost it — really lost it. His head dropped to rest on your hand, shoulders shaking as the emotions he’d bottled up finally spilled out.

“I thought I lost you,” he choked out. “I thought— God, I kept seeing you fall, kept hearing you call Mayday… and I couldn’t get to you fast enough. And all I could think was, I never told you. I never said it right.”

Your heart ached at the sight of him like that, so vulnerable, so Jake beneath all the bravado.

He lifted his head, eyes glassy but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

“I love you. I love you so damn much, Spitfire. I don’t want a second more of not saying it, not showing it. I’m yours. I’ve been yours since the first time you rolled your eyes at me.”

Tears welled in your eyes too, but this time they were from something softer, something beautiful.

“I love you too, Jake,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Always have.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, leaning up to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“I’m never letting you go,” he promised, voice firm now, no trace of hesitation left. “You’re stuck with me, darlin’. Forever.”

And as you drifted back to sleep, safe in the quiet hum of the hospital room, Jake stayed right there — holding your hand, guarding your heart.

Because this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

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Spitfire and Smirks

word count: 2145

“You ass!” you snap, your voice slicing through the smoky haze of the bar. The room is alive with murmured conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional roar of laughter. A neon sign flickers erratically above the pool table, casting shifting shadows over Jake’s figure as he lines up his next shot. He’s so engrossed in the game that he doesn’t notice your approach until you’re standing just behind him, your anger radiating like heat off asphalt on a summer day.

The sharp clack of pool balls colliding echoes through the air, but your tone drowns it out. Jake Seresin straightens, turning toward you with a curious smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes flick to yours, a glint of amusement lighting them as if your anger is nothing more than a passing storm cloud.

Before he can react, you shove him hard.

Jake stumbles back, his boots scuffing against the faded linoleum floor. He lets out a low chuckle, the sound rich and unbothered, like he’s heard this all before. Leaning the pool cue against the table with lazy confidence, he crosses his arms and tilts his head at you. The soft hum of a country song plays in the background, adding to the tension between you.

“Hey, watch it, sweetheart,” he drawls, his grin widening as his gaze sweeps over you. The nickname, said with that infuriating smirk, feels like gasoline on the fire of your anger.

You shove him again, your hands trembling as frustration pours out of you like a dam breaking. “Why did you do that? Why!” you demand, your voice cracking slightly. Around you, a few patrons glance your way, but most return to their drinks, too familiar with Jake’s antics to be surprised by the scene.

Jake stumbles back another step, but he’s still smiling, as though your anger is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. “You know,” he says, tilting his head, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad.”

His hand reaches out, brushing against your cheek. The contrast between his rough fingertips and your heated skin sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. His thumb traces along the curve of your jaw, his voice dropping into a teasing murmur. “Don’t be too upset now. I was just having a little fun.”

The intimacy of the moment twists your stomach into knots, but your anger burns hotter. You slap his hand away, your glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Fun?!” you scoff, your voice rising. “You think ruining another one of my dates is fun?”

Jake straightens, his grin faltering for a split second before he recovers. “Feisty as ever, Spitfire,” he mutters, his voice laced with exasperation. His gaze lingers on you, softening slightly as if he’s about to explain himself, but you’re already done with him.

“Unbelievable,” you spit, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. Without waiting for a response, you spin on your heel and storm toward the door. The dim bar lights reflect off the polished surfaces of tables and chairs as you shove open the door, letting in a gust of cool night air.

The parking lot outside is dimly lit, illuminated by a flickering streetlight and the faint glow of neon signs from nearby buildings. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you march toward your car, your heart pounding in your chest.

“And where the hell are you going, Spitfire?” Jake calls out, his boots thudding against the pavement as he follows. His voice carries a mix of amusement and frustration that makes your blood boil even more.

“Away from you!” you shout over your shoulder. “Or else I’ll run you over with my car!”

Jake’s laugh is sharp, echoing in the quiet night. “You’ve got some nerve,” he mutters, but his footsteps don’t stop.

You reach for the car door handle, your fingers barely brushing the cool metal before his hand wraps around your wrist. The strength in his grip halts you instantly, though it’s not painful. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice dipping into a tone that’s firm and unyielding.

“Let me go, Jake!” you snap, twisting in his hold, but he spins you around effortlessly. Your back presses against the cold metal of the car, the chill seeping through your clothes.

Jake leans in, his frame towering over you as he cages you in with his arms on either side of your head. His scent—leather, cologne, and the faintest trace of whiskey—invades your senses, making it impossible to ignore his closeness.

His teasing edge is gone, replaced by something darker, more serious. “We’re not done talking,” he says, his voice low and steady. His breath is warm against your cheek, his eyes searching yours.

Tears well up in your eyes as you blurt out the words that have been eating away at you. “How could you tell him about me being a virgin?” you choke out, your voice trembling. “I’m already insecure, and you-" You stop as your voice breaks "You used it against me? Seriously?”

Jake’s expression shifts instantly. The smirk vanishes, replaced by a frown that deepens with every tear that spills down your cheek. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” he says softly, his thumb brushing away a tear. His touch is gentle, but you slap his hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” you snap, shoving him with all your strength.

Jake stumbles back a step, his scowl returning. “Come on, Y/N, let me make it up to you,” he pleads, his voice quieter now. His eyes lock onto yours, searching for any sign of forgiveness. “Please, just hear me out.”

When he reaches for you again and you flinch, he freezes. His expression falls, guilt clouding his features as he lets out a heavy sigh. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he struggles to find the right words.

“Look, I know I messed up, Spitfire I do. But please, I just want to make things right,” he pleaded, taking another small step towards you.

Jake kept his eyes locked on you, not tearing his gaze away as he stopped directly in front of you. Even in the dim night light he could still see fresh tears in your eyes, guilt filling his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly. Jake gently reached out to take your hand, his touch feather-light as if afraid you’d pull away again.

You don't pull away as Jake gently cupped her cheek, caressing as he leaned forward "I'm sorry for everything" He apoglize "It was a mistake I didn't mean to cause you pain, please" He pleads "let me make this up"

You cross your arms over your chest, your glare unwavering. “Why should I? You think an apology is going to erase the humiliation you caused me?”

Jake’s shoulders sag, and he lets out a long breath. “I wasn’t thinking, alright? I was stupid and jealous, and I let my emotions get the better of me. I just… I didn’t want him getting too close to you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear.”

“Jealous?” you scoff, shaking your head. “So your solution was to humiliate me? That’s twisted, Jake.”

“I know,” he admits, his voice dropping even lower. He steps closer, cautiously, his gaze locked on yours. “It was wrong. All of it. I didn’t think about how it would make you feel. I just… I didn’t want to lose you, okay?”

“Lose me?” you repeat, your voice trembling. “You can’t lose something you don’t even have, Jake.”

That hits him like a punch to the gut. He winces, his jaw tightening. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m asking you no begging you, not to walk away. Let me fix this. Let me fix us.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, the cocky, confident Jake you know is gone, replaced by someone raw and vulnerable.

“You hurt me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“And I hate myself for it,” he replies instantly, stepping closer again. “I’ll do anything to make it right. Anything, Spitfire. Just tell me what to do.”

You stare at him, your heart warring with your mind. Part of you wants to walk away, to leave him to stew in the consequences of his actions. But the way he looks at you—with desperation, regret, and something dangerously close to love—makes it impossible to move.

Jake’s hand rises halfway, then falls back to his side, as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch you. His gaze softens, and the usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be found. “I don’t expect it to be easy,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I know I messed up—big time. But I’m standing here, asking you to give me a chance to make it right.”

You shake your head, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest like a shield. “You humiliated me, Jake. You made me feel small—like a joke.”

His face falls, and he takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he fights to keep his emotions in check. “You’re not a joke,” he says firmly. “You’re everything to me. And that’s the problem, Spitfire. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I lashed out like an idiot. I thought if I pushed everyone else away, maybe I’d have a shot with you.”

Your breath catches at his confession, and you stare at him, searching for any hint of insincerity. But all you see is Jake—raw, unguarded, and utterly sincere.

“And what makes you think you deserve that shot?” you ask, your voice softer now but still laced with hurt.

“I don’t,” he admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I’m willing to spend every damn day proving that I can be better—proving that I deserve you.”

The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, and you quickly wipe them away, frustrated by how easily he still gets to you. “You make it so hard to stay mad at you,” you mutter.

Jake’s lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, though it’s tinged with sadness. “Is that a good thing?” he asks, stepping closer.

You don’t answer, but you don’t step away either. His proximity is overwhelming, his warmth chasing away the night’s chill.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I need you to know… I’m crazy about you, Spitfire. Always have been.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and for a moment, you hate how easily he disarms you. But then his hand rises again, this time hesitating near your cheek.

His hand cups your cheek, the roughness of his palm a stark contrast to the tenderness of his touch. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t.

His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s afraid of pushing too far. The kiss is soft, almost apologetic, and it sends a shiver down your spine. But when you don’t pull back, he deepens it, his other hand moving to your waist to pull you closer.

The world around you fades, the cool night air, the distant sounds of the bar, and the hum of passing cars all melting away. All that matters is Jake—his warmth, his scent, and the way his lips move against yours as if trying to say all the things he can’t put into words.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing hard. His eyes search yours, still pleading, still vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice a low rumble. “For everything.”

You nod, your hand resting on his chest where you can feel the rapid beat of his heart. “I’m still mad at you,” you say, but there’s no venom in your tone anymore.

Jake smiles, a genuine smile that makes your chest ache. “I’ll take mad, as long as you’re still here.”

For the first time that night, you let yourself smile, just a little. “Don’t make me regret this,” you warn, your voice soft.

“Never,” he promises, sealing his vow with another kiss that makes your knees weak and your heart flutter.

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

Text

⎯⎯ JUST WHAT I NEEDED PT. 2

a/n: FINALLY, here’s the part two with jake’s sisters!! enjoy

summary: announcing your engagement to jake’s sisters over dinner

warnings: mentions of alcohol

word count: 2.4k

pt. 1

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

The kitchen barely fit everyone in it.

The Seresins might’ve been a wealthy family, but even their spacious farmhouse kitchen wasn’t built to accommodate three sisters, a husband, two kids, Carol Ann, George, you and Jake all at once.

The twins were the first to come barreling through the front door into the kitchen, a flurry of cries of ‘Uncle Jakey!’ and ‘Miss Y/N!’ following them.

“Hey, guys!” Jake grinned brightly, crouching down and opening his arms wide. They tumbled into his waiting arms, bursting with giggles, and he wrapped them up into a tight, bear hug.

Jake held them close for a moment, savouring the feeling of being back home with his family again, before pulling back, keeping an arm around each of them.

“Look at you two,” he pressed a kiss to Georgia Lee and Wyatt’s foreheads in turn, “Are you growing like crazy or am I shrinking?”

“You’re shrinking!” Georgia replied, laughing as she leaned against her uncle.

Wyatt nodded along to his sister’s words, as if they were indisputable, “It’s true. Grandpa said it’s what happens when you get old.”

“I’m not old!” Jake protested, his smile suddenly dropping into a dramatic frown, “I’m 34!”

“Exactly, Uncle Jakey. You’re super old now.” Wyatt said gently, as if breaking the news. He wandered over to you and wrapped his little arms around your waist instead.

Jake’s jaw was on the floor - you couldn’t stop laughing.

“Lord, they’ve already got him on the ropes,” called a familiar voice.

Pregnant with her third child, Savannah entered the house behind her twins, sighing softly. She was absolutely glowing - looking elegant in a dove-white dress, her blonde curls trailing over her shoulders.

Her husband, Mark, followed behind, looking significantly less enthusiastic as he balanced a tote bag, a rainbow, glittery, sequinned backpack (belonging to Georgia Lee) and a cake tray through the entryway.

“Savannah,” Jake moaned from the floor, Georgia Lee still clinging to his neck, “Would you mind teaching your boy how to respect his uncle?”

“When his uncle learns how to respect his mother,” she shot back, hands on her hips as she stared down her baby brother, “I haven’t had a phone call from you in months, Jake Seresin.”

Jake scooped up his niece onto his hip and stood, wrapping his free arm around Savannah in a tight hug, “Yeah, noted. I’m sorry, Sav, really.”

She softened and pecked his cheek, leaving a pink kiss mark across it, “It’s fine. But we worry about you.”

You took Wyatt onto your own hip with a soft grunt of effort, standing at Jake’s side. Savannah’s face instantly softened with relief.

“If I didn’t know you had this angel watching over you, I’d have called a search party by now.”

She wrapped her arms around you warmly, resting her head on your shoulder, “Thank you for taking care of him, sweetheart. Lord knows he needs it.”

Over your shoulder, Savannah continued to glare daggers at her brother, mouthing something terrible.

Jake held a hand up in shock, glancing back at his mother, “Ma! Did you just see that? Did you see what she just called me?”

His mother was deep in conversation with Mike as they set out a key lime pie beside her pecan one, tutted at the interruption, “Oh, Jakey, settle down. She didn’t call you nothing.”

“Yeah, Jakey, come on, this is family time.” Savannah teased with a smirk, returning to her husband’s side.

“Unbelievable,” Jake sighed, looking down at his niece on his hip for backup, “You saw that, right?”

Georgia Lee nodded against his chest and Jake shook his head with a dramatic exhale.

When he turned around, he nearly jumped out of his skin, letting out a sharp cry, “Jesus H. Christ!”

Hallie stood there, smiling softly and adjusting the tartan sleeves of her shirt.

“Hallie, when did you get there?”

“Oh! I… I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Course you have.” Jake muttered, setting Georgia onto the floor again. He pulled Hallie into a hug, “Jesus, Hal, you gotta stop sneakin’ up on people like that.”

Still dusted in the dirt from her workday, she left faint smudges on Jake’s freshly-pressed dress shirt. The longer these greetings went on, the more of a sisterly memoir his outfit was becoming.

“I’m sorry, I-“

Before his gentlest sister could get a word in, the front door swung open again, followed by the sing-song of Lauren’s voice; “Your favourite child has arrived!”

Jake groaned, tipping his head back, like he was praying for the strength to be patient, “Here we go…”

She was coated from head to toe in denim, her plump lips glossed and her blonde hair styled to perfection. She breezed into the kitchen like some force of nature.

Wyatt squirmed in your arms and you quickly got the hint, setting him down just in time for him to sprint across the farmhouse to his auntie.

“Why aren’t the rest of ya’ll greeting me like my handsome nephew?” she joked, tossing her keys into a bowl and dropping a kiss on his cheek. “Hi, honey.”

You looped your arm through the nearest Seresin - Hallie, whose brown plaits knocked softly against your shoulder - and watched as Jake opened his mouth to deliver some snarky comment, only to be cut short.

Because walking in behind Lauren, in a bomber jacket and looking slightly unsure of what to do with herself, was Natasha Trace.

Phoenix.

Your fiancé’s coworker, reluctant friend, and the very woman Jake had been trying to set his sister up with since the day he’d met her.

Jake’s mouth dropped open like someone had unplugged his brain, “Phoenix?!”

Natasha smiled amusedly, nodding her head in greeting, “Bagman. It’s good to see you.”

Jake staggered back a step, pointing at Lauren with full dramatic offence, “You brought her?”

“Yeah,” Lauren shrugged, glancing back at Natasha, “I figured it was time.”

“You- you-“ Jake turned to you like you might back him up, completely gobsmacked, “Babydoll, Lauren brought Phoenix.”

You smiled, trying not to laugh, “I can see that.”

Natasha smile deepened as her arm slid possessively around Lauren’s waist.

Carol Ann’s eyes sparkled as she looked between the two women. “Well, would you look at that!”

“This house is just full of love today. I love it, George! I just love it! Having all my happy babies under one roof.” she smiled warmly, placing her hands over her heart.

Jake, stared incredulously between his teammate and his sister, “This whole time? You’ve been dating this whole time?”

“Six months,” Lauren replied breezily, plucking a grape off the centerpiece like she hadn’t just upended her baby brother’s entire matchmaking career, “I wanted to be sure before I brought her home, I know how attached you all can get.”

Jake gaped, looking betrayed on a cosmic level, “I tried to set you two up for years. You both told me to drop it!”

Natasha shrugged, folding her arms over her chest as she stepped closer, “Well, we needed time to work things out without the trauma of your involvement.”

“Okay, ouch.” Jake put a hand over his heart, but he was smirking cockily now, “This means I was right the whole time about you two though.”

“Don’t push it,” Lauren and Natasha said in perfect unison.

You chuckled, squeezing Hallie’s arm before stepping forward and wrapping Natasha in a hug, “Welcome to the family.”

“Thanks,” Natasha murmured against your shoulder, “You’re sure it’s safe?”

“Jury’s still out on that one.” you grinned, “but it’s a hell of a ride to come along for.”

Carol Ann clapped her hands together once, beaming. “Alright! Now that the surprises are out of the way, let’s get this table set. There’s enough of ya.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jake muttered to himself as he herded Wyatt and Georgia Lee toward the table, “Years of hard work and I don’t get any credit for trying.”

George, who had been mostly quiet up to now, passed by with a bottle of wine and patted his son on the shoulder, “We know you tried, boy. Sometimes it just takes a Seresin woman to get things done.”

Brushing past Jake’s arm, Georgia Lee held a stack of plates that was clearly too tall for her.

Jake’s eyes widened as he steadied her arms, “Whoa there, Georgia Lee - what kind of superhuman do you think you are? Let’s not test gravity tonight, alright?”

“But I can do it, Uncle Jakey!”

“I know you can, sweetheart. Just… maybe take three instead of twelve? How’s that?” he said, patting her head and taking sole possession of the plates.

Across the kitchen, Carol Ann was handing out cutlery like a general assigning battle stations; “Wyatt, baby, come do these napkins for Grandma. Hallie, sweetheart, get those vegetables plated up. Savannah, glasses. Lauren - you’re not off-duty just because you brought a girlfriend.”

“I brought the girlfriend,” Lauren corrected, winking at Natasha.

“That doesn’t get you out of chores,” her mother replied sweetly, handing her a tray of cornbread.

Jake helped George uncork the wine, muttering under his breath, “Six months. And nobody said anything.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Jakey,” Savannah snorted, laying out water pitchers, “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m wounded, which is completely different. I was never meddling! I was matchmaking! It’s a service. I deserved to know about the fruit of my labour.”

Mark chuckled as he helped one of the twins into their chair, “Don’t take it too hard, Jake. They got together, that’s what you wanted - who cares when they told you?”

“I do,” Jake hissed childishly, pouring the wine.

Carol Ann clapped her hands, satisfied as everyone began to take their seats, “Alright, alright, everyone sit down before this roast goes cold. Jakey, sweetheart, carve the meat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, shooting you a look and a wink as he stood.

The table filled with the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and passing dishes as people plated up.

“Georgia Lee! You leave your brother’s cornbread alone, now, you hear me?” Savannah said sternly, glancing over the table at her daughter as she made a sneaky pass at her brother’s food.

“But, Ma, he’s not even gonna eat it!” Georgia Lee protested, whining, her hand hovering over Wyatt’s plate.

Savannah sighed, “Well, you still have to ask him first, Georgia. Mark, tell her.”

Mark nodded, pointing his knife at her,“Listen to your mother, Georgia Lee. Be nice and ask your brother.”

It felt like five hundred conversations were happening at the dinner table all at once. Finally, Jake sat, having carved all the meat.

“You know,” he said, eyes sweeping across his chaotically wonderful family, “this is kinda perfect.”

Carol Ann beamed at him from across the table, “Of course it is, baby. We’re all here together - it’s nice.”

She pointed her fork at him, tucking into her meat with a satisfied smile, “Now… I think it’s a good time for that full proposal story,”

“Proposal story?” Lauren’s eyebrows shot up, darting across the table. Hallie paused mid-bite, and Savannah nearly dropped her fork.

Jake cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as he said, nonchalantly, “Well… yeah, Y/N and I got engaged a couple weeks ago.”

A chorus of surprised gasps and exclamations filled the room.

“Wait - engaged? Since when?” Savannah leaned forward, eyes wide and sparkling.

“What? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Lauren said, half-laughing, half-shocked, exchanging a glance with her girlfriend.

“All this time?” Hallie added, laughing.

You exchanged a quick smile with Jake, who looked amused, “You’re tellin’ me that none of you noticed the giant fuc-“

You kicked Jake’s shin, nodding in the direction of his niece and nephew. He bit his tongue, grinning, “Freaking. Giant freaking rock on her hand.”

Savannah leaned back, shaking her head with a grin, “Jakey, I’m impressed. You really kept this under wraps.”

Jake shrugged, pretending to be modest, “Had to. I knew I’d be bombarded with questions and advice for weeks as soon as I told you.”

“Well, you were were right. I’ve already got a colour scheme in mind for the wedding.” Savannah grinned, winking at you across the table.

“And I’m sure it’s lovely,” Carol Ann beamed, cutting a slice of roast, “But, right now, I’m just dying to hear this proposal story.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, glancing around the table as all eyes locked onto him expectantly, “Alright, alright, settle in,” he chuckled, nodding toward his mother, “Since Ma has declared it story time…”

You gave him a look that said be nice and don’t embellish, but he knew the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth meant he could get away with murder right now.

“So,” Jake began, “We were on vacation a few weeks back, just the two of us. I’d been sitting on the ring for a while by then, biding my time.”

“And I kept hearing her casually mention all these things she liked: sunsets, quiet spots, picnics, champagne… subtle things,” he smirked, looking over at you.

“Oh, don’t say it like that,” you laughed, “I wasn’t being that obvious.”

Jake looked around the table, clearly unconvinced, “Y’all, she showed me her Pinterest board that was full of all the things she wanted on her wedding day.”

His sisters laughed, Savannah waving him on impatiently, “Alright, alright, Romeo. Get to the good part.”

“Right. So I find this stretch of private beach - real secluded, real quiet - and I tell her we’re just going for a casual afternoon. I make it sound low-key. ‘Wear flip-flops,’ I say. Meanwhile, I’ve got flowers, champagne, a cooler with all her favorite snacks… and I’m wearing Grandpa’s watch.”

That got a few knowing looks and nods.

“You wore that old thing?” George asked, raising an eyebrow at his son.

Jake nodded, “Yessir, I sure did. It was a special occasion.”

Carol Ann smiled proudly, already misty-eyed. George’s typical frown softened slightly.

“So we’re sitting on the blanket, sun’s setting, and I’m sweating like hell, tryin’ not to give anything away.” he looked at you, grinning wider, “And she’s just picking at these cheese cubes like nothing’s going on.”

“I wasn’t expecting it!” you chimed in, laughing.

“I know you weren’t, babydoll, that’s the point,” he patted your thigh, “Anyways, I wait ‘til the sky turns that pinky-orange color she likes, and I pull the ring out of my pocket and get down on one knee.”

Hallie gave a little gasp, hands clasped in front of her. Lauren mouthed finally at Natasha.

“And?” Carol Ann prompted, tears brimming in her eyes.

Jake turned toward you again, softer now, “And she said yes. Best moment of my life.”

You reached over, brushing your fingers across his, smiling fondly, “It was pretty perfect. I couldn’t stop smiling, I was so happy. I still am so happy.”

There was a pause, warm and full and happy, before Savannah wiped under her eye and said, “Alright, well, now I’m crying into the green beans, so, thanks for that.”

Lauren smirked, raising her wine glass, “To the future Mr. and Mrs. Seresin.”

And the glasses clinked all around.

tags: @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @purplefluffycows

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

Text

Much Needed Help – Jake Seresin

The worst thing in the world is having to go around, constantly looking over your shoulder. The only thing worse than that is having to keep why you're so scared from your flight crew you think of as family.

But I couldn't tell them. They wouldn't understand, but they'd want to help. And if they helped, they'd get hurt.

I was not about to let that happen.

When I walked into the bar, I instantly scanned the men in the room. Once I was sure that he wasn't here, I let out a small sigh of relief. Some of us went to the bar to order our first round of drinks while the others went and grabbed the pool tables.

Throughout the night, I kept my eye on the door. Whenever someone walked in who looked slightly like him, I jumped and recovered with a cringe. Luckily, my friends had no idea.

About an hour into our night, things turned for the worse. The guys were playing pool while Phoenix and I were sitting at a table, making fun of them.

I stood up and walked toward the bar to get Phoenix and me another round. I froze the second my eyes landed on him.

As if perfectly timed, Jake walked by. Without thinking, I grabbed him and slightly spun us so his body was blocking me from his view.

"Hi, Y/C/S (your call-sign)," he said slowly. "Can I help you with. . ."

He cut himself off when he looked down and saw the fear in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"What's going on, Y/N?"

"I can't. . . He's not. . . By the door. . . If he sees me. . ."

Jake wrapped his arms around me and looked over his shoulder, making sure to keep me hidden.

"Who is he?" He asked without turning back.

"Red shirt. . . Leather jacket," I answered, pressing my forehead to his chest. He turned around, subconsciously tightening his arms around me.

"One question," he whispered as he leaned back. I looked up at him and waited for him to ask his question. "Has he ever hurt you?"

His question made my heart jump into my throat. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to stop myself from crying. It was useless, of course. The second my eyes filled with tears, the look in Jake's eyes darkened with understanding.

Jake grabbed my hand and led me over to Phoenix. He leaned in and whispered something to her. She turned, and the second she saw me, her eyes softened. She instantly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I let her lead me to a table hidden by the pool tables and the bar.

Phoenix told Bob to get us drinks as I watched Jake. He angrily walked over to Rooster and the other guys. He pointed at him, and the guys' faces changed. I held my breath as they walked towards him.

Bob walked over with our drinks, but I didn't touch mine. Instead, I sat frozen and watched the guys argue with him. Phoenix reached over and gently grabbed my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bob repositioning. He was standing by the table, slightly in front of us. My heart softened when I realized he was standing, ready to intervene if he came near us.

My breathing became staggered as he got in Jake's face. There was some shoving before Jake got the upper hand and grabbed him. The others backed him up as Jake literally dragged him out. Jake said something to him after throwing him out of the bar.

As the guys walked back into the bar, looking pretty damn proud of themselves, I felt my heart slowly slide back down into my chest. I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath. When I opened my eyes, the guys were standing around the table, looking at me.

"You okay, Y/C/S?" Rooster asked. I nodded, but it was clear the guys didn't believe me. Jake walked over and knelt in front of me. He reached over and gently put his hand on mine that was wrapped around my un-drunk beer.

"Y/N," he whispered, "why don't I take you home?"

"I'm fine," I stuttered, shaking my head and pulling my hand out from underneath his. I stood up and smoothed out my uniform. No one stopped me as I walked out of the bar, but I felt their eyes on me the entire time.

When I got home, I numbly walked up to my apartment. I locked the door behind me and couldn't resist looking out the front window to check the street. I'm glad I did because he was standing across the street, his eyes on my window.

I gasped and quickly closed the curtains. With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone and held my breath as I waited for him to answer.

"Hey, Y/N," Jake said softly.

"Jake," I gasped.

"What's wrong?" He instantly asked.

"He's here," I said, choking on my sob.

"What?" Jake asked through his teeth.

"He's right outside my apartment, Jake. You have to come over. Please. I don't know. . . I can't. . . Please, Jake."

"Listen to me very carefully, Y/N," he said calmly. "I am on my way right now. I can be there in less than ten minutes. Until I get there, lock the door and your windows. Do not open the door unless it's me."

* * * * *

As soon as Jake and I hung up, I relocked the front door and closed all my curtains. Every once in a while, I couldn't help but check the window. Whenever I looked outside, he was still there.

Eight minutes later, I looked outside to see Jake running toward him. I watched as they fought. This time, they actually fought, but it was clear that Jake was stronger. Well, angrier at least.

Jake soon took him down. Once he was unconscious, Jake looked up at my window. Even from all the way up here, I could tell that his eyes softened when he saw me. I backed away from the window when he sprinted into my building.

As soon as he knocked on the front door, I ran to it and swung it open. Once it was open, I threw my arms around him.

"It's alright," he soothed, wrapping his arms around my waist. "I'm here. And he's unconscious."

We stood there in each other's arms for a few beats. Finally, when my nerves were slightly calmer, I spoke up.

"Will you stay with me tonight? Please?"

"Of course," he whispered. With one of his arms still wrapped around my waist and me still tucked into his chest, he led me inside. He closed the door and led me over to the couch. I whimpered when he walked away from me and went to lock the front door. When he turned around, his eyes softened when they landed on me.

He quickly walked over to me and wrapped me in a hug. We sat down, still in each other's arms. I expected him to say something to me, ask me who he was, but he didn't. Instead, he reached over and grabbed the remote. He turned on a random channel but lowered the volume.

We sat, watching some random TV movie for about twenty minutes before Jake couldn't hold back anymore.

"Y/N," he started softly, "who was that guy at the bar? I don't think I've ever seen you that scared."

"I don't want. . ." I tried, but Jake wasn't about to let me off that easily.

"Please, Y/N," he cut me off. "I can't keep you safe if I don't know who or what I'm protecting you from."

"His name is Kyle," I admitted, my eyes already filling with tears. "We were high school sweethearts, but once we got to college. . ."

"He changed," Jake sighed, tightening his arms around me.

"He started controlling everything about my life," I said, struggling more not to break into a sob. "He started by limiting my access to friends and controlling what I wore when we went out. He took me to school and, at first, I thought he was being sweet or protective. That is, until he saw me talking to a guy in my study group as I walked out of class. He jumped out of his car, ran toward me, and pulled me away from him. That night was the first time he hit me."

"Y/N. . ." Jake stuttered.

"I know I should've left him," I continued, the sob officially escaping. "I was too scared. And he promised me that it was a one-time thing. I know I should've left him when he hit me again."

"Y/N," he tried to say again, but I cut him off.

"I did leave him," I gasped as I pulled out of his hold and turned toward him on the couch. "I swear, Jake, I did leave him. But he. . . He found me again. I don't know how. I even transferred schools. One day, I was walking back from class and I saw him again. I ran into the gymnasium and stumbled across a Navy recruiting table at a career fair."

"You joined the Navy to get away from Kyle?" Jake asked gently.

"Partially," I admitted, looking down at my hands. I started nervously playing with my fingers. Suddenly, Jake reached over and put his hand over mine. I looked up at him and finished my confession, "To be honest, I've been interested in the Navy since my cousin joined. I've always wanted to be a pilot and figured the Navy was the best company to fly for. Plus, I figured the Navy could keep me safe from him. I guess I was wrong."

My sob escaped again. Jake instantly pulled me back into his chest and wrapped his arms around me.

"The Navy can keep you safe from him," he tried to reassure.

"Obviously not," I mumbled. I stood up and started pacing back and forth. "What am I supposed to do, Jake? I am halfway across the world, on a ship 90% of the time, constantly surrounded by Navy officials. How the hell does he keep finding me?! I'm never going to be safe from him, will I? He'll stop at nothing to find me. I'll never be safe."

Jake jumped up and blocked my nervous pacing path.

"Y/N, look at me," he said softly and yet firmly. "Kyle is not going to lay another finger on you. I promise. You are safe."

With tears streaming down my face, I shook my head. "I'll never be safe from him."

Jake gently reached up and grabbed my arms, slightly rubbing them. "You are safe," he repeated. "As long as I'm around, that son of a bitch will never touch you again."

"You won't always be here," I whispered, my voice breaking.

Jake took a step toward me and gently grabbed my face. I didn't say anything or stop him as he leaned in. My heart jumped into my throat when he gently pressed his lips to mine. He broke the perfectly sweet kiss far too soon.

"You have my word that I will always be here for you, Y/N."

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

Text

Jealous Bucky

Prompt: John Walker is flirting with Y/N and Bucky is not happy about it.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

——

The mission was over. Finally.

After everything the Thunderbolts had been through—explosions, betrayal, too many close calls, and one particularly annoying helicopter crash—the team had made it out in one piece. Mostly. Everyone was exhausted, bruised, and more than ready for downtime.

They were all scattered around the common room of the safehouse, where someone had put on music and cracked open beers. It was the first time in days that things felt... calm.

Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a cold bottle of water. Ava stood beside him, biting into a granola bar and eyeing the room with her usual mix of indifference and sharp observation.

And that’s when Bucky saw it.

Walker was on the couch sitting way too close to Y/N.

She looked relaxed, curled sideways into the cushions with her legs tucked under her. She was dressed in an oversized hoodie that definitely belonged to Bucky and had her hair pulled back in that soft way that always made his heart beat a little faster.

She was smiling. Laughing. Walker was leaning in, elbows on his knees, body angled toward her. His expression was easy, confident. Flirting.

Bucky’s stomach tightened.

“She doesn’t even notice,” Ava said without looking at him, her tone bored. “He’s been laying it on for ten minutes.”

“I noticed,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh, you noticed the second he sat down. You nearly crushed your water bottle.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed as he watched Walker gesture with a lazy grin, fingers brushing the back of the couch, right behind Y/N’s shoulders. Her face lit up as she laughed again.. She looked completely at ease. Completely unaware.

Walker leaned in just a bit more. “You know, if I’d had you on my team during the last op, I wouldn’t have taken a hit at all. You’re faster than half the guys we had in the field.”

Y/N laughed again, brushing him off. “Please, I tripped over my own boot five minutes into the chase.”

“Still looked good doing it.”

Bucky didn’t hear the rest.

He pushed off the counter and stalked across the room, ignoring Ava’s amused, “Here we go.”

Walker barely had time to glance up before Bucky dropped down, right between them. No warning, no hesitation. One second they were sharing a couch cushion, and the next, Bucky was planted squarely in the middle, his vibranium arm brushing Walker’s shoulder hard enough to make a point.

“Hey, babe,” Bucky said, voice low.

“Hey! I didn’t see you come over.”

“I’ve been watching,” he said pointedly, shooting Walker a cold glance.

Walker raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk. “Just having a conversation.”

“Pretty sure you were having a performance,” Bucky said, his tone sharp. “You do that thing where you lean in and talk slow. Must work on people who aren’t paying attention.”

Y/N glanced between them, a little confused. “Wait—were you flirting?”

Walker shrugged. “I mean, if you didn’t notice, then I clearly wasn’t doing it right.”

Her expression shifted—half surprised, half annoyed. “John.”

“Hey, harmless,” Walker said, palms up. “You’re beautiful. I complimented a beautiful woman. Sue me.”

“She’s taken,” Bucky growled.

“I know,” Walker said. “You didn’t exactly leave it a mystery when you sat down like the jealous boyfriend in a soap opera.”

Bucky leaned back against the couch, arm stretching behind Y/N with deliberate ease. “Good. Let it be known.”

Y/N sighed and rested a hand on Bucky’s thigh, her voice calm but firm. “Okay. Everyone chill. Nobody’s getting sued for flirting and nobody’s getting stabbed over a couch cushion.”

Walker stood with a smirk, lifting his drink. “You two are adorable. I’ll go find someone less committed to flirt with.”

As he walked off, Bucky didn’t look away until Walker disappeared into the hall.

Y/N turned to him with an amused look. “You really sat in the middle of us.”

“I saw the way he was looking at you.”

“I didn’t.”

“You never do,” Bucky muttered.

She tilted her head, smiling now. “Jealous, huh?”

He groaned. “Of him? No. I just don’t like the idea of anyone thinking they have a shot with you.”

Y/N leaned in, placing a kiss on his lips. “You don’t have to mark your territory, Barnes. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

His voice softened. “Just don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” she said. “Especially not to John freaking Walker.”

From across the room, Ava shouted, “That’s the right answer!”

Bucky laughed despite himself, pulling Y/N tighter against his side.

Walker could flirt all he wanted. But Y/N was already taken.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

The sky outside had shifted to deep gold, casting long shadows through the windows of the safehouse. Most of the team had filtered out to their rooms or found quieter corners to decompress. The music had stopped. The noise was gone.

Y/N leaned against the windowsill, sipping from a mug of tea. She watched the fading light, quiet, and thoughtful. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her hair was a little messy from the couch.

She heard soft footsteps behind her and smiled before he even spoke.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants.

She turned to look at him. “Hey yourself.”

He walked over and stood next to her.

Y/N tilted her head. “You okay?”

Bucky shrugged a little. “Yeah. Just... needed a breather.”

She nodded. “Yeah. That was a weird vibe back there.”

He looked away for a second. “Didn’t expect to get that worked up.”

“About Walker?”

He gave a tight nod.

Y/N crossed her arms gently, not in defense—just grounding herself. “I honestly didn’t realize he was flirting until you sat between us.”

“Yeah, I caught that.” He glanced at her now, lips twitching faintly. “You’re a little too good at being friendly.”

“Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Both,” he said, more softly than he meant to.

There was a silence, comfortable but weighted.

Bucky stepped closer. “It’s not about you doing anything wrong. It’s not even about him, really. Sometimes I get this... voice in the back of my head that says, 'Don’t mess this up.' Like I’m waiting for someone to come along and prove I was never supposed to have this in the first place.”

Her heart tugged a little at that.

“You didn’t mess up,” she said gently. “And you’re not going to.”

“I know.” He looked down. “Most days I believe that. But every now and then, something like today happens, and I just—” He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, frustrated sound. “I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You won’t,” she said without hesitation. “Not over someone like him. Not over anything.”

He finally met her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

Y/N stepped in close, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his chest. “Because this isn’t something I just stumbled into. I chose you. Every day I get up, and I still choose you.”

Bucky rested his chin lightly on top of her head, his arms slipping around her. The tension that had been knotted in his shoulders slowly eased.

“You always know what to say,” he murmured.

“Only because you never stop needing to hear it,” she teased, looking up with a smile. “Which I don’t mind. You’ve always been worth the reminders.”

He kissed her softly.

When they broke apart, she poked his chest lightly. “Also, you had perfect timing. I was five seconds away from making things super awkward.”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah? How?”

“I was going to ask him if he needed directions to someone else’s personal space.”

He laughed, really laughed, and she felt it in his chest beneath her hands.

“Next time, I’ll let you handle it,” he said.

“Oh, you better. I’m getting good at the polite-but-lethal tone.”

Bucky tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You’re kind of terrifying sometimes.”

She grinned. “Only when someone thinks they can come between us.”

His smile softened. “No one can.”

And just like that, the weight that had been clinging to him all evening finally let go.

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targaryenhues · 3 days ago

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Seb in these pics WHEW

[pics from pinterest

first pic: IloveBTRandHD

Second pic: Alexab_164

Third pic: currentlytomahawkingsomeone

Fourth/sixth pic: kyulils

Fifth pic: nikkixlynn1 ]

#ss #bf

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targaryenhues · 4 days ago

Text

cradles and chaos 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans

summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open! i love, love, love soft!bucky

The day started like any other.

Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.

Until it hit you.

The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

2K notes · View notes

targaryenhues · 4 days ago

Text

heart by heart ♡ b.b

pt. 1... sort of. this is the official pt. 1. you can read the intro to this series here :).

pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x singlemom!fem!reader

warning: different parts of bucky's mcu timeline, google-translated words that aren't english, use of y/n, yearning

word count: 3.4k

author's note: ahhhhh y'all made me so emo with how much you loved the intro i posted for this fic that i couldn't not get to writing the official first part. again, please let me know what you think! also, side note, i didn't realize my option to send asks was turned off, but it's on now! <3

series masterlist

Bucharest, Romania - Late 2015

“Salut,” you greeted the street vendor with a smile as you skimmed over the fresh produce they were selling. After a week of living in Bucharest, you were finally stocking up on some much-needed groceries after spending a lot more money on takeout than you’d like to admit. However, part of why you delayed shopping was that speaking Romanian was not your forte. “Douǎ, uh, uhhhh…”

The woman at the stand raised her eyebrow at you in curiosity, but also amusement at how you were struggling.

You didn’t even notice how entertained she was as you held up two fingers to indicate that was the quantity you wanted to get.

“Douǎ,” you repeated as you stared at the produce again, trying to remember the correct word for what you wanted to purchase. Unfortunately, you were hopeless in the matter.“Um, tomatoes? Please. Oh! I mean, vă rog.”

The woman blinked at you with an unreadable expression.

“Castravete?” She asked and pointed to the cucumbers that lay next to the tomatoes.

“No! Uh, nu. Îmi pare rǎu.”

You didn’t really know what you were apologizing for, but it felt like the right thing to do. It wasn’t the woman’s fault you weren’t fluent in a different language.

Frustrated with yourself, you huffed and then pointed towards the tomatoes.

“Ceapă?” The woman asked as she pointed to the onions on the other side of the tomatoes.

“No. Well, actually, yes, I need that too, but-.”

You knew that you were rambling in English and that the poor woman probably didn’t understand a thing you were saying, making you feel even more stupid. However, before you could make a bigger fool of yourself, a voice spoke up from behind you.

“Două roșii, Nadia,” a man said, making you turn around to look at him. He was dressed casually in a grey zip-up sweater and jeans paired with a black ball cap that did nothing to hide his longish brown hair. That and the stubble of his growing beard really added to the whole rugged aura he exuded. “Fii amabil.”

“Americani,” the woman tsked, snapping your attention back to her as she gathered two tomatoes and an onion to put in a paper bag.

You blinked in confusion.

“Wait,” you started, then glanced between the man and the woman. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m Nadia’s favourite customer,” the man said, then smiled as he moved his captivating blue-eyed gaze back to you. You would’ve been lying if you tried convincing yourself that you didn’t think he was attractive. “I’ve come to her stand enough times to know she understands English just fine and is giving you a hard time because you’re not from here. Right, Nadia?”

“It is fun,” Nadia replied with a shrug, her accent thick. “American, yes?”

“Yeah,” you replied, smiling as she handed you the bag of produce.

“Him too. He pay.”

“Oh, no, I can pay.”

You went to reach for your wallet, but the man was already handing her a bunch of coins.

“Thank you, Nadia, have a nice day,” he said charmingly, then looked back at you. “Hey, I’m Bucky.”

He extended his right hand for you to shake, but you just glanced down at it, wondering why he was wearing leather gloves on both hands, then back to him before raising an eyebrow.

“Bucky?” You asked skeptically.

“Yup.”

You held his gaze for a moment, then cracked a smile as you shook his hand.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Bucky replied, returning the smile. He observed you for another moment as you dropped each other’s hands, but before he could say anything else, another patron excused themselves around him to go up to Nadia. “Maybe we should get out of the way.”

“Good idea,” you agreed, stepping aside and muttering a quick thank you to Nadia before you and Bucky started walking away together. “Uh, thank you for that, by the way. I can pay you back for the groceries.”

“Don’t worry about it. I overheard you struggling to communicate, and I’ve seen Nadia mess with quite a few tourists for entertainment. Thought I’d step in.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

Silence fell between the two of you as you continued walking, but luckily, Bucky didn’t let it become awkward.

“So, what brings you to Bucharest?” He asked, glancing at you curiously. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t know yet,” you told him honestly, feeling comfortable enough to do so. “Life after university wasn’t what I wanted it to be. I worked a corporate office job that I hated and had nothing to do with what I studied. I was miserable. So, I worked my ass off for a couple of years while living in my aunt’s basement so I could save up enough money to take a year off and travel. I landed in Zürich four months ago and have been all over the continent since. Sometimes I’m in cities for days. In other places, I’m there for weeks. I found a place to stay here in Bucharest for a month with the option to extend longer. Figured it would be a good central point for me to have while I looked into visiting more Eastern European countries.”

Bucky nodded in understanding.

“Fair enough. What did you study?”

“Architecture. Exploring Europe has been great for reigniting that passion.”

“Europe would definitely be good for that,” he agreed.

“What about you?” You asked. “What brought you here?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away, and when you looked up at him again, he seemed to be deeply considering his next words.

“I also needed a break from home,” he explained. “Gotta figure out a few things for myself, and this seemed like a good place to do it.”

You hummed in agreement.

“It’s refreshing being somewhere no one knows your name. Or face.”

“Precisely.”

The two of you were approaching a busy road, and you soon realized that you’d probably have to go your separate ways so you could return to the apartment you were staying in.

“Well, Bucky, I’m glad I learned your name,” you started as you slowed your walking. “As amazing as these last few months travelling have been, it’s been lonely, and you seem like a good person to know. Thank you again for today.”

“Of course,” Bucky responded while the two of you came to a stop at a crosswalk. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you, too. But I should get going. This produce isn’t going to make itself into a meal.”

Bucky chuckled.

“No, I guess it won’t. Bye, Y/N. Get home safe.”

“I will. Thanks, Bucky.”

With that, you smiled and turned to walk away. However, you only made it a few steps before Bucky spoke up again.

“Y/N, wait,” he called after you, making you turn to face him again and look at him questioningly. “You’re right, it can get lonely here alone. And, uh, well, if you ever want some company… I’ll be around.”

You didn’t respond right away, but couldn’t help the amused smirk tugging at your lips as he awkwardly glanced at the ground, seemingly regretting not letting you just walk away.

“Was that your attempt at asking me out?” You teased.

Bucky laughed too.

“It sounded better in my head, to be honest. But, yeah, I guess it was.”

You couldn’t stop smiling, but with the look on Bucky’s face, he seemed a little anxious about what you were going to say. Did he really think you were going to turn him down?

“I like that idea. Meet me back here tonight at eight?”

“It’s a date,” Bucky said, grinning again.

“Not a date,” you corrected, still chuckling. “We’re acquaintances.”

“Oh, for sure. Practically strangers.”

“Well, yes. I did just meet you at a street market in Romania, after all. If my father heard this was how I was making friends in Europe, he’d have an aneurysm.”

Bucky wholeheartedly laughed at that.

“Rightfully so,” he stated. “But I’m glad I get to be an exception. I’ll see you later, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Bucky.”

~*~

New York City, USA - Late 2027

You were late.

Not overly late, you’d only left your apartment 10 minutes later than you intended to. But, given the situation you were getting yourself into, tardiness only added to your anxiety about it all.

You impatiently waited for a gap in traffic to cross the street at an intersection, growing more irritated at the characteristically excessive NYC traffic. After about seven more cars passed by, you were fed up with waiting and stepped off the curb to rush across during a risky gap between vehicles.

“Sorry,” you yelled as an approaching taxi laid on the horn, but you weren’t really sorry. No, you had bigger things to worry about than aggressive drivers.

The coffee shop you were headed for came into view, and you were hit with an intense wave of deja vu. It’d been over three years since you last stepped foot in the place, and the man responsible for you not wanting to return there was inside waiting for you.

Your mind screamed at you to turn around and go home, that this meeting wasn’t worth it. Yet, your feet kept moving you forward, and soon enough, you were walking through the door.

The coffee shop was exactly the way you remembered it. Everything from the rush hour lineup, the sound of beans being ground into a fine coffee and the smell of the shop’s signature pastries all felt so familiar, almost like you were never away for as long as you were.

Out of habit, your gaze moved to the table tucked in the back left corner furthest away from the counter. Your table. The only one that wasn’t constantly interrupted by someone walking by and allowed enough solace from the hectic environment to have a proper conversation with another person.

At that table sat Bucky Barnes with his eyes already locked on you.

“Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath, regretting every decision you ever made that led you to this point. Still, you swallowed your pride and made way toward the Winter Soldier.

Once Bucky realized you were approaching, he stood to greet you, but not without almost knocking the table over in the process.

“Shit,” he grumbled, but played it off coolly as he steadied the table with his hands, which was when you notice the metal one being covered by a glove. “Y/N, hi.”

“Hi,” you responded awkwardly, feeling way more anxious all of a sudden. “Um, I’ll just go order my coffee, then I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, I, uh, I ordered it already. Iced coffee, right? Even though it’s cold out.”

Your stare fell to the table where two coffees indeed sat, one cold, one hot, and you wondered how you missed that when Bucky almost knocked them onto the ground.

“Yeah, thank you.”

The two of you sat down across from each other in silence, each taking a sip of your drinks. You didn’t know what to say, so you glanced around the coffee shop again, but felt Bucky’s gaze on you the entire time. Once you looked back at him, he spoke again.

“How’ve you been?” He asked.

“Fine,” you replied, then took another sip of your iced coffee before exhaling. “Listen, Bucky, I really can’t do the whole small talk thing. Not with you. Why am I here? How did you and what made you want to find me?”

Bucky held your gaze for a moment, then took a nervous breath.

“It’s a long story.”

“Good thing I have time.”

“Right,” Bucky started. “I just don’t know where to begin. Well, getting your number was harder than I anticipated, actually. I had to use one of my connections for that.”

“I see,” you hummed in understanding. “Had to be a good one because I made sure it wouldn’t be easy for anyone to find me. Was it one of your congress connections that you were able to pull some strings to get my info, or Sam?”

“… Sam.”

“Of course.”

Bucky nodded.

“As for why I called you, that’s a bit more complex. I, uh, well, I’m kind of part of a new team of sorts.”

“I saw that,” you told him. “With Nat’s sister… and John Walker of all fucking people. Anyways, I hear they’re calling you guys the New Avengers.”

“Yeah, and Sam is pissed,” he stated. “I was lucky he gave me your number. However, I do owe him one now.”

“Which he’ll never let you forget.”

“Ever. But that’s beside the point. There was a reason I called you.”

You looked at him expectantly, but he was silent for a moment.

“Tell me, Buck. Please.”

Bucky sighed deeply, but seemed ready to lay everything out.

“How the New Avengers formed was because of an event,” he explained. “Bob, who is part of our group, uh, well, he kind of engulfed all of Manhattan in a massive darkness—the Void. During it, people’s souls were consumed by an emptiness that made them relive the worst aspects of their past. I went into the Void to try to figure out how to get rid of it.”

“I was in it too,” you whispered.

“You were?” Bucky asked, shock evident on his features as you nodded. “I didn’t think you were still here. Well, until Sam told me you were.”

“I never left New York. I’ve been living here since we last saw each other, apart from being away for a few months three years ago, and was in Manhattan when that… darkness took over.”

“So you know what it was like.”

“I do,” you explained, shaking your head. “It wasn’t fun. But, I am sorry you had to relive your darkest parts, too, Bucky. I know how hard you’ve worked to move on from that.”

“What do you mean? I have a great past,” he teased, making you smile. There was the Bucky you knew so well.

“In what world, Barnes?”

“Not this one.”

Both of you laughed, then fell into a comfortable silence. It was natural, which made you feel a lot of things.

“You were part of what I saw in the Void, Y/N,” Bucky continued. “Part of what really got to me.”

“Bucky-.”

“I mean it. Seeing you and not being able to do anything, I had nightmares about it for days. I’m really sorry, I don’t have it in me to expand on what I saw right this moment, but I hated it. And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. I just- I needed to hear your voice. The last thing I was expecting from that phone call was to learn that-.”

“That I have a daughter,” you finished for him, taking a second to use your sweater sleeve to wipe away the tears that welled in your eyes during his spiel.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, nodding.

You exhaled again.

“I guess I owe you some explanation on that.”

“I can’t beat around the bush on this, Y/N, I gotta know. Is she mine?”

Taking a deep breath and trying to blink back the tears that were already spilling, you nodded.

“Of course she is, Bucky,” you stated, voice cracking in a sob.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky said quietly, not being able to hide his surprise, but also, genuine relief.

You shook your head again, still trying to stop the tears.

“I haven’t been with anyone else. I’ve tried because I was so, so angry at you. But, I didn’t even attempt talking to another man romantically until almost a year after I gave birth. It was always you, Bucky. It was never a wonder who her father was.”

Bucky stared at you like you were the only person in the world as he hung onto every word you said.

“Wow, I-,” he started, but cut himself off. “You were pregnant when I left.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I found out I was expecting about three weeks after you left. I was terrified, but you saw to it that I wouldn’t be able to find you, either. I wanted to tell you, but the only information I managed to scrounge up was that you were missing therapy sessions while off in the Czech Republic doing god knows what. Then I was mad and didn’t want you to know. I didn’t think it was fair that you got to remove yourself completely from my life, when I stayed haunted by you leaving what we had. It was impossible to move on because everything came back to you.”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry you’ve gone through this alone. If I had known I would’ve-.”

“You would’ve what, Bucky? Stayed?”

He took a minute to respond, taken aback by your harsh tone, then looked downwards, as if he was ashamed to meet your gaze.

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly, making you scoff. “Y/N, leaving and staying away wasn’t easy for me to do.”

“Really?” You challenged. “Because you did a damn good job at it.”

“Because my fear of something bad happening to you was and still is very real. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if someone hurt you again as a way to get to me.”

That shut you up real quick.

“Even now,” Bucky continued. “Meeting here, I’m looking at everyone in this place, paranoid, because I will always have a target on my back no matter what, and that extends to you. The thought of you being used as collateral scares the shit out of me. But I can’t stay away from you, Y/N. Especially now with-.”

“The fact that we have a daughter,” you whispered.

“Exactly. The safest thing for you and her would be for me to stay away, I know that, and me being part of the New Avengers puts you both at even more risk, but she’s my daughter. I gotta know her.”

Seeing Bucky get so emotional as he spoke made you emotional too, and by then, you knew there was no point in trying to hide it as another sob left your mouth.

“You will,” you promised. “She deserves to know her dad. I may still be pissed at you and hesitant to let you back into my life in any extent, but she’s your daughter too. And she’s fucking amazing. I would never intentionally keep her away from you now that you know and want to be part of her life. I’m not evil. But, Bucky, you have to be in or out. You can’t just disappear on her like you did me. I refuse to put her through waiting and wondering if you were ever going to come back.”

Silence fell between the two of you again, but you knew that it was in mutual understanding and agreement.

“Y/N,” Bucky said after a few moments had passed. “I am undoubtedly and wholeheartedly in.”

“Good. You’d be really missing out if you weren’t.”

“I already hate that I’ve missed so much, but I can’t wait to meet her. However, I do think we need to take this slowly.”

“Absolutely,” you agreed. “She and I both have to be ready for that meeting to happen, which won’t be today.”

“For sure,” Bucky replied. “Hopefully soon, though.”

“It’ll probably be sooner than I’m ready for, but for her, I’m willing to make it work. That being said, I should get going so I can go home to her.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for talking with me, Y/N.”

Both you and Bucky stood up from the table and had an awkward moment of almost going in for a hug, but ultimately didn’t. After muttering quick goodbyes and discussing how you’d be in touch, you slung your bag over your shoulder before heading on your way.

However, you only made it a few steps before Bucky called after you.

“Y/N, before you go,” he said as you turned to face him again. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Go for it,” you responded, having no idea what he could be about to ask.

“What’s her name?”

Bucky was smiling as he asked, and despite you still feeling a type of way about his sudden reemergence in your life, you smiled too.

“Penelope Rebecca Barnes.”

taglist (thank you so much angels for your comments): @avengersfan25, @wonwoosthetic, @xprloki, @ordelixx, @cherrypieyourface, @xhazzz, @avafaustus, @lovely-seb <3

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targaryenhues · 4 days ago

Text

heart by heart ♡ b.b

pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x singlemom!fem!reader (... kind of?)

warning: this barely scrapes the surface of what i have planned for this fic, use of y/n

summary: after spending time in the void, bucky realized one of the worst aspects of his past was letting you go

word count: 1.3k

author's note: hiiii everyone, this is my first bucky fic ever. and the first fic i've written in a long time. like i mentioned above, this is barely what i've imagined for this story in it's entirety but i cut off what i have planned because i wanted to post and see if anyone actually liked the story/would want more of it. that being said, any and all feedback is appreciated and i hope you enjoy :)

series masterlist

this story was inspired by this song and this tiktok

A deep sigh of contentment left your mouth as you plopped down on the living room couch, finally allowing yourself some time to unwind. You sat there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling as you let your muscles relax, before sitting up again to grab the freshly poured glass of wine from the coffee table.

After a quick swirl of the glass, you took a sip and hummed approvingly as the liquid enveloped your taste buds. Then, you took in your surroundings.

The apartment was spotless. You’d just spent a good portion of your night ensuring its cleanliness. All was quiet, peaceful, even, apart from the music playing lowly from the TV and the odd drip of water that fell into the kitchen sink, reminding you that you still hadn’t called a plumber to fix it. Nonetheless, you couldn’t have been bothered to care in that moment as you curled your legs up beneath you and sank further into the cushions.

The riff of Eagle-Eye Cherry’s one-hit wonder, Save Tonight, started playing, and you found yourself mindlessly tapping the wine glass along to the beat while debating how to spend the remainder of the evening. The night was young, and the options were endless. Not really, though. Who were you kidding? It’s not like you were going out. You’d already turned down the proposed date night with the guy you had been talking to.

However, you had a gut feeling the night was only just about to begin despite it being 10pm.

After taking another sip of wine, you leaned forward to put the glass back on the table and grabbed the TV remote, switching from Spotify to Netflix. You scrolled through the movies and shows, unimpressed with the options, before ultimately switching to Hulu so you could get caught up on the newest episode of the trashy reality TV you couldn’t stop watching.

This night, specifically, called for the Casa Amor episode of Love Island USA.

The recap of the previous episode started playing, and you were already invested as you were reminded of the drama that occurred. You weren’t long reaching for your wine glass again, taking another sip as you settled back into your go-to rotting position.

That was until your cell phone started ringing from where it sat a few feet away on the kitchen island, making you jump.

“Shit,” you gasped and looked down at the wet spot forming on your sweatshirt from the wine, a pout forming on you lips at the thought of having to rewash the piece of clothing so soon. Then your gaze shot to your phone, which continued to ring loudly. “Who the hell?”

Groaning as you begrudgingly got up off the couch, you walked over to the kitchen island and set the wine glass down before grabbing your phone. However, instead of seeing the name of a contact, the words ‘no caller ID’ showed on the screen, making you furrow your eyebrows.

A sense of dread washed over you while you began wondering who was calling so late and why they clearly didn’t want to be traced. Shaking your head, you clicked the power button twice to send the call to voicemail and set the phone back down. You took a few breaths, trying to ease the growing nerves you felt as you stared at the dark screen, waiting to see if it’d light up with the notification of a new voicemail message.

It didn’t. Instead, the phone started ringing again with an incoming call from an unknown number. Despite everything in you telling you not to, this time, you answered.

“Hello?” You greeted hesitantly, not knowing who to expect would be on the other end of the call. But, instead of replying, the person was silent, which annoyed you. “Listen, I don’t know who this is, but you need to quit calling me.”

“Y/N,” a male greeted, making chills run down your spine as you froze in place. It was the voice of a man you could never forget, no matter how hard you tried.

Another moment passed, and you swallowed hard before whispering your reply.

“No. Wrong number.”

The man took a breath.

“Right voice.”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Wrong time, Bucky.”

Silence took over again, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to end the call.

“Can there ever be a right time again?” Bucky finally asked while you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I don’t know,” you replied sternly, feeling annoyance become more prominent amongst the array of emotions coursing through you. “It’s been over three years. Three goddamn years, Bucky. What could you possibly want from me?”

“To talk, Y/N. Please.”

“I-,” you started, but cut yourself off when you heard a door creak open from down the hallway. You froze, waiting to see if you’d heard correctly, and when the sound of tiny footsteps made their way down the hall toward the kitchen, you cursed yourself even more.

“Mommy?” Your toddler daughter asked as she entered the room, tiredly rubbing at her eyes.

“Hi, baby,” you greeted softly, wedging the cell phone between your shoulder and ear as you immediately went over and scooped her up. “Why are you awake, hm?”

“Who’s on the phone, Mama?”

“Oh, uh,” you trailed off as she leaned against your shoulder, not really knowing what to say. Then, the man on the other end of the call spoke up again.

“Mama,” Bucky repeated, and you could imagine the look on his face as he processed this information. “Y-you’re a mom.”

“Yeah, Bucky, I am.”

“How old is she?”

You shut your eyes again and groaned in frustration. Bucky was the one person you never thought you’d have this conversation with. Almost every fibre of your being was screaming at you to lie. That he didn’t deserve to know the truth, let alone anything about you. But you couldn’t. Not to him.

“She’ll be three in December,” you answered quietly.

Part of you hoped that Bucky wouldn’t piece everything together, but you knew he was too clever not to.

“December,” he repeated again. “She was born eight months after we-.”

“Went our separate ways, yeah,” you finished for him.

Silence.

“Y/N, is she mine?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“That’s not fair,” he pleaded, shock still lacing his voice. “Y/N, please.”

“What do you want me to say, Bucky?” You asked, tears welling in your eyes again. “You’re not part of my life anymore. You wanted this. You’re the one who left.”

“To protect you. There’s so much-.”

“Bullshit. You know me well enough to know that I could never be afraid of you, Bucky. That anything absolutely crazy this life brought upon me didn’t matter because you were there. I loved you, but you left.”

The tears were full-on streaming by that point, and your daughter moved her head to see why you were upset, worry etching her features when she saw that you were crying.

A few moments went by as you assured her that you were ok and wiped away your tears before Bucky spoke up again.

“Can we talk?” He asked. “Not over the phone. I need to see you.”

“Why now?” You whispered, voice cracking.

“I- I-it’s, well, it’s hard to explain. I was hoping to do so in person, though.”

You chuckled slightly, surprised at how natural the reaction came.

“Knowing you, that could mean literally anything. Probably something I could never imagine.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled too, the familiar sound causing butterflies to form in your stomach. “Kinda what you get with me, isn’t it?”

“Something like that, Barnes,” you answered, then sighed as you weighed your options. “Tomorrow morning. In Brooklyn.”

“Our coffee shop?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you there at 9:30.”

“Perfect,” he said, and you could practically hear the smile you assumed was on his face. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you responded. “There’s a good chance I’ll want to throw hot coffee at you.”

“Better than nothing, so I’ll take it. Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

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targaryenhues · 5 days ago

Text

bad desire

this is the final story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Civilian!Female!Reader

Summary: Hydra tried to turn you both into monsters. But even as the Winter Soldier, Bucky still chose you.

Disclaimers: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v (standing & bed positions), oral (m giving), light dubcon (serum influence), winter soldier mode, overstimulation, soft dom!bucky, recovery sex, emotional aftercare, post-Hydra escape, angst with resolution, semi-public surveillance

Word Count: 8.5k

Author's Note: As much as I love Winter Soldier, writing his smut scene is very challenging 🥹😭

Bucky escaped Hydra with Steve’s help—though “escape” wasn’t quite right. It felt more like a release. A bleeding, uncertain kind of freedom.

He vanished into a quiet Eastern European village, tucked between cold hills and roads long forgotten. Somewhere small. A place where the language felt foreign in his mouth, and the people kept to themselves. No tourists. No curious eyes. Just cobblestones, an aging clocktower, and silence.

It was perfect for him.

He rented a room above a bakery. Kept his head down. Never let anyone walk behind him. The locals didn’t pry, and he didn’t offer anything back.

But you noticed him.

He was tall, broad, always in the same dark jacket. He moved like someone studying life from the outside—trying to memorize the rhythm of it. Watched more than spoke. At the bakery, he never haggled—just nodded, paid in full, and left. Over time, he started greeting the baker. Murmured a stiff “thank you” like he’d practiced it. You even caught him trying to smile once. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the attempt was there.

At the market, he lingered. Watched people barter. Mirrored how they tapped scales or leaned in to laugh. He looked like he was trying to relearn how to be human.

He often came to the café where you worked part-time. A small, tucked-away place across from a crooked bench and flickering lamp post. That bench became his perch. He’d sit, stiff-backed, notebook in hand—too small for his fingers, but he wrote in it anyway. Not often. Just a few lines, then he’d tuck it away like it mattered.

You watched him from behind the counter. Pretending not to. But he stood out—quietly. Like a story you couldn’t quite read.

Once, you saw him flinch—actually flinch—at a fat green caterpillar crawling over a daisy by the café door. He took a full step back like it had hissed at him. You barely kept your laughter in. He took a full step back, like it had hissed. You barely kept your laughter in.

Another time, a stray cat jumped onto his bench. He just blinked at it, then scratched behind its ear like he wasn’t sure how. Two more joined. That evening, he walked in covered in cat fur.

You handed him his usual—black coffee. No sugar. No milk. But this time, you added a glazed donut beside it.

“On me,” you said softly. “You’re a regular now.”

He stilled. Shoulders tense, gaze sharp. Like he hadn’t planned for kindness.

You raised your hands gently. “No pressure. Just sugar.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

And he ate the donut.

—

The next day, he was back on the bench again—early afternoon, sunlight brushing through the thinning trees. You brought his coffee out and hovered a little longer.

“Do you like cats?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Your grin grew. You pulled out your phone. “Wanna see mine?”

You held up your phone—a photo of a chonky black cat sprawled across your kitchen table like a lazy prince, belly up, legs akimbo, mid-yawn. “That’s Noa,” you said, grinning. “I found him at night, back in Romania. So—Noa. From noapte (night). He only answers when he feels like it. Fat chonk gremlin thinks he’s royalty. Loves pumpkin purée more than tuna, for some reason.”

You chuckled softly to yourself, expecting silence again.

But then came his voice—quiet, deep.

“Noa. Suits him.”

You blinked. It caught you off guard—not just that he spoke, but the way his voice wrapped around the name. Calm. Unhurried.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You can actually talk?”

He huffed through his nose. A breathy, reluctant sound. But it was amused. The closest thing to a laugh you’d seen from him yet.

You’d take it.

—

A week later, he tapped the edge of the table when you brought his drink.

You raised a brow. “Want me to sit?”

He nodded, eyes still on his cup.

So you did.

You didn’t talk that first time. Just sat, close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table whenever one of you shifted. He didn’t flinch. That felt… like something.

It became a habit. Not always. But often enough that the seat across from him started feeling like yours.

One quiet day, after closing early, he was still there—scribbling in that little notebook. You sat down with your tea, watching him.

“I’ve seen the way you move through the village,” you said. “Like you’re learning. Studying how people work.”

He stilled, pen pausing mid-stroke.

“I think you’re trying to be more human. Or trying to remember how. If you ever need help… I’m good at pretending to be human.”

Still no reply. But he didn’t leave.

You leaned in slightly. “I swear on Noa, I’m a solid secret keeper. He’s the only one I tell things to. And unless he starts speaking, your secrets are safe with the cats.”

That did it.

A low chuckle escaped him. He shook his head, eyes down—and smiled.

It wasn’t wide. Not perfect.

But it was real.

Something pulled tight and warm in your chest. You smiled back, trying to play it cool while your heart scrambled.

—

You’d started seeing him outside the café more often.

Not exactly planned meetings—but they became frequent enough to feel like a habit. You’d catch him on your way home. Sometimes, he’d be waiting at the park bench with his notebook. Other times, you’d spot him loitering near the market until you finally walked up and dragged him into conversation.

You were the one insisting on it—on helping. And to his quiet credit, he let you.

“I mean,” you said one afternoon as the two of you strolled down a quiet lane just past the edge of the village, “you’ve gotten pretty damn good at talking, considering how you used to communicate in grunts and side-eye.”

He gave you a sharp glance, but there was warmth tucked into it. “Didn’t grunt.”

You snorted. “You did. I have witnesses.”

He shook his head, but you caught the curve of his mouth. He wasn’t quite smiling, but it was there, that pull—like he was getting used to the idea of letting something reach him.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, more gently now. “You’ve picked up on social cues really well. You don’t stare at people like they’re puzzles anymore. You even laugh sometimes.”

“I don’t laugh.”

“You chuckled when I told you Noa tried to eat my eyebrow pencil. That counts.”

He sighed. It wasn’t irritated. Just resigned.

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Anything else you want to work on? Anything you need practice with?”

That made him pause.

You both stopped walking, the dusty road quiet around you. The breeze shifted, carrying the smell of firewood and something herbal from a nearby window.

Then he said it—low and measured.

“Human touch.”

You turned to face him. “Touch?”

There was a silence between you, and in that moment, it held weight. Like a breath held too long.

“I forgot,” he said slowly, eyes not quite meeting yours. “What normal touches feel like.”

You felt something stutter in your chest. You wanted to ask more—about what he meant, about what kind of touches he did remember—but something in his voice told you not to. There was a darker layer beneath that calm tone, a history stitched into his skin, and you knew better than to tug at those seams without invitation.

Your gaze dropped for a second—to the gloved hand at his side. The right one.

That other arm—his left—was usually hidden, but sometimes you’d catch it glinting beneath his sleeve. Sleek metal, darker than silver, and forged with faint grooves along the knuckles. You’d never asked about it. Even though you were curious as hell.

Even now, it caught the light—a quiet shimmer beneath the worn fabric.

You took a slow breath. “Do you want to try?”

He blinked. “Try what?”

You lifted your hand, palm up. Open. Gentle.

“I mean… my hand’s not exactly groundbreaking,” you said with a light smile, trying to ease the sudden weight of the moment, “but if you want to… I dunno. Start small. No pressure.”

He stared at your hand.

For a second, you weren’t sure he’d move.

But then—without a word—he reached up and tugged the glove from his right hand. His flesh hand. The one that looked weathered but strong, broad-knuckled with veins that caught just beneath the skin. His fingers flexed once in the air, almost uncertainly, like they were trying to remember how to approach something.

He didn’t grab you. Didn’t squeeze.

Instead, he touched the center of your palm first. Just with the tips of two fingers. A featherlight stroke.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He traced slowly. His forefinger curling against your skin, drawing a slow, shaky line toward the base of your thumb. His touch wasn’t smooth—it trembled, faintly. Like he was afraid he’d do it wrong. As if even this small contact required permission.

Then, after a pause, his entire hand lowered into yours—deliberate, careful. He fit his fingers into the spaces between yours, but not all the way. Just hovered there. Testing.

You let your fingers curl softly around his. Closed the gap.

His breath caught.

For a long, quiet moment, you stood like that. His hand warming against yours, every inch of skin-to-skin charged with something unspoken. And when he finally wrapped his hand fully around yours—gently, so gently—it felt like a tether. Like he was anchoring himself to something he couldn’t name.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. You just let him hold you, because it felt like he needed it.

And when he looked down at your joined hands, eyes blinking slow, the smallest crease formed between his brows—confused, maybe. Or overwhelmed. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with softness that didn’t come with strings.

You squeezed lightly. Just once.

He didn’t let go.

And something about that… moved in you.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly—only that it lit something behind your ribs. Like an invisible string tugged its way from your palm to somewhere along your spine, curling low and quiet and warm. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t wrong. But it made you feel… squirmy. Restless. Like there was something else happening beneath your skin that hadn’t been there a second ago.

You stayed still anyway. Let the moment stretch.

But he must have felt it—something shifting, or maybe just the timing of it all—because after a few more seconds, he slowly unhooked his fingers from yours and pulled his hand back. Carefully. Like he didn’t want to break something.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But from that day on, the “touch training” became a regular part of your meetings.

It started innocently enough. A brush of shoulders while walking. The occasional graze of his knuckles when he passed you something. You let him explore the idea of safe contact—real, present, unprogrammed. And in turn, he let you see how deeply lonely he must have been to crave it in silence all this time.

Today, you told him you were ready for the next step. “We’ve done hands,” you said with a teasing smile, standing beneath the low branches of a pine tree that shaded your usual path. “Now let’s try hugs.”

He didn’t move at first.

Then—slowly—he nodded.

You took a breath. Arms out. Waiting.

He stepped forward, movements uncertain but controlled. His arms wrapped around you not like someone who had done it a thousand times, but like someone trying to replicate something from memory. Not tightly at first. Just enough to encircle you.

You stood there, letting the contact settle in. His chest was warm. Firm beneath your cheek. His breath slow against your hair. But then…

Something inside you curled.

It was that feeling again—that tight, electric buzz in your stomach. That low twist of pressure that felt… weird. Not in a bad way. Just… complicated. Your insides knotted, not from fear or nerves, but something else. Something unnamed.

He smelled like cedar soap and wood smoke. His heart beat slow. Heavy. Constant.

And then his arms shifted—pulling you in closer. Just slightly. But closer.

The hug deepened. Changed.

You weren’t sure how, but the second his body pressed more fully against yours, you felt it again: that same shiver in your chest, sliding low through your belly like something melting. Your breath caught. You didn’t understand it, not really. You didn’t even have a name for the feeling.

You didn’t know that was what want felt like.

You swallowed hard and buried it. Ignored it. Because he didn’t seem to notice anything strange.

At least, you didn’t think he did.

—

The last thing you remembered was the sound of his breath near your ear. His hand between your shoulder blades, steady and warm.

The next time you opened your eyes—he was gone.

You were no longer in his arms.

You were strapped to a chair.

Metal. Ice-cold. The kind that bit through your clothes and dug into your spine. Thick cuffs pressed around your wrists, holding you in place. Your ankles were bound, too—tight and immovable. The room around you was dark, echoing. Empty, except for the faint buzz of electricity overhead.

A single bulb swung slowly above you, the only source of light. It flickered once. Twice.

Your vision was still blurry. Mind fogged, sluggish. But your body knew something was wrong before your brain could catch up. Your head pulsed with pressure. And your arm—your right arm—ached.

You blinked downward, slow and heavy, catching the faint pinprick of dried blood at your inner elbow. A needle mark.

You’d been injected.

The panic didn’t hit all at once—it crept in slowly, like ice cracking beneath your skin. Your breath came shallow. You tried to move, to speak, to scream, but nothing useful came out. Just a hoarse breath. Dry. Weak.

And then you heard it.

Voices. Low and sharp. Coming from beyond the door.

Russian.

At least three men, maybe four, talking quickly—too quickly for your foggy brain to translate. The hinges of a metal door groaned. Then footsteps. Heavy boots. Closer. Echoing.

You tried to brace yourself.

But you couldn’t even remember how you got here.

All you knew was that a moment ago, you were in his arms.

And now… you were alone.

—

The door creaked open with a loud metallic groan, and four men stepped into the cell.

All in black. Boots heavy. Faces unreadable under buzzcuts and shadows. One of them—broad, smug, older—stepped forward like he owned the ground he walked on. The others fanned out like guards, or wolves waiting to be told when to bite.

He tilted his head. Eyes gleamed as he looked you over like you were inventory.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Feeling better?”

You barely lifted your head. Everything ached—your skull, your arm, your gut. You tried to speak, but the words clung to your tongue like glue.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Got what we needed, thanks to you.”

You blinked at him, dazed and confused.

He grinned like a jackal. “Soft little village girl walks into his life, and boom—he forgets what he is.”

He crouched a little, closer to your face now. His breath reeked of blood and smoke.

“Our asset went soft,” he spat. “You made him soft.”

The word dripped with disgust.

You stared at him, blinking through the fog in your brain.

“Where is he?” you rasped. “What did you—where’s the man I was with?”

His grin widened. “Man?”

He laughed. Sharp and cruel. One of the others snorted behind him.

“That wasn’t a man, darling. That was a weapon. And now he’s exactly where he belongs.”

He rose to full height again. “Different cell. Alone. Like he should be. We’re reprogramming his brain.”

The blood in your veins turned to ice.

Hydra.

You didn’t even have to ask.

You knew exactly what they were—what that name meant, what it carried.

The older man smirked, noticing your change in expression. “Ah. Now it clicks.”

You felt sick. Your stomach turned. But still—you shook your head.

“No,” you said. “You’re wrong. He’s not like that anymore. He’s—”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the man interrupted, lips curling with glee. “Winter Soldier. Ring any bells?”

You went still.

James.

The name slammed into your chest like a blunt weapon.

“And you,” he sneered, “got in the way. Made him weak. Turned him into a fucking puppy.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

“We should’ve killed you,” he added, almost casually. “Collateral damage. But lucky you—we had something better.”

He gestured to your arm. “You’ve been injected.”

You glanced down, breath catching at the sting on your inner elbow. The tiny welt. The bruising.

“A gift,” he said, all false cheer. “We call it a mirror. Brings out the dark stuff. Whatever’s locked deep inside. Instinct. Want. Urge.”

He leaned down one last time, lips close to your ear.

“You’ll be placed in his cell when it’s time. Once he’s been… tuned.”

He straightened, already walking away.

“Let’s see what happens when we give the monster exactly what he wants.”

The men laughed—cold, barking sounds that echoed as they stepped out.

The door slammed shut behind them with a brutal, final thud.

—

[BUCKY POV]

The sting in his neck came first.

Then the cold.

Then nothing.

Just flashes.

Boots dragging him across concrete. Metal floors. Voices scraping through static—low, clipped, familiar.

Russian.

Fucking Hydra.

He came to strapped into a chair.

No. The chair.

The one they used when they wanted to rip you out of yourself and leave the bones behind.

Thick leather cuffs bit into his wrists. Ankles locked. Wires pressed cold and sharp against his chest. A band wrapped tight around his head, wired into the humming machine behind him. He didn’t have to turn to see it.

He knew it. Every screw. Every sound.

He could feel the current buzzing in the wires before it even touched him.

His jaw tensed. Shoulders squared.

Don’t show it. Don’t move. Don’t give them anything.

Then the door creaked open.

Three of them stepped in—uniformed, smug, smiling like they were about to unwrap a weapon, not a man.

“Back where you belong,” one sneered. “Didn’t take much, huh?”

The second laughed. “Too easy. Poor thing really thought he was human.”

The third passed by, tapping a syringe. “Relax. We’re not wasting the asset. Just giving him a little… reminder.”

Bucky stayed silent.

They didn’t expect a response. Not yet.

“We already dosed the girl,” one of them said, voice curling with amusement. “Desire-enhancer. She’ll be begging for him before the hour’s out.”

“And yours?” the last one smirked, fingers hovering over a switch. “We upgraded it. Stronger. With a twist.”

He flipped it.

The current hit like fire.

Bucky’s spine arched against the restraints. A choked sound tore from his throat as electricity ripped through him—nerve to nerve, bone to bone. Sparks blurred his vision. Static roared in his skull.

His name vanished.

His mind split.

But somewhere, buried in the white-hot haze—you.

Your laugh. Your voice. The softness of your hand in his. The way your eyes never flinched when they met his.

Hold onto that. Don’t lose her.

He tried. God, he tried.

But the machine clawed deeper. Pulling him apart from the inside. Ripping softness from his bones, kindness from his memory. Replacing it with silence. Precision. Directives etched where memory used to be.

When it finally stopped, his body sagged forward, gasping. Muscles trembling. Jaw clenched so tight he tasted blood.

But something was off.

He wasn’t gone.

Not all the way.

Not the Soldier. Not Bucky.

Something in between. Something worse.

The serum already pulsed in his blood, coiling around every raw edge. Every flicker of need. It sank claws into the parts of him that still felt.

And what he felt now—

Was you.

But not with love.

With hunger.

Every memory of your skin, your voice, your scent—it all shifted. No longer comfort.

Triggers.

He needed to hear your breath catch. Feel your body tense under his. Mark you until you knew he was there, even after he was gone.

To take.

To claim.

To never stop.

[END OF POV]

—

The door to your cell groaned open, flooding your ears with the shriek of rusted hinges.

You blinked against the sudden light, but it barely helped. Everything around you was still dark—your vision tunneled, your limbs heavy, your skin burning.

You barely registered the two guards entering.

Thick fingers undid the straps around your wrists and ankles. Cold hands hauled you up before you could find your own footing.

Your legs buckled once.

“Move,” one of them growled, dragging you out into the hall.

You stumbled forward, caught between their grips. The corridor was dim and narrow, stone underfoot, cold air brushing your fevered skin. You could hardly see—just outlines and flickers of shadows along the walls.

But none of it mattered.

Because you felt him.

Somewhere ahead. Close.

Your whole body throbbed with it. Like your nerves were no longer your own. All you could think—feel—was the need for him. Not the gentle kind. Not the kind with whispered touches and stolen glances.

You wanted him inside you.

You wanted him to tear you apart and put you back together with his hands, his mouth, his body.

It was a hunger that crawled under your skin and made you feel like you’d melt if you didn’t touch him soon.

The guards reached a door at the end of the hallway—wider, steel-reinforced. One of them punched in a code. The other turned the handle.

You shivered, your skin hypersensitive under the thin fabric of the knee-length dress you still wore—soft and light, now clinging slightly with sweat. It felt out of place here. Too exposed. Too easy to pull up. A whisper of softness in a place built to break you.

And then they shoved you in.

You stumbled again, caught your balance on instinct, heart hammering.

The room was bright.

Too bright. Walls blinding white. Sanitized. Cold and clean in a way that made your skin crawl.

There was a bed, bolted to the floor. A single chair in the corner. No windows. No shadows.

Cameras. You knew there were cameras. Probably hidden in the corners, blinking silently as they watched you unravel.

Your eyes adjusted—and then you saw him.

Bucky.

Only—he wasn’t quite Bucky anymore.

He stood near the back of the room, facing the opposite wall. Shoulders tense, spine straight, chest heaving beneath the thin black shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle. His metal arm gleamed under the overhead lights—exposed now, the red star dark against the metal.

He turned toward you.

And your breath caught in your throat.

His eyes.

Not soft. Not tired. Not like before.

They were darker. Sharper. Focused.

Predatory.

He looked at you like he already knew what you were feeling—because he felt it, too. Because he wanted it. Wanted you.

But not gently.

Not sweetly.

There was no careful Bucky here.

This was the Winter Soldier.

And he wanted to ruin you.

—

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse thundering in your ears as you took one slow, trembling step forward.

“James…”

The name slipped out—quiet. Barely above a whisper.

His head tilted slightly at the sound of it. His eyes flicked toward you, nostrils flaring like a wild animal scenting prey. His shoulders rose with a slow inhale.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

You swallowed hard, body tense, skin prickling as the serum’s grip twisted deeper in your belly. The heat was unbearable. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to stop the ache, but it only pulsed harder. Your cunt throbbed, needy and swollen, aching for him—only him.

Still, you tried to stay in control.

“I want you,” you rasped, your voice hoarse with restraint. “God, I want you so bad it hurts—inside, everywhere—but I know it’s the serum. I know Hydra did this.”

He didn’t move. His jaw flexed.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” you continued, your voice cracking. “I never wanted this to happen like this. Not with you like this. I wanted—I wanted you—but not like this.”

He was still silent.

But something flickered in his eyes.

A shadow of the man you’d held before. The man who’d brushed his fingertips across your palm like it meant something. Who smiled when you talked about your cat. Who let you into his world one inch at a time.

That man was still there.

Barely.

And he was fighting.

But the desire was eating you alive.

“I’m trying to fight it,” you whispered, stepping back until your shoulders hit the wall. Your hands flattened behind you, bracing against cold white. “But I—fuck—I can’t. I’m so wet it hurts. I’ve been clenching around nothing thinking about you, and I hate it. I hate how badly I want you right now. I want you inside me. Filling me. Stretching me. Ruining me.”

His eyes darkened.

A crack formed in his stillness.

Then he growled something low under his breath—in Russian.

“Хватит говорить.”

Stop talking.

The words barely left his lips before he moved.

He lunged.

In less than a breath, his body crashed into yours, pinning you against the wall. The impact stole the air from your lungs. You gasped, but he was already on you—his metal hand seizing your wrist and slamming it above your head, hard and cold and unrelenting.

The other hand gripped your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as his mouth crushed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a claim.

Teeth. Heat. Pressure. Desperation.

You tried to push him away—tried to gather what little control you had left—but it was useless. Your hands, your mouth, your body all betrayed you. Your hips rolled up against him like they had a mind of their own, your thighs shaking.

You moaned into his mouth, unable to stop yourself.

There was no softness in the way he kissed you.

It was all teeth and heat and panting breaths, mouths crashing over and over, no rhythm—just hunger. Every movement from him was brutal, precise, urgent. Like he was trying to rip the need out of himself and shove it into you.

Your body burned.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, soaking through your underwear.

The sound of your whimper made his grip tighten.

His metal arm held you like steel, unrelenting, fingertips bruising where they curled around your skin. You were pinned in place, completely at his mercy—and yet, all you could think about was how badly you wanted more.

Your free hand curled in his shirt, yanking him closer. Your legs lifted, wrapping around his hips as he held you pinned.

Your back hit the wall again with a thud as he ground against you—rough, hard, hot. His cock was already stiff beneath his pants, pressing against the curve of your cunt, and it made you cry out—the contact was too much, not enough, everything and nothing at once.

His mouth tore away from yours, lips red and wet, breath ragged.

You barely heard the static click of the camera in the corner behind you.

Hydra was watching.

And they were delighted.

The serum wasn’t meant to end in one round.

It was designed to feed itself.

To keep you both burning.

To keep you needing until you were hollowed out.

Even if it killed you.

And right now, with Bucky’s mouth on your throat, his hand tearing at your clothes, and your body already grinding down against him—

You weren’t sure you’d live through it.

But God—you wanted to.

—

His mouth dragged lower, tongue hot against your collarbone, and then suddenly—

RIP.

Your dress split down the middle with one brutal yank—his metal arm tearing through the fabric like paper. The sound cracked through the room, echoing against the white walls.

You gasped, trembling, suddenly half-naked—left only in your soaked underwear and a thin, non-padded bra. The cold air met your feverish skin, and your nipples peaked instantly, painfully hard under the sudden exposure.

He saw them.

And groaned.

A low, guttural sound. Not desperate. Not hungry in the way a man would be. But programmed. Like a predator recognizing its target.

His mouth closed over your left nipple through the thin fabric—biting, sucking, dragging his teeth over it like he wanted to bruise you there. The stimulation made your knees buckle, but he didn’t let you fall.

His arm still held your wrist tight above your head, unrelenting, while his free hand gripped your waist to keep you still.

He was in control. Utterly. Entirely.

You squirmed, hips rolling forward, grinding against the solid length of his cock through his pants, your wet panties dragging along the ridge of it with every movement.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “James.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t pant.

Didn’t tremble.

Not like you.

He was still—his eyes sharp, his mouth ruthless, his body composed like he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Because he wasn’t.

He was in Winter Soldier mode now.

And Winter Soldiers didn’t pant.

With a quick shift, his flesh hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra with a practiced jerk. The clasp snapped open, and he yanked it down your arms, tossing it to the floor without ever loosening his grip.

Then his hands—both of them—were on your breasts.

He squeezed hard.

Too hard.

You cried out at the pressure, but your cunt clenched in response. Slick coated the inside of your thighs, your underwear already soaked through, sticking to you like a second skin.

“James—James, please,” you gasped. “I need—I need you inside me, I need it, I can’t—”

Still no response.

Just that single flash of his eyes before his metal hand dropped down, hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t pull it down.

He tore it off.

The fabric snapped apart in his grip, and your gasp turned into a full moan.

Your thighs parted without thinking. Your hips bucked.

You were so fucking wet.

The air hit your pussy and made it worse—the heat, the slick, the hollow ache deep inside. You were clenching around nothing, sobbing through your teeth, begging like it was the only language left in your body.

“Please, please, please—James—fuck me—”

You barely had time to breathe.

You felt the heat of him between your legs—thick, hot, pulsing. Then came the sound of a zipper—fabric shifting just enough for him to free himself.

He didn’t undress. Just shoved his pants low enough to free his cock.

Thick. Veined. Angry-red and leaking.

You gasped. “Wait—”

But he wasn’t built to wait.

His metal hand gripped your hip, cold and unrelenting. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, hoisting your leg up and pinning it to his side.

Just one leg.

Just enough to open you.

And then—he drove forward.

No warning. No teasing. No care.

Just a brutal thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs and slammed your back into the wall.

You screamed.

The stretch lit your nerves on fire, forced your body to open around him—thick and hard and so deep it hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the ache that came before it.

Now that he was inside you, your body clenched like it never wanted him to leave.

He pulled back, barely.

Then thrust in again.

Harder.

Faster.

He fucked you like he was trying to purge something from his bloodstream—his hips snapping forward with unrelenting force, again and again, every motion slamming you into the cold wall behind.

You weren’t just holding on—you were unraveling.

Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, fingers digging in wherever they could find purchase. One leg hooked up high on his waist, the other shaking, barely able to hold you upright, but he didn’t falter.

The wet slap of skin echoed in the sterile white cell. Your moans cracked open and feral, your body shaking with every punishing stroke—and he?

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t groan. Didn’t pant.

He just fucked.

Mechanical. Precise. Feral.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t built to feel.

He was built to finish.

And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

—

He didn’t stop.

Not even when your spine slammed against the wall again, the shock rattling through your ribs.

Not when your lifted leg started to tremble, slipping a little against his side.

Not when your moans broke into gasps—ragged, breathless, barely hanging on.

He only growled—low and wordless—and wrapped his arms around you, metal and flesh, lifting you clean off the ground with a brutal grip.

You cried out as your back arched involuntarily, still so full of him.

He carried you—still inside you—across the room in a few fast, purposeful strides. His cock didn’t slip once. The stretch remained deep, unforgiving, dragging across every nerve inside you like it belonged there.

Then you hit the mattress.

Hard.

The springs squealed beneath your weight as he slammed into you again. No rhythm now—just sheer force. He was fucking like a machine with one directive: use. release. repeat.

Your eyes rolled back. You couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t even want to.

You were burning alive from the inside out and still you needed more.

But then—he stopped.

Pulled out.

You gasped from the loss, legs trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Flip,” he barked. The only word he’d said since entering you.

Your dazed mind barely registered the command, but your body obeyed—rolling over, knees digging into the mattress, arms braced, still shaking from the first onslaught.

You didn’t even get the chance to settle before he grabbed your hips—his metal hand gripping tight enough to bruise—and slammed into you again.

No warning. No patience.

You screamed into the mattress, forehead dropping forward, hands clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto.

He pounded into you from behind with no rhythm, just relentless depth—every thrust jarring your body forward, dragging a fresh moan from your throat.

It hurt.

It burned.

But God, you were so close.

So close you were choking on it, dizzy with it. Your body betrayed you completely, clenching, spiraling, seconds away—

But he didn’t let you come like that.

Not from behind.

Because the Winter Soldier wasn’t done with you yet.

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you over like a ragdoll—no tenderness, just force—and shoved himself back in with a violent thrust that made your hips lift off the bed.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as he slammed into you, now facing him.

His face was blank. Eyes wild. Breath controlled.

You, on the other hand—were falling apart.

He fucked you violently, brutally, each thrust harder than the last, hips crashing into yours like you were built to take it.

And you did.

You came hard.

So hard your body spasmed, your nails digging into his shoulders, your voice breaking apart on his name—“James—oh fuck—James—”—as you shattered beneath him.

You shook.

Convulsed.

Almost blacked out.

But he didn’t stop.

You tried to breathe, to beg for a pause, but your lungs wouldn’t cooperate and neither would he.

His thrusts grew even rougher—inhuman—and then with a sharp, guttural exhale, he came too.

You felt it.

Hot and thick, pumping inside you in waves.

But he didn’t stop moving.

He kept going.

His cock still hard, still twitching inside you, still thrusting, like his brain didn’t register release as a signal to stop.

You gasped, overwhelmed. Your hands scrambled for his chest—“wait, wait—”

But he didn’t hear you.

Didn’t want to hear you.

Your body convulsed again, overstimulated, throat hoarse from moaning and screaming and gasping for air like you were drowning beneath him.

It almost felt like you could die from it.

And only then—finally—he pulled out.

Leaving you empty, ruined, soaking in your own slick and his cum, your legs still spread, your chest heaving like you’d run for miles and your heart might never slow down again.

—

He wasn’t done.

Even after spilling inside you—after wringing you dry and watching you break—he still wasn’t done.

The Winter Soldier moved with a single, controlled motion, shifting downward along the bed, his metal hand still gripping your thigh, prying it open wider. You tried to close your legs, weak and trembling, but it was useless. He forced them apart like it was protocol. Like this was routine.

He dove between your legs without a word.

Not hungry.

Not greedy.

But driven.

Programmed.

His tongue dragged along your folds—slow, deliberate. Gathering everything. Your slick. His cum. All of it. He wanted it. Wanted to taste it. To keep stimulating you until you broke again. Until your body couldn’t take it anymore.

He licked deeper.

Sucked on your swollen clit until your legs kicked out on reflex, your throat catching on a sound you couldn’t even shape into a word.

Your hips bucked weakly. You tried to push at his shoulders, but he didn’t move.

He was a machine.

And you were his task.

He kept going—precise licks, tight suction, his tongue fucking into you like he had been ordered to memorize your body and extract your climax as efficiently as possible.

You were already so sensitive. So raw. You couldn’t even process the pleasure anymore—it felt like pain. Like lightning.

You sobbed out his name again. “James—please—”

Still nothing.

No reaction.

And then—

You came again.

Your body convulsed violently, back arching off the mattress, vision tunneling. Your voice cracked open around the moan, and this time, it wasn’t lust.

It was a cry for help.

“B-Bucky—!”

His name tore from your throat like a sob—like a plea from somewhere deeper than instinct.

And it stopped him cold.

His mouth froze. His grip loosened. The relentless pace, the way his tongue had been driving you toward the edge—all of it stopped in an instant.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your chest was heaving, every sob catching sharp under your ribs. One arm had gone slack beside you on the sheets. Your thighs trembled where they draped over his shoulders—still open, still shaking. Your back arched off the bed in aftershock, your cheek damp with tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His head tilted slightly, like something wasn’t computing—like your voice had hit a frequency he couldn’t filter out. His eyes, still dark and storming, moved over you slowly. The marks on your hips. The red prints around your wrists. Your swollen lips. The way your body shook in his arms.

His gaze landed on your face last.

The tears.

The way you whispered his name again, softer this time.

“Bucky…”

A breath caught in his throat—different from the harsh, mechanical rhythm he’d been running on. This one was shallow. Fragile. Human.

And then—

Something cracked.

You saw it.

Like a wire snapped behind his eyes. His brows drew in sharply, lips parting, shoulders falling—not with discipline but with shock. The kind of shock that came with recognition.

The Soldier had no use for guilt.

But Bucky Barnes did.

He stepped back.

Stumbled.

Like his legs suddenly remembered how to give out.

“No—” he rasped, voice frayed and hoarse and unmistakably his. “No, no, shit—fuck—I didn’t—”

He looked down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. One metal, one trembling. Covered in sweat, in your slick, in proof of everything he’d just done.

His breath hitched. “I’m sorry,” he whispered—raw and cracked open.

And when he reached for you this time—

It wasn’t to hold you down.

It was to hold you up.

—

He eased you up—gentle now. Hands soft under your arms, cradling your head as he slowly pulled you into a seated position. You gasped for air, your body shaking like a leaf, lungs still catching up to the storm he’d left in you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice shredded. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I lost control. I didn’t know how to stop.”

Your head dropped into his chest. You were still trembling. Still clenching around nothing. Still throbbing for him.

But now… it was different.

Now it was safe.

Now it was him.

You felt his heartbeat under your cheek—fast, uneven, not cold or programmed, but human. Real.

“Bucky,” you rasped, barely a breath.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his fingers trembling as they tucked your hair behind your ear. “I’ve got you. I’m so fucking sorry—I’d never hurt you. I swear I’d never—” His voice broke. His mouth pressed into your temple, like he was trying to will the shame out of his body. “I’d rather die than touch you like that by choice.”

You exhaled shakily. Your palms pressed to his chest—warm, solid, familiar.

You nodded.

You believed him.

Because you were just… you.

Just a civilian.

And even with that serum still curling in your veins, you were never built to keep up with the machine he’d been forced to become. Not with the brutal rhythm. Not with the stamina. Not with the feral need he had been hijacked by.

You were still aching—still wrecked, still wanting—but now, what you needed more than anything…

Was a breath.

A pause.

A moment to live.

And for the first time in hours…

You had one.

—

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed—his dark shirt clinging to him, damp with sweat. His breath had evened out, but his shoulders stayed tense, like something inside him still hadn’t fully unclenched. He hadn’t stopped watching you—not since you said his name. Not since the Winter Soldier slipped back into the dark, and something human took its place.

He reached out, slow and unsure, brushing a knuckle along your jaw.

“Do you… need to stop?” he asked, voice low. Careful. Not cold. Not commanding.

Just a man trying to make sense of what was left.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your body was still shaking, legs drawn in now, curled close to your chest. You’d pulled the sheet around your hips at some point, but the sweat, the slick, the after of everything still clung to your skin.

And the ache between your legs hadn’t faded.

If anything—it pulsed deeper. Slower. But steady.

“Hydra’s watching,” he said, quieter now. “They’ll see I broke protocol. They’ll know I’m not… him.”

He swallowed hard. Shame flickered behind his eyes like a faultline.

“I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I shouldn’t have touched you like that—not with them watching. Not like I was still—” He cut himself off.

He reached for the shredded fabric of your dress, trying to drape it over you again.

“I’ll get us out,” he muttered, jaw tight. “I’ll rip through every one of them if I have to. I’ll make them pay for using you. For using me.”

But before he could stand, your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist.

Not to stop him.

Just… to hold him there.

“No,” you whispered, voice raw and dry. “I still need you.”

His brow furrowed, uncertain.

Your hand slid down—hesitant at first—then wrapped around him directly, where his cock rested heavy between his thighs.

He was half-hard. Already twitching back to life.

You stroked once.

Then again.

“I’m still aching,” you murmured. “Still burning from that serum. It hurts, Bucky.”

He flinched at the sound of his name.

“I know it’s wrong,” you continued, your palm moving slow and steady. “But it’s still inside me. It hasn’t worn off. You can help. You can stop the burn.”

His hand came down to catch yours—trying to still it, but not really pulling away. Just… pausing.

“Not like before,” you added, your voice quieter. More certain. “I don’t want the Winter Soldier.”

You shifted your knees apart, just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

“I want you.”

His jaw locked.

He was still for a long second—then his hand eased around yours, guiding the stroke. His shoulders dropped, tension melting like ice under sunlight.

You were still looking up at him when he bent forward and pressed his lips to your forehead.

It was brief.

But it was him.

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there beside you—silent, tense. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he wouldn’t touch you unless you asked.

You reached out first.

Fingers curling gently around his wrist. Not to drag him close.

Just to let him know you hadn’t pulled away.

That you still wanted this.

Bucky looked at you—longer this time. Eyes searching. Then he gave a small nod, like he understood. Like he’d follow your pace, whatever it was.

He leaned in slowly, like every inch forward was a question.

Then his mouth met yours.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just heat. Just lips. Just a man trying to ground himself in something real.

The kiss was soft, tentative. Testing the shape of trust between you. His tongue brushed yours carefully, tasting—not claiming. His hand slid to your side, fingertips brushing sweat-damp skin. He paused at your hip, his touch feather-light, almost unsure.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained. “I need to know.”

You nodded, breath shaky.

“I will.”

He drew back just enough to look down at you—then shifted, lowering one hand from your side. His flesh palm found your breast, cupping it gently. You gasped as his thumb circled your nipple—slow, delicate, like he was memorizing the way your breath hitched for him.

Then he moved, steady and deliberate—propping himself up slightly on his metal arm while his other hand slipped between your bodies.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock—still slick, still heavy—and stroked it once, twice. Just enough to guide himself to your entrance.

You parted your legs.

Not in surrender.

In choice.

He hovered there, the head of his cock barely pressing into your folds. The heat between your bodies simmered. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and tight. “Do you still want this?”

You met his eyes.

“Yes.”

That was all he needed.

He pressed in—carefully, inch by inch. Your breath hitched at the stretch, your body still tender and sore, but it wasn’t pain that bloomed in your chest now.

It was fullness.

Connection.

He exhaled through his nose, brow furrowing as your body clenched around him.

You whimpered when he hit too deep, too fast.

He stopped instantly. Eyes wide.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just… slow.”

So he did.

He eased in fully, hips flush to yours, both of you stilling—your foreheads brushing, your breaths shaky. Letting the moment settle.

Letting it be real.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I didn’t want it to be like before.”

You shook your head, touching his shoulder.

“Just… stay with me.”

He rocked his hips—slow and deliberate. Nothing like before. Nothing like a weapon. Just heat and care. The rhythm built gently, each thrust a quiet apology, each movement asking instead of taking.

Your legs drew around his hips, locking him deeper.

The stretch no longer burned. It warmed. It ached in a way that felt right.

He adjusted his grip, bracing his legs before slowly sitting up—keeping you wrapped around him, keeping himself buried deep. You moved with him, your thighs tightening around his waist until you were straddling his lap, chest pressed to his. His hands slid up your back, steadying you as the new position settled in.

The new position made you gasp.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice barely holding steady.

You nodded, hips beginning to move on your own.

He let you take control.

You rode him slowly, finding a rhythm that made both your mouths fall open. Your hands flattened to his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as your body pulsed around him.

And when you came—it was soft, drawn out. A slow unraveling that started low in your spine and rippled outward, your breath catching, your voice shaking as you gasped his name.

“Bucky—Bucky—”

That was what broke him.

He came with a guttural sound, arms locking around your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning through clenched teeth as he emptied into you.

Then silence.

Just the sound of breath and heartbeat and the sharp edge of being alive.

Not owned.

Not broken.

Just alive.

—

Hydra didn’t miss it.

The climax. The soft moan of his name. The tenderness.

The serum was meant to create hunger that burned until it destroyed you.

Not… this.

Not love.

Not care.

Not healing.

Alarms didn’t blare, but you felt the tension in the air shift.

Somewhere behind those walls, someone flipped a switch. Surveillance feeds caught tenderness where violence was expected. And Hydra? They didn’t like malfunctions.

You barely had time to breathe before Bucky’s body tensed beneath you.

“They’re coming,” he said, voice low. Calm. Steady.

Different.

No longer cold. No longer detached.

Just… Bucky.

He adjusted his hold, lifting you gently off his lap. His hands moved with purpose now—grounded, clear. He peeled off his shirt and pulled it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves. It wasn’t oversized, but it covered what needed to be hidden. Then he grabbed the torn remains of your dress from the floor, wrapping it like a makeshift skirt around your waist.

“You okay to move?” he asked, gaze locked to yours.

You nodded, heart pounding.

He stood, turned to the metal door—and with a single kick, it crashed open with a screech.

You flinched at the sound. He didn’t.

Hydra guards rushed in, shouting orders in Russian. Too late.

Bucky was faster than them all. Brutal, efficient. He didn’t kill them—but he made sure none of them would walk straight for a while. Every strike was calculated. No wasted motion. All precision.

And then he grabbed your hand.

“Stay close to me,” he said, glancing back. “Don’t stop running.”

You nodded again, breath shallow, legs unsteady but moving.

Together, you sprinted through the narrow corridors of the Hydra base. Red lights pulsed on the walls. Somewhere behind you, someone shouted his name—the wrong one.

“Soldat!”

But Bucky didn’t turn.

He didn’t flinch.

He ran.

You ran after him.

The metal halls gave way to concrete. Concrete to dirt. Dirt to pine needles and open sky.

When you both finally burst into the night, the forest swallowed you whole. The air was cold. Clean. Real.

You stumbled, and Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground. Without a word, he swept you into his arms and ran deeper into the woods—his chest steady, breath even, grip unshakable.

And you?

You weren’t aching anymore.

You weren’t burning.

You were… full.

Filled with him. With air. With a strange new peace.

He wasn’t just a weapon.

Not anymore.

He was a man. A human being. One that had been taken apart and rebuilt—but still capable of love, tenderness, control.

He just needed someone to help him remember.

And maybe—just maybe—that someone was you.

1K notes · View notes

targaryenhues · 5 days ago

Text

Red Is The Color Of Want

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader & winter!soldier x widow!reader

word count | 4.8k words

summary | in a crumbling safehouse far from the fights you both escaped, you—a former black widow—unravel the man beneath the metal as the winter soldier comes undone in your arms. but when a page of trigger words drags bucky back into the shadows of who he used to be, the only thing more dangerous than his programming… is how much he needs you.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, rough sex, desperate sex, emotional hurt/comfort, dubious consent (due to Winter Soldier programming), ptsd and trauma responses, emotional angst, mutual longing, slow burn that explodes, comfort after breakdown

a/n | YALLL, this is not the a sequel to Сетка, this is a complete different widow!reader, Сетка Pt 2 is still on its way, anyway this is based on this request

taglist | ALSOOO I've created a tag list for this, so if you wanna be tagged whenever I release a new bucky fic, just fill your username to this taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Romania, Bucharest — 2016

The café was falling apart in the charming way only Eastern European buildings could get away with. A crooked sign hung above the door like it was waiting to fall. Inside, it smelled like cheap coffee and something burnt a few days ago.

You were sitting by the window, hunched over a chipped porcelain cup, one foot tucked under you. The table rocked slightly every time you leaned on it. You’d already emptied two packets of sugar into the bitter brew, and now you were on your fourth.

Across from you, he watched with that quiet intensity of his—chin in hand, blue eyes barely blinking, like every movement you made held the key to unlocking some part of him. He said nothing until the fifth sugar packet disappeared into your cup.

“Going for diabetes or just hoping to dissolve the pain?”

You didn't even look up as you stirred. “Why stop at diabetes? If I keep going, maybe I’ll reach enlightenment.”

His lip twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. The most you ever got from him on a good day.

“Doesn’t matter how much you sweeten it,” he said finally, nodding toward your cup. “Still tastes like shit.”

You leaned back, cradling the mug in both hands like it was precious. “Good. So it matches you.”

He blinked, and you almost regretted the jab—until you saw the way the corner of his mouth lifted, barely, like a secret between you.

“Dark and bitter,” he murmured. “Just like me.”

You took a sip. It was terrible. Burnt and sour with an aftertaste like regret. You looked him straight in the eyes.

“Speak for yourself. I’m fucking delightful.”

You were slouched back now, one leg kicked over the other, sipping your sugar-soaked coffee like it was actually palatable. Outside, the gray streets of Bucharest moved on—slow, indifferent, same as always.

Bucky’s eyes drifted down from your face to the red leather jacket slung over your shoulders. It was too bright, too clean for a place like this. Too loud for someone like you.

“That’s a lot of jacket for someone trying to stay low,” he muttered, eyeing it like it offended him.

You scoffed, as you smoothed your hand over the sleeve. “I love this jacket. You have no taste.”

He huffed a breath. “I’ve got taste. That just ain’t it.”

You gasped, setting your cup down with a clink. “Excuse me. This jacket is iconic.”

His brow lifted. “It’s loud. You look like a traffic light.”

“I look fabulous,” you corrected, smoothing a hand down the sleeve. “And this is the first thing I ever bought for myself, okay?”

He blinked at that. “That?”

“Да,” you said, chin up. “You don’t like it?” [Yes]

“I didn’t say that,” he mumbled, but the twitch in his lips gave him away.

You narrowed your eyes. “You did not not say it.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. “You still look ridiculous.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your mouth. “That is rich, coming from man who wears the same three Henleys on rotation.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “They’re comfortable.”

“And this is freedom,” you said simply. “The point is… I’ve never had control over my own life before. I want to do things now. Stupid things. Selfish things. Bright red jacket things. And I think you should want that too.”

That shut him up for a beat.

You didn’t push it. Just looked down at your drink, tracing the rim of the cup with your finger. When you glanced up again, his expression had softened—those sad eyes of his lit with something quieter. Warmer.

“I think your jacket’s cool,” he said, voice low.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

You grinned again, slower this time. “I get you matching one.”

His face immediately scrunched. “I’m good, thanks.”

You leaned back smugly. “I get you one anyway.”

He shook his head, but there was no bite to it. Just the faintest quirk of a smile he didn’t bother hiding this time.

────────────────────────

His Apartment

The apartment was barely a place. The walls were cracked in some places and water-stained in others. The furniture was sparse—just a torn couch, a table that wobbled if you leaned on it wrong, and a mattress on the floor in the next room. But it was safe. Or safe enough.

The stereo in the corner played something modern and vaguely electronic. It fuzzed in and out, like even it didn’t want to be here. You lay sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over your eyes, foot tapping out of rhythm to the beat.

Bucky sat nearby in a folding chair, arms resting on his knees, watching you like he didn’t quite understand how someone like you ended up in his space.

How you, with your loud voice, bright jacket, and endless sarcasm, had carved yourself into the quiet corners of his life.

He hadn’t gotten used to the music you liked—shrill, repetitive, too fast. He’d told you as much. “It’s noise,” he’d said.

“I am noise,” you’d replied with a grin. “Get used to it.”

And somehow, he had.

Around you, the silence didn’t ache the way it used to. You filled it, even when you weren’t speaking. It was your presence—commanding and unbothered, like you were meant to be anywhere you sat.

He didn’t know how it happened. One day he’d just found you, or maybe you'd found him. In an alley in Warsaw, bleeding from a gunshot wound, muttering in Russian as you crouched beside him and said, “I’m not saving you because I care, I’m saving you because you owe me now.”

You’d been by his side ever since.

He reached into the drawer of the flimsy side table, pulled out the small, black notebook, and held it out to you wordlessly.

You shifted, eyeing it with some suspicion before sitting up just enough to take it from him.

“What’s this?” you asked, flipping it open.

“Things I remember,” he said, voice rough. “Bits. Fragments. I write them down before I forget again.”

You flipped through it slowly, eyes scanning a list of names, dates, odd phrases.

“‘Red sock in a white wash’? This a code?”

“Laundry accident. Brooklyn, 1936.”

You snorted, and he swore you smiled just a little softer than usual.

“‘Train smell. Winter. Steve’s mittens.’ That one sounds like the setup to a bad poem.”

“Smelled like coal and metal. He used to take his gloves off to share with me.” His voice drifted a bit, like the memory was speaking through him more than he was choosing to share.

You leaned your head back against the couch again, notebook open on your stomach. “You are sentimental old man,” you muttered.

He looked at you like you were sunlight through a window—something warm he never quite thought he deserved.

“And you're loud,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re not talking. I can’t hear the silence when you’re around.”

You cracked one eye open and smirked. “Good. It’s an annoying silence. Brooding and sad. Very you.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes still on you.

You flipped to another page, still lounging back on his couch, one leg dangling off the side. The paper was creased and worn, filled with a list in neat Cyrillic script. Your eyes narrowed.

“What’s this?” you asked, tapping the page lightly with your finger.

Bucky glanced over absently from the table where he’d been cleaning a disassembled pistol. “What?”

You didn’t wait. The words slid easily off your tongue, your Russian fluent and unthinking.

“Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет—”

[Desire, Rusty, Seventeen, Dawn]

His head snapped up, the rag in his hand falling to the floor with a soft thud.

“Stop.”

You didn’t hear him—too caught up in your mockery, still thinking this was another relic from his past you could tease him about. Your voice took on a theatrical lilt as you continued.

“Печь, Девять, Добросердечный, Возвращение, Один—”

[Oven, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One]

“Stop.”

But you were already at the last word.

“Товарный вагон.” [Freight Car.]

The silence after was suffocating.

You looked up, still grinning—ready to make another snarky remark.

But he was staring at you.

Not in that usual, quietly fascinated way. Not the soft, storm-swept gaze that always felt like it saw more than you were willing to show.

No, this stare was hollow. Still. Too still.

The warmth was gone.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, posture rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on you like he was trying to calculate something. Or waiting for something.

Your pulse quickened.

You sat up fully, the notebook slipping from your hands and falling to the floor with a soft flutter.

“Bucky, what—” Your voice faltered.

You stood slowly, movements careful, like approaching a wild animal. His breathing was steady, mechanical. His hands were relaxed at his sides, but there was something wrong in the way they hung—too precise. Like they belonged to someone else.

You took a hesitant step toward him.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked quietly, tilting your head.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

His silence pressed in on you, heavier than the broken ceiling above, thicker than the smoke that sometimes drifted through the window from the street.

Then it hit you.

The page.

The words.

Your stomach dropped.

“Bucky…” You whispered his name like a lifeline, like saying it softer might bring him back.

Still nothing.

Just those empty, soldat's eyes staring through you.

You swallowed hard. “Come on. Say something.”

But he didn’t.

Your mouth became dry.

You took a step back, eyes locked on his. They didn’t follow your movement—not in the human way, not in his way. They tracked you like a target. The realization settled cold in your gut.

You licked your lips, heart hammering in your chest.

“Солдат…” you said softly, reluctantly. A test. A plea. [Soldat]

His posture shifted instantly, his chin lifting just slightly, shoulders drawn tight.

“Готов подчиняться,” he replied without hesitation, voice flat. Hollow. Obedient.

[Ready to comply.]

The breath left your lungs.

Shit.

No no no.

This couldn’t be happening.

You felt your stomach twist violently, and the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Блядь…” you muttered, horrified, under your breath. “Чёрт, трахни меня—” [Oh, Fuck me]

“Понял.” [Understood.]

Your eyes snapped up, wide, just as he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Before you could take another breath, his hand was at the back of your neck, the other on your waist, and then his mouth was on yours—rough, forceful, devouring. There was no hesitation, no question. Just action.

His lips crushed into yours like a command being executed.

And the worst part? Your body didn’t pull away.

It froze.

Caught in shock, in the wrongness, in the heat of it.

You barely registered the wall against your back before you felt his hands—strong, unrelenting—gripping your thighs. The torn leather of the couch creaked beneath you as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, pressing your body flush against his without pause, without question.

Your breath hitched.

“Bucky—no—” you gasped, palms against his chest. It was solid, unmoving. “Wait—this isn’t—”

But he wasn’t listening.

His lips moved from yours to your jaw, to your throat. Rough, possessive. He kissed like he was claiming you, like he’d waited too long and now he was making up for lost time. His mouth found the soft skin beneath your ear, sucked hard enough to bruise.

A broken sound slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

You hated that part of yourself—the one that’d thought about this. That had looked at him too long, too often, wondered what his hands would feel like wrapped around your hips. What his mouth would taste like.

But this wasn’t him.

Not really.

“Soldat,” you tried again, voice cracking, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. “Stop—”

But even as you spoke, his grip didn’t falter. His hands roamed with precision, with purpose. Like he knew exactly what you needed before you did.

And somewhere inside those glacier-blue eyes was something burning.

Not cold. Not mechanical.

Hunger.

Longing.

Bucky had wanted this. Wanted you. Maybe not like this. Maybe not so brutally, so suddenly. But it had been there—in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the weight of his silences, in how he never pulled away when your shoulders brushed.

And now all that want had been uncaged.

The Soldat was moving like he’d been given orders.

But the man you knew—he was still in there.

You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled for just a second at your waist.

His breath was harsh against your skin, uneven—like he hadn’t drawn a real one in years until now. Like you were the first breath of air after a long, dark silence.

His hands moved fast. Too fast.

Fabric tore.

The sound of your top splitting down the middle echoed like a gunshot in the small room, the cotton giving way in his fists like it was paper. You gasped, chest exposed to the cool air, to his burning stare.

“Wait—Bucky—” you started, but your voice was swallowed beneath the weight of his body pushing you back onto the couch.

He didn’t say a word. Just hovered over you, braced on his elbows, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin like it was the only thing that existed. His pupils were blown wide, mouth parted like he was starving.

And maybe he was.

Maybe the Soldat was hunger without outlet. Maybe Bucky had been starving too—silently, patiently.

And now?

Now that leash had snapped.

His mouth was on your collarbone, open and hot, teeth dragging roughly. He kissed you like he didn’t care if it left marks—like he wanted it to.

One hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement ground his body closer to yours, and you choked on a breath, caught off guard by how right it felt—how wrong it should’ve felt.

“Soldat—” you tried again, but this time your voice was barely a whisper, barely a protest.

His body was shaking, barely controlled. Like if he let go of even one thread, he’d tear through everything between you. Like he wasn’t following an order now—he was answering a need.

Your need.

His need.

He lowered himself further, breath hot against your breast as he dragged his mouth across your skin, reverent and brutal all at once.

And all you could do was clutch at his shoulders, your mind screaming that this wasn’t him—

But your body? Your body didn’t care.

And so you didn’t resist.

Not really.

Maybe it was the way his hands gripped your hips—tight, trembling like restraint was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Maybe it was the way his breath caught when your nails dug into his shirt, clutching him like a lifeline even as he pushed you deeper into the cushions.

Maybe it was that part of you that wanted to be taken.

By him. The man. The weapon. Both.

His weight settled over you, all muscle and heat and presence, like he needed to feel every inch of you against him to believe you were real. His hips rutted against yours, rough, desperate, like he was trying to bury himself in your very existence.

“Скажи мне нет,” he rasped against your throat, voice fraying at the edges. [Tell me no]

But you didn’t.

Your legs wrapped around him tighter, drawing him in, anchoring him.

He groaned—a real sound, a human sound—and it rattled through his chest as he ground down harder, clutching at your body like it was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

You let him. You let him take you.

Because you’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You’d heard the longing buried beneath his silence. This wasn’t just the programming.

It was him.

It was all of him.

And when his mouth crashed down onto yours again—rougher this time, teeth catching your lip—you moaned into it, fingers twisting in his shirt, holding on as he moved with a desperate rhythm, like he didn’t just want you—

Like he needed you to keep from disappearing.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hands were on his own shirt, fists bunching in the fabric. One violent pull, and it was gone—ripped at the seams, flung aside without a second thought.

And then it was skin.

Hot, scarred, solid.

His chest pressed against yours, the rough drag of his skin over yours sending a shiver down your spine. You arched into him instinctively, needing the contact just as much as he did.

He growled—low and broken, more animal than man—as his hand found your bra and shredded it in one sharp tug. The snap of elastic was lost in the haze as his mouth dropped immediately to your chest, lips latching around one nipple, tongue circling with fervent, uncoordinated hunger.

“Ебать—” you gasped, head tilting back as your nails raked down his back, leaving angry trails in their wake. [Fuck]

He groaned against your breast, the sound vibrating through you. His hands were everywhere—one gripping your waist like a lifeline, the other palming your other breast, thumb swiping over the peak with desperate precision.

There was no rhythm to him. No practiced seduction. Just need.

Raw and overwhelming and real.

Every kiss, every scrape of teeth, every press of his body screamed a single truth: he didn't want to just fuck you—he wanted to feel you. Carving the memory of you into his skin, into his blood, like he didn’t trust the world not to take you away too.

You clung to him harder.

Not because you were afraid he’d hurt you.

But because, in that moment, you were terrified he’d stop.

You didn’t notice the shift at first—just the sudden absence of weight, the cold hit of air against your skin.

Then your eyes opened.

He was between your legs.

Kneeling, eyes burning, chest heaving. His fingers worked fast at the waistband of your pants, yanking them down along with your underwear in one swift, impatient motion. Your legs twitched involuntarily as the fabric slid past your ankles, discarded without care.

He stared at you like he was starving.

“Боже, посмотри на тебя,” he muttered under his breath, reverent and ragged. [God, look at you.]

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open, dragging you to the edge of the couch like he owned the space between your legs.

You opened your mouth to say something—his name, a protest, a prayer—but the words died as his head dipped low.

“Моя...моя вдова,” he breathed, just before his mouth touched you. [My widow.]

And then—

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

You gasped, hand flying to the back of the couch for balance as his mouth found you, tongue moving like he’d been trained for this too—like even in this, he wanted to master it.

He groaned against you, low and helpless, like your taste ruined him.

“Так хорошо...” he mumbled, voice muffled, worshipful. [So good…]

Your fingers buried in his hair instinctively, hips jerking against his mouth.

There was no finesse. No teasing. Just hunger.

And he was drowning in you.

His tongue was relentless—broad strokes, then sharp flicks, lips sealing around you with a precision that shouldn’t have been possible from someone this desperate. But he was intent, focused like a man on a mission, like your body was the only thing grounding him in reality.

Your thighs clenched around his head, back arching off the couch, and still he didn’t stop—if anything, he held you tighter, dragging you impossibly closer to his mouth, like he needed more of you, like you were slipping away and he couldn’t bear it.

You gasped his name—not Soldat, not a command—just Bucky, soft and raw.

And maybe he heard it.

Or maybe he just needed more.

He pulled back just enough to murmur something, the words lost under his breath, hoarse and reverent—“Я хочу внутри, я хочу чувствовать тебя, мне нужно чувствовать тебя...” [I want inside, I want to feel you, I need to feel you…]

Then you felt the cool press of metal.

Your breath caught.

His metal hand, fingers thick and gleaming in the low light, slid slowly between your thighs. He spread you with one, then pushed a finger in—slow at first, but with no hesitation. The contrast was electric: heat and steel, your body slick and pulsing around him.

Then another finger.

You whimpered, nails scraping across his bare shoulders as he curled them just right, just so, his mouth returning to your clit like he couldn’t stand being away from it.

The stretch, the weight of him inside you, was almost too much—but your body sang with it. Welcomed it.

“Ты сделана для меня…” he whispered against you. [You were made for me.]

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on as he devoured you—mouth and metal working in brutal rhythm, dragging you higher, deeper, closer to a place you couldn’t come back from.

Your moan cracked in your throat—raw, strangled—as he thrust his fingers deeper, curling them just right, just perfect, while his mouth locked onto you with maddening precision. The heat in your belly coiled tight, then tighter, your body trembling beneath him, straining toward the edge with every wet, ruthless stroke of his tongue.

And then—

You shattered.

Everything broke.

You cried out, head thrown back against the cushions, legs shaking violently as you came hard against his mouth, his hand, his name barely a whisper in your lips—“Bucky—”

He didn’t stop.

Not until you were gasping, twitching, until your hands gripped his hair and pushed gently, weakly, needing space, needing air.

He pulled back—just barely—and looked up at you.

Hair a mess, face slick with your release, eyes blown wide with hunger.

“Я не могу больше ждать,” he whispered, voice ruined. [I can’t wait anymore.]

Then he was moving.

Fast.

Rising up, his fingers leaving you with a wet sound that made your hips buck involuntarily. He fumbled with his jeans—his hands weren’t shaking, but you were. He shoved them down, not even bothering to take them off completely—just far enough to free himself, and then he was on you again.

Hard thighs between yours.

Heavy, hot, bare against your soaked skin.

You felt the press of him—thick and already pulsing—at your entrance.

He hovered for a breathless second.

“Я должен быть в тебе,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. [I need to be inside you.]

And then he pushed in—deep, with a groan so guttural it punched through your chest and made you moan again, your nails clawing into his shoulders, into the scars and the skin that was all his, all real.

He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust.

And he didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, shaking with the effort to hold back, to not come from the sheer feel of you wrapped around him.

You breathed his name again, softer this time. And he looked down at you like he’d been lost for years and just now found his way home.

His hips snapped forward again, dragging a rough moan from your throat as he filled you to the hilt, then pulled back only to slam into you harder, deeper. Over and over—no rhythm, no finesse—just a brutal grind of body on body, like he needed to feel every inch, every pulse, every contraction of your body around him.

Your thighs locked around his waist instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back, holding him there, in you, as if you could stop the world from spinning with just that grip.

His mouth was at your shoulder, his breath ragged and hot as he snarled half-broken curses against your skin—words you didn’t need to understand to feel. They bled need. They bled ownership.

“Твоя... моя... так туго... так тепло...”

[Yours. Mine. So tight. So warm…]

He rutted into you like an animal, like something had come loose inside him and now there was no going back. The couch creaked beneath you, the frame groaning under the force of his thrusts. The slap of skin echoed off the walls—loud, wet, constant.

You clawed at his back, nails digging in deep, dragging over muscle and scar tissue. He hissed but didn’t stop—only fucked you harder, faster, sweat dripping from his brow, jaw clenched like he was trying not to fall apart right there inside you.

You were moaning—raw, helpless, your head thrown back as he pounded into you, each thrust sending fire up your spine. Your hands gripped him like he’d vanish if you let go.

And beneath all of it—his breath, your cries, the obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together—was that undeniable truth:

You didn’t want him to stop.

His thrusts grew more erratic—less controlled, more desperate.

He was fucking you like a man coming undone, like if he stopped, even for a breath, he’d fall apart completely. Every snap of his hips was rougher than the last, the slap of skin on skin filling the air, raw and unrelenting. Your body rocked beneath him, pinned under the full weight of him, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he drove deeper, harder.

“Чёрт, не могу—” he gasped into your neck. [Fuck, I can't—]

You could feel it—the way he was trembling now, not just from the force, but from everything else. From what he was feeling. From what he didn’t know how to process.

And still, he thrust.

Over and over, burying himself so deep it felt like you’d never be empty of him again. Like he needed to put something inside you just to prove he was still real, still alive, still human.

“Ты… ты заставляешь меня чувствовать,” he choked out, voice breaking.

[You… you make me feel.]

You held him tighter, nails raking across his back, hips rolling up to meet him every time, matching him, grounding him, even as you felt his rhythm falling apart.

His breath hitched—once, twice—then turned into a sob.

A real, broken sound torn from somewhere deep inside.

He pressed his forehead to yours, still thrusting, still moving, but now he was shaking. Eyes clenched shut, jaw tight with everything he couldn't say.

“I can’t—” he whispered, in English this time. “I can’t—you—”

But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Not until he’d buried himself in you one more time—so deep, so hard—and everything inside him shattered.

He came with a strangled, guttural cry, hips jerking violently, arms locking around you like if he let go you’d disappear.

And even as his body trembled and spilled into you, his face was buried in your shoulder, hot tears slipping silently onto your skin.

Because he was feeling. And it hurt.

But he was with you.

His breathing was still ragged. His body still trembling.

But slowly—slowly—the rhythm of the moment faded. The rush of adrenaline, of heat and friction and need, drained from his limbs like a dying storm.

And the silence that followed?

It was deafening.

He froze.

Still buried deep inside you, still wrapped in your warmth, your scent, your body—but everything about him changed in an instant.

His arms, once tight around you, loosened.

His breath caught. Not from exertion.

From realization.

“No,” he rasped. The word cracked, sharp and breathless, like he didn’t believe he’d said it aloud. “No, no—fuck—”

He started to pull back. Away from you. Out of you. Like his body had committed some crime his mind was only just registering.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—” His voice shattered as he tried to extract himself from your grip, shaking his head like it would rewind the clock. “I hurt you—I—I used you—I didn’t want—”

You grabbed his face before he could escape.

“Нет,” you whispered, firm. [No.]

He froze again, caught in your hands, his eyes wild and wet and full of something you’d never seen in him before.

Fear.

Disgust.

Shame.

“Look at me,” you said, voice low. “Посмотри на меня, Джеймс.” [Look at me, James]

He did. Barely.

“I let you in,” you whispered. “I wanted you.”

“But I—I wasn’t—me,” he stammered, throat thick. “I was him.”

“You were you, too,” you murmured. “And I knew it was you. Even if you didn’t.”

His face crumpled, the last of his defenses giving way as he collapsed against you, burying his head in your neck, his body still shaking—not from pleasure now, but from the weight of the world crashing down on him all at once.

Your fingers slid into his hair as he clung to you.

You murmured soft in his ear—like prayer, like song.

“Тише… всё хорошо… я с тобой… ты безопасный…”

[Easy… it’s alright… I’m with you… you’re safe.]

He didn’t answer.

Just held on tighter. And you let him.

Because you weren’t going anywhere.

2K notes · View notes

targaryenhues · 5 days ago

Text

Still Yours

pairing | thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.4k words

summary | bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soft!bucky, miscommunication, established relationship, mentions of mental health/trauma

a/n | I enjoyed writing this so much omg. an apology for my last angst fest fic, based on this request. just two emotionally constipated dumbasses in love.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The first thing you felt was the drag of his mouth along your collarbone—hot, wet, unhurried.

Then his body—solid, heavy, familiar—settled deeper between your thighs, pinning you to the sheets like he belonged there.

Like he knew he belonged there.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.

“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”

A breath.

“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”

Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.

Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.

But Bucky didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t talking to them.

He was talking to you.

“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”

He swallowed, but didn’t falter.

And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.

He took a breath.

Then finished, simply:

“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”

A pause.

Then the room erupted in applause.

But Bucky didn’t hear it.

He was still looking at you.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.

────────────────────────

The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.

Something had shifted.

He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”

But he didn’t care.

He barely registered any of it.

His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.

But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—

Then he felt it.

A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.

He turned, heart already beating faster.

You didn’t say anything.

Just gave him a look.

And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.

Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.

And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—

But he didn’t get a word out.

Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t cautious.

It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.

He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.

Didn’t step away.

You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your fingers lingered against his jaw.

The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.

Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.

You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”

Your lips parted, but he kept going.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“I would.”

Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”

He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”

You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.

“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.

And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”

You snorted. “James.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”

“What about when we get home?”

You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”

His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

Longer. Slower. Sweeter.

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