weenysworld

[weenysworld]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[weenysworld]

sobbing rn

Come Home To Me (Pt 2)

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | he came home in pieces, broken but breathing, and slowly—painfully—learned how to be whole again in the arms of the woman he loved and the child he never thought he’d meet. now, with another baby on the way, and a house built from promises once whispered in wartime, james buchanan barnes is finally learning what it means to be at peace.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v sex, smut and fluff, lactation kink, post-war bucky barnes, domestic!bucky, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, parenthood, healing, slow burn recovery, baby fic, pregnancy, period-typical sexism, protective!bucky barnes, monster-in-law, dad!bucky

a/n | in honour of father's day here's some dad!bucky, and based on this request. and oh my days, everyone wants a part 2 of everything guys, lmao. and I won't lie to you guys I totally forgot about Steve.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

He came home, but it wasn’t easy.

There was no parade. No smiling reunion with a neat, happy ending. No soft fade to black.

It was harder than that. Messier.

Bucky didn’t come back whole. He came back in pieces—some broken, some missing, and some so twisted by what had been done to him that he didn’t know how to name them anymore.

At first, he didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not more than an hour or two at a time, and even that was borrowed—fitful, heavy with sweat, jaw clenched so tight it clicked when he finally startled awake.

You kept the light on. You learned quickly not to touch him before he saw you. You moved slowly. You kept your voice low.

And sometimes, like tonight, even that wasn’t enough.

You startled awake just before it happened—some instinct in you catching the shift in the room. The tightness in his breath. The tension pulling at the air. You turned just in time to see his fingers curl into the sheets, his body twitching once, then twice—

Then the sound came.

A sharp, guttural gasp. Then a choked noise, somewhere between a cry and a growl. He jerked upright like he was being yanked by invisible hands, panting like he’d run a marathon, eyes wide and wild in the dark.

You didn’t rush.

You sat up slowly, careful not to touch him yet. “Bucky,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t here yet.

“Bucky, baby—it’s me.”

His chest heaved. One hand fisted the blanket. The other trembled against his thigh. You could see the outline of the scar running down his forearm, barely catching the low light from the window.

You reached out then, slowly, and touched the back of his shoulder—warm, damp with sweat.

“Hey,” you said again, more firmly now. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes still frantic. And then slowly, slowly, you saw the panic fade. It didn’t vanish. It never did. But it loosened its grip, just enough.

You scooted closer and slid your arms around his torso, your cheek pressing against his bare back. His skin was damp and chilled under your touch, muscles coiled tight as wire.

“You’re here,” you murmured again, letting your hand move in slow, steady circles across his chest. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. You’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

You felt the way he exhaled, like something had been knocked loose in his chest. His shoulders slumped. His hand—still trembling—came to rest over yours.

You kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’re in my arms, Bucky,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters now.”

He turned then, slowly, and buried his face in your neck.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him.

────────────────────────

The morning came slow, gray light spilling across the floorboards, pooling in soft patches along the bedroom rug. Bucky hadn’t gone back to sleep. He rarely did after the nightmares. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, blanket wrapped tight around his waist like armor.

You were still dozing, curled under the covers behind him, one hand resting lightly where he used to be.

He stared at the metal.

At it.

The glint of it in the light made his stomach twist.

The way it didn’t move unless he willed it to. The soft, nearly silent whir when he flexed the fingers. The weight of it, always present, always reminding him.

It didn’t feel like part of him. It felt like a warning label.

Disfigured. Crippled. Not whole.

He hadn’t said those words out loud, but he’d heard them. From Hydra. From the dark, aching corners of his own mind. And he believed them, most days. Even if you didn’t.

Especially because you didn’t.

And then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

He stiffened, breath catching.

Tiny feet padded across the floor with that unbalanced, wobbly rhythm unique to toddlers. A small gasp of effort as chubby fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Mama?”

Your eyes fluttered open.

Jamie peeked his head over the edge, messy-haired and pajama-clad, his smile all gums and mischief. When he saw Bucky sitting there, back to him, his whole face lit up.

“Pup!”

The name hit Bucky like a punch to the chest.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

Jamie grunted and tried to climb up himself—made it halfway before you reached over and pulled him gently into the bed, settling him beside you.

Bucky stayed frozen, shoulders tense, head bowed. His right hand curled into the blanket. The left stayed still. Cold. A weight.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice. He crawled clumsily over the mattress until he reached his father’s back and pressed a small hand—warm, sticky, unbothered—against Bucky’s spine.

“Pup…” he said again, softer this time.

You felt Bucky’s breath hitch.

He finally turned, just slightly. Enough to see Jamie’s wide eyes blinking up at him, so open, so trusting.

He lifted his metal arm an inch, then stopped.

He couldn’t do it.

“I don’t want him near this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “I don’t want him touching it.”

You sat up slowly, Jamie still leaning against your hip. “Bucky…”

“It’s not right,” he said, voice tight. “This—this thing on me—it’s not safe. It’s not normal. What if—what if I drop him? Or he gets scared of it? What if I—hurt him?”

“He’s not scared,” you said gently. “Look at him.”

Jamie leaned forward again, unbothered by the tension in the room, babbling softly as he reached for Bucky’s hand. The metal one.

He didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t afraid.

“Pup,” he said again, gripping one thick finger and holding it in his tiny fist.

Bucky stared down at him.

And then at his hand.

Jamie didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He giggled.

Bucky made a sound then. Barely audible.

You touched his back, light and steady.

“He loves you, James,” you said. “All of you.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet and uncertain.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he whispered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “You’re learning. And that's okay.”

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp near the rocker. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked window, casting shifting shadows across the floor. The scent of lavender and baby powder lingered in the air.

You sat in the rocking chair, Jamie cradled against your chest. He was already asleep—limp with baby weight, warm and soft, his cheek squished against your shoulder, little fist curled near your collarbone.

You hummed quietly, the same old lullaby you always sang, your voice barely above a whisper.

The creak of the floorboards behind you was soft, hesitant.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Bucky stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a sweater his mother had knit him during the war—worn thin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the steel curve of his arm where the fabric stretched too tight.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just watched.

The expression on his face was unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were full of something heavy. Something quiet. Something hopeful.

You shifted Jamie just slightly, brushing a kiss to his hair before looking up.

“He’s out,” you whispered. “Didn’t even make it through the first verse.”

Bucky smiled faintly, lips barely twitching.

Another pause.

Then—softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask—he said, “Would it be okay if I tried next time?”

You blinked.

Your heart clenched.

You nodded immediately, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He looked down, shoulders tense like he was waiting for shame to set in anyway. “I… I just don’t want to mess it up. He’s so small. And I’m just—this isn’t exactly what they trained me for.”

You stood slowly, careful not to jostle Jamie, and walked to him—closing the space with soft, sure steps.

You reached up with one hand and brushed his hair back gently from his forehead.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmured. “Just present.”

He nodded, eyes shining but never quite falling.

“He already thinks the world of you, you know,” you added, glancing down at Jamie. “To him, you’re not the man Hydra tried to make you. You’re Pup.”

That broke him a little.

He stepped forward, kissed your temple, then Jamie’s soft head, his metal hand brushing your elbow—light, reverent.

“Next time,” he said again.

“Next time,” you promised.

And he stayed with you in the doorway until the room was only breathing and warmth and the soft creak of the rocking chair.

It started the way it always did now—quiet, soft, familiar.

You were curled into Bucky’s chest, the baby monitor humming faintly on the nightstand, your fingers tracing slow circles along the seam of his shirt. His arms were around you—flesh and metal—and you were safe. Always safe with him.

But tonight, the air between you felt heavier.

Not sad. Not distant.

Just… thick with something waiting.

Your hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath—almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

He always did that when you touched him now. Not because he didn’t want it. But because some part of him still couldn’t believe he deserved it.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely a breath against his collarbone.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded. “Yeah. Just… gimme a second.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “You sure?”

His gaze dropped, jaw clenched.

“I’m not what I was,” he said quietly. “Not the man you married. Not even the one you remember.”

You reached up, touched his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Neither am I.”

He looked at you again—eyes scanning your face, searching.

“I’ve got scars, Bucky. Stretch marks. Softness where there wasn’t before.”

“Don’t care about that.”

“Then why would I care about yours?”

That hit him.

He swallowed hard, then slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was broader now, more muscle from the serum, more shadows carved by pain and reconstruction. The metal shoulder gleamed dully in the dark, the seams where flesh met steel jagged and raw.

You sat up, eyes on him.

Then you reached out, slow and steady, and placed your hand flat against the scarred seam of his shoulder.

He flinched. Just a little.

You leaned in and kissed it.

He closed his eyes.

Your lips trailed lower—to the angry red line that crossed his ribs, to the curve of his side, to the center of his chest. You didn’t rush. You just breathed him in.

“I still love every inch of you,” you whispered. “Even the parts you don’t.”

When he kissed you, it was different.

Slower. Reverent.

Like he needed to relearn your mouth, your breath, your shape beneath his hands.

When his hands slid under your shirt, you let him.

He paused again.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

You took his hand and placed it over your stomach, over the softness you used to be self-conscious about.

“I grew our son in this body,” you said. “How could I ever hate it?”

His eyes shimmered.

And when he touched you, he moved slowly at first.

His fingers slid your nightdress up, exposing inch after inch of skin—soft, real, yours. His hands trembled just slightly, and not from fear. From reverence. Like you were something holy he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to touch again.

You reached up, carding your fingers through his hair. “Bucky,” you whispered, and that alone undid him.

He bent down and kissed your breast—gently at first, then with more intent, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue swirling as he moaned low in his throat. When the faintest taste of milk touched his tongue, he froze.

His breath caught.

Then he sucked harder, greedier, and you gasped.

“Oh,” you breathed, back arching into him.

He groaned, long and low, hands tightening on your hips. It was like something had snapped in him. Like this was the thing he hadn’t known he needed—your milk, your warmth, the undeniable proof of the life you’d carried while he was gone.

He drank like a man starved.

His tongue lapped, lips pulling, and when more milk spilled into his mouth he moaned again, eyes fluttering shut, like it was feeding him in ways nothing else had.

You clutched at his hair, gasping softly. “Bucky—Bucky—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he growled against your skin, voice raw. “Please. Just let me.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

This was his way of coming back.

Of reclaiming what he thought he’d lost.

He switched to your other breast, suckling hungrily, one hand sliding between your thighs to find how wet you were for him. His fingers brushed your folds and he groaned against your nipple.

“Christ, baby…” he murmured. “You’re dripping. All for me?”

You moaned, breathless. “Always for you.”

That undid him.

He kissed down your belly, trailing wet, desperate heat until he was between your legs—worshipping you like he hadn’t just sucked your milk like it would keep him alive. His tongue moved slow at first, savoring. Then faster, deeper, tasting everything you’d held back.

You writhed beneath him, clutching the sheets, your body breaking open under the weight of it all.

He made you come with his mouth.

Then again on his fingers.

Then slid inside you with a low, guttural moan—deep and full, like it was dragging out of the hollow part of his chest that had ached for years. Your body welcomed him without hesitation, soft and wet, pulling him in like it had missed him just as much.

His hips pressed flush to yours, breath shaking. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “You’re home, Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re right where you’re meant to be.”

He made a sound—half whimper, half breath—and dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

When he started to move, it wasn’t just thrusting. It was pouring. Every slow, deliberate roll of his hips felt like he was trying to bury himself deeper—like he could hide inside your body, crawl into your ribs, and finally, finally rest.

“You feel like home,” he gasped against your skin. “I don’t—I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

You held him close, thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into his back to pull him in even deeper. “You’re okay, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping harder now, his body trembling with the force of his own desperation. Every thrust felt like a prayer, a plea—don’t let me go, don’t let me disappear, don’t let this be a dream.

He shifted, chest heaving, and latched onto your breast again—drinking you, moaning into your skin like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed this—you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Missed your voice, your body—your smell, your taste—fuck.”

You stroked his back, nails dragging lightly down the thick muscles there. “I’m here,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have all of me, James. As much as you need.”

He whimpered into your chest, hips driving into you harder now, deeper, almost brutal with how tightly he held on to you.

“Let me stay,” he gasped. “Please—please, let me stay.”

“Stay, baby,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got you.”

He cried when he came.

Not loud. Not broken. Just silent tears pressed into your neck as he buried himself as deep as he could and let go.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even try.

His breathing was uneven against your neck, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms locked around you like if he let go, he’d disappear again. His body was still trembling—small, helpless shudders that rolled through him like aftershocks.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just held him. One hand threaded through his hair, the other drawing slow, grounding circles on his bare back. The room was warm with sweat, with breath, with the weight of everything that had just broken between you.

“You’re okay,” you whispered—not as reassurance, but as truth. “You’re here. With me. With us.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

But his grip on your waist tightened just a little.

And then, after a long pause—quiet, rough, like the words had to crawl out of his throat—he said, “I don’t know how to stop needing this.”

Your hand stroked through his hair again. “Then don’t.”

Another silence. Deeper this time.

And then he lifted his head, just slightly. His eyes were red, lashes damp, cheeks flushed—but there was something clear behind them now. Something raw. Present.

“Can I…?” His voice was barely there.

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You just nodded.

He lowered his head to your chest again, and when his mouth closed over your nipple this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was trying to take in comfort one drop at a time.

You cradled his head, holding him against your skin as he drank quietly from you.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to calm.

His breath steadied.

His hands relaxed.

And when you looked down at him—your soldier, your husband, the father of your child—he looked peaceful.

Still inside you.

Still holding on.

And for now… that was enough.

Brooklyn, Late March 1947

It wasn’t a surprise—not really.

Not after the way Bucky touched you.

After that first night, it was like something inside him broke open, and all the need he’d held back came pouring out. Gentle. Desperate. Reverent. Like he was making up for every moment Hydra had stolen, every soft breath he hadn’t been allowed to take.

He took you almost every night. Sometimes with a quiet tenderness, other times with a hunger so sharp it left you breathless. Always with his hands on your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

So when you missed your period in March, it wasn’t shock you felt.

It was a heavy, low ache in your chest.

And exhaustion.

You stood in the bathroom that morning, palm flat on your belly, heart already beating with that frantic rhythm that came with too much, too fast.

Jamie was still a baby. Barely over a year and a half. His little hands still reached for you when he was sleepy, his cries still piercing when he was scared. You were still learning how to mother one child, still writing columns for the Brooklyn Standard, still keeping the household moving while Bucky tried to find his footing.

And Bucky…

Bucky was working again.

He’d taken up his father’s old job at the auto garage, the one on 32nd and Vine. It helped. The clank of tools, the grit under his nails, the old-school rhythms of fixing something broken—it made sense to him in ways people didn’t yet.

The other workers had gotten used to the way he worked in silence. The way he flinched at loud bangs. How his left arm lifted entire engines with ease, metal flexing like it was born to carry weight. He could lift a Buick’s rear axle with one hand and loosen bolts with the other.

Sometimes, you watched from the office window when you came to drop off lunch.

He looked powerful. Capable.

Grounded.

When you told him, his reaction was quiet.

He didn’t speak right away—just blinked, mouth parted slightly, eyes darting to your belly and back.

Then he said softly, “Really?”

You nodded, eyes stinging.

And Bucky—he smiled. Small at first. Then a little wider, with a kind of quiet, aching joy that made your stomach turn. “We can do this,” he said. “I can do this. This time… I’ll be here.”

His arms wrapped around you gently, hands spreading across your lower back. You felt the warmth of him, the certainty in his body, how right it all felt.

And yet—

You didn’t return the smile.

Not fully.

────────────────────────

Later that night, when Jamie was asleep and Bucky was already dozing off with an arm thrown over his eyes, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

“You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

You’d told him that once—your arms around his neck, your chin lifted high. And he’d smiled and said, “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

Now?

Now you were here.

Pregnant. Again.

Barely thirty, but your life felt like it had already been folded and sorted into tidy categories—mother, wife, columnist, survivor.

And Bucky… he was trying, God, he was trying—but the tremors still came sometimes. The nights when he wouldn’t let you touch his left side. The way he kept a knife hidden in the drawer under the sink, even though the war was over.

You placed a hand against your stomach and whispered, “I don’t know if we’re ready.”

And in the stillness, it felt like a confession.

The afternoon light was soft, slanting in through the living room window, catching dust motes in its gold-tinted glow. The radio murmured in the background—something jazzy, low and warm—but neither of you were listening.

You were at the far end of the couch, folding laundry with practiced motions—Jamie's overalls, one of Bucky's undershirts, a baby sock so small it barely looked real. The rhythm of it felt grounding, mechanical. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered.

On the floor, Jamie was giggling—sharp, delighted peals of laughter—because Bucky had taken to the rug on his back, letting Jamie clamber over him like a mountaintop. His thick hair was mussed from small fingers, and his sweater was twisted at the hem where Jamie had pulled it.

“Careful with your old man,” Bucky chuckled, grabbing gently at Jamie’s belly to make him squeal. “He’s got mileage.”

Jamie bounced and babbled nonsense, eyes bright.

You smiled.

But it didn’t reach your eyes.

Bucky noticed.

He watched you between Jamie’s squeals—your soft half-smile, the faint downturn at the corners of your mouth, the quiet way your eyes kept drifting from the pile of clothes to the floor, like gravity was pulling your thoughts somewhere heavier than the room allowed.

You folded the same shirt twice.

And Bucky knew.

So when Jamie had crawled off into a tired, milk-heavy nap, and you were still folding slowly—deliberately—he shifted on the floor and leaned back against the couch, his legs stretched out, fingers tapping lightly against the wood grain.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“Is it the baby?”

You blinked.

The shirt in your hand went still.

You turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

He turned his head, met your eyes now—those soft gray-blues always full of something aching when it came to you.

“You’ve been quieter since you told me. Distant.”

“I’m just tired, James.”

He tilted his head. “No. It’s more than that.”

You let out a breath. “I’m not distant. I’m not… I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, but his jaw worked once. Twice. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

You stopped.

There was a long silence.

Then:

“It’s just soon,” you said finally. Your voice was low. Not ashamed—just cautious. “Jamie’s still so little. And I’m still working. And you’re still healing, Buck. You barely sleep some nights. You flinch when the wrench clanks too hard at the garage. And now… another baby?”

His throat moved, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told you, back when you asked me to marry you—I wanted more than this. Not *ust marriage and diapers and—”

“I know.”

“I know you're not the same the man I married, Bucky.” You bit your lip, then softened. “But I still love you. I just… don’t know if I’m the woman you married anymore, either.”

He was quiet.

Then he reached up—rested his flesh hand on your knee, fingers warm and a little rough from the garage.

“You don’t have to be thrilled. You just have to be honest with me.”

You looked down at him.

There was no judgment in his face. Just the same soft, aching gaze. And the faintest tremble at the corner of his mouth, like he was worried this was the part where you'd pull away for good.

There was a long silence between you. The kind that filled the whole room, soft but heavy, like the lull after a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric in your lap. Jamie’s little onesie, blue with tiny ducks on the trim.

You smoothed it once. Twice.

Then said, very quietly, “I did it all alone last time.”

His brows furrowed.

You didn’t look at him.

Your voice stayed steady—but only just.

“Not because I wanted to. Not because I thought I could. Because I had to.”

The words didn’t tremble, but your shoulders did. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“I worked until I couldn’t stand. I wrote columns and took the train to the office, waddling up and down those damn subway steps like a marching cow. I gave birth with a stranger’s hand in mine. I came home with stitches and a screaming baby and no clue what the hell I was doing.”

You swallowed.

“I got up at two a.m. every night to feed Jamie. I wrote pieces between feedings, between diaper changes, between crying. And when he got sick that first time and I thought he wasn’t gonna make it through the night?” You blinked hard. “I sat in the bathroom with the door closed so he wouldn’t hear me cry.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your knee.

“I know it’s not your fault,” you said quickly, looking at him now—finally. “I know it’s not. You didn’t choose what happened. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. But you were gone. And I had to do it all. Every goddamn piece of it. Alone.”

There was no accusation in your voice. Just tired honesty.

“And I don’t know if I have it in me to do it again. Not right now. Not when Jamie’s still in diapers. Not when I’m just starting to find me again. The me who writes. Who sleeps. Who laughs without holding my breath.”

You exhaled slowly. Carefully.

“I want this baby,” you said. “I do. But I’m so scared I’ll disappear again. That I’ll become someone I don’t recognize.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for your hand—slow and careful, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers closed around yours. His metal hand stayed on the floor, steady and still.

Then he looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark.

“I hate that I wasn’t here.”

You opened your mouth—but he shook his head gently.

“Don’t—don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. I know that. I know it in my head. But in here—” He tapped his chest once, hard. “I still hate it. That you had to carry all that. That I wasn’t there to see our son take his first breath. Or his first steps. Or help you when you were too damn tired to even remember your name.”

He blinked, slow and careful. “But I’m here now. For this. For you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to be the man who gets up at two a.m. this time,” he said. “Who wraps you up when you cry and holds the baby when you’re too tired to move. Let me carry it now. Let me help.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time since the test came back positive, something inside you cracked open.

Not with fear.

But with a strange, aching kind of relief.

You didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

And it didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for right now.

Brooklyn, July 11, 1947 – five months later

The air was thick with summer.

Not the good kind either. Not the romantic kind with lemonade and linen dresses and soft breezes off the Hudson. No, this was the suffocating kind—sun like hot glass pressing down on your skin, sweat prickling your neck, your five-months-pregnant belly making everything clingy and itchy and ugh.

And the backyard? A minefield of frosting-smudged toddlers, collapsing balloon animals, overturned paper plates, and parents with that glazed “we’ve been here too long” expression.

You should have said no.

But Winnifred Barnes had insisted.

“It’s a milestone, darling. He’s two. That’s important.”

You wanted to ask her if she planned to throw a sweet sixteen for every time her grandson figured out how to say truck.

Instead, you’d gritted your teeth and said, “Of course, Mrs. Barnes.”

Now she was here—in full force.

Hair set. Pearls on. Wearing pale blue like she’d come straight from a tea party in 1923. She moved through her backyard with the confidence of a general inspecting the troops.

“Oh no, dear,” she said now, reaching over and rearranging the napkins you had just set out. “Diagonal folds. Much more polished.”

You stared at her.

Then at the napkins.

Then at your swollen feet.

She smiled sweetly, patted your arm like you were simple, and moved on.

From across the yard, Bucky was crouched next to Jamie by the kiddie table, showing him how to twist the birthday candle so it looked like a little spiral. He looked up once, squinting against the sun. When he saw you? His brows furrowed. He could read you in an instant now.

Which wasn’t hard.

Because your eye was twitching.

Winnifred reappeared beside you. “Are you sure you want to keep the ice cream cake outside? It’ll melt in minutes. Maybe I should call the bakery and ask if they’ve got a freezer—”

You exhaled. Slowly.

If you didn’t sit down soon, someone was going to lose a limb.

And it wasn’t going to be one of the toddlers.

────────────────────────

The heat inside the kitchen was worse than outside.

Maybe it was the open oven door. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains. Or maybe it was just her.

Winnifred stood like a statue beside the counter, frowning down at the stack of mismatched plates you’d just set out. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pursed her lips and gave a slow, pointed sigh.

You braced yourself.

“That pattern doesn’t match the napkins,” she said finally, voice light as chiffon. “You’re going for a circus theme, aren’t you? The polka dots on those plates make it feel a bit more… luncheonette.”

You turned slowly from the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel.

“Winnifred, they’re plates. For toddlers. Who are currently trying to eat glitter glue.”

“Well, you never know who’s going to notice. Presentation matters.” She offered you that clipped smile again—the kind that was more threat than warmth. “I do want Jamie’s party to be something people remember.”

You stared at her. “You want?”

She blinked, her expression slipping for just a second.

You took a step closer. “I never wanted this party. I never asked for it. You did.”

Winnifred folded her arms. “Yes. Because someone had to. Someone had to step in.”

You scoffed. “Because I’m just failing left and right, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But you do look… overwhelmed. The pregnancy. The boy. The job. It’s understandable. You’ve never really—well, you weren’t raised for this sort of life.”

You set the towel down hard on the counter. “You mean I wasn’t raised to be a housewife. Yeah. You’re right. I wasn’t.”

“I know,” she said, almost too softly. “That’s why I made sure this was here. At our home. Jamie deserves something. Since he didn’t even have a party last year—”

You froze.

Then turned to her fully, eyes sharp. “Sorry. I was in mourning. And up all night nursing a colicky infant while dealing with postpartum. And bleeding. And living off dry toast. Sorry I didn’t manage balloons and a clown.”

Winnifred tsked. “You young women and this postpartum nonsense. When I was your age I had James and Rebecca to deal with and I never complained. Women today just can’t handle—”

“Ma.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a whip.

You hadn’t heard him come in.

He stood just inside the doorway, holding Jamie on one hip. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were cold.

Jamie blinked between you both, chewing on a toy horse.

Bucky’s voice was low, controlled—but sharp. “Don’t ever talk to my wife like that again.”

Winnifred looked up, startled. “James—”

“No.” He shifted Jamie slightly and pointed at her with his free hand. “She’s raising our son. Carrying our baby. Holding this whole damn family together. And you? You’re throwing plates and guilt at her like she owes you something.”

You swallowed hard, blinking quickly.

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Bucky continued. “She’s tired. Because she works her ass off. Because she didn’t just throw this party—she survived a war without me. She did the hardest parts alone.”

Winnifred opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Go lie down, sweetheart,” Bucky said to you, voice softening as he turned. “I’ve got this.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, turning back to the sink.

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to be.”

He crossed the room, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I’ll deal with her. Go.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to his mother—who looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

But your legs were aching. Your back was sore. And your throat… your throat was thick with the words you hadn’t dared say.

So you nodded.

And left the kitchen.

As the door swung behind you, you heard Bucky’s voice again—low, cold, and full of steel.

“She’s not just my wife. She’s everything. And I won’t let you make her feel less than that ever again.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had never been so overwhelmed in his life.

Not during basic training. Not during covert ops. Not even that one time Steve broke a rib in the alley and he had to drag him home without making it look like Steve was half-dead.

This?

This was war.

“Where’s the juice—” someone called.

“He just took a bite out of the balloon!”

“James! James, the ice cream’s melting faster than we’re serving it!”

Bucky pivoted, a frown etched deep into his brow, trying to focus on five problems at once. He was sweating in his button-down, his hair was starting to curl at the temples, and the paper plate tower had just been knocked over by a baby wielding a party hat like a sword.

He rushed to pick them up.

Then someone tugged on his pants leg. “Excuse me? I think this one just put a crayon in their ear—”

He stood up too fast and knocked his head on the edge of the table canopy. “Jesus Christ.”

He hadn’t even noticed Jamie had gone quiet until he turned and found his son squinting into the sun, lips turned down in that telltale I’m about to lose it pout.

“Nope,” Bucky muttered, crouching fast. “No sir, you are not about to melt down on me—c’mere.”

He scooped Jamie up and stood, feeling the boy’s sweaty forehead press against his neck.

Jamie groaned softly, wriggled. “No nap. Wanna bounce.”

“I know, buddy. But you’re already gettin’ floppy on me.” He looked around, breath short. “I can’t—I gotta do like three things in the next—”

“I got it.”

Rebecca appeared at his side, hands already smoothing the tablecloth, her lipstick slightly smudged from chasing kids around with juice boxes.

“I’ll handle it,” she said. “Go get him down before he turns into a gremlin.”

“You sure?”

“Buck.” She gave him a look. “You’re sweating like a bootlegger and look two seconds from crying. Go.”

He sighed in relief, shifted Jamie on his hip. “Thanks, Becs.”

She smiled faintly, and he kissed her temple.

Then, muttering a trail of reassurances to Jamie, he ducked into the house and up the stairs, heading for the quietest place he could find.

Bucky paced with Jamie in his arms, whispering every half-baked lullaby he could remember from his own childhood.

“Down in the valley, the valley so low…”

Jamie squirmed. Whined.

Bucky tried bouncing. Rocking. Whispering nonsense.

“You got a real stubborn streak, huh? That from me or your ma?”

Jamie didn’t answer. Just blinked slowly, one chubby hand gripping the collar of Bucky’s shirt like a tiny grappling hook.

“Y’know,” Bucky muttered, blowing out a breath as he leaned against the banister, “this party was a dumb idea.”

A grunt. A hiccup. The threat of a wail.

“Okay, okay, alright—deal, soldier. Truce.”

Eventually, after what felt like the longest twenty minutes of Bucky’s entire war-decorated life, Jamie’s little body began to soften in his arms, the fight draining out of him in sleepy spurts.

“Yeah, that’s it…” Bucky murmured, brushing a hand down the boy’s damp hair. “Just needed some quiet, huh? Me too, pal. Me too.”

He moved toward the guest room—his old room, the one he’d once shared with Steve for a summer, the one that still had baseball posters peeling off the walls and a crooked shelf that leaned like it missed him.

He opened the door quietly.

You were there.

Fast asleep.

One arm curled under your head, the other resting lightly across the belly he hadn’t even realized he’d been watching rise and fall. Your hair was mussed from the pillow. Your mouth parted slightly in the softest breath. You looked like a painting.

Jamie lifted his head.

Saw you.

And without warning, he squirmed down from Bucky’s arms with surprising toddler stealth, thumping to the bed, crawling up over the mattress on his own steam.

“Mama,” he murmured, so soft it barely qualified as a word.

He tucked himself right into your side like a puzzle piece, nose to your chest, fingers curling in the hem of your sleeve.

And that was it.

Out like a light.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move for a long moment.

He just watched.

And something in his chest ached with it—that sharp, tender ache that came from seeing something too good and wondering if he ever deserved it.

He stepped in quietly, grabbed the thin blanket at the foot of the bed, and pulled it gently up over both of you. You didn’t stir, just shifted slightly as Jamie’s little body pressed closer.

Bucky knelt down beside the bed for a moment, resting his arm on the edge, his metal fingers brushing your wrist where it peeked out from the blanket.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Thanks for doing this. All of this. Even when you’re tired. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then Jamie’s soft curls.

Then, with one last glance, he sat on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall, and let the quiet take him too.

Brooklyn, December 15, 1947

The snow came early that winter.

Fine powder drifted down in quiet flurries, brushing rooftops in white, coating the windows with thin frost. Brooklyn’s streetlights glowed dim and golden through the haze, casting long reflections in the puddles turned to ice.

And inside Metro General Hospital, on a night that bit straight through bone, a girl was born.

It wasn’t easy.

Nothing about your life had been easy—and bringing Maggie into it followed suit. It was long, and painful, and loud in a way that seemed to crack something open in the walls themselves.

You clutched Bucky’s hand through most of it, dug your nails in when it got bad, and when it felt like you might break apart entirely, he just held you harder.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

“Breathe. That’s it, baby—breathe through it.”

“I’m here. Right here.”

You didn’t let go.

Not even once.

And then—just as the wind screamed outside and the city howled with midnight cold—she arrived.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Red, slick, screaming like she had something to prove.

She filled the room with sound, punched her little lungs full of breath like the world owed her from the second she landed in it.

And Bucky—God.

He swore he forgot how to breathe.

The nurse placed her on your chest and you both stared, blinking in disbelief. You were crying—tired, open-mouthed, whole-body crying. But he wasn’t sure he was making a sound.

Because Maggie.

Maggie wasn’t Jamie.

Jamie had been all soft cheeks and blue-gray eyes. A mirror of Bucky, from the moment he first opened his eyes.

But Maggie?

Maggie looked like you.

Right down to the slope of her nose, the dark lashes fluttering weakly against her flushed cheeks, the deep color of her eyes (even if it was still that muddy newborn gray). Her skin, dusky with warmth. Her little mouth shaped just like yours.

You were whispering to her—he couldn’t even make out the words. Your lips trembled, your fingers stroked her back, your whole body curled around her instinctively. Protectively.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, babygirl.”

And Bucky?

He sat there beside the bed, one hand on your thigh, the other trembling on the rail.

His whole chest ached. Like something holy had just cracked open inside it.

The doctor said something about congratulations. The nurse asked for a name.

And without even looking at each other, you both answered.

“Magnolia.”

“Winnifred.”

There wasn’t hesitation. Just agreement. Your mothers' names. The names fell like prayers. Like promises. Names that made each of you feel safe.

Magnolia Winnifred Barnes.

Maggie, for short.

You looked up at Bucky with swollen eyes and a tired smile and said, “She’s got my ma’s nose.”

And Bucky laughed.

Choked on it, really.

“She’s you,” he said, his voice thick. “God—she’s all you.”

She stayed curled against you that night, pink and snuffling and impossibly tiny. And when Bucky finally reached out, tentative, she curled her hand around his metal finger like it wasn’t any different from the rest of him.

He stared down at that small grip for a long, long time.

And then he kissed your forehead, kissed his daughter’s hair, and whispered into the warm silence between the three of you—

“I’m never letting go.”

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, December 1947 – A Week Later

The city was asleep.

At least, most of it.

Beyond the frosted windows, streetlamps cast faint pools of light on the empty sidewalks, and the radiator hissed softly, its steam like a lullaby. The apartment was warm, but still felt too small. Two bedrooms, four heartbeats, and a thousand things left unsaid in the quiet.

The monitor on the nightstand crackled.

And then it came—the sound. Thin, sharp, fragile.

A newborn’s cry.

You stirred instinctively, muscle memory from Jamie kicking in. Your body was sore, still healing, still not quite your own. But you moved anyway, your breath catching slightly as you started to sit—

A hand pressed gently to your stomach.

“Mm-mm,” Bucky’s voice rumbled low, not fully awake but firm. “I got it.”

Your brow furrowed, half-protesting.

“James, I—”

“Sleep,” he murmured. His hand didn’t lift. “You’ve done enough.”

You blinked up at him in the dark.

The room smelled like him. Like soap and starch and a trace of milk still drying into the sheets. His eyes barely opened as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of her.”

And just like that—your body relaxed.

Because you trusted him. Not just with Maggie. With everything.

The bed dipped as he rose, bare feet padding across the old floorboards. The baby monitor hissed again. Another cry. A hiccup. Then the creak of the nursery door opening.

You rolled to your side, one hand resting across the empty part of the bed, and exhaled.

He had her.

And you let yourself fall asleep to the distant, muffled sound of your husband whispering in the dark.

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, cast in the pale blue glow of the nightlight shaped like a rabbit, soft shadows spilling across the wallpaper with tiny painted stars. The air smelled faintly of powder and warm cotton, quiet except for the rhythmic hum of the radiator and the high-pitched fussing of a newborn.

Bucky opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak. He padded inside barefoot, his gray tee clinging slightly to the sweat along his spine, his hair mussed from sleep.

Jamie was already awake.

The toddler stood beside Maggie’s crib, clutching the rails in his small hands, curls tousled and pajama legs rumpled. His sleepy eyes blinked up at his father, wide and sincere.

“Baby crying,” he said solemnly, pointing with one chubby finger toward his sister.

Bucky’s heart did that thing—it squeezed a little too tightly in his chest, pulled by something so small and overwhelming he could barely breathe around it.

“Yeah,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “She is.”

Jamie’s lower lip stuck out slightly, not in a pout, but in quiet concern. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to make it worse. “She sad?”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky said. “Or maybe she just wants someone to hold her.”

He rose slowly and leaned over the crib, scooping Maggie up with practiced ease. She was small but squirmy, red-faced and warm, her cries more frustration than panic. Bucky held her close to his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other wrapping securely around her tiny body.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

Jamie watched intently, his head tilted as he followed every movement. Bucky gently rocked her, pacing a slow circle in the nursery. Maggie’s cries stuttered, caught, then ebbed into hiccups as her body relaxed against his shoulder.

“Sorry she woke you up, buddy,” Bucky said over his shoulder, voice low.

Jamie stepped forward and touched his father’s leg, patting it twice like he was giving reassurance instead of asking for it. “Is okay.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched into something like a smile.

Maggie was starting to settle, her whimpers softening into sleepy sighs. Bucky adjusted her in his arms and sat down carefully on the edge of the rocking chair, patting her back with slow, rhythmic taps. Her little hand curled into his shirt, breath still uneven but beginning to slow.

Just as he was about to start humming, the sound of soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

Jamie, with his curls fluffed from sleep and his tiny socks slightly crooked, toddled toward the chair. In his hand was one of his worn picture books, corners slightly chewed, the spine taped clumsily from how often it had been loved.

He held it up wordlessly to Bucky.

“For baby,” he said, voice sleepy but serious. “Story helps.”

Bucky blinked—something about the suggestion, so pure and earnest, swelled hot and tight in his chest.

“Yeah?” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “That’s a good plan, pal.”

He patted his thigh.

“C’mon up.”

Jamie clambered onto his lap with practiced ease, nestling himself into the right side of his father’s chest, legs tucked sideways and head resting against Bucky’s shoulder. He handed the book over solemnly, and Bucky took it with one hand, careful not to jostle Maggie.

She shifted slightly, her little head resting against his collarbone now, her breath beginning to even out.

“Alright,” Bucky said, opening the book slowly with his right hand, “let’s see what happens tonight in the land of Mr. Fox and his missing socks.”

Jamie giggled quietly.

Maggie let out one last soft sigh, the kind that let him know she was almost asleep.

And Bucky—holding one kid against his chest and the other in the crook of his arm—began to read.

Voice low.

Warm.

Steady.

Wrapped in the hush of the night, his words filled the small room like a lullaby.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

Brooklyn, June 1948 — 5 Months Later

“You’re going to kill us,” you said flatly, fingers gripping the edges of the blindfold. “I hope you know that.”

Bucky only chuckled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window. “You’ve got no faith in me.”

“I’ve seen your parking,” you snapped. “And you’ve had me blindfolded for fifteen minutes—what if I get carsick? Or die? Or both?”

“Then at least you’ll die surprised,” he said cheerfully.

You groaned and shifted in your seat. “Bucky—”

“Pup!” Jamie interrupted from the back, kicking his little legs in the car seat. “I see cow! Cow, Pup! Cow!”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky glanced into the rearview mirror, grin growing. “You see a cow?”

“COWWWWW!” Jamie howled again, full toddler volume. You winced.

“I swear, if this is a field trip to a barn—”

“Shh,” Bucky said, patting your knee. “We’re almost there.”

From the backseat, Maggie let out a delighted little babble—one of those sweet, vowel-heavy sounds that came with spit bubbles and gurgled giggles.

“She agrees with me,” you said, still suspicious. “This is a trap.”

Bucky only hummed, the car rumbling steadily underneath as he took another turn. You could smell summer through the open windows—fresh-cut grass, warm pavement, the faint scent of wildflowers on the wind.

Jamie began narrating the drive in the only way a toddler could—“TREE! ROAD! BIRD! TREE AGAIN!”—and Maggie added her own commentary in bubbly, contented noise.

And still… the blindfold stayed on.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you muttered, “you better not be kidnapping me.”

He reached over briefly, squeezing your thigh. “Almost there,” he said, softer this time.

Something about his voice made your heart skip.

Almost.

The car came to a gentle stop, engine purring into silence.

You were still muttering under your breath as Bucky got out, the door shutting with a soft click. “This better not be a weird roadside diner,” you grumbled. “I swear to God, if you blindfolded me for a tuna melt, I’m pushing you into traffic.”

“Noted,” he said, entirely too amused.

He unbuckled Jamie first, then Maggie, and their little sounds and fidgeting filled the car like background music to your ongoing skepticism. You heard Jamie chirp excitedly, “House, Pup?” but it didn’t register—not really.

Bucky came around to your side, opened your door, and carefully helped you out, guiding you like you were made of glass.

“Alright,” you muttered, still blindfolded, one hand gripping his bicep. “This is where you reveal you’ve secretly joined a cult.”

“Shut up and walk.”

You felt grass underfoot.

Then a sidewalk.

Then gravel crunching softly.

“James…” you warned. “I swear if you got me a goat—”

The blindfold lifted.

You blinked hard against the sudden light, eyes adjusting to warm sun and white paint and red brick. A small, two-story house stood in front of you—charming in the way that made your throat tighten. A porch with peeling steps. Big windows. A yard that needed mowing but not fixing.

It looked… real.

Lived-in.

Possible.

You turned to him slowly, confused. “What is this?”

Bucky’s face was quiet, soft.

“The job at the auto shop pays good,” he said. “Especially with the hours I take. Been putting away every bit of it.”

You looked back at the house. At the porch. At the way the sun caught the little windows upstairs.

“There’s three bedrooms,” he added. “One for us. One for Jamie and Maggie. A backyard for them to run in. Room to grow.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded paper—something official. He didn’t show you. Just held it like it made it more real.

“And one day,” he said, eyes meeting yours, “when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

The words hit like a heartbeat echoing in your ribs.

You remembered them. That promise. More than five years ago. Whispered back when the world was black-and-white and full of war and waiting. You’d both been so young, terrified, full of hope you didn’t dare say out loud.

And now?

Now he stood in front of you, older, stronger, a little cracked—but whole. Holding this life in his hands like it had weight.

Like he meant it.

Your eyes prickled.

You looked at the house again.

Then at him.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you felt the tight coil in your chest loosen.

Because Bucky Barnes hadn’t just come home.

He’d built one. For you.

[weenysworld]

oh oh fawn, happy summerween do you feel compelled to write something for this with our bf Bucky 'piggy back rides when one gets tired from walking for so long'???

“My feet hurt,” you whine, leaning into Bucky as you walk down the cobbled pavement. 

Bucky chuckles, you’ve been exploring all day. Walking from place to place as you tried pastries; a mix of sweet and savory, then went to the museum and finally for ice cream. 

Bucky had warned you not to wear your new shoes today. Sure they were cute ballet flats, but they needed to be broken into. Now you’re suffering the consequences. 

“Want me to carry you? We’re still some distance from the house.” 

Bucky hooks an arm over your shoulder, the flat of his palm grazing the small of your back. 

Your eyes widen, hopefulness filling them as you look up at Bucky. 

He smiles and stops in the middle of the pavement, turning so his back is to you. “Come closer, doll.” you shimmy up behind him and squeal a little when Bucky’s hands cement themselves under your bum and lift you onto his back. 

You sigh as soon as he straightens up, hand hanging limp around his neck. It’s not like you need to hold on. 

“You’re the best,” you press your cheek into his shoulder, shutting your eyes as you listen to Bucky’s measured steps.

You feel him hum more than you hear it, “‘Cause you get princess carried?”

“Well I wouldn’t class this as princess,” he chuckles, pinching the underside of your bum making you squeal. “But this is a great added bonus.” 

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” he mumbles, though he hardly means it. Bucky likes you spoiled; he liked spoiling you even though he wouldn’t necessarily call a piggy back ride home spoiled. 

You smile, “Your spoiled brat though.” 

Your face shifts so your cheek is pressed against Bucky’s cool metal shoulder. The steadiness of his steps start lulling you to the limbo space between waking and sleep. You’re nearly home, maybe a block of walking again, and Bucky can feel the difference in your breathing as you start falling asleep. 

He smiles, “Damn right, doll.” 

[weenysworld]

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.

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.

[weenysworld]

Save Me Tonight | b.b 𐙚˙⋆.˚

Pairing | Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Reader 

Summary | Congressman James Barnes is your boss. When you begin to develop strong feelings for him, you decide to take a practical approach and download Tinder. However, when your date takes a turn for the worse, you find yourself desperately hoping for someone—anyone—to come to your rescue. Bucky will always be there to save you.

Warnings/tags | Between the events of CA:BNW and Thunderbolts*, fluff, slow-burn, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, sexual harassment (not by Bucky), angst, panic attack, nsfw, MDNI (18+), kissing, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, low-key switch!Bucky, protective!Bucky, breast play, fingering, save a horse; ride Bucky, mentions of violence, injuries, Bucky would let the world burn for Reader, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 17.8k

A/N | Hey, lovelies. Thank you for all the support on my last fic and 160 followers!! It motivated me to write this one, and I’m pretty proud of it. To reiterate, this is only my second fanfiction, so bear with me, I’m still learning. There’s a little something extra at the end because I’m a sucker for protective Bucky. Sorry in advance for it being so lengthy. Blame my fingers for typing away without consequence. (Hahaha, you’ll never stop me ~ my fingers) Hope you enjoy, and if you did, let me know or feel free to give any feedback:))

You were falling.

No, you were clearly standing upright, but it felt like you were falling. Whenever you looked at him, you felt like the rug was being ripped out from under you.

Him being your boss, Congressman James Barnes. He’s so handsome in a rugged, but polished way. 

Like the white button-up he’s in now. Sure, it’s sophisticated, but he has his grey suit jacket off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a bit of his forearms. A few of his top buttons are undone, leaving an immaculate view of his collarbone. That and his five o’clock shadow leave a perfect mix of rugged and polished.

The scent of his cologne is filling your nostrils—oak, amber, and lavender. It’s making your head spin. You feel crazy. You should not be breathing in your boss’s scent or staring at him like you are now.

Bucky is leaning over his desk, focused on a document. He’s chewing on the end of a pen with a furrowed brow, as if the papers had personally offended him.

You let yourself take him in for a few more seconds before you step into his office. You enter with a soft knock on his door.

”I thought I told you that’s bad for your teeth. And, if you keep scrunching your eyebrows like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” You tease, your voice is light and full of warmth.

Bucky’s eyes shoot up immediately. He gapes at you momentarily before taking the pen out of his mouth and relaxing his face. He snorts and rolls his eyes, but you can see the hint of amusement in his expression. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

“Maybe you’ll finally look your age if you get wrinkles.” You bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

Bucky shakes his head, but the corner of his lip lifts. “You’re hilarious.” His tone is laced heavily with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” you bow, your arm over your stomach as you bend. “I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if I fire you.” He tilts his head, smirking.

Your jaw drops in faux shock as you cross the room to his desk. You let out a soft laugh. “Smooth, Barnes.”

He swivels in his chair to face you; it’s evident he’s enjoying the banter. Bucky leans back in his seat, elbow on his armrest with his head propped in his hand. Fuck, he’s sexy.

You gesture to the document on his desk as your face goes serious. “If that’s stressing you out, take a break.”

He waves you off. “Nah, I’m alright. Besides, isn’t that what I’m doin’?” Bucky winks at you. Winks at you! What, is he trying to kill you? 

After a beat, you clear your throat and nervously grin. Bucky motions to you as he speaks. “What’d you need, darlin’?” 

You honestly forgot why you were even here, but you glance down at the packet in your hand, and it all comes flooding back. 

“You’re going to hate me.” Your expression turns apologetic. “But I need you to read this over and sign it.” You sheepishly hand him the packet.

”I could never hate you.” He grabs the papers, and your fingers brush. You feel sparks across your flesh. It’s like tiny fireworks coursing through your veins, threatening to reach your pounding heart. You haven’t let go yet, relishing in the bit of contact. 

You snap out of your daze and release them. Your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see the slight flush crawling up your face. You tuck a loose strand of hair that has fallen from your bun behind your ear. 

Bucky’s jaw sets as he places the packet off to the side. He coughs into his fist and locks eyes with you. “Consider it done. I’ll leave it on your desk before I go home.” 

“Perfect!” You force your voice up an octave to distract from your embarrassment. “Sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate.” 

“All good, it’s a part of my job.” 

“Yeah,” You cross your arms over your chest. “But you work too hard. Take a break.”

He arches a brow, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. “Like I said, always tellin’ me what to do.” Bucky huffs air through his nose. “I could say the same for you.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to deflect your concern. “I work a normal amount, and my break is in five, so don’t worry about me.”

”I’m always worried about you.” Bucky’s voice softens.

You can’t hear anything over your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Does he realize how those words affect you? You could die happy knowing you‘re even a thought on Bucky’s mind.

He sits up in his seat and continues. “When was the last time you went home on time and didn’t stay after hours?”

”I do go home on time.” Your voice squeaks; you’re lying.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “You’re not foolin’ me, doll.”

”Fine, if I promise to leave on time, you have to promise you’ll take a break.”

He contemplates your words and then gives you a stiff nod. “Okay, I promise.”

You grin as you stick out your pinky. He stares at you with a perplexed expression. “What’re you doin’?” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Pinky promise me.”

Bucky‘s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not twelve.”

You give him an unimpressed look. ”You’re right, you’re a hundred and something years old. Now give me your damn pinky.” 

He grunts, glaring at the ceiling as if it were the one to make him do this. He eventually concedes and interlocks his pinky with yours. 

Your fingers tingle again at his touch. You feel like a touch-starved puppy who’s finally getting some attention. If only both of his hands were on you, holding you by your waist and pulling you in to put his lips against yours-

You mentally punch yourself, so that thought doesn’t go any further. Maybe you need to get laid. Then, all these feelings for your boss will go away. This relationship is strictly professional, so you might want to find something to keep your mind off the idea of it becoming more. 

You straighten, beaming at him. You pull your hand away and turn on your heels to stride toward the door.

When you exit his office, you grab the handle, ready to close the door behind you. Before you do, you peek your head in. “Have a nice break.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky grumbles.

On your way back to your desk, you're grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. This is ridiculous. You need a distraction. You pull your phone out of your blazer and download Tinder.

This should be fun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky glances at your phone resting on his desk before refocusing on his laptop to determine where he left off with his email. Just as he gets his train of thought back-

Bzz. Bzz.

He takes a steady breath in and releases it. Why is he upset over a simple notification? He wonders why you didn’t take it with you to the bathroom. Bucky sighs and begins typing away on his laptop again.

Bzz. Bzz.

What the fuck? How many notifications can you get in a minute? He nearly wants to reach over and grab it to see, but he won’t snoop into your business. That’s unprofessional.

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his eyes as he inclines back in his chair. How can he get any work done with that thing buzzing on his desk? He hears your heels clack against the wood floor as you enter his office.

“You okay, sir?” Your pretty voice drifts through the air like a bird’s song.

Bucky’s gaze darts to you, and he gestures to your phone. “Can you get that thing under control? And I told you, stop calling me that.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You raise your hands in surrender. “I’ll get right to that, grumpy.” 

You grab your phone off the desk, glance at it, and press a button on the side. Then, you slide it into the pocket of your trousers before perching on the seat across from him.

“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, massaging his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s no excuse.”

You shrug and give him a soft smile. “It’s alright, I can handle your grumpy ass.” You motion to your pocket. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to silence my phone this morning.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky scoots forward, getting back to his email. His fingers are on the keys, but his mind is elsewhere. 

“What was that all about anyway?” He points to your pocket.

You cross one leg over the other, settling into the chair. “Oh, nothing. It’s just this guy I’ve been talking to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he has to force his face to remain blank. He shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not jealous. You're his assistant, nothing more. You deserve to have a life outside of work, outside of him. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

Lucky fucking bastard.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Bucky lightens his tone as if it doesn’t bother him, which it doesn’t. He doesn’t care about his name, but he’ll try for your sake. 

“Uh…Derek.” You mutter.

His posture goes rigid. He attempts to tease you, so you don’t notice. “What’s uh…Derek like?” 

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound. Like a soft patter of rain against a window. “I don’t know, I guess he's nice.”

”You guess? Haven’t you been on a date with him yet?” Bucky inquires.

This is entirely unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking about your relationship status. He’s just trying to get to know you, right? It’s normal for bosses to ask their employees about their lives. 

He doesn’t see you that way, though. He’d much rather label you as his equal. You do as much work as he does, if not more. He knows he could never do this job without you.

You let out a long sigh, drawing him away from his brain's constant back and forth. “No, our first date is tomorrow.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Tomorrow’s the gala, darlin’. I kinda need you there.” 

If you asked for a day off, he would be more than happy to give it to you. However, he wants to be selfish. You are the highlight of his evenings at those damn events. Whenever he feels anxious or overwhelmed by all the rich bastards around him, he seeks comfort in your company.

“I know, that’s why I invited him as my plus one. It completely slipped my mind. I should have asked you earlier this week.”

It’s not the best situation, but you’re still going with him. He hates the thought of you being around another man all night, but he’ll deal with it because it’s necessary. This is a professional relationship, and he has to accept that, even though he wishes it could be something more.

Bucky’s silent, so you continue. “I just didn’t want to be alone all night. I always appreciate it when you come over to check on me, but you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.” He opens his mouth to interrupt you, but you talk right over him.

“I thought it would be easier this way. You can focus on the political side of things, and I can keep tabs from a distance like we always do, but instead, I’ll have someone to keep me company.” 

You’re rambling, your words spilling out like water from a faucet. You’re bouncing your leg and picking at your nails—clear signs of anxiety. He recognizes these behaviors all too well, although his own anxiety manifests as a silent, gnawing feeling. In contrast, yours feels like a wildfire, all-consuming and intense.

“Doll-” Bucky tries to cut you off, to ease the tension out of your body, but your mouth is moving a mile a minute.

“Gosh, what was I thinking? It’s a dumb idea and entirely unprofessional. I’ll cancel and reschedule our date for another time.” Your gaze has shifted to a point on the wall, as if you’re dissociating. 

He stands up from his chair and drops down to one knee in front of you. You still don’t notice his existence as you keep chatting away.

“It’s not that I hate galas, I like them, but it’s easier around someone. I don’t even have to talk to them just to be near them-” You stop suddenly when Bucky places his hand on your restless leg, halting its movement.

“Hey, darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, calmly trying to pull you out of your trance. His thumb strokes your knee over the fabric of your pants. Your wide eyes focus on him, and your breathing becomes erratic.

“You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me for a second?” He demonstrates breathing in and then releasing slowly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me now.”

You follow his lead, breathing deeply into your nose and releasing a long breath out of your mouth.

”Good, do that a couple more times with me.” Bucky coaxes. You obey his instruction, slowing your breathing down.

Once he knows that you can breathe easier, he speaks again. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

”Huh?” You look utterly confused.

”It’s a trick I learned in therapy. Indulge me.” Bucky continues to gently massage your knee with soothing patterns.

You give him a tight nod. Your eyes begin wandering around the room. “Uh…your laptop, that little white cat figurine I bought you—Alpine.”

Bucky snorts; he really loves that figurine. One day, early in his term, you were discussing pets. You asked him if he would ever consider having a pet, and he replied that he couldn’t because he’s too busy. Curious about his preferences, you asked what type of pet he would choose if he had the time, and he mentioned that he liked cats. That’s how the cat figurine came to be. Of course, you were the one who named it.

”That’s two. Give me three more.”

Your attention flicks back to Bucky, and he notices how drained you look. “Your tie has blue stars on it.” 

You lock eyes with him, and a faint smile appears on your lips. "It matches your eyes, though yours are the perfect shade of blue. That color is rare; I don't think I've seen it anywhere else."

Bucky swears that his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’s ever received a compliment quite like that before. He decides he only wants you to compliment him from now on.

He clears his throat when he realizes he stared at you for too long. “One more, doll.”

You lift your gaze again, searching for something in his office. “That dumbass painting.” You point to the wall, and Bucky pivots to see. 

You’re referring to the painting with dogs around a table playing poker. He chuckles, scanning your face as if your thoughts are written there and he’s trying to read them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bucky sounds offended, but he’s suppressing a smirk.

”It doesn’t fit your aesthetic.”

“My aesthetic?” The word feels foreign on his tongue, as if he were never meant to say it.

You clarify, your hands motioning to the room around you. “Your style.”

He no longer tries to hide his amusement, grinning like you are the most interesting thing in the world. “And, what is my style, doll?”

“Dark, mysterious, clean, and you’re a minimalist.” You express it as though it’s obvious, and he can’t deny your description.

”Huh, I guess I’ll remove it then. I didn’t realize you had such disdain for dogs playin’ poker.”

”I don’t, it’s cute,” you insist. “And, don’t take it down. You put it there, and it’s your office.”

“Nope, it’s already settled.” Bucky rises from his kneeling position with a grunt. “I’m removin’ it. I didn’t put it there anyway. It was here before I became a congressman.”

Bucky grabs the pitcher of water off his desk and pours it into one of the stacked plastic cups beside it. He sits in the chair beside you and hands you the water.

“Drink.” He orders, but his voice is soft.

“Now you’re telling me what to do.” You tease, lifting the cup to your lips and gulping down the refreshing liquid.

He ignores your comment and presses on. “Wanna tell me what happened to make you have a panic attack? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No,” Your shoulders slump forward as you release a breath. You set the empty cup down on his desk before speaking again. “It was the silence. I immediately thought you were angry with me when you didn’t say anything.”

“Have I given you any reason to believe I’d be mad at you?” It’s a sincere question. You’re the only person he genuinely cares about protecting. If you think he’s upset with you, then he’s not fulfilling his role.

You shake your head, and it instantly puts his worries to rest. Bucky clasps his hands together and continues. “I’m okay with the idea of you bringin’ a plus one, I just wish you had told me-” 

You open your mouth to speak, but Bucky raises a hand to signal that he isn't finished. “I wish you had told me you don’t like being alone.”

You furrow your brow, surprised by his unexpected response. You bite your lip, searching for the right words to express your feelings.

“I’m not your responsibility.” You murmur. There’s no malice behind your words, just a woman who’s done things on your own for far too long and doesn’t want to ask for help.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky begins. “But we’re a team, and if secrets exist between us, this doesn’t work.”

He’s such a hypocrite. He’s holding back vital information from you. Bucky likes you, and no one can pry that knowledge from him. Feelings are fleeting; whatever he feels towards you will fade eventually. Right?

You smile sweetly, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like the sun has entered the room. You’re bright and blinding. You’ll destroy him from the inside out if he looks for too long. 

He doesn’t mind the idea of that, though. He was yours to take apart anyway. How can he move on when you look like that, and you make him feel like this?

“You’re right. No more secrets.”

“Damn right, I’m always right.” His expression is all smug, which prompts you to roll your eyes and giggle, but it seems somewhat frail.

Bucky gets up from his spot. “You should go home. I got it from here.”

You stand to meet his eyes, defiance etched on your face. “No, I’m fine. I was going to help you-”

He cuts you off. "If you want to help me, go home. Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll see you at the gala, and you can introduce me to uh…Derek.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You are not making that a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making that a thing.” Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Now, go before I fire you.”

You narrow your gaze. “Fine, but you can’t keep threatening to fire me when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nah, I like seein’ the look on your face every time I say it.” His smirk is wide and arrogant. You glare at him in response, and it’s adorable.

He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Do you need a ride home?”

Your expression softens. “No, I’ll manage.” He gives you a stiff nod.

You amble towards the door, but pause, peeking over your shoulder. “Thank you, Barnes. For everything.”

Bucky staggers slightly. He would do anything for you. He doesn’t need a thank you in return, but it sounds too good coming from your lips. He’s staring at you like a damn fool, undoubtedly with hearts in his eyes.

”Of course, doll.” He mumbles. You hum and proceed forward, stepping out of the door and out of Bucky’s view.

As soon as you leave, he flops back down in the chair. He lets out a long sigh, metal hand running down his features. 

How will he manage a whole night with another man's arm around you? 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and patiently waiting. 

No, pacing by the bar and fixing your hair for the tenth time tonight is not what anyone would describe as patience. You have never been a patient person, and you can thank your anxiety for that.

You arrived at the venue about half an hour ago, an hour before the gala even starts. You like to be on time or extremely early. There’s no in between. 

The real reason you arrived early was to meet Derek before the event. You wanted to chat and get acquainted before everyone else arrived. 

He’s late. You would understand if he had sent a quick text saying he would be there soon, but you haven’t received anything in an hour.

You spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth. The bartender noticed your nerves and slid a glass of water your way. You’ve been sipping on it while trying to fix your curled strands. This is why you usually wear your hair up—so you don’t have to worry about adjusting it repeatedly. Then there’s your dress, which you keep fussing with.

You wore a navy satin dress with a plunging neckline that revealed just enough cleavage. The back was mostly open, featuring crisscross straps. The dress hugged your curves perfectly and accentuated your figure, making your ass look fantastic. You exuded elegance along with just the right amount of sultriness.

It wasn’t your typical style, and the thought of revealing too much of yourself made you feel insecure. Since you hadn’t been on a date in a while, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something bold. Now, you worry that after putting in so much effort, he might end up standing you up.

You continue to drink your water, letting it cool you. You almost wish you had something a bit stronger to ease the tension in your body.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you as a warm hand brushes your arm. You quickly turn your head around.

Damn. Congressman Barnes.

He looks like snow cast in shadow under the midnight sky, with the snowflakes illuminated only by the moonlight. He’s wearing a crisp white button-up shirt over a black tuxedo and dark dress pants. Although his bow tie is crooked, it doesn’t matter at all. Bucky wears suits every day, but tonight he looks incredibly handsome with his hair slicked back and his blue eyes shining.

Shit. You’re gawking at him. To distract him from your flustered state, you flash him a wide smile. His warm flesh hand rests gently on your arm, but after a moment, he acknowledges that he is still touching you, and he lets his hand fall away.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth several times before spitting it out. “You look…lovely.” 

Your smile falters slightly, and you feel your breath become heavier in your lungs from that simple word. Sure, he has complimented you before, but this feels different. You can't quite put your finger on why, though.

“Thank you.” Your voice is delicate, and your grin turns genuine, unlike the showy one from before. “You don't look too bad yourself.”

Bucky huffs air out of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes seem to penetrate your very being, as if he's tearing through your flesh to truly understand every part of you. He knows your most vulnerable sides and didn't flinch. So, what’s the harm in him seeing everything?

You turn your gaze away from his eyes, afraid of losing yourself in them. Your eyes shift to his neck as you take a step forward until you're directly in front of him.

“You look perfect, but can I make one minor adjustment?” 

He gives you a firm nod in response. You extend your arms to grip both sides of his bow tie and adjust it to your liking.

“Great,” Bucky grumbles. “I can’t even dress myself properly.” 

“You did fine, it was just a bit crooked. Sometimes all a man needs is a woman’s touch to look presentable.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. 

After adjusting, you rest your hand over the middle of the bow tie. Glancing up into his piercing blues, you realize how close you are.

You swear he’s reading every one of your thoughts as if they’re on full display. It’s intimidating, yet his eyes tell you he’ll treasure them, keeping them tucked away in his mind in a special spot just for you.

His cologne envelops you like a warm hug, drawing you in as if urging you to kiss him. You find yourself captivated by the scent, which clouds your mind and impairs your logical thinking.

Instead, you gently pat him and take a step back, admiring your work. “Now you’re ready for your close-up, Congressman Barnes.”

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes. “Thanks, doll.” He peers around the room. “Where’s uh…Derek?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looks puzzled, so you clarify, “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t shown up or even sent a text.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, but releases it as if the tension was never there. “Would you like me to wait with you?”

You wave your hand as if to shoo him away. "No, please, go mingle."

He seems like he might press the issue, but gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Well, as soon as he gets here, I’m givin’ him a piece of my mind for makin’ a pretty girl wait.”

He’s stolen the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping for just a bit of air to keep from suffocating. It feels as if he hasn’t realized that his sweet words are slowly killing you. Then, he walks away as if nothing had happened.

Air rushes into your lungs again, overwhelming you as if it’s choking you. You’re panting like you ran a marathon, yet your feet remain planted in the same spot.

You pull out your phone from your purse and shoot Derek another text.

I’m at the bar whenever you get here.

You need him here now. The whole reason you put yourself out there is to distract your heart from liking someone you can’t be with. And once again, Bucky has turned your world upside down. You must avoid your feelings before they sink their teeth into your vulnerable, beating heart.

Minutes go by, and finally, you see a familiar figure moving around the ballroom. Derek is even more attractive in person. He carries himself with confidence, and his presence fills the space, as if his frame were larger than it actually is.

He is wearing a casual beige polo shirt loosely tucked into mocha-colored trousers, paired with loafers. His dark hair is perfectly coiffed around his eyes, and the sleeves of his shirt fit tightly around his biceps.

It seems he wore it intentionally for that reason, and you don’t mind. You can appreciate some muscle; there’s nothing wrong with showcasing something you worked hard for.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything for you. You matched with him because of his impressive profile. He works as a financial manager, which shows he is skilled with money. He has a dog named Luna, who is a husky. In his free time, he has hosted multiple charity events and volunteers at homeless shelters.

Derek seems like the perfect guy on paper. From your conversations with him, he checks all the right boxes: he’s kind, caring, and communicates well. The only downside is that he left you waiting for almost two hours. However, you believe in not judging someone based on first impressions, so you’re genuinely excited to see how this date unfolds.

You eventually wave him over. “Derek, hey!”

He immediately responds to the sound of your voice, greeting you with an easy smile as he checks you out.

Being examined by an objectively handsome man should elicit some feelings, right? You might expect butterflies in your stomach, your skin to heat, or your heart to skip a beat. But it does nothing for you. Not like when Bucky even glances your way, then your palms become instantly sweaty.

Stop thinking about Bucky and focus on the man approaching you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a quick hug while you drape your arms around his neck. You might feel rigid in his embrace, like stiff cardboard. As he steps back, you remind yourself to relax and not let your nerves get the better of you.

Derek leans back to get the full view of you up close. “Damn, you’re hotter in person.”

Oh, what an interesting way to start a conversation. You can't help but think of Bucky and how gently he spoke about your appearance, as if it were difficult for him to express what he was seeing in just a few words. In contrast, Derek is quite bold. Perhaps that's a good thing?

”Thank you, you’re very handsome in person.”

He smirks at you like he knows it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He pushes his hair back and deliberately flexes his arm muscles. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

Well, that’s vague. It’s fine, you’re over it. At least he’s here now.

“All good,” you gesture toward the bar seats. “Would you like to sit?” He nods, climbing onto one of the stools, while you take the one next to him.

“What‘re we drinking?” Derek claps his hands and rubs them together. 

“I’m on the job, so unfortunately, it's just water for me. You can go ahead, it's an open bar.” 

“Come on,” he pokes you in the side. “Just one, I won’t tell anyone.”

You lightly giggle. “No, really, I shouldn’t.”

He rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

Derek turns to the bartender and orders a rum and Coke. Your water is refilled. You turn in your seat, resting your jaw on your hand, and wait for the conversation to flow.

As the night progressed, the date hadn’t. Derek only seemed to want to talk about himself, which would have been fine if he had included you in the conversation. Instead, he spoke right over you and didn't ask about you once.

You nod along and actively listen. He takes full advantage of the open bar while you stay hydrated. He is not at all what you expected and is completely different from the man you texted daily.

There’s a beat of silence, and you take that opportunity to finally get a word in. “I read on your profile that you do charity work. What charity did you last host for?”

Derek shrugs. “No idea, my dad is in charge of all that shit.”

“Huh?” You give him a perplexed expression.

“My dad runs the company where I work and organizes the charity events. Sometimes I don't even bother showing up.” He chuckles as if it’s funny, but you don’t laugh.

You change the topic since he doesn't know anything about it. "What kind of volunteer work do you do at homeless shelters?"

“That was a lie.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Look, it's tough out here for us men. Sometimes, you have to lie to even get a date with these self-absorbed women.”

You suppress your growing anger. Why would someone lie about that? You feel like you need to make an excuse to run to the bathroom.

Derek leans closer to you. “But you’re different, sweetheart.” His hand wraps around your waist, and you can smell alcohol on his breath.

He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Maybe we can find a private room in this place.” Derek’s hand drifts down your back and he grabs your ass.

Your body tenses up, and you feel extremely uncomfortable. He just squeezed your ass as if he had the right to do so. You hadn’t given any indication that such behavior was acceptable. Even if you had, he should have asked for permission before touching you in that way.

You hardly know each other. You know almost everything about him, but he knows very little about you. You’re trying to lean away from him to breathe air that isn’t his, but he’s holding you close.

You almost convince yourself that this is what you want, but your body rejects the idea. The thought of having sex with him makes you feel physically ill. He’s drunk and would only be using you for his own pleasure, which wouldn’t be enjoyable for you at all. You crave meaningful sex, not a brief distraction to forget about your boss.

Your breathing is shallow, and you begin to shake. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Silently, you pray for anyone to come to your rescue. Although you could push him off you, you can’t find the strength; you feel frozen.

Save me, please, you think. You don’t know exactly who you’re pleading to, but you hope someone can somehow hear you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky has been watching you all night, especially when Derek arrived. He was supposed to go over and introduce himself to your date, but he didn't have the courage to do it. 

He’s fine with watching from a distance. He doesn’t have to hear you laugh at Derek’s jokes or look at him with your beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He places himself so that he can catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye during every conversation he has with the wealthy assholes. He hardly pays attention to what they are saying because he is concerned about you. While he adds a few remarks to each topic, he isn’t genuinely interested in their responses.

Bucky becomes especially interested in your date when Derek leans in closer. He clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. He almost looks away, but notices how uncomfortable you appear. Though Bucky is quite a distance away from you, he knows exactly what he saw.

You attempt to pull away from Derek, but he only draws you closer. Meanwhile, Bucky has vanished without a word to the person he was talking to. He moves through the crowd with purpose, as if on a mission that no one can interrupt.

Derek leans back to examine your face, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Bucky feels a wave of nausea; he can tell you're not interested in Derek's advances because you appear to be panicking internally.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands behind you. Derek eventually lowers his hand, and the tension instantly leaves your body. You glance back at Bucky, and your breathing becomes lighter.

”Can I borrow you for a second?” Bucky nearly grits the words out through his teeth.

“Sure.” You turn in your seat and begin to get off, but Bucky is there with a hand out to help you. You grin in appreciation and use his hand to leap down.

After you’re down, Bucky’s hand falls back to his side. You turn to Derek while motioning towards Bucky. “This is my boss, Congressman Barnes.” You swivel around to Bucky. “Barnes, this is Derek.”

Bucky nods in Derek’s direction but avoids making eye contact. Derek stumbles out of his seat, clearly drunk and struggling to hold his liquor.

“Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Derek slurs as he stands in front of Bucky, extending his hand. “Let me just say, your campaign was inspiring.”

Bucky takes a moment to push down the raging fire crawling up his throat. “Thanks.” He grunts and takes Derek’s outstretched hand with his metal one. His grasp is unyielding, as if one wrong move could snap all the bones in Derek’s hand.

“Shit,” Derek growls as he grimaces in pain. ”Strong grip you have there.”

Bucky grins mischievously as he claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. "Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength." He then releases his hand and steps back, offering his arm to you.

You link your arm with his, resting your hand on his forearm. “I’ll be right back,” you assure your date, but he secretly clutches his hand as if the bones have shattered.

Bucky guides you away, his expression marked by irritation. You glance up at him and squeeze his bicep with your free hand. “What’s wrong, grumpy?”

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Bucky mutters, keeping his eyes forward, as if you’ll see the reason swimming there if he looks at you.

“I don’t know; you tell me.” You stop, making Bucky halt and glance in your direction. Your eyes show concern. “Are the rich bastards stressing you out?” 

You reach up, placing your thumb on Bucky’s forehead, rubbing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation as he lets you melt away the tension with your touch.

You hum and remove your thumb from its spot when you register that all the strain in his forehead is long gone. Bucky peels his eyes open again as he speaks. “What stress, darlin’?”

You giggle, and it lights up the entire room. “I swear it was there a second ago.” You tease, patting his forearm. “What’d you need me for, Barnes?” 

Shit. Bucky didn’t fully consider the consequences; he just wanted to help you escape that uncomfortable situation.

So, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I need a second opinion. Could you listen in on the conversation? Let me know what’s worthy of my attention.”

“Of course, lead the way.” You answer with warmth in your voice.

Bucky guides you towards a group of people in suits engaged in conversation. You both join the discussion, and Bucky introduces you. You shake a few hands and receive a warm welcome. As the conversation resumes, you actively participate in it.

Bucky is impressed by your enthusiasm for political topics. Words come easily to you, and you have a wealth of knowledge. He always knew you were intelligent, but witnessing you in action is captivating. 

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, including families, properties, and everyone’s golf score. You and Bucky don’t participate in that section of the discussion. 

You angle your mouth to Bucky’s ear and whisper. “I should get back, but let me know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t want you to leave. Things are easier with you around. Bucky can’t let you return to that jerk, who’s drunk and trying to take advantage of you.

Bucky gently grabs your arm before you leave and leads you away from the suits for a private conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

”Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You respond, trying to avert Bucky’s gaze.

”Darlin’,” He begins. “I saw him touch you.”

You shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. “That’s typically how things go on dates.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that.”

”Please, stay out of it.” Your voice is small, like you don’t want to argue with him right now.

“What if he tries that shit again?” Bucky doesn’t mean to raise his voice at you, but he loathes this situation. He wants more than anything to protect you, even if you're not his to protect.

“Then, I’ll handle it. I’m very capable of doing things myself.” You match his tone, clearly showing that you’re getting upset with him.

He wants to avoid making you angry, so he tries to make his voice sound lighter and more compassionate. “I know you’re capable, but I want you to be safe. I’m not convinced you're safe with him.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and Bucky sees this as a signal to continue. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't waste your time on him. He disrespected you, and I don’t think he deserves a second chance.”

“Well, I believe everyone deserves a second chance.” You state calmly.

Bucky scoffs. “Not everyone, doll.”

You don’t miss a beat. “You did.”

Bucky's shoulders slump as he reflects on your words. He has always struggled to believe he deserves forgiveness for his past. Although he knows, on some level, that he had no other choice, that doesn't erase the lives he took and the families he destroyed.

Those feelings will never fade, no matter how often he’s told ‘it wasn’t him’. He still has to live with the screams and gore he witnessed with his own hands. When he relives those memories, it’s his hand that is doing the killing, even if it’s dark now instead of the silver one in his nightmares. 

It's not an out-of-body experience where he watches the soldier do his bidding. No, it's all Bucky; that's clear to him. Now, he's questioning his judgment all because of you. With just two simple words and that twinkle in your eye, you convinced him that he deserved a second chance and that he is worthy of the life he’s living now.

How does she do that? That must be a superpower or something.

“Listen,” you begin again. “I appreciate your concern, but please let me do this.”

Bucky’s hand drops from your arm as if he's enchanted. He doesn't want to tell you what to do; God knows he's had enough of that in his lifetime. He shouldn't do that to you either.

“You’re going to give me wrinkles with all this stress you’re puttin’ me through, darlin’.” His gaze narrows at you.

“Aw, you poor thing,” you smirk. “Seriously, please don’t stress. You're first on my contact list, if anything goes wrong.”

First on your contact list? Bucky won’t dwell on that too much, for his own sake. He rolls his eyes, and you chuckle at his disapproval. 

You step towards him and quickly kiss his cheek. Bucky practically melts at the brief contact. As you pull away, your eyes shine with forming tears. “Thank you for always looking out for me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

Bucky is stunned into silence as he stares at you, dumbfounded, as if you just told him the world is falling apart. He wants to say it's the opposite—that he doesn’t deserve you—but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he’s choking on them.

You smile at him as if you can read his thoughts, and one of the tears rolls down your face. You turn and stride away. Before he knows it, the crowd has engulfed you.

There's a sharp pain in his chest. For some reason, he feels like he just lost you. Bucky should have fought harder for you. Although he doesn’t deserve you, he would treat you right.

If it were Bucky instead, he would have a hand on the small of your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and asking you to dance. He would take his time with you, making you feel like you were something special, because you are special.

Now he has to spend the next hour drifting in and out of meaningless conversations while he worries about you. 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you return to the bar. You’ve never felt so deeply cared for in your life, and you refuse to take it for granted. Already, you’re planning ways to show your gratitude to Bucky, making sure he knows how much you appreciate him and everything he has done for you.

You spot Derek still at the bar where you left him. His head is resting in his hand, and it looks like he has switched to water. Sneaking up behind him, you say with a hint of amusement in your tone, “Did you drink them dry of all their alcohol?”

Derek spins around, and upon seeing you, he bursts out laughing. “No, I thought this would help me sober up faster.” He lifts his glass.

You hum in response. Derek jumps down from his stool and faces you. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. First, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk on a date. Work was frustrating me, and you were making me nervous. I thought the alcohol might help, but I realize now that it only made things worse.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Second, I talked about myself the whole time. That was not fair to you. I didn’t even ask you anything; I just rambled on and on about shit that doesn’t matter.”

“Third,” he rubs the back of his neck. “The biggest mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. That was highly inappropriate, and I should have asked you before even thinking about it.”

Wow, you weren't expecting that, but you're pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t justify what he did, but at least he’s taking accountability. 

“I think we need a do-over. What do you think?” You offer.

Derek seems relieved by your words. “That sounds great.”

You give him a kind smile. “How about a walk?” 

He glances down at your attire. “In heels?”

You snort. “I’ll take them off.”

“I’ll carry them for you.” He winks at you. You already feel more at ease with this new start.

Derek motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you do. You stroll side by side through the hallway. His fingers gently brush against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You feel warmth in your chest and heat rising in your cheeks.

He pauses by the coat room and motions to it. “I gotta get my jacket quick.” You nod for him to go ahead, and he steps inside. 

You lean against the doorframe as you pull your phone out of your purse. “I should send my boss a text before we leave.” You swiftly type something out and send it to Bucky.

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Derek grabs his leather jacket and throws it on. “I thought you’d never get away from him.”

You put your phone back in your purse, and your brow furrows. “Hmm?”

“I thought he was going to hold you hostage all night.”

“Well, he is kind of my job.” You shrug with a grin on your lips.

“I know that,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a nice guy, he just asks a lot of you.”

“I don’t think he asks enough of me, honestly. I have the easiest job.” 

He tilts his head. “You don’t think he’s demanding or testy?”

“Not at all. Sure, he sometimes gets grumpy, but I know he means well,” you admit. Derek quirks a brow, then dips his head and shakes it. He stays quiet for a moment.

You press the matter because you're curious. “You seem like you want to say something else.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek waves you off.

“Come on, just say it.” Your tone is playful..

Derek takes a deep breath as he contemplates whether to say what’s on his mind. “I mean, he’s kind of a murderer.”

Your body stiffens, and you frown; you are entirely disgusted by the fact that he said that.

"No, he's not." Your voice is firm and unwavering.

“You’re defending him? I get that you work for him, but you don’t have to follow him blindly.”

You scoff. “Of course, I’m defending him. He was brainwashed for fuck’s sake and he didn’t have a choice. How would you like to be stripped of your choices and used as a weapon?”

Your blood is boiling. Why were you so naive to think that this guy was anything other than a jerk? Derek disrespected you, and now he's doing the same to Bucky. You should have listened to your boss when he advised you not to give this guy another chance.

“You believe that shit? He almost broke my fucking hand, shaking it. That seems like a conscious mind, freely being violent, to me.” Derek shouts.

You could laugh because you weren’t aware that Bucky tried to break his hand. You thought Derek was exaggerating, but now you realize he wasn’t.

You’re finished with this discussion. You need to walk away before you become ‘freely violent.’ You start to march away, but stop and turn around when Derek speaks again.

“Hold on, I see what this is. You follow Barnes around like a lost puppy because you want something from him.”

You let out a dry laugh. You can’t believe you’re still listening to this guy like he has anything relevant to say.

Derek gets closer to you again. “No wait, I got it. You’re trying to get in his pants for a promotion.”

Your heart pounds with anger as you glare at Derek. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I truly love my job, asshole.”

“No one wants to be an assistant.” 

“Well, this date is over.” You stomp down the hallway, attempting to get some distance from him.

“It’s a shame.” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s giving you a condescending smile. “You would have been a decent fuck.”

Your hands ball into fists tightly, and your fingernails dig into your palms. You shouldn’t even be entertaining Derek, but you yell back anyway. “That’s your problem, huh? You think with your two inch dick rather than your brain.”

You can tell that bothered him. “You’re just mad because I figured you out.” You roll your eyes, and your feet shift forward again. “That’s right. Go cry to your boss and beg him to fuck you.”

You keep moving, unbothered by his shouts. Derek continues, much to your dismay, “I knew you were desperate, but I didn’t realize you were also a slut.”

Your movements falter slightly. Out of everything Derek said, that’s what affects you the most. It feels heavy on your chest. Everything he mentioned about you and Bucky feels like weights tied to your ankles, dragging you down. Your vision blurs as tears prick your eyes.

You hear a door shut in the distance, and you hope that means he’s gone because you can’t hold back your tears any longer. You need to sit down, but the waterfall of tears obstructs your vision. You find a wall to lean against and slowly slide down into a sitting position.

You pull your knees to your chest and sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for air in a broken cry.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Bucky has been standing in the same spot for several minutes, staring at your text. He’s thinking about whether to find you and take you home or stay put like you asked him to.

He struggles to follow your precise instructions; stay out of it. He strides out of the room like a tracking dog following a scent. As soon as he exits the ballroom, he hears it.

Muffled cries fill his ears, and he knows it’s you without even looking. Your back is against the wall, but you’re curled in on yourself. He tentatively steps over to you, so he doesn’t startle you.

“Darlin’?” Bucky’s tone is tender, full of sympathy. He’s never seen you like this, and it breaks his heart.

Your head snaps up from your knees. Your red, tired eyes dart over Bucky’s form. You quickly wipe the tears from your face and force a weak smile.

You point your thumb toward the ballroom. “I’ll be in; I just need a minute.” Your voice is thick with unshed tears.

“No,” he declares as he walks over to you, positioning himself against the wall while maintaining a little distance to give you space. He grabs the fabric of his dress pants at his thighs and adjusts them before sitting down beside you.

Bucky stretches out his legs and lets the quiet settle between you, interrupted only by your sniffles. After a while, he decides to continue his statement. “You’re going to sit with me for as long as you need.”

Once you can breathe clearly and the occasional tear falls, you mumble, “You should have broken his hand.”

Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle. “You saw that?”

“Sort of, but…Derek confirmed my suspicions.” It’s a struggle for you to get his name out as if it’s strangling you from the inside.

He clenches his jaw, furious that Derek hurt you and that Bucky could have prevented it. But then again, you’re stubborn, and he knows you would eventually find a way to return to your date, even if he physically tried to hold you back. Yes, he’s a super soldier, but he doesn’t stand a chance against you when your heart is set on something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not right now, maybe later.” You wipe a stray tear from your jaw and rest your chin on your knee, examining a point on the opposite wall.

Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't know what to say or do. When he feels pain, he prefers to sit in silence. Maybe that’s what you want, so he chooses not to speak.

You break the stillness with a question. “You know how we said no secrets?”

He nods his head even though your focus isn’t on him. “Yeah.”

You slowly turn your head to meet his gaze. The color of your eyes is dim, and the skin around them is swollen.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Your voice cracks as if there’s a threat of more tears yet to come.

Bucky's throat tightens as he watches you. The sight is like witnessing a butterfly losing its wings yet struggling to stay aloft. You keep falling, desperately pleading for someone to save you from your impending doom. Bucky has been there for you, arms wide open; he’s just waiting for you to notice him.

“Could we do our post-gala recap tonight instead of tomorrow morning?” you ask, sounding uncertain, and his heart shatters.

“Works for me, doll.” Bucky’s lips lift at the corners. You return his smile, albeit smaller. At least he got that much. 

“Damnit,” his eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. “I didn’t bring my keys for the building. I can swing by my apartment-”

You interrupt him. “We can go to your apartment instead.” Your following words tumble out of you like you can’t hold back your growing anxiety. “If that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” He reassures, and your expression softens.

You nod and relax against the wall behind you. “I think I’m going to wait in my car, if that’s alright with you. I don’t feel like being in a crowd.”

Bucky scoffs in amusement; he wouldn't leave you alone in your car, especially not like this. You just admitted that you didn't want to be by yourself.

“No,” he stands up to his full height. You were baffled, staring at him with wide eyes. Your expression read What do you mean ‘no’, but you were hesitant to question his authority.

He offers you his hand and clears up your confusion. “We’re leaving.”

“Now?” You inspect his outstretched hand and then his face.

”Yes, now. You’re ridin’ with me.” 

“But, my car-”

Bucky cuts you off. “I’ll bring you back.” He waves his extended hand around. “Take my damn hand.”

You comply, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Always telling me what to do,” you smirk, and he can't help but chuckle. You brush off invisible dirt from your dress and look up at him.

Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even with your exhausted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You’re like a sunset, with colors in full vibrancy. Reds and oranges swirl together to create the masterpiece that is you.

“Is there something on my face? Oh shit, did I cry all my mascara off? The packaging said it was waterproof.” You grumble as if you’re furious about your makeup. He can just see you writing a lengthy review about how you bawled your eyes out, and the mascara didn’t hold up.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, your mascara is fine." He doesn't know why, but he admits the truth about why he was openly gawking at you: "I was staring because you're beautiful."

You blink multiple times at him, then he notices your cheeks flush. “James, I—I know I look like a wreck. Don’t lie,” you stammer out.

Bucky smirks at the sound of his first name. He rarely hears you call him anything other than ‘Barnes,’ but when you're serious or scolding him, you use ‘James.’ He lives for those moments, just to hear you say his name that way.

He shrugs. "Logically, you should. But you're beautiful, no matter the circumstances."

You’re attempting to suppress a smile, but failing. “You can’t say things like that.”

A charming smirk appears on Bucky’s face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you’re searching for the best answer, “you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you hold it up.” He winks at you.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. You playfully roll your eyes and slap his arm. “Are you going to keep flirting, or are you taking me to your apartment?”

Is that what he was doing? Talking to you like this felt so effortless that he didn’t even realize he was flirting. He enjoyed it and wanted to continue. He liked seeing you all flustered—the way you tried to pretend you didn’t like it, but your flushed cheeks gave you away.

Bucky tilts his head. “I can do both. I’m a great multitasker.”

Your lips part and you suck in a breath. Now he’s thinking that little comment he just made could have a double meaning. Maybe he intended it that way because you definitely took it like that. And, damn, now he’ll be thinking about it the whole way home.

“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” You reply in a mocking tone.

Bucky could do this forever with you and never tire of it. However, he knows that this is extremely inappropriate. No matter how much he wants you, he understands he can’t have you.

He wants to be the person who makes you laugh, comforts you on tough days when you're feeling anxious, kisses your shoulder when he wakes up beside you, and holds you in his arms to relieve his stress, as you melt away his tension. He craves all the cheesy, romantic moments that come with being in a relationship with you.

But you are unattainable. You’re his assistant. Bucky feels like all the other creepy political figures who fantasize about being with someone who works for them. They get a sickening power high from it. 

That’s not how he sees it, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Unlike the other wealthy assholes who view their employees as mere possessions, he perceives you as something precious that he doesn’t deserve. Perhaps that’s why he believes he can’t have you — because he thinks you’re too good for him.

“Ready, darlin’?”He eventually asks. You nod, still grinning. If he sees you smile like that one more time, he might not be able to stop his common sense from flying out the window.

Bucky offers you his arm, and you wrap yours through the opening, gripping his bicep as he leads you out of the building. He calls for the car to come around and helps you into it, placing a protective hand over your head to prevent you from bumping it.

Once he knows you’re safely inside, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feelings within him to stop burrowing into his heart. It’s like a festering wound he can never quite be free of. 

One hell of a wish that is. He’ll never get rid of these maddening feelings for you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The car ride to Bucky’s apartment is mostly quiet, which is fine with you because your mind is keeping you thoroughly entertained.

Congressman James Barnes was flirting, and he was flirting with you. He called you beautiful and meant it, even when your face was streaked with dried tears. He winked at you, and you felt your stomach flutter instantly.

You were foolish to think one date would erase these feelings, because now that you know him, no man will ever compare. You’ll constantly hold everyone to the standard set by Bucky.

Bucky's driver approaches his apartment building, which appears to be quite expensive based on its exterior. You know that this apartment was provided to him by the government upon his return to the States; it was part of the deal for his pardon. He received a nice apartment situated high enough that no one would disturb him, but the government was keeping a close eye on him.

It made you feel nauseous just thinking about it, even though he wasn’t being monitored closely at the moment. It was absurd that he had been under constant surveillance in a home he never chose. Hydra had taken away all of Bucky’s choices, so why couldn't he even decide something as simple as where he lives?

You open the door to get out, but you hear another door slam, causing you to stop. Then, Bucky jogs around the car to stand in front of you with his hand out. Ever the gentleman.

You smile and take his human hand to help you out of the car. His metal hand rests gently atop your head again as you exit. You feel like a princess with this kind of treatment.

Bucky subtly waves to his driver as the car pulls away. He then guides you inside, takes you to the elevator, and directs you down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, you were surprised by how charming and modern it was. It wasn't at all what you had imagined, but you liked it.

“Make yourself at home.” Bucky passes you and wanders into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water, please,” you murmur, still taking in your surroundings. You take off your heels at the door, not to be polite, but because your feet are killing you.

You pad into the kitchen after him, and he’s putting ice in a glass. The kitchen is bright white with a splash of color. There’s an island with stools lined up along it, and that’s where you decide to ‘make yourself at home’.

You lift yourself onto the stool, and Bucky slides your water glass over the counter. You nod in thanks and take a sip. He then disappears down the hallway that you’re certain leads to his room.

He returns without his tuxedo jacket, bowtie, and shoes. His collar is unbuttoned, and he's rolling up his sleeves as he rounds the island to sit beside you. Every time you see him like this, you can't help but internally freak out.

You nearly choke on your water, and he’s there with a hand gently patting you on the back. “You okay there?”

“Of course, just drank it too fast.” You nervously smile, hoping he misses your lie. Bucky drops his hand when you stop coughing.

You need to change the subject because you have to stop thinking about how dreamy he looks. “Where would you like to start?” 

You take your purse from your shoulder and place it on the surface to dig for your phone. “I don’t have my laptop, but I can write your thoughts down on my notes app and transfer them to a document later.”

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist, pausing your action. “We can do that tomorrow. Relax, talk to me.”

You glance up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Breathing feels pointless because you can't seem to exhale. His eyes are shifting in a way that makes it seem like his smoky blue gaze conveys something entirely different from what his mouth is saying, but you're struggling to understand their message.

He releases your wrist, and you come back to reality. You set your purse off to the side as you inhale oxygen properly again. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened?” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready to talk.

You take a deep breath and begin to explain. “When I returned to the bar, he had sobered up a bit and apologized to me. I foolishly believed he was genuinely sorry and asked if he would like to start over.”

You let your eyes fall away from him, examining the drops of condensation running down your glass. “But, then, he insulted you, and that apology didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly. “What’d he say?” You shake your head, unable to tell him the vile words bouncing around in your skull.

”It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He insists.

You meet his gaze once more, and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Not out of pity for him, but because it pains you to hear someone speak negatively about your favorite person. The most heartbreaking part is that the worst of it comes from his own mind.

Hydra is long gone, but now he is torturing himself. You wish you could take away all that pain and those awful thoughts, replacing them with something pure.

From your experience, you understand that the healing process is a slow journey. It requires time and energy to rebuild your mental and emotional state and regain a sense of humanity. You want to be the person he trusts enough to share that process with.

Bucky doesn’t need fixing because he wasn’t broken to begin with; he needs someone to confide in and rely on. You want to be that person who’s there for him through it all, just as he is for you.

“That’s the problem. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice quivers slightly. 

He scans your face like he’s trying to find the lie hidden in your features, but he won’t find one.

“Okay,” he lets out a long sigh. “You’re right.”

“Absolutely, I am.” You agree matter-of-factly, then deepen your voice to impersonate Bucky: “I’m always right.”

He scoffs. “I don’t sound like that.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. ”I know, I’m working on it.”

Bucky smirks, shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. His expression becomes serious again. “What else did he say?”

You wave him off. “It’s not important.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a disapproving look. You roll your eyes and say, “Why do you need to know?”

He shrugs. “For research purposes.” 

You purse your lips, but eventually concede. “He suggested that I was trying to…get in your pants for a promotion.” 

His jaw ticks, but you reluctantly carry on. “On top of that, he called me desperate and a slut, so truly the highlight of my week.” You release a dry laugh.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems he might break a tooth. His hands are balled into fists, and the raging fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Don’t.” You warn.

“What?” He grits his teeth.

“Don’t get mad. He’s not worth the energy.”

“Not mad.” He growls. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Well, I’m over it, you should be too-”

Bucky interrupts you. “Hold on, I’m plotting his murder in my mind.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you stifle a giggle. “Okay, now I’m at the part where I hide the body.”

You playfully slap his arm, and his eyes shoot open, amusement evident on his face. “Are you making me an accomplice to your imaginary crimes?” you tease.

“Who said imaginary?” He smirks. You laugh, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. You shouldn’t find planning a murder comical, but it feels nice to laugh again.

After a beat of silence, Bucky speaks. “Can I ask why you went back to him?”

Your smile fades as you lean forward, resting your elbow on the surface in front of you and propping your head in your hand. "If this is your way of saying 'I told you so,' just save it. I already know I was being stupid."

“That’s not-” he blurts, but cuts himself off to start over. “I just wanna know. And, you’re not stupid, don’t say that.”

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts before revealing yourself to him. "I haven't been on a date in a couple of years, and I had a lot riding on this one. I know it sounds naive, but I thought it would be a one-and-done situation."

You chew on the skin of your bottom lip. "When he touched me, I thought I was the one with the problem. I believed there was something mentally wrong with me for not wanting him. But I was just making excuses for him, as I always do for horrible men who don't deserve my mercy."

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on you, intently listening and absorbing every word. This support is something you didn’t realize you needed, but it’s helping tremendously, and you hope he understands that.

You sit up a little taller in your seat, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you as you open up to him. “I tried dating before, and it was terrible—one bad date after another. I made a silent vow to myself that the next guy I met, I would settle for, because I’m tired of coming home alone. I want love, and if that makes me desperate, so be it.”

You give him a weak smile as you finish your rambling. You avert your gaze and start glancing around the kitchen, suddenly embarrassed.

“Look at me,” he orders in a soft voice. You find his eyes again, and they’re earnest. “Never settle, darlin’. You are something special, and you deserve nothing less than perfect.”

You're looking at him as if he has cleared your cloudy sky and made the sun shine brighter. You don't know how to react or what to say. Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, as if it's trying to escape.

Bucky clears his throat and hops off the stool. He veers around the island and picks up an old-fashioned radio that you notice for the first time.

“What are you doing?” you mumble. He turns the dial, and the crackle of the radio fills the air. The noise fades as he finds the station he was searching for. Right away, you recognize that the music is from the forties, instantly bringing a smile to your lips.

“I found a station that still plays music from my era some time ago. I listen to it occasionally, and it takes me back.” A broad smile lights up your face as you notice his relaxed demeanor, as if the mere sound of the music puts him at ease. 

Bucky rounds the counter again, standing in front of you. He offers you his flesh hand with a charming smirk. You tilt your head. “What?”

He nods to his hand. “I’m showing you how a real date should go.” 

Your stomach does somersaults and you bite your lip. “Are you smooth-talking me, Barnes?”

“Maybe, is it working?” His voice is deep and suave.

“You know it is.”

He extends his hand further. “Dance with me.” 

You take his hand, and he helps you down. He leads you to an open space between the kitchen and the living room.

He grabs your arm with his metal hand and places it on his shoulder. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your arm to grip your waist, sending a shiver down your spine. With your hands still interlocked, he raises his elbow and points outward.

“I should probably tell you, I don’t know how to dance.” You mutter.

“Do I have the honor of being your first dance?” His expression is marked by feigned shock.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Yes.”

His face softens. “Don’t worry. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll start slow.” 

You nod, and he sees this as a chance to begin. “Watch my feet and mimic my movements.”

You glance down between your bodies, and he takes a step back. You take a step forward, then he side steps, and you follow. You register that it’s your turn to take a step back, and he takes a step forward—another side step in the opposite direction, and you find yourselves back where you started.

“Good, you’re a natural.” Bucky sounds pleased, which brings a grin to your face.

He repeats his actions while you follow, and you watch his feet several more times until you feel confident in your understanding.

Your gaze returns to his, and the expression in his eyes is undeniably captivating. This moment feels like much more than a simple dance. You search your mind for a topic to discuss, hoping to avoid getting lost in the music and giving in to the urge to kiss him.

“Do you like being here?” The question runs out of your mouth.

Bucky’s taken aback by your sudden inquiry. He gives you a perplexed expression. “You mean this apartment?”

“Yeah, this apartment. Brooklyn. I know you lived here, but Brooklyn has changed a lot since the forties.”

“Oh, definitely, but I still enjoy living here.” He answers with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” You resume your thought. “Don’t get me wrong; it's a lovely space, but do you see yourself living somewhere else?”

Bucky hums, lost in thought. “Yeah, I do. I want a house away from everything—somewhere without the noise of traffic, surrounded by nature like I had in Wakanda. Maybe I’ll finally get that cat.” He pinches your side, and you let out a snort.

You release a lengthy sigh. “And, I’ll be long gone.” You’re teasing, but there’s some truth to your words.

He shakes his head, clearly offended by your assumption. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Well, if you’re talking about settling down, you won’t be in politics anymore, and I won’t be your assistant.” You clarify.

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t want to stay friends?” 

“Yeah, I do.” You squeak.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Bucky presses, and he’s caught you in a lie.

Your heart is racing now. Are you really about to tell him how you feel? You can’t imagine a future without him in it, but if you remain just friends for the rest of your life, it might break you.

You open and close your mouth before spitting it out. “Because I want to be more than just your friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His metal fingers twitch on your waist, causing more chills to run through your body. He scrutinizes you as if you had said something obscene.

You part your lips to interrupt his thoughts. As soon as you do, his attention shifts to your open mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as his gaze traces the outline of your mouth.

“Fuck,” He grunts. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

You must've forgotten you were still dancing, as you're tripping over your feet. You recover, getting back into the rhythm of the movements, but your mind feels like it's short-circuiting.

“Th-then,” you stutter, “kiss me.”

“It’s a bad idea.” His tone is serious, though a soft smile plays on his lips.

You contemplate this for a moment. He’s right; your situation is complicated, and kissing your boss would be a bad idea. Yet, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Maybe, but you tend to have many of those.” You quip, smirking.

Bucky huffs air through his nose as if it’s funny, but when he speaks, his voice is firm. “No, I mean, it’s a terrible idea.”

You scoff, lightly hitting his shoulder where your hand rests. “That’s not making me feel any better, James.”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. He looks as if he’s been longing for you, and now that he has permission to have you, he’s still contemplating the situation.

He comes to a sudden stop, causing you to halt your footwork as well. He still hasn’t released his grip on you, almost as if he physically can’t. You hear a deep, frustrated sound coming from his throat, indicating that he's angry with himself.

“Fuck it,” Bucky grumbles. 

Before you can fully register what he’s doing, he pulls you in by your waist and crashes his lips against yours. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. His lips bruise yours with a desperate intensity, as though he’s starved, and you’re the only one who can satisfy his hunger.

You reach out and cup the back of his neck with your palm. His hand falls away from yours as he grips the side of your neck, right under your jaw. With your hand now free, you run your fingers along his back, drawing him closer. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip before invading your mouth. It explores every crevice like he’s committing your mouth to memory. You swirl your tongue around his and moan into the kiss.

Bucky shifts his weight, struggling to find his footing, as if the sound alone weakened his knees. His tongue retreats, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth before he pulls away completely.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find him studying you intently as you both try to catch your breath. His fingers gently brush against your rosy cheeks and swollen lips. He sweeps your hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“We need to stop.” His voice is strained, as if the words are forced from his throat.

“Why?” You breathe.

He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see you in this state, flushed and desperate for more of him. “If we continue, I won’t be able to hold back.”

You smooth the loose strands that hang in his eyes back to their original place. “Don’t hold back.” Your tone is low and sultry.

Bucky's eyes fly open, breathing hard through his nose. His metal arm envelops your torso, pulling you close until you feel him, thick and hard against your lower stomach.

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your eyes dart between his features, unsure of where to focus because you desire all of him. Your hand travels down the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling the quick thump of his heart beneath your fingertips. You grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until you're only inches apart from his lips.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Now, shall we continue, or do you have any more objections?”

He releases a shaky breath against your lips and shakes his head. You must’ve stolen his ability to speak. “Fantastic,” you whisper.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time more slowly. Your lips brush against each other gently, savoring the moment. You relish the soft curve of his mouth, the way his stubble tickles your delicate skin, and the feel of his nose nudging against your cheek.

Your tongue delves into his mouth uninvited, but he welcomes it with a satisfied hum. Now it’s your turn to explore his mouth with your tongue. You don’t get an adequate exploration because his tongue is sliding against yours, making it hard to focus on anything but his taste.

His warm hand slips into your hair, gently tugging at the roots to intensify the kiss. You whimper into his mouth, and suddenly, it feels like a switch has flipped. The kiss quickly becomes heated, as if your mouths are battling for dominance.

You unclasp your fist from his shirt as both of your hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, you start to undo them. Once you’ve finished, he removes his hands from you and shrugs the shirt off. You hear the light fabric drop to the floor, and his hands quickly return to their previous positions.

Bucky begins to step forward, pushing you backward while your hands explore the firm contours of his chest and stomach. Your calves bump against something soft, and you realize it's the couch. You break the kiss, but his lips follow yours as if he's not finished savoring you.

“Sit.” You coax.

His eyelids flip up to reveal dilated, icy eyes. He inclines back and smirks. “Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

He sits down reluctantly with a huff. You back away from the couch, taking a moment to admire the view. As you scan his shirtless body, you notice the defined muscles. The black metal of his arm glimmers under the dim light.

You reach behind you to pull at the navy ties on your back as he proceeds to complain from his seat. “Y’know, this is my apartment.” 

The ties give way, and you start to slide the thin straps down your shoulders. “I feel like I should be tellin’-” Bucky stops himself as the material of the dress cascades down your body, pooling at your feet. You’re completely naked save for the steel blue panties you're wearing.

“What were you saying?” You poke fun at his stunned expression.

He swallows hard as he observes the angles and curves of your form. "It's irrelevant."

You giggle, warm and breathy. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Should I take these off, too?”

“No,” he blurts. “Keep ‘em on.”

You let go of the band, relaxing your hands at your sides. Bucky stretches out his arm and beckons you closer. “Come here.”

You saunter over to him. Once you’re close enough, he grips your hip with his metal hand. His cold touch sends shivers down your body. You sink onto the couch, positioning your knees on either side of him as you straddle his thighs. 

His flesh hand drags along the length of your figure, fingertips ghosting over you like he’s touching petals on a flower. “You’re stunning, doll.”

Your heart skips a beat at the compliment. Bucky’s eyes shift from your body to gaze up at you, and you cup his cheek. Your thumb strokes his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“Me?” You mutter. “You are perfect.”

His lips curl as he tilts his head up to peck your jaw in gratitude. When he leans back, his head dips to examine your panties again, his fingers toying with the waistband as he bites his lip.

“Do you know why I bought these?” you ask sheepishly. He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the steel blue fabric. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

Bucky looks up suddenly at your confession. "You're tryin’ to kill me, aren't you?"

You tilt your head back and chuckle. When you glance down again, he pokes your side. “That’s not funny! I swear, you’re going to give me a heart attack. You can’t just say that and expect me to stay calm,” he scolds, but you can’t help but keep laughing.

You tip your head forward and trail kisses from his cheek to his ear. “Sorry, baby. I wouldn’t want your heart to give out,” you whisper.

As you lean close to his ear, you gently nibble on his earlobe, and he lets out a soft grunt in response. You begin to kiss your way down his neck, focusing on the spots that elicit the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue flicks out to taste his skin, and you feel him shiver beneath you.

Bucky’s metal fingers press into your hip, as if he’s struggling to resist the urge to take you right here and now. His other hand lightly traces the wet spot on your underwear, making you groan against his neck.

“Hmm…you’re soaked,” he announces as he applies more pressure to your pussy. Your hips jerk when his fingertips move in circular motions on your underwear clad clit. 

You place lazy kisses along the area where metal touches skin. It's too hard to do anything beyond that now, as your head spins from his actions. You lean your forehead against the cool metal, finding a soothing comfort in it.

“There you go, just relax for me.” His voice is raspy as he speaks in your ear. 

He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your slick folds. Bucky slides a single digit into your entrance and you suck in a breath. He languidly pumps his finger into you while gently kissing your shoulder.

Your warm, heavy breathing against his chest quickens as he increases his pace. He inserts another one, stroking your walls with his long fingers. You let out a throaty moan and reach up to clutch his metal bicep to ground yourself.

You tip your head back to see him as he thrusts his fingers deeply into you. A delighted sound escapes your lips as his fingers crook deliciously inside of you. You grind against the palm of his hand as he works at your core.

“That’s it. Take what you need, darlin’.” He encourages.

You tilt his chin up and press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He responds with equal enthusiasm as his fingers expertly plunge further and faster. Lips connect roughly as his teeth graze your bottom lip to nip at it. Your mouth separates from his, and your hot breath brushes across his lips. 

“I—I want to ride you.” You pant.

His fingers falter as he processes your comment. He inspects you as if he can’t believe you’re real. His metal fingers brush against your collarbone to tuck your hair back.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, awestruck by you. “If that’s what you want.” 

He gradually reduces his pleasing movements as you nod your head in agreement. His fingers slip out of you, and when he holds them up, they’re glistening with your juices. He puts the digits to his mouth and wraps his lips around them, sucking them clean.

Your jaw drops at the sight; it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You didn’t realize he could turn you on even more than you already are. 

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a hum. “You taste divine. I would eat you out, but I guess we’ll save that for another time.” He states with a wink.

You aren't sure you can get off the couch now because your knees feel weak and your stomach is a fluttering mess.

He snaps the band of your underwear, pulling you from your daze. “How ‘bout you take these off for me while I take off my pants, sound good?”

You clamber off the couch as Bucky starts to unfasten his belt. You watch him intently while your thumbs hook into your panties. Sliding them down your thighs, you realize you’re both observing one another getting undressed.

You step out of your underwear and toss them somewhere in the living room. You hear him grunt from his seat now that you are completely bare.

He lifts his hips off the sofa and tugs his pants and boxers down the length of his thighs. You watch his cock spring free and your mouth begins to water. You want to drop to your knees for him, but the thought of him inside you is too tempting to resist.

Bucky tears the fabric from his legs and mimics your actions by tossing it across the room. He reaches out and holds you by your hips, then leans down to place soft kisses on your waist. He pulls you closer, and you both settle back into your spot on the couch.

His dick rests against his stomach, hardened and demanding. You take him firmly in your grasp and he sucks air through his teeth. You pump him a few times, spreading the precum with your thumb.

Your core is throbbing with anticipation. You decide you need him now. You position yourself over him, swiping the head of his cock through your slick. You line up his tip with your entrance, teasing it.

Bucky glances up at you with pleading eyes, and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. “Please, darlin’. I need to feel you.”

You didn’t know how beautiful begging could sound, but hearing it from his sweet lips is like silk blanketing your ears. “I know, honey. I need you too.” 

His eyes soften at the nickname. You’ll save that knowledge for later. 

You don’t waste any more time. You grab his shoulder with your free hand in preparation. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him as if you have all the time in the world, wanting to memorize every second of this moment.

He releases a strangled moan as his body goes rigid beneath you. He’s stretching out your tight pussy luxuriously as you inch down his cock. You maintain eye contact with him, observing the way his face twists in pleasure.

You settle onto his thighs, and he bottoms out inside you. You feel incredibly full, it’s a sensation you could easily get addicted to. As you take your time to adjust to his sheer size, you brush your knuckles across his cheekbone.

“You feel so good.” You praise. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bucky’s flesh hand loosens on your hip to take your wrist and kiss your palm. “Right here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You lean in, kissing him desperately because you’re already addicted to him and can’t get enough. Your lips move tenderly against his, pouring every ounce of adoration you feel for him.

You ease up on his cock, moaning into each other's mouth. You fall back down, his dick filling you once more. You maintain a steady pace up and down on him, using his shoulder as leverage.

He breaks the kiss, allowing his hand to wander into your hair. He gently tugs on the strands at the base of your scalp to angle your head upwards. His mouth finds your neck like a magnet, kissing and licking the soft flesh.

Your hips roll at the pace of his languid kisses on your neck. Your greedy pussy is taking every delectable inch of him, drawing him in deep. Bucky groans against your throat, sending vibrations through you.

He caresses his way down your body, letting your hair fall as he trails his fingers over your thigh. Your hips pick up speed, riding him quicker. His forehead rests against your chest due to the sudden change of pace.

“Doll-” he drawls. “You feel incredible.”

Bucky licks a line up your sternum as his metal hand glides up your side. His touch is feather-light on your breast, a cool sensation sweeping over your nipple. His mouth moves to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along the opposite breast. 

He eventually finds your nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. He latches onto it, sucking and swirling his tongue around it. You arch into him, a lewd noise escaping your parted lips.

He palms at the other breast, massaging and swiping his thumb over the delicate skin. The pleasure you’re feeling from his skilled tongue only spurs you on, and it drives you to ride him faster, harder, and deeper.

He grunts and bites your nipple. Your mind feels overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Has sex always been this magical? Not for you, at least. 

Bucky is the missing piece you’ve been searching for, not just because of the sex, but because of everything he brings to your life. The sex is incredible because he is incredible. It’s that simple.

“Just like that. Fuck—you’re doing so good.” He mumbles in between kisses as he trails over to your opposite breast. His metal hand moves back to your hip to help guide your movements.

He backs away from your chest when he knows he’s given equal attention to each of your breasts. He concentrates on your face, observing the way your lips part and the sounds that flow from them.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he begins to massage it. Bucky kneads the pliable skin, moving up and down the flesh until he’s squeezing your ass. With the leverage he has, he bucks up into you with the same rhythm you set. 

Your voice breaks into a guttural moan as he pulls you down forcefully onto his cock. You continue to match his tempo, but your hip movements are becoming more erratic.

“Let me take over, darlin’.” He groans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

How did you get so lucky to have a man who is more concerned about your pleasure? He makes it his mission to satisfy your every need; you just have to allow him to do so.

You softly smile. “I think you underestimate what your cock is doing to me.”

“Well, let me make you feel even better,” Bucky reiterates. You nod in response and stop your actions.

“Good girl,” he rasps. He scoots to the edge of the couch while still fully inside you. Carefully, he positions your legs to wrap around his hips, and his metal arm covers your torso. Then, he effortlessly picks you up as if you weigh nothing and begins moving across the apartment.

You cling to him, though you know he would never let you fall. He steps into his room and gingerly sets you down on the end of the bed. Leaning over you, he kisses the tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“You didn’t want to fuck me on your couch?” You tease.

“No,” he lowers his mouth to your ear and growls, “because you’re not some random hook up.”

Bucky punctuates that statement by slamming his dick into you. You whine and squirm beneath him. He inclines back and clutches your hips, thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace. You throw your head back against the mattress because he was right, this is even better.

He’s touching parts inside of you that you never knew existed. Your legs tighten around him as you reach for his neck, craving the sensation of him beneath your fingertips. His gaze is locked on you, and his eyes sparkle with a desperate desire to please you.

“Tell me how that feels, doll.” 

“Fucking fantastic.” You breathe, your lungs are working overtime, as he effortlessly drains the oxygen from your chest.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips; that's exactly what he wanted to hear. Bucky's hand moves down to the underside of your knee. He takes hold of it and lifts it up, so your knee presses into your side. Finding the angle he desired, he pushes into you with renewed purpose.

You arch your back, and you wail when he hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. The head of his cock pounds against your g-spot repeatedly, reducing you to a writhing and whimpering mess.

He’s bringing you to the edge, and it’s happening quickly. The pressure is rising within you like a tidal wave, and you feel like you might drown in it. Your senses seem heightened, and Bucky is surrounding you, integrating himself into every one of them.

“James–” His name feels like a prayer on your lips.

“I know you’re close, pretty girl. Let me get you there.” His metal hand reaches between your bodies and his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit. 

Your cunt instantly clamps down on his dick and you moan loudly. You were already close, but now you’re teetering on the edge. Your free hand fists the sheets, and your thighs begin to shake.

“I’ve got you, darlin’. Let go. I’ll be right behind you.” His words drift over you like steam rising from a hot spring, warm and enticing.

Your body obeys immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. The pressure coiled in your stomach releases and your pussy clenches hard around him in waves. You scream out in a breathless cry, your grip tightening on his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re a shuddering, aching mess under him. Your eyes are sewn shut, and you feel as though you’re floating. A wave of euphoria washes over you, leaving you high on the sensation.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like a mantra. He grabs both your hips again, as if afraid you'll slip away.

His cock proceeds to ram into your pulsating cunt, working you through your climax until he’s twitching inside you. His cum spills deeply into you with a low groan from his lips. He’s coating your walls and warming your core with the thick liquid.

His hips come to a stop, and his head rests in the crook of your neck. Bucky wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You lazily fold your arms over him, holding him as if you never want to let go. He nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. You gently scratch his upper back, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters right below your ear. “You’re real, right? This isn’t a dream?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I’m very real, honey.” You kiss his shoulder softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky hums contentedly and leans back, gently slipping out of you. “Good.”

He strolls away from the bed and into the bathroom, turning on the light. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see what he’s doing. The sound of running water becomes audible, though you can’t see it.

He returns with a damp washcloth and completes his thought. “I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re smiling broadly. “I don’t believe this is a hostage situation if I’m here willingly.”

“Are you sure you don’t already have Stockholm syndrome?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head as he moves closer. He opens your legs and steps between them to wipe down your inner thighs, gently gliding his hand over your dripping cunt.

The sight gives you a warm feeling, knowing this isn’t the last time Bucky will take care of you. “Well, aren’t you the king of aftercare?” you joke.

“I can't leave my pretty girl in a mess, especially since I'm the one who made it.” Once he's finished, he tosses the dirty rag into his hamper and lies down beside you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close into his embrace.

You hum in contentment, burying your head into his chest. “I have a sneaky suspicion this won’t be the only mess we make tonight.”

Bucky squeezes you, running his hand through your hair to cradle your head. “I think you read my mind.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The door clicks softly behind Bucky as he treads carefully through the hall. His heavy boots thud against the floor, so he decides to take them off at the door to avoid waking you from sleep.

He changes out of his tactical gear and puts on a pair of sleep shorts. Gingerly, he moves the blanket aside to crawl in beside you. You are facing the opposite direction, and your light breathing indicates that you are still asleep.

Bucky wraps his arms around you and kisses your shoulder, unable to help himself. You stir slightly, resting your arms over his and melting into him. 

“Where’d you go?” Your sleepy voice breaks the quiet.

His chest warms at the adorable sound as he whispers against your neck, “I had some business to take care of.”

You hum and snuggle into the pillow, settling back into a relaxed state. Suddenly, your head pops up, and you peek over your shoulder at him. “James, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky retorts.

You let out a heavy sigh; it's clear you know he's lying. You kick off the covers and hop out of bed, moving toward his closet. He ogles your naked form; fuck, he wants to take you again.

You grab a random shirt from a hanger and slip it on. Turning to face him, you cross your arms over your chest with a blank expression. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

It's as if you see right through him. One glance into his eyes reveals exactly where he's been and what he's done.

“What? I’m fine. Come back to bed.” He pats the spot next to him.

You narrow your gaze at him, and your expression says it all: you don’t want to make me mad, James.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky points to the bathroom. “Cabinet. Top shelf.”

You practically stomp to the bathroom. He hears the sound of you rummaging around, and you exit with the opened first-aid kit in hand. You set it on his nightstand and search through it.

“Sit up,” you command in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

He smirks and does as you instructed him. “Always tellin-”

You hold up a finger, stopping him. “Not the time.”

“Don’t be upset.” He mutters.

Your shoulders, once tense, relax as you shake your head. “I’m not upset.” Your voice is softer and more gentle now.

“Then what’s wrong, doll?” Of course, he knows what’s bothering you, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. You haven’t seen this side of him; he’s afraid that because you have, you might leave.

“You paid Derek a visit, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods stiffly. “I did.”

You rub your forehead with your thumb and pointer finger. “Do I have to help you hide a body?”

“No.” He states simply.

You let your hand fall to your side now that you have confirmation that no murders occurred tonight. You point to his bloody and bruised knuckles and say, "If your hand is any indication, you beat the shit out of him."

“He got what he deserved. I actually let him off easy,” he grumbles, wishing he had done more to the bastard. He didn't use his metal arm; that was an act of mercy. Now he's regretting that decision.

“That’s not the point.” You release a long breath. “What if someone saw? Or worse, what if he talks? Your job could be in jeopardy.” You give him a worried expression.

“No one saw, and I doubt he’ll be saying much, if anything at all.” Bucky’s mind drifts back to the condition he left Derek in. His face was swollen, bloody, and bruised. Yup, he won’t be talking for a while; I made sure of that.

“Not helping.” You scold.

"Listen, nothing is more important than you. I would gladly lose my job if it meant keeping you safe." Your expression softens at his words, and he continues, knowing he has your full attention. “That asshole doesn’t get to speak to you like that, and get off scot-free.”

Bucky adjusts his tone to be light and caring as he takes your hand in both of his—flesh and metal. “I will always protect you. You never have to doubt that.” 

After a beat of silence, your lips curve into a smile. “Okay.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay? That’s it, no more arguing?”

“What’s there to argue about?” You shrug. “Like you said, the asshole got what he deserved.”

He returns your sweet grin and kisses your hand gently before letting it go. You bite your lip and turn around to search in the medical kit. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, you extend your hand toward him. "Now, let me clean you up, honey."

“Yes, ma'am.” He offers his hand willingly. You clean the blood from his knuckles, scrubbing deep into the grooves between his fingers.

“Did Derek at least cry?” you inquire, tilting your head as you examine his wounds.

“Like a baby,” he replies. You snort as you toss the dirty wipe into his trash can. Taking out some ointment from the kit, you apply it to the sores on his skin. He doesn't really need it since he’s a super soldier with rapid healing, but he lets you do it anyway because he appreciates the way you care for him.

“He apologized, by the way,” he adds. “At least, I think he did. I couldn’t understand him through all the blood in his mouth.”

"Bucky," you scoff, but then you break into laughter. "That's awful."

He wants to laugh with you, but is caught off guard when you call him by his nickname. He’s never heard you say it before, and it sounds so pleasant to him. You put away the ointment, and then he grabs your wrist. You whip your head around to meet his gaze.

“Say that again.” His voice is low and rough.

You furrow your brows in confusion but then understand his meaning, and your expression softens.

“Oh,” you shift to face him, your voice becoming seductive and breathy. “Bucky.”

He basically melts; his lips part, and all his muscles loosen up. “Again. Slower. I like the way it sounds.”

You giggle and gently cup his face in your hands, obeying his request. “Bucky…” You lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed; he believes he has died and gone to heaven, with you as the angel welcoming him at the pearly gates.

You lean back, and he looks up at you with hooded eyes. “Alright, my hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky's face is etched with amusement as you utter the words ‘my hero’. He has never been called that, nor has he felt like much of a hero anyway. But honestly, that word wouldn’t matter if it came from anyone else because he only ever wants to save you.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

[weenysworld]

Giddy Affairs

Pairing: Congressman!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader WC: ~300 Warnings: Fluff | Established relationship | Bucky getting nasty with you in his office | Bucky being insatiable | Bucky being a simp for his wife | Bucky being hot and incorrigible | Allusions to spicy times | Some wrist-tying | Some language | Very much unbeta’d | Lemme know if I missed anything! A/N: Sorry, I haven't been in a great headspace and I've been running my blog on queue. I promise I'll get back to all your wonderful messages/asks/reblogs ASAP. Put this together super quickly for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 03 Prompt: "Not now" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

"Where d'you think you're going?" Bucky drawled, fisting your dress at the small of your back and yanking you against him.

"OW! BUCKY."

You chuckled, trying to squirm away from his grip, but he didn't let you up, instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing you firmly to him as he dragged you toward his office.

"Congressman Barnes, Mr. Elliot wants to meet you," Grayson, Bucky's assistant, stopped you just before you both entered Bucky's office. He was clearly flustered to have walked in on yet another intimate moment.

"Not now. Reschedule it for tomorrow," Bucky murmured tersely.

You blushed, offering Grayson an awkward smile before Bucky shut the door.

"Bucky," you admonished, giggling as he lifted you with one arm and carried you to the couch.

He tossed aside his suit jacket, muttering about, "Stupid entrapments."

"What did you think, Mrs. Barnes? You'd show up looking like that and torture me?"

"I love that tie. Don't ruin it, Mr. Barnes," you warned, biting back your grin when you saw him loosen his tie in a hurry to unbutton the top two buttons of his white shirt.

You toed off your heels as he backed you toward the plush couch.

"That tie," he said, already yanking it loose, "is now your problem."

Before you could quip back, he pounced, pinning your wrists to the cushions and expertly looping the silk around. "You're too smug for a woman about to be ruined by her husband."

You laughed, breathless and bound, "Congressman Barnes, you're abusing your power."

He leaned in, nipping at your jaw, "I'm exercising my rights."

"How very patriotic."

"Mmm. Civic duty, doll," His smug reply went muffled as he licked a trail down your chest and took one of your tits into his mouth.

A sudden thought occurred to you, "Buck. The cameras."

He paused, chuckling, eyes glinting at you, "I disabled 'em the time we broke the desk."

"Good times," you said, your laugh turning into a lewd moan as he dragged your panties down.

"Let's see if we can top those times, sweetheart," he said, unzipping his pants.

Well?!

Leave your thoughts if you enjoyed reading it. 💞✨

If you'd like to be tagged/removed from my works, please do so here.

[weenysworld]

SPRING INTO SUMMER !

girl!dad bucky barnes x mom!reader

𝖘ummary: the one where the thunderbolts all think it's weird that bucky keeps pulling a disappearing act every couple of months, only that he's been taking the quinjet and coming back with a raging tan. After a particularly harrowing mission in amsterdam, they needed a place to lie low and bucky is already regretting his decision before even making it.

𝔞uthor's note: was craving for some domestic bucky fics and I remembered oh shit yeah I can write, amazing use of my free will and free time! This was set in the middle of the 14 month period as the new avengers(z). Also I watched Monday... yeah.

𝔴ord count: 9.4k

𝔴arnings: violence, blood, mentions of various weapons of defense, humor as a coping mechanism for trauma, various injuries, swearing, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, your daughter is described with curly dark brown hair and blue eyes, reader is an ex widow.

Five highly-trained assassins and a Bob walk into a bar and it becomes apparent to them that they seriously needed to go back to the drawing board with their plan of attack.

What was supposed to be a standard recon mission with moderate to heavy security on the exclusive bar they've been observing for the past two months became a really ugly, bloody battle where they were ambushed by black ops that spawned from nearly every direction.

Yelena had gotten intel on a potent form of mdma being smuggled by an international pharmaceutical company and selling it to exclusive night clubs all around Europe run by Hugo LaForteza, a Spanish crime syndicate with ties to organized crime. That same pharmaceutical company has tried burying their sketchy past of producing biological weapons and super soldier serum made from scratch before Thanos' snap and instead dabbling into the production of drugs after nightclubs rose to popularity again after everyone returned from being Blipped.

Now, a couple years later they were still up and running and over 40 people have been reported missing all over Europe. The rest of them managed to locate the warehouse where the victims were kept before they were set free and were sent home to their families

Now that the company had been exposed, they've done a good job at covering their tracks and hiding in plain sight. It was only the beginning. Ava, Yelena, and Bucky scouted potential hideouts, safehouses, certain covert routes the supply trucks have been taking to move the products, cross-referencing bank transfers and purchases to off-shore bank accounts containing billions of laundered money. Meanwhile, John weaselled his way into federal databases, built profiles against a hundred men and women who have been involved with the human trafficking scandal. Alexei has been revamping the Avengers brand by spending several hours a day on ms paint designing new avengers merch and arguing with vendors on Amazon when the set of hoodies and shirts he ordered two weeks ago came looking like someone taking a remedial Home Economics class sewed them together.

Meanwhile, Bob has been working in the background, making everyone cups of coffee that had been too watered down, too strong, or too sweet during long, intense nights of work. He went out one afternoon and purchased several cookbooks containing recipes for meals from around the world and promised the rest of the team that their long streak of ordering takeout every night was over because he would be the one cooking for them. So far, there had been no complaints, Bob had become an excellent cook.

After a year's worth of hunting down and investigating leads they finally took to the streets and began taking down nightclubs, bars, and raves from inside out. Flushing out the wealthy and loyal clientele to get closer to shutting down all the suppliers and manufacturers across Europe. They went in strong and took down Berlin, then Ibiza, followed by Rome, Belgrade, then Amsterdam.

And through it all there had been a consistent theme.

Bucky had a habit of disappearing every now and then, usually during the crack of dawn and then coming back a couple of days later with a harsh tan that Alexei had made abundantly clear suited him.

"You could pass off as summer catalogue model! All you need is coconut oil! Take off your shirt, give people what they want!"

John's mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, asking the rest of them if they knew why Bucky kept disappearing every now and then. Ava quickly brushed him off, claiming that he should worry less about Bucky and more about the fact that his shield's only use to him now is to hold lettuce, meat, cheese, and beans. With the matter getting increasingly pressing caused by their own detective work, the rest of the team was itching to find the real reason behind it. There had been multiple accounts in which John had attempted to ask Bucky about it, only for him to be pulled away by either Ava or Yelena unceremoniously. Or other instances where John managed to corner Bucky in the kitchen and ask him about it, only for him to deflect the question or glance at him and walk out like it was nothing.

Yelena did the math. Bucky left every three to four months, his trips lasting either three days or a week and there was no in between. She kept a journal where she would write entries regarding Bucky's unusual absences, possible theories as to why, and if he had been double crossing them- a list of how they would kick him out of the team. So far the list has been empty.

A week later after another night of endless tossing and turning in her shared bedroom with Ava when they were in Amsterdam- she swears she hears the door down the hall click as if somebody closed it from the outside. Then, after dismissing it as nothing, she sees a shadow swiftly pass by the gap the door had to the floor. She sits up. Ava, being the heavy sleeper she was, did not notice Yelena quietly slip out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She is startled by the figure of John in his pajamas standing by the window, who clearly has just woken up about 10 seconds ago and dragged himself out of bed without giving two shits about the fact that anybody from a mile away could see the outline of where drool had once pooled by the side of his mouth. "Jesus Walker, what the hell are you doing??? You look like a pervert." She hissed, narrowing her eyes at him before he placed a finger to his lips and shushed her aggressively.

"It's Bucky, pretty sure I just caught him in the act." He says, jerking his neck to the side, beckoning Yelena over to the window. She plodded towards him and lo and behold, there stood Bucky with his knapsack slung around his shoulders, his hands busy with untying the busted boat they rented that was currently floating in the canal. "Nearly missed the sound of his bedroom door close because of Alexei's snoring. I swear he could level this apartment if he wanted to."

"Where is he off to now?" Yelena asks, albeit somewhat rhetorically.

John clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I've got no clue. Who knows what's going on inside that man’s head?"

“A black and white 24-hour montage of him and Sam with a Mariah Carey song in the background?” Yelena replies under her breath, causing John to laugh through his nose.

“I was gonna say the same thing-”

"-what are you two doing by the window???" Ava's voice grumbled all of a sudden, causing Yelena and John to whirl their heads around. "You do realize it's too early to stare at murky canal water, right?"

Yelena makes a face at her. "Wh- that isn't what we're doing."

"Well then what's got you two staring out the window for???"

"Bucky's out by the dock, I'm convinced he's headed to the quinjet to pull a Houdini on us again." John explained, peering out of the window once more as he pointed at a spot on the glass pane. Ava walks over, Yelena makes room for her as all three of them watch Bucky stand by the boat, talking to somebody on his burner phone. Muffled segments of the conversation could be heard from the slim aperture the window had to the windowsill. Words like "be right there" and "they don't know" were heard, which made all three of them exchange glances of suspicion.

"Who is he even talking to?" Ava asks them. "D'you guys got any ideas?"

"There's no way it could be Sam..." John began quietly, making Yelena and Ava furrow their brows as they turned to him. "Right?” He supplements.

"Too soon. You heard him when he came back from Louisiana, he sounded like someone gutted his cat."

“Why can’t I just crack the window open??? It would make more sense to just call Bucky from up here-” John wonders, extending his arm to open the window before Yelena and Ava stop him.

“-Don't open the window!” She and Ava hiss, startling John.

“Fine! Alright!” He exclaimed, almost scandalized. "So who else has he got on speed dial? Do you think it's still Congressman shit?"

"He sent that resignation letter ages ago."

"It's definitely not Valentina."

"What about that assistant of hers? Me- Melissa? What was even happening with them when we were in New York?"

Ava makes an unimpressed sound. "I don't know, but I'm not interested in finding out anything about that dynamic at all."

"Get your head out of the gutter, Ava."

“Wait, who are we talking about?" Bob suddenly spoke up from behind them making all three of them flinch once more, causing a commotion. Yelena grabs the hem of Bob's pajama shirt and yanks him to the floor as the rest of them fit themselves underneath the window, terrified that Bucky might've heard them in the scuffle.

"Jesus, we seriously gotta tie a church bell around you or something." John scowled in between Ava and Bob. "He's too quiet."

"Thank you?" Bob chuckles, baffled, in between Yelena and John.

“We didn't hear him at all.”

Yelena sighed, craning her neck to take a peek at Bucky once more before sinking back down on the floor resembling a sack of flour. "Ava go look, I'm not looking."

Ava snaps her head to look at her. "Why am I doing it?"

“Because,” Yelena began, widening her eyes and raising her shoulders to accentuate her point. “-Because you’re the only one out of all of us who can go invisible.”

Ava screws her face even tighter. “Is that your only argument to get me to do something none of you want to do?"

“The situation kind of warrants stealth though.” John appends, coming to Yelena's rescue in which he is recognized for.

“Exactly!”

Ava wasn’t happy about the idea of having to phase this early in the morning but does so without any more protest. Her eyes screw shut and in the blink of an eye she becomes invisible, they see a little iridescent shimmer where her body was supposed to be as the meager amount of sunlight piercing through the heavy clouds floating over Amsterdam hits her invisible form. A second later she reappears as a mechanical whirring could be heard from outside.

“He's ready to leave, the boat's acting up again though.” Ava reports as the rest of them scramble to get on their knees and look outside the window where Bucky could be seen at odds with the motor of the boat, pulling the cord repeatedly until he yanks it too far and the boat engine roars to life.

“Soooo,” Ava prolonged. “Are we gonna do something about it or-”

“-What's Bucky even doing down there?-”

“-Planning to go on a ride around the canal-”

“-he is? But Bucky doesn't even like riding boats let alone that piece of junk-”

“-we were kidding, we obviously don't know shit-”

“-huh, coulda fooled me-”

“-Again if we just open the window-”

“-We're not opening the window!-”

“Look, we can't just go in blind and demand an answer out of him, we gotta have a plan.” Yelena fought, eyeing John whose mouth opened. “and it can't be you cornering Bucky expecting him to tell you the truth.”

“It was worth a shot.” John hissed. “Besides, I haven't seen any of you try and get the truth outta him.”

“That's like picking a fight with fucking optimus prime, do you want to get your throat to get crushed like an empty soda can?” Ava argues, glancing up at John as he glances outside of the window again.

Bob reaches up to turn the rusted knob of the window as the rest stare at him in horror. "You know what?, instead of us sitting here and guessing why don't I just-"

As he twists the aged knob to the side, instead of the window lowering inward like windows in the Netherlands usually do, it completely dislodged from its hinges and slides inside, the glass shattering as it comes in contact with the floor in great commotion. The rest of the team only barely managed to roll away before they were inevitably pancaked by the window- Ava who tucked and rolled towards the cupboards, John who army-crawled towards the table, and Yelena who lurched towards the entrance to the kitchen with Bob in tow.

They gawk both at the wreckage and each other, startled. A beat passes and they hear a sudden drumming of heavy footsteps coming from one of the bedrooms, the door flew open reverberating through the entire apartment.

“YELENA?! YELENA?!-”

Alexei comes running into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxers and a robe- he instantly relaxes when he sees Yelena glaring at him over her shoulder. “Hi, dad.”

The man stands there, stupefied. “Wh- what are you doing???”

Yelena pauses, lost in thought. “People-watching.” She settled.

“He's gone-!” John's voice suddenly called out. Ava, Yelena, and Bob rush towards the window only to see that the boat was gone and Bucky along with it. Each one of them shared a look of defeat and a disgruntled sigh that seemed to ricochet across each member of the team as they moved around the window. They promised each other that this wouldn’t be the last time they’d catch Bucky leaving and hear some lame excuse to patch up the real story. When he finally came back after a week, they all entered the kitchen together which earned them a raised brow from Bucky who was enjoying a cup of coffee by the window.

“You guys look like a herd of terrified gazelles moving through a grazing patch.”

“Bucky,” John began. “We need to talk.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Oh good, are you guys finally gonna tell me who opened the one window the landlady told us not to open, broke it, and is helping me explain to her why there's broken glass hidden under the fridge?”

“No, that isn't what we wanted to talk abo-”

“-It was Bob, Bob did it.” Ava interjects, glancing over at Bob who stiffened at the sudden turn of the conversation.

Bucky's eyes shut tight as he pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar habit. “How many times do I gotta make myself clear not to open things you aren't supposed to open?”

Bob's eyes widened even more. “I- I only opened it because John and Yelena and Ava were arguing about why you kept on disappearing, an-and they saw you outside with the boat so-”

“-Exactly, why were you outside with the boat at 7 in the morning?” Yelena appends quickly, narrowing her eyes at Bucky, his face passive.

Alexei chuckles as he leans forward to look over at Yelena. "Right??? Makes you think- Where is that guy off to all the time??? He is like every cheating father in the American dramas that claims he is going on so-called work trip but is secretly seeing mistress that looks like she just graduated from highschool." He chimes, albeit rather colourfully.

“I wanted to do a sweep of the red-light district to see if our informant’s been telling us the truth. He has. That special event some of LaForteza's men are hosting tomorrow night is the perfect cover for some recon, slipping in and out the bar would be easy. Then I had to stay in Washington for a couple of days because I got my couch reupholstered and needed to turn over the keys to my office.” Bucky says with ease, like he'd practiced this a dozen times.

“Bullshit.” Yelena spat, which had the same effect as a streak of lightning lighting up the sky seconds before a deafening thunderclap.

"We can't work a mission where you disappear days at a time when we’re only left with a little note on the fridge.” Ava seethed. “Gone to collect my things at the office, need to sign off on some documents- it doesn't take a week to do either of those things, Bucky. We know you’ve submitted your resignation letter for Congress bloody ages ago!”

“Well I don't know if you haven't noticed but it's pretty hard trying to do all these things when you're under cover and have to fly across oceans, so I'm sorry if I keep you waiting.” Bucky reasons.

“We aren't leaving you alone until we get the truth outta you. No more stupid excuses, no more lies.” Says John this time. “Being lied to feels like shit, you don't gotta be a hundred years old to know that.”

“Why the hell have you been sneaking around like we wouldn't notice and taking phone calls when you think nobody’s listening?” Yelena asks once and for all. The sunlight had only now started peeking out over the roofs of the hedges of houses and shops that lined the streets. Beams of buttery sunlight illuminated the otherwise dreary kitchen. They all stood there, blanketed by immense silence. "Are you going to answer my question or are we going to sit here in dead silence?"

Bucky sets his mug down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, but let's get one thing absolutely straight. I'm not pulling a goddamn Lotso on a mission I've risked my life numerous times for."

John straightens from his spot instantly. "How does he know Lo- have you watched Toy Story 3?” his eyes swung like a pendulum, looking at Yelena beside him to Bucky in front of him.

"Who?" Yelena wonders, raising an eyebrow.

Bob slumped. "Come on, the pink bear? The one with the cane?"

"Ahhh," Yelena says after a beat, pointing a finger at him. "Is he the one that kept eating sandwiches and went to jail?"

Ava opens out her hands, palms facing the ceiling as she frowns at Yelena. "No, that's Paddington. And there's more to his story than him going to jail! he's helped out so many people, made so many marmalade sandwiches, and is the most polite bear that ever graced television."

"So why did he get arrested?"

"He was framed! Because Hugh Grant stole the pop-up book he's been saving up for!" Ava argued.

Yelena's brows furrow even more. "Who's-"

"-Are you done? Because my coffee's getting cold." Bucky drawled, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

"Look, man, if you're working against us now is a good time to tell us." John chimes in, moving past the rest of his teammates and advancing on Bucky. “I don't know what kinda game you're playing with us here, watching us connect the dots while you’re off someplace else doing only God knows what- but if you can’t already tell we’re a team now. Which means we do this shit as a team. If we can't trust each other, why bother?”

“Shockingly, he is very right.” Alexei says from the back of the group.

Bucky sighed, shifting his weight onto the other foot. "If I tell you, people's lives will be in danger, not just mine." He says, tone heavy with meaning. "I'm sure as hell not letting that happen, not when I just started getting a handle on things- not when things just started to look up for me."

"What are you talking about?" Yelena demands, voice rising. "What else could you have got to lose, Barnes?"

"Everything." Bucky answers without missing a beat. “I'm asking you to believe me when I say that I'm not jeopardising this mission nor am I double-crossing any of you. I know it's asking a lot but I want you guys to trust me.”

“Can we?” Yelena wonders, making Bucky's gaze flit across the group.

“You can.” He says. “I promise.”

Cut to several weeks later, they are dancing through the jam-packed streets of Amsterdam lit up by head-ache-inducing neon signs and differently colored bulbs. Several black-ops agents remained hot on their tail as they slip into a dark alleyway, taking a detour inside a busy kitchen where they are overwhelmed by the cacophony of angry voices yelling in Dutch and English, the chopping of vegetables, the fervent stirring, the clanging of pots, the sizzling of a wok that quickly erupted flames. One of the line cooks suddenly appeared from the walk-in and handed Bucky a duffle bag; they exchanged a brief conversation in Dutch before the line cook patted Bucky on his metal arm and left, seemingly to go back to his station.

Bucky turns to the rest of them, beaten up and in bad shape. Everyone had suffered too many bruised and wounds to count, John was shot in the shoulder and needed bandaging, Alexei was nearly gutted by one of the agents that had a knife, Yelena was trying to get Bob to calm down after becoming The Sentry so as not to invite the other terrible twin to surface, Ava had a sprained ankle, and Bucky was pretty sure he broke a couple of his ribs.

“We can’t go back to the apartment, it isn't safe, chances are they've been tracing our steps since before we left Ibiza.” Bucky informed them all, slouched, out-of-breath, and wincing at him as they tried to listen. “We gotta leave Amsterdam before dawn or we’re as good as dead.”

“All the evidence we've been building for the past year, the maps, the photos, everything- we left everything back in the apartment for them to see. We might've just handed all our progress to LaForteza on a goddamn silver platter.” John yelled, leaning against the bread rack before one of the cooks pulled the bread rack to the side and shooed him away.

“Which is why they'll know where we're headed to next, they're gonna reroute all their operations, go underground, cover their tracks to the point that they've completely erased themselves from the face of the Earth. But that won't matter, not when we've got all the proof we need.” Says Bucky, pulling out a leatherbound journal from one of his pockets to show to the rest of the team.

Ava makes a sound, almost like a scoff but also a wheeze. “Where do you expect us to go after we've just unleashed hell on their operation? We're literally standing in the middle of a scorching kitchen bleeding all over the floor.” She gestures to the busy kitchen around them. “It's surprising they haven't kicked us out by now.”

“We'll figure it out on the way.” Says Bucky. “For now, we'll get dressed and get the hell outta here.” He drops the duffle bag on the floor and starts handing out articles of clothing to the rest of the team. Out of the corner of Yelena's eye she sees Bob pulling at his torn sweater and pivots on her heel to face him.

“He didn't mean right now, Bob.” She said, causing him to pause mid-action before he pulls the sweater down and shoots her a little smile.

“Woops.”

She turns another couple of degrees to spot Alexei half-way through unbuckling his suit, his helmet and belt already discarded on the floor. “Let go of that zipper!"

The same line cook from earlier showed up once more and escorted them to the locker rooms where they all hastily got dressed. Then when they finished, Bucky moves one of the lockers aside, revealing a crawl space that leads to an abandoned part of the Amsterdam Metro. Once they managed to hitch a ride on the back of a truck, steal a family wagon, and get to the quinjet it was smooth sailing. So to speak.

Bucky, who had taken upon himself to pilot the jet, hadn't spoken a word since they took off. Too laser focused on the dark skies ahead and the controls. Yelena only approaches him after they've stabilized in the air and Bucky had turned on autopilot to hopefully stretch his legs inside the cockpit.

“So, have you finally decided to tell us where we're going or do we have to stare into your dark, broody eyes to figure it out?” She wonders, making him let out yet another heavy sigh. By now everyone who had been resting had perked up at the sound of Yelena's voice and the sudden apparition of Bucky inside the cockpit.

“Livorno. I've got a place there near the port. It's secluded, but also busy enough in the day for us to slip in and out without getting unwanted attention.” Bucky finally answers. “We can squat there for the time being, lay low while we figure out a solid plan.”

“We've already lit one of their dens on fire. If they realize we've stolen LaForteza's journal too it won't be long until they come after us.”

“That is, if they do notice it's gone.” Says Bucky. “When you, Alexei, John, and Bob were taking out the guards Ava and I broke into the safe, swapped it out with a replica. If we manage to intercept their plans in Croatia, we'll manage to end this once and for all.”

Bucky places the journal on one of the crates, open to a page where he points at a cut out map- several red lines stretching out across Europe converging on what was marked to be Belgium. The team gathers around him. “They're shutting down all their operations in South-Eastern and North-Western Europe and they’re bringing what's left of their supply to a giant EDM festival in Split happening in five days.” He explains.

“So then we sneak in, guns ready, take them out once and for all. Easy Peasy.” Says Alexei with a grin.

“Except there'll be thousands of people, we can't risk endangering any more civilians.” Ava reasons, raising an eyebrow. “With the amount of weapons we have there's no way they'll let us in at the checkpoint.”

“Hence the sneaking.” Alexei clarifies, two of his fingers prancing atop the journal.

“There has to be some other way to get in undetected. If those people at the festival take whatever LaForteza’s goons have been distributing there's no guaranteeing what'll happen to them.”

“We've got an hour and fifty minutes in the air, try and rest up, yeah?” Bucky sighed as he attempted to get comfortable on one of the long bench-like chairs in the cockpit, cracking his neck.

Yelena scoffs. “I'll rest when I'm dead.”

Half an hour before their descent Bucky wakes everyone up. Yelena seemed to be well-rested, what with using Bob's arm as a pillow, and of course John who somehow woke up on the floor of the quinjet with Ava sleeping on the chair beside him. Alexei had been keeping Bucky awake for the duration of the trip, recounting his conquests in Russia as the Red Guardian which made Bucky question the accuracy of his stories.

They hid the quinjet in a secluded warehouse and began the trek to Bucky's place. Moving through the lively cobblestone streets of Livorno undetected. The air smelt strongly of salt and brine, ships both large and small were entering the harbor, and the faint hollers of sailors could be heard coming from the docks. Long lines of laundry could be seen hung across the windows of houses, pink bougainvilleas lined the streets. Bucky takes them through a set of narrow alleyways, passing by a group of teenagers heading down to the beach and a man singing an Italian love whilst playing an guitar.

They stop at one of the houses at the end of what seemed to be the umpteenth alleyway they've walked through. Bucky approaches the front door first, kicking what was a pebble out of his way, to knock. It had white bouganvilleas crawling all over the front of the house, rows of different colored flowers in different sized pots lined the entrance, all the shutters painted green were closed. It didn't take long for them to notice the brightly colored drawings in chalk on the path they were standing on, scrawled on butterflies, rainbows, and flowers- or the purple bike with shimmery tassels and training wheels pushed to the side near the door and beside a golden pothos.

They exchanged glances of confusion- but also, a look of understanding.

The door creaks open and they see a woman standing in between the gap, unsure if she was supposed to look happy or confused. She looked like she had just woken up but had gotten dressed to go somewhere. “James what are- oh my god what happened to your face?” You began, opening the door wider to step outside, taking Bucky's face into your hands.

That's when they all see it.

The wedding ring glinting in the morning sunlight, clear as day. They all slowly, almost comically, turn to look at eachother, baffled. John's mouth parted in shock, Ava's brows rose, Yelena's eyes widened.

“James??? ” Ava mumbled in shock.

Yelena opens her mouth, closes it, then shrugs- frowning at the girl.

“She's got a ring.” John mouthed to the group, with his hand concealing one side of his mouth. Yelena rolls her eyes so far back it hurts.

“Bucky's married???” Bob's whispers suit, clearly in disbelief.

“I told you.” Alexei enunciates joyfully, pointing at Bob's face, jaw on the floor. But who wasn't at this point?

They just found out Bucky has been married this whole time.

“Hey, don't worry about it, it's nothing.” Says Bucky, taking your hands into his. “It looks worse than it feels, trust me.”

You placed your other hand on your hips, eyeing him oh so incredulously before you narrowed your eyes at him. “Sure it is, tell that to someone who believes you, hmm?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder to look at his team, their intense yet homely demeanour only demanded more questions out of you. “We needed a place to squat for a day or two, think of a plan… we couldn't risk going back to the compound or Geneva.” He says to you as you look at them curiously. “I promise we weren't followed, we scrubbed our tracks clean.”

You exhaled deeply, lifting a hand to cup his cheek- your thumb grazing over the stubble that had formed over the course of several weeks without it being touched by a razor blade. “Could’ve called me, told me you were coming… I could’ve cleaned up a little.”

Bucky smiles. Smiles. The rest of them don't know whether to watch in horror or in awe. “Had to see you again somehow, one week is never enough.”

You snort in suppressed laughter before you glanced towards the rest of the team. “You guys must be tired as hell, I hope James hasn't run you into the ground by now. Come in!” She smiled warmly, her head motions towards the inside of the house. “Dropped by just in time, you guys like pancakes?”

“Yes please.” Bob chirped from the side, earning a glance from the others. They all file into a single line as they enter the home, you could tell that somebody lived here and not squats here on occasion- what with the mismatched pieces of furniture that complimented the interior of the house well. There was your standard coffee table except it looked like a smaller picnic table, a bookcase lined with endless books, odd trinkets, photographs, a TV, a vintage lamp, another vintage lamp near the 8-seater dining table, a gramophone sitting by the corner of the room in pristine condition.

Then they see a teepee in the shape of a princess castle, little animals dressed in vintage clothes beneath the TV having a tea party next to a well-furnished toy townhouse with multiple rooms, stuffed animals, barbie dolls on top of the coffee table, books with brightly colored illustrations scattered across the floor with endless crayons and pencils, and a backpack with pieces of paper sticking out from the opening.

At the top left of one of the papers, there was a scrawled on name written in pencil. Madeline Barnes.

“Don't mind the mess, we're usually much tidier if we knew we'd be having guests over.” She says, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “I'm Y/N, by the way. You guys don't have to introduce yourselves anymore, James tells me a lot about all of you.”

“We didn't even know you existed.” Ava uttered, astonished, mirroring the dumbfounded expression the rest of them had as they stared at Bucky with his arm around his wife's waist- looking at you with so much love in his eyes that the rest of them felt like this was a social experiment. Bucky? Married? Bucky? In love? It didn't sit right with them at all. They were four words they'd never imagined would fit altogether in a sentence.

“Yeah, well I had to keep that part of my life a secret for a reason. It's why I've been disappearing every now and then.” Bucky explains, and all of a sudden it starts making sense. One by one they all managed to grapple with the fact that Bucky lived with a wife here, and a daughter.

“Is she up yet?” He whispered. You shook your head from side to side.

“Nah, Maddie was still asleep when I went downstairs. She might be now though.” You tell Bucky like you anticipated what was to happen next. Then from the floor above them, they could hear the sound of feet rapidly padding across the floor and then out of nowhere a little girl in purple pajamas ran down the stairs. Bucky bent down to grab her and she leaped into his arms- overcome with giggles as she squirmed in Bucky's grip.

“d'you miss me, sweetheart?”

The little girl nods adamantly, deep blue eyes glistening with excitement. “Uh-huh! I missed you sooooo much, Daddy. Loads and loads. Last night I dreamt that the next day when I woke up you'd be there and then I whispered it to Mommy cuz I thought it was silly, but she was kinda asleep so I don't think she heard me and then I woke up today and I heard your voice!”

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. “What??? You're kidding, there's no way you could have guessed I was coming to visit today.”

“But I did, and now you're here! I have magic, I'm just like Twilight!” She affirmed, grinning at him as she toys with his hair. But then she pauses. “Daddy, are you having a playdate?”

“No, sweetheart, why?” Bucky wonders, furrowing his brows.

She glances at the rest of his teammates. “Cuz all your friends are here!”

“Yeah, no, we're not having a playdate honey. I brought them over here because we got tired… playing and they're hungry.” Bucky explains briefly, shooting them all a look as they all nodded and agreed as a collective.

“Sure are… we're really tired from all the running around… that we did.” Says John.

Ava laughs, nodding. “Pshh, super tired. All the other people we were playing with didn't stand a chance! They dropped dead in seconds!” Ava earned a jab on the side from Yelena.

The shorter woman laughed nervously. “What she meant was that we were so fast that we caught them all, and they lost and… went back home.”

Her eyes lit up. “What were you guys playing? Can I play too?!? Mommy i'm going to get my outside slippers-”

You intervened, shaking your head as you took Maddie from Bucky’s arms, bringing her away. “Nuh-uh no one’s playing outside until we have breakfast.” You tell her as her lower lip protrudes into a pout, that is until she realizes what was placed on top of the dining table.

“YAAAY! Pancakes!” She squealed, pumping her tiny fists into the air as you placed her on her designated seat at the dining table. “Wait… Mommy, did you read my mind or something? I was dreaming about pancakes last night, yknow.” She accuses you with a suspicious look on her face.

“No baby, I just knew.” You tell her, smiling. “Must be a coincidence, huh?”

Maddie giggled as you fixed her curly hair out of her face. “Yeah, coins-incident.”

“You had tiny soldier all along, eh?” Alexei whispered fondly, draping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Looks very much like you, beautiful girl. Reminds me of my ‘Lena when she was little. I hope you and the wife gave yourselves a pat on the back after uhh… hanky-panky. Nicely done, my friend.”

Yelena makes a grumbling noise somewhere on their right as you invite the rest of them to take a seat. “Let's eat now, yes?” She called out rather impatiently.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Thanks?”

Alexei pays no mind and simply keeps going. “Very rewarding, fatherhood. Being father? not easy, but very worth it. Fighting off grizzly bear in the forest in Winter with nothing but nail clipper and beer bottle? Much easier. When she learns how to shoot with a glock for the first time? You find you will cry a lot, tears and the snot.”

You appear on Bucky's left, carrying a pitcher of orange juice you've retrieved from the fridge. “You two can bond over being fathers after the three-year-old gremlin in purple and the rest of the assassins in this room get to eat a proper meal, okay?” You pat him on the chest before moving towards the table.

“Lucked out on wife too! Such wonderful hostess, you will build strong army of little soldiers soon, I am counting on it.” Alexei grinned. “I cannot wait to share wisdom words to you as a father who raised his little girls into becoming strong, cutthroat killers.”

“Appreciate it, man.” Bucky replies, trying not to sigh.

They all settled and ate the wonderful breakfast spread consisting not only of a hefty stack of pancakes but fresh berries, hash browns, bacon, and sunny side up eggs- of course with chocolate milk and orange juice to wash it all down.

“Sorry, we just ran out of coffee. I hope the chocolate milk will suffice for now.” You say, as you passed the plate of bacon to John who briefly muttered a ‘thank you’ to you.

“I haven't had chocolate milk in forever.” Says Yelena in assurance. “It's no issue.”

Maddie's jaw dropped in shock. “What??? But how???”

Yelena shrugged, leaning back against her chair almost cooly. “There was a really bad man that didn't let me drink chocolate milk for a long time.”

Maddie seemed outraged, like the foulest of offenses against humanity have been committed- and it might as well have. “You can come here and drink as much chocolate milk as you want, I wouldn't mind! My Mommy wouldn't mind either! Right Mommy?”

You nodded in agreement, chuckling. “Yup, Auntie Yelena can come over and drink as much chocolate milk as she wants.”

“Oh! Also Auntie Ava.” Maddie added with a toothy grin, making the woman sitting across from her smile gratefully. “And then we'll play princess mermaids in my room and I'll teach them how to curtsy and wave while riding the carriage like a real princess.”

“What about the boys, can they play too?” Ava wondered with a smirk, as she glanced over to look at Alexei, Bob, and John who sat at the other edge of the table. Yelena lets out a laugh.

“Only if they want to be pulling our carriage.” Maddie mutters before taking a sip of chocolate milk from her my little pony cup, making the rest of you erupt with laughter.

Yelena snorts. “Hear that Walker? She's making you be the horse.”

“What if I wanna be the footman?” John says. “Can't I be a footman? ”

“Hey man, if she lets you play it's best not to ask any questions.” Says Bucky before taking a sip of water. “Trust me.”

“If you want, you can be one of the princess's pet chickens! They ride inside the carriage!”

Right on cue, Bob chokes on his juice and cleverly plays it off as an accident.

“So uhh, Y/N.” John began, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of the conversation. “How'd you and Bucky meet?”

Your eyes move across the dining table, meeting Bucky's eyes as he looks at you knowingly. “Funny story actually uhh, I was sent on a mission to track down one of HYDRA's elitist assets after the fall of SHIELD. I followed him all the way to Romania, then Vienna, stalked him. Then the whole bombing at the United Nations happened just as they were about to sign the Sokovia Accords. Went back to my superiors empty handed because of his involvement with the Avengers.” You tell them. “Second time around, I tracked him all the way into Wakanda, nearly lost an arm because of it. He fought me off exceptionally well for a man with just one arm, and then when it came to it I just couldn't kill him.”

“Then they fell in love and got married.” Maddie finished before taking a bite of her pancakes. “Then came me, the end! ”

“So, who did you work for?” Yelena wonders, raising a quizzical brow.

Your tongue kissed your teeth before ushering Maddie to finish her glass of water and turn on the TV to watch her cartoons. To which she happily agreed. When she was preoccupied only then did you continue.

“I was one of the defected Widows they threw out after they realized we were no good at our job. They saw us as liabilities in the field. We never completed our training hence…” You tell her looking over at your daughter, giggling at the TV. You cleared your throat and continued. “Dreykov wanted us gone but I guess the world hasn't had enough of me yet so I crawled my way out, got back on my own two feet. Ended up on the streets of Madripoor, living off of people's wallets. I started working as a shadow operative for one of the most elusive crime bosses in Southeast Asia, but I wanted an out- a clean slate so I agreed to help Bucky and Sam out when they were taking down the Flag Smashers, covertly.” She finishes, eyes landing on John who stared at her like she'd grown another arm from her head.

“Dreykov orders firing squads, they dispose of the bodies in the incinerator.” Yelena told you, clearly puzzled. “How did you-”

“Just not mine.” You reply, a faint smirk ghosting on your lips. “I guess Dreykov isn't so good at cleaning his tracks afterall.”

After clearing all the plates and Ava offering to help with the dishes, you, Bucky, Alexei, and John went outside as they needed a change of bandages. You weren't about to scar your child. So you left her in the living room with the rest of the team, telling her to be on her best behavior.

“Jesus, they look so bright now.” Yelena says all of a sudden as she frowned at the television. Maddie sat in the middle of the living room with her dollhouse as she played with the fuzzy animals, writing a story as she went along.

“What?” Bob says from beside Maddie, holding a small husky in a sweater vest and slacks.

“The ponies.” She says, pointing her chin towards the television. “They used to be… easier on the eyes.”

“You used to watch My Little Pony?” Bob chuckles.

“Yeah, back in Ohio. My favorite was Twilight, I'd always force my sister to watch it with me but she never wanted to.” She smiled, remembering the times during her childhood where the days seemed brighter, warmer.

Maddie stopped playing to turn around to look at Yelena. “She's my favorite too!”

Yelena grinned. “Really?”

“She's my favoritest favorite out of all the Mane 6, my pajamas have Twilight all over them!” She points out, pointing at her sleeve where an outline of Twilight in a darker purple could be seen. She only now notices how Maddie's pajamas were full of Twilight's face alongside her cutie mark. “Do you have any other favorites, Auntie Lena?”

She then proceeds to think. “Hmm, Rainbow Dash is a close second.”

Her eyes glimmered with interest as she takes into account Yelena's answer. “Fluttershy is my favoritest favorite number 2.” She says, turning back to her toys. “Uncle Bob is a lot like Fluttershy, cuz they’re both very quiet but really nice.”

“You think so?” Bob wonders earnestly as he watches the little girl arrange a rabbit family inside the doll houses' living room to make it seem like they were watching TV just like the three of them were.

She looks up at him. “Uh-huh!” Maddie replied. “And so is, Auntie Lena, and Auntie Ava, and Alexei… and only the tiniest bit Uncle John cuz Daddy said that before when I was a baby he was pretending to be his best friend Uncle Steve and hit him and Uncle Sam a lot. But now he's not a sock sucker anymore? I don't know, that's what Daddy said. Then Mommy got mad.”

Yelena sits up from her once laxed position on the sofa. “You really think that?”

“Uh-huh.” She explains, fixing her hair out of her face. “I know it, cuz you guys are playing with me. So you guys are nice people.”

Yelena meets Bob's eyes amidst the momentary pause in conversation. The lives they’ve led were not anything to be proud of, not in the slightest. They were in this constant cycle of shame and regret that they’ve allowed it to nestle deep inside themselves and eat them from the inside out. Yet this child thinks they were nice people regardless. It didn’t matter if she didn’t know what they’ve done, it mattered that someone said it, that someone sees past their faults.

“Uncle Bob! the Dad needs to be in the garage, not the bathroom! He just got home from the office!” Maddie interrupted, bringing them back to the moment.

“Oh sorry, right.” says Bob, bringing the husky out of the house and have him enter through the back door. Bob clears his throat. “Honey! i’m h-“

“-Not like that!” Maddie whines, laughing. “Why is your voice so weird?”

“I had creative freedom and I took it,” Bob defended. “Okay, i’ll start over.”

“Can I join?” Yelena asks all of a sudden, intrigued.

“Okay! You can be the girl husky. She owns this hamburger stand and sells hamburgers and fries and also soda.” Maddie blurted out excitedly, pulling the little hamburger stand closer to the house as Yelena moved to sit on the floor beside Maddie. She lets out a sound of approval.

Maddie settles back into position. “Okay, Uncle Bob, we can start now!”

“Honey, i’m h-“

“Nooo, Uncle Bob his wife isn’t at home! She's working at the burger stand!” Maddie frowned, pointing at the burger stand where the other Husky stood behind the cashier. Perfectly orchestrated, Yelena wheezed out a laugh.

“But I thought his wife was the Rabbit…” Bob trailed off, looking up at Yelena for help who only snickered at his misfortune.

“Let’s just do it again.” Maddie sighed quietly, crawling towards her school bag before pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Okay, I'll read from this, you two can just act it out.”

“She’s got a script, this whole time...”

“Yeah, this is definitely Bucky’s kid.”

Later in the day, after they’ve had lunch and Maddie woke up from her nap- they all decided to get some fresh air in the backyard. Maddie suggested they play freeze tag, Ava was currently it and had been chasing Bob around the expanse of the backyard like a bloodthirsty maniac, but then she spots Alexei crouching behind the garden shed. When he realizes what was happening he makes a break for it- he grabs a fistful of grass and throws it at Ava's face in hopes to distract her as he turns around the garden shed and runs away, laughing.

But then he doesn't expect Maddie to be on the other side and tags him, he was now frozen until somebody else manages to unfreeze him. John had been standing in the middle of it all as he had been frozen for a good 15 minutes now, but raised his arm to scratch his nose.

“WALKER, YOU'RE FROZEN FOR CHRIST SAKE.” Ava yells. “Act like it!”

“UNCLE JOHN IS CHEATING!” Maddie cries out, pointing at him like he's been accused of witchcraft.

John screws his face tight. “Can you people relax? It's just a game.”

“Surprise, surprise he's talking out of his ass again.” Yelena grumbled, making Maddie burst out into a fit of giggles.

“I heard that!” Bucky warns from his seat beside you as you chuckled.

“We've said worse things, in front of her accidentally. You don't have to worry.” You tell him, shooting him an earnest look. “Not when I threatened her that if she said another bad word an evil witch would come flying through her bedroom window and break all her toys.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you. “That's why she told me to check if the windows were shut tight the last time I visited."

You laughed through your nose. “Worked like a charm.”

Bucky and You continued to watch the rest of your teammates and your daughter run around the backyard of your home, carefree laughter filling the salty air. You glance back at Bucky watching the scene with a faint smile ghosting at his lips, you notice the threads of silver weaved through his hair, you notice how the lines beside his eyes are deeper, how he slumped against the backrest of the garden chair- so relaxed, at peace. Then he notices you looking at him and looks at you, his smile grows larger. “What? Is there something on my face?”

“Nothing, just… thinking about how you gave me this.” You say alluding to everything your heart held dear. “This life, our daughter.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, that's where you're wrong. You gave me all this, all this and everything I could have ever possibly dreamed of.” He tells you, eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly as his eyes study every point of your face like he hasn't done it a million times before.

“I've never prayed much in my life before but sometimes I think God is merciful because He gave me you.”

You don't speak, you let him continue. Quite frankly, you're stunned.

Bucky wasn't done, not even a little bit. “I'm not proud of my past, what I've done, who I was. But you, Maddie, you two made me realise that maybe I'm not a monster, that maybe I was worth saving, that I deserved another chance. I'm the luckiest man on this entire planet because of it.” He says. “You saw me, the real me. Some days I forget that I lived most of my life ashamed of myself, you did that.”

You feel tears well up in your eyes all of a sudden. “Someone had to show you that the people who believe they aren't worth saving are the ones that need saving the most. I'm just glad you let me, with your stubbornness and all.”

Bucky laughs, looking away. He wipes a tear collecting from the side of his eyes and looks back at you. “I wouldn't be who I am today without you.”

“So would I.” You returned, looking at his dog tags and the wedding band strung through the chain as it rested atop his chest. “We saved each other. When I was a Widow I thought that that was all I was ever going to be, fight, do some sadist's dirty work, die in an alley in some foreign country with no one to mourn me.” You say as Bucky listened to you with utmost intent.

“I thought that if those were the cards I was dealt with, then fine. But then when I found a way out I realized my story didn't end with the Red Room, I fought, I spied, I went on missions and then the one asset I couldn't kill slips outta my fingers like sand.” You say, accentuating your statement with a little chuckle. Bucky himself laughs, almost like he was proud of himself.

“You showed me there was more to life than what I thought there was. I never knew I was gonna get married, be someone's mother.” You continued. “We could've never had this if we hadn't saved each other.”

“You're right.” Bucky says, sincere. “I thought I was gonna be born and buried in Brooklyn, but I could have never guessed this was how I was gonna end up.”

“What, a DILF?” You deadpan, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bucky's smile drops too fast; it makes you let out a raucous laugh. “Again with that word. You gotta know I still don't know what that means nor do I ever want to know.”

“Dad I'd like to fuck?” You say, grinning at him.

“I mean sure, there's plenty of time for that later on.” Bucky shrugs, shooting you a sly look. You roll your eyes. “Right time, right place, doll.”

“Huh,” you enunciate looking at the sky, lost in thought. “Where'd I last hear you say that? Oh yeah, two months before our wedding and then we ended up in the moving truck while we were moving the stupid bed-”

“-Was it?” Bucky asks you, frowning. “Seemed like it was yesterday, we were sleeping on the floor of the house taking turns rocking Maddie's cradle because she wouldn't settle.”

You poke his side. “That was seven months after we got married.”

Bucky shoots you a cheeky grin, flinching at the sudden action as he laughs. “Time flies by so fast.”

“It's been three years,” You sighed. “Jesus, she's growing up too fast.” You turned to look at Maddie on Alexei's shoulders as they were being chased by Ava, Yelena and John were seated on the swings engaging in a conversation that miraculously didn't have them wringing each other’s necks, and Bob was sitting on the grass watching the scene as you and Bucky were.

“I'm gonna enjoy every moment I can carry her around without her telling me she's embarrassed while I can.” Bucky tells you. “The day I hear those words I won't know what to do with myself.”

“Eventually the tea parties, the bedtime stories, and her choosing to sleep in our bed even if she's got her own are gonna end and I'm not ready for that.”

“I don't think we ever will.” Bucky concluded, turning to look at you once more. “The same way she won't be ready to hear about what we had to do in the past to survive.”

“she'll understand.” You say, tone full of hope. “we earned this.”

Bucky gazes into your eyes, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Did I tell you how much I love you? Because frankly I don't think I do it enough. I love you, I love you with everything I am and with everything I can offer. Thank you for knowing me inside and out and still finding someone worth loving.”

You laughed, bright with melancholy as you sniffed, tears overcoming you once again. “I love you more, not just because you're my husband, not just because you're Maddie's father, but because you showed me that loving someone wasn't a sign of weakness- that I didn't need to bleed myself dry to get somebody to see me and love me… all of me.”

“I'd do it again,” says Bucky tenderly, reaching out to dry your cheek. “As much as I need to.”

“So would I,” You added. “As long as you'd let me.”

“Forever, then.” Bucky decided.

“Forever.” You finished.

That night after a long and wonderful dinner full of laughter and stories that made some hold onto the edge of their seats and the rest gasp in thrill, it was time for bed. With the rest of the boys deciding over who got to sleep on the couch and who would sleep on the floor with a game of paper football, the girls got the privilege of sleeping in Maddie's room. And like the courteous host she was, she introduced them to all 25 of her stuffed animals currently occupying her room.

Eventually she gave up after the number 12 and was whisked away by Bucky into your bedroom for the night. Not after she decided to bid everyone by name a good night, that was when she closed her blue eyes shut and was fast asleep. That night you watched Bucky and Maddie sleep peacefully under the glow of her favorite night light. How she was enveloped by Bucky's arms like she always wanted- her small hand wrapped around Bucky's metal one, how she starts to look like an exact replica of him as the days go by and that was fine with you, for the most part.

Tonight there was no fighting, noise, or danger. No, there was just you, your daughter, your husband, and his rag-tag team of antiheroes turned heroes sleeping soundly around your house.

You let your eyes close all on their own, knowing that this wasn't a dream and that when you wake up in the morning they will still be there.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

dts: @dylsvqid @94namkooksworld @worldofsaturnsblog @wildflowersandvibranium @tmblrgirls777

[weenysworld]

i love this sm

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[weenysworld]

had to repost a second time

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[weenysworld]

down bad

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3.9k

author's note: i couldn't stop thinking about bucky being able to use his metal hand as a vibrator and therefore this was born.

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (female receiving), fingering, bucky being used as a human vibrator, multiple orgasms, language, consumption of alcohol, reader is afab, no use of y/n, slightly possessive bucky, 18+ only

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” Natasha mutters through a mouth full of popcorn. “Tyler from the statistics department? Are we talking about the same Tyler from statistics?”

“Nat, for the fourth time, yes. Tyler from statistics. The only Tyler from statistics that I know.” You reach for the bottle of Moscato that the two of you are sharing, pouring yourself some more wine.

“Nuh-uh,” Natasha shakes her head. “I don't believe you. There's no way he could be that bad.” She takes a sip from her own glass of wine. “He's too gorgeous,” she shrugs, turning to face you on the couch. The romantic comedy you had picked out for your bi-monthly movie night plays forgotten in the background.

“Trust me,” you sigh. “I was just as shocked as you are. But I swear on my life, he stuck his tongue in my ear. In my fucking ear, but wouldn't go down on me.” You can tell by the look on her face that Nat is trying her hardest not to laugh.

“He said his dick game is ‘too good to need to eat a girl out’.” You shake your head, cringing at the memory. “Which is also what he said when I merely suggested that he use my vibrator on me instead. He looked like I had kicked his dog.”

“Well?” she asks, a pained expression across her features. “Was it? Too good?”

“I didn't stay to find out,” you admit. “I faked a work emergency and dipped.” A laugh breaks through her pursed lips.

“I'm sorry–” she says, although her face says otherwise. “I shouldn't laugh. You just have the worst luck with men. Isn't that the third failed hook-up in what? Six months?”

“Don't fucking remind me,” you groan, throwing your head back on the couch and staring up at the living room ceiling. “I think I've lost all hope of ever having an orgasm given to me by another person again.”

Nat opens her mouth to speak, but quickly closes it when you both notice voices approaching from the hallway.

Sam and Bucky enter the room a moment later, both dressed uncharacteristically nice. You suddenly feel the desire to conceal yourself with the fleece throw blanket laying across your lap. You and Nat usually plan your movie nights for when the tower is relatively empty, so you're just wearing a pair of old sweatpants and a tank top. Bare-faced and hair unstyled, the fact that Bucky's gaze is locked on you as the two of them approach where you and Nat are lounging doesn't help. He's not smiling - but there's a look on his face that you don't quite understand. The ghost of a smirk on his lips and a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

It's a look that makes you nervous - in addition to already feeling flutters in the pit of your stomach at how fucking good he looks.

“Hey, boys,” Nat greets them cheerily. “Where are the two of you going so dolled up?”

“There's a new nightclub in Brooklyn that a group of SHIELD trainees are going to tonight,” Sam answers. “They invited us and we've got nothing better to do. Figured we'd go check it out, get a few drinks. You ladies want to tag along? Or are you too busy watching - what is this, 10 Things I Hate About You?” He gestures towards the screen.

“Couldn't hurt to get out of the house for a while tonight, right?” Nat looks at you for confirmation, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Who knows, you might even meet someone,” she adds, nudging you with her elbow.

Bucky lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough, which he tries to play off as the latter. You narrow your eyes at him before glancing back to Natasha.

“For sure,” you agree, trying to ignore Bucky's bizarre behavior. “Couldn't hurt. You guys go on, we'll get ready and head there soon. Text us the name of the club?” You direct the last part to Sam in particular.

“You got it,” Sam says as he pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket. He turns to leave when both your and Nat’s phones chime with the club information. “Let's go man, our Uber's here,” he directs at Bucky.

“See you both soon,” he says before turning to follow Sam, though his gaze is still only on one of you.

“I'm gonna go throw on some make-up, curl my hair, and hope I can find something somewhat cute to–” Nat starts as soon as Bucky and Sam have turned back down the hallway.

“Was he acting kind of odd?” you interrupt her in a hushed tone.

“Barnes? Always. I've stopped reading into it too much.”

“Some spy you are,” you mumble. “Meet me back here when you're ready.”

— — — — —

One hour later, you're applying some last minute mascara and lip gloss in the backseat of an Uber on your way to downtown Brooklyn. Natasha sits beside you, ranting about an assignment that Fury has tasked her with and you swear you're trying your hardest to absorb everything she's saying - but your mind keeps going back to the way Bucky was looking at you just an hour ago.

What was with that little smirk? That curious glimmer in his eyes? Had he overheard your conversation with Nat? Had he developed the ability to read minds and knew you were thinking about how fucking hot he looked? Or was that thought simply written all over your face?

You knew you couldn't deny it. Bucky does look exceptionally attractive in his black suit, with his perfectly tousled hair - but you had found him to be ridiculously good looking since you'd first met him. Even in casual, everyday clothes, even in gym shorts and drenched in sweat, even covered in blood after particularly brutal miss–

“You girls have a great evening,” your Uber driver interrupts your train of thought as he comes to a stop in front of your destination.

You really need to get fucking laid. You definitely shouldn't be having these kinds of thoughts about Bucky. He's your coworker, your teammate, your training partner on many occasions, your friend…

Natasha thanks him and hands him a generous cash tip before climbing out of the car right after you.

“Thanks,” you tell her. “I'll buy our drinks.”

“Don't worry about me,” she tells you with a sly grin as you both flash the bouncer your IDs and enter the club. Despite the night still being relatively young, it's already bustling inside.

“You just focus on meeting people, mingling, maybe hitting it off with a super hot guy and taking him back to your place for some mind-blowing–”

“Super hot guy? Are you talking about me?” Sam’s voice interrupts Nat. You both turn around to see him and Bucky walking towards you, drinks in hand.

There's a roguish smile on Bucky's face as his eyes skim up and down your figure.

“You both look wonderful,” he compliments, but once again, his stare is focused only on you. If Natasha notices, she says nothing.

To be fair, you were impressed with how well you managed to put yourself together with such little notice. You found a black, backless mini dress crammed in the back of your closet that you had forgotten all about after snagging it on clearance forever ago. The form-fitting material hugs you in all the right ways, and paired with your favorite pair of strappy black heels, you're feeling infinitely more confident than you were when Bucky saw you just an hour prior.

“Thanks!” You chirp quickly, averting your gaze from him to take in your surroundings. To your left, the dance floor is lively, though not too overcrowded for your liking. To your right, there's a bar surrounded by tables filled with groups of people conversing - you vaguely recognize a couple of SHIELD agents huddled around one. The entire room is illuminated by the faint blue-green glow of the mood lighting, and the bass of the music vibrates through the floorboards.

Sam and Bucky excuse themselves to go say hey to the group of agents that had invited them, while Nat all but drags you over to the bar. You order a double shot of whiskey and throw it back as quickly as you can.

“I see what you mean now,” Nat whispers to you after downing her shot of tequila. “About Barnes,” she clarifies. “He's been eye-fucking you since we walked through the door.”

If you hadn't already swallowed your liquor, you would have spewed it all over her.

“He has not been eye-fucking me, Nat,” you say in an almost scolding tone.

“I'm just saying,” she throws her hands up. “There’s no way he could possibly be any worse than the last few guys you've gone for. I think you should go for it,” she shrugs.

“It's not that I don't think he'd be good,” you say defensively, forcing yourself to look away from where he and Sam are socializing with the small group of SHIELD agents a few tables away. “I just don't want things to be weird afterwards. We work together nearly every day, and we have a bunch of mutual friends–”

“Suit yourself,” she cuts you off in a tone of voice that very much says if you say so. “Now, are you going to dance with me or not?” She adds as she begins tugging you towards the ever-busying dance floor.

You spend the next half hour dancing with Nat before she's swept away by some black-haired doctor looking type. Good for her, you think as you watch them converse intimately at a small booth on the other side of the room.

Thanks to the liquid courage that runs through your veins, you're okay with the fact that Bucky stands just twenty feet away from you, watching you as you dance among the thick crowd of people.

You've made eye contact with him a few times now - on accident or on purpose, you're not sure at this point. But each time, your eyes lingers on his for a moment longer than the last.

You're mentally daring him to come here, to make a move, to do something other than stand to the sidelines of whatever conversation Sam and the others are engaged in.

The slightest bit of pressure on your waist snaps you back to the now congested dance floor.

You look up to find that the hand on your waist belongs to a tall man with shoulder length, sandy blonde hair. He's conventionally attractive enough, though not who you were hoping would come grab you on the dance floor.

“I'm Shawn,” he introduces himself, loudly enough for you to hear him over the roaring music. You tell him your name, pushing aside the pang of disappointment in your chest.

“Do you want to go somewhere a bit quieter to talk, maybe? Let me buy you a drin–”

“There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you,” a voice booms from behind you.

Shawn immediately retracts his hand from your waist, backing up a few inches as Bucky comes into view beside you.

“Must not have been looking too hard, I've been right here this whole time,” you jab back with a smug smile.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to–” Shawn says as he starts to back away.

“No worries, bud,” Bucky says in an overly friendly voice as he moves to stand in front of you, blocking you from Shawn's view entirely.

“Took you long enough,” you tell Bucky once the man is out of ear shot, once again beginning to sway to the music. “Get bored of listening to Sam hype himself up to the newbies?”

He takes a step closer, angling himself behind you. The crowd of people surrounding you edges you closer to him - your bare back brushing against the cool satin fabric of his suit.

“Maybe,” his chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks. He places his hands on either side of your hips - eliciting goosebumps across your skin in a way that no one else has in a long, long time.

“Or maybe I just wanted to save you from wasting your time on another guy who can't make you come.”

Your movements come to an abrupt pause as his words hit you.

He had fucking overheard your conversation with Natasha.

At a loss for words, you turn to face him. There's a shit-eating grin spread across his face. He thinks this is hilarious and it's obvious.

“Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?”

“Is it really eavesdropping if I have superhuman hearing?” He takes a step closer to you, closing what little distance was separating you. The peaks of your breasts brush against his chest.

“So what happens now that you've saved me from another unsatisfactory hook-up?” You challenge, staring up at him in the neon blue lighting.

You can smell hints of cedarwood and sage from his cologne in your close proximity. It's so delicious that it's dizzying.

“Let me take you somewhere more private than this dance floor and I'll show you.”

“You seem to have a lot of confidence in your ability to give me a better experience,” you say, leaning forward so that your face is just inches from his.

He responds by placing his flesh hand on the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. The tips of his fingers continue to dance down the skin of your exposed spine. His vibranium hand comes to cradle your jaw, his metal thumb tracing your bottom lip.

His mouth forms a dark smirk - and then you feel it. It starts soft and subtle and then gradually increases in intensity.

His fucking thumb is vibrating against your lip.

If you hadn't been standing in the middle of a crowded dance floor at a nightclub in downtown Brooklyn, you would have taken that thumb into your mouth and sucked on it right then and there.

“What do you say?” he asks, now tugging on your bottom lip with the pulsing digit. “Are you going to let me take you to the first empty room I can find in this place and make you come?”

“I say show me the way.”

He removes his hand from your face and turns you in the direction of the back of the club. He guides you through the throng of dancers, keeping his hands placed firmly on either side of your waist from behind. His vibranium fingers still hum softly, reminding you of what he says is to come.

Directly past the dance floor, there's a hallway blocked off by a rope with a sign that reads employees only. Taking a quick look around, you see that all of the patrons surrounding you and Bucky are paying you no mind. Bucky unhooks the flimsy rope and the two of you slip down the hallway.

He jiggles the handles of several doors that all turn out to be locked. Not wanting to waste any time or draw any attention to yourselves with picking locks, you continue down the dark corridor until the heavy music from the heart of the club fades to a muted roar.

The very last door opens without a hitch.

Thanks to the pale orange glow of a table lamp on a desk in the corner of the room, you can see that you're in a makeshift office/supply room - a couple of filing cabinets, cleaning supplies, extra glassware, and some sound equipment strewn haphazardly throughout the limited space.

Bucky clicks the lock into place as soon as he closes the door behind him.

You're going to turn around him and tell him that he doesn't have to do this - that as badly as you want this, you don't want to ruin your friendship, that as badly as you want him, he doesn't have anything to prove to you - but his lips are already on yours as soon as you start to open your mouth.

He doesn't take his lips off of yours as he guides you backwards to the rickety wooden desk. The backs of your thighs hit the table and Bucky effortlessly lifts you to sit on the edge, giving him the perfect angle to deepen the kiss - with his tongue exploring your mouth, you're unable to stop yourself from groaning into the kiss.

You fist your fingers into his hair, tugging just hard enough so that he hisses into your mouth. His own hands trail from the sides of your stomach and down your thighs, until he reaches the tail of your dress. You instinctively part your legs for him, as much as the restrictive fabric will allow, and his vibranium hand shoots between your thighs.

He teases you, dragging his index finger along the cloth of your panties that you know you're close to soaking through already. Just as the tip of his finger pauses above your clit, his finger begins emitting the softest vibration.

You break the kiss, breathless as you throw your head back at the sensation. Bucky takes it as an opportunity to attach his lips to the pulse point of your throat, nipping your flesh with his teeth followed by a wet kiss.

He continues with the ministrations through your panties until you're rutting against his hand, needing more. He tugs your underwear to the side and increases the intensity of the vibration before nudging his middle finger past your entrance.

You have to hold onto his shoulders to steady yourself - despite the fact that you're sitting, your body feels like jelly beneath his touch. He adds in his index finger with ease before cupping your pussy in his palm - the heel of his hand pulsating against your clit.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you cry against his mouth.

“You're so fucking wet for me, you know that?” He coos, thrusting both of his fingers against the spongy-flesh of your walls.

You can feel the vibrations of his hand all the way from your belly to your toes.

You begin grinding your hips to meet the movement of his fingers, fucking yourself against his hand. There's a familiar knot forming in your lower belly as he curls his fingers inside you -

“I want you to think about me and how good I'm making you feel every time you think about letting some fuckin’ nobody touch you,” he says in a low voice next to your ear. “I want you to think about riding my fingers until you come all over my hand.”

His words send you over the edge and you do exactly that - your pussy clenching around his fingers as you ride them through your orgasm. While you're still coming down from the high of your climax, Bucky pulls his metal fingers out of you and brings them to your lips, inserting his index finger in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the slick metal as he brings the vibrations to a halt and then slowly pulls the finger from your mouth.

He picks you up off the edge of the desk and plants you back on the ground - your legs still shaking from how hard you had come.

“Turn around and lean over the desk,” he instructs you, soft but authoritative.

You don't know if it's because of the way he's looking at you or because of how good he's already made you feel, but in that moment, you would've done anything he asked of you.

You bend over the desk, supporting yourself by leaning on your forearms. You peak back over your shoulder to look at Bucky - he hikes your dress up, baring your ass to him.

He lets out an audible groan before he has even pulled your panties down to your ankles.

He kneels on the ground behind you, his face inches away from your cunt. He uses both his flesh and metal hands to spread you open for him, and then his tongue is licking up your center from behind.

God, you hope no one tries to come into this room. The door may be locked but the sounds that someone would hear if they even walked up to the door…

Bucky knows just how to make you writhe above him. He's soft when he's kissing up your folds and unsparing when he's sucking your clit between his lips. His hands hold your ass in a firm grasp that teeters between pleasure and pain.

You grind back against his face and he moans so deeply that you feel the vibration of it up your core. Your eyes roll back into your head as you clutch the sides of the desk to better support yourself.

His enthusiasm alone has you spiraling towards a second climax embarrassingly fast.

“You know,” he murmurs against your sensitive pussy. “When I overheard you say that someone had refused to go down on you, I couldn't believe it. What a fuckin idiot to pass this up.” He gives your ass cheek a firm slap with his flesh hand before diving his face between your legs once more.

It's just seconds before you feel the telltale pressure growing in your lower belly once more. You go limp against the table, Bucky placing his hands on the backs of your thighs to help keep you upright as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

You continue to lay against the desk as you regain control of your breathing. Bucky stands up, tugging your panties up your legs and back around your waist as he does. He then shimmies your dress back down into place so that you're once again looking club-appropriate.

When you turn around to face him, he's wiping your slick from his lower face on the sleeve of his suit, once again displaying a shit-eating grin.

“What was it you said?” He asks in mocking contemplation. “You had lost all hope of ever having an orgasm given to you by another person again?”

“I think you've made your point. You're fantastic at eating pussy and you're a walking human-sex toy.” You roll your eyes at him and start to walk towards the door, but he grabs your wrist in his metal hand, stopping you.

He pulls you back to him and brings his flesh hand to cradle your jawline. He stares at you in a heavy, uncertain silence for a split second before bringing his lips to yours.

It's a kiss that's a bit more hesitant, and a lot less rushed than the one before. You taste yourself all over him, warm and salty. He takes his time getting lost in your mouth - you savor every second and it still comes to and end all too once.

“Couldn't help myself,” he smiles softly when he pulls away. “Just had to kiss you one last time.”

You can't help the way your heart skips a beat when he says the word last.

You clear your throat. “We should probably go find Sam and Natasha,” you say, giving him a small smile in return. “I'm sure they're both wondering where the hell we are.”

You spend the rest of the evening attempting to mingle with friends, but there's one thought that torments you for the remaining duration of the night - just a few hours ago, you doubted that you'd ever have a satisfactory hook-up ever again.

Now, you had to wonder if anyone else could ever make you feel as good as Bucky did.

♡♡♡♡♡

i left this kind of open-ended soooo leave it to your own interpretation what happens next for them 🤭

as always comments/reblogs are infinitely appreciated. thanks for reading!

my masterlist

[weenysworld]

This is actually so precious i’m foaming at the mouth

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just you. Just him. Just this.

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

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

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

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

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

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

And then… then you walked in beside him.

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

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

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

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

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

The sound of it went straight through him.

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

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

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

“You must be Bucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when he thought about the ring.

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

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

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

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

He saw it and tucked it away.

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

He was going to buy it.

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

This was forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Completely.

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

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

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

You.

You were home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

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

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

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

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

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

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

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

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

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

So he let it be.

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

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

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

The sky had started to turn.

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

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

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

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

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

Only you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

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

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

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

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

For everyone. But especially for John.

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

He was splintered.

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

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

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

You had reached over and took his hand.

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

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

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

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

Especially them.

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

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

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

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

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

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

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

And that—that was all it took.

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

Your grip never loosened.

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

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

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

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

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

The ring burned in his pocket.

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

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

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

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

Soon.

But not tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t think he ever could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

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

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

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

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

This was love.

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

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

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

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

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

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

He nearly asked.

Right then.

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

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

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

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

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

Just a little longer.

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

Sokovia had been burning.

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

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

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

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

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

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

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

Then motion.

You.

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

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

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

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

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

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

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

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

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

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

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

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

But Bucky heard none of it.

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

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

And you weren’t moving.

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

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

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

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

Then the door opened.

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

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

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

He only remembered one thing:

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

You had looked so small in the bed.

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

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

But you were breathing. Alive.

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

Only then did he let himself breathe.

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

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

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

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

“I can’t lose you.”

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

It was you. It had always been you.

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

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

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

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

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

You deserved that.

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

And god, was he trying.

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

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

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

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

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

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

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

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

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

His whole body froze.

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

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

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

You stopped short.

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

And then you saw it.

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

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

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

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

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

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

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

Your lips twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

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

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

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

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

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

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

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

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

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

And your eyes welled up.

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

“Yes,” you said.

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

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

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

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

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

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

[weenysworld]

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.

[weenysworld]

˳೫˚ BUCKY BARNES THOUGHT

summary: bucky being sensitive and pent-up after hydra — considering he hasn’t been touched or had sex since the forties, he completely falls apart the first time you take care of him. word count: 2k warning: minors dni, smut, soft!dom reader, sub!bucky, handjob, dirty talking.

Ever since you and Bucky had become official about a month or two ago, you noticed how he seemed to avoid getting close in certain ways. Not emotionally — just intimacy. Whenever the moment felt right, he��d get nervous, suddenly distracted, or find some urgent reason to leave the room. It wasn’t like him to shut you down like that, but you never pushed. You figured he was scared — scared of being vulnerable, embarrassed, or maybe just unsure how to be himself again after everything he’d been through.

You understood. Deep down, you knew Hydra had taken more from him than just his freedom. It had stolen his ability to connect on that level, left him raw and hesitant.

Over time, you also started to notice something else: how pent up he seemed. It was little things—the way his whole energy was taut, like a wire stretched too tight. His brows often furrowed more than necessary, a subtle sign of stress that never fully left him. Even his reactions to the simplest things gave it away. The way he’d release a shaky breath whenever your hug squeezed him just a little too much—the length of him pressing hard against you from under the fabric of his sweatpants. And naturally, the way his lashes would flutter shut when your lips brushed softly against his neck, his eyes glazing over, leaving him looking completely helpless.

Bucky was obviously shy about sex—there was no other way to say it. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the poor guy hadn’t touched anyone in decades. He was clearly embarrassed, fumbling for the right words because he’d never been good at talking about this stuff. The whole situation made your heart ache even more. You wanted to be the one to give him that release, that high he had to have been craving for so long. You wanted to be the one to push him over the edge, to make him feel good—because after everything, he deserved nothing less.

And you couldn’t lie—it’s something you’d fantasized about more times than you’d admit. The face he’d make when he finally let go, the breathy little noises he’d try to hold back but wouldn’t be able to. Maybe even a shaky string of “thank you’s” slipping from his lips while you stroked him, his body trembling beneath you, overwhelmed with pleasure he hadn’t felt in years. You wanted that. You wanted him like that. Desperate, undone, yours.

Today the whole team had decided to watch a movie together, everyone packed onto the couches, blankets thrown around, popcorn bowls scattered. Everything was normal—until a sex scene came on screen.

Bucky had his arm draped behind your neck, casual at first, his fingers lightly brushing your shoulder. But the second the moaning started from the TV, you felt it—his hand tensed, curling into the fabric of the couch. His breathing changed too, slower but uneven, like he was trying too hard to stay calm. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow movements, and when you turned to look at him, his jaw was clenched, lips parted just slightly, and his eyes—glossy and unfocused—were fixed straight ahead like he couldn’t trust himself to blink.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, leaning in close.

He blinked quickly and swallowed hard. “Y-yeah,” he muttered, voice hoarse, his tone far from convincing. “I’m fine, jus’ they didn’t have this on TV when i was younger.” He said trying to joke, sending you a fake laugh. You nodded and kept any comment to yourself to avoid embarrassing him any longer.

You glanced down for half a second and saw it—the firm outline of his length straining painfully beneath his sweatpants, you swore you saw it twitching . He shifted in his seat, subtle but obvious to you, trying to angle his hips away like that would somehow hide how worked up he was. His cheeks were flushed, his fingers drumming anxiously against the cushion, like if he didn’t move, he might come undone right there in front of everyone.

The poor thing looked like he was about to combust from just a few minutes of on-screen tension. So pent-up he could barely breathe through it. And yet still, he tried to pretend it was nothing—tried to keep that fragile composure he always clung to when he was close to slipping.

Later that night, after the movie ended and everyone shuffled off to their rooms, you and Bucky moved in silence. But the air between you crackled—thick with tension, heat barely restrained.

He was quiet as he peeled off his shirt, his back to you, slow like he wasn’t sure if he should. Then came his sweatpants, pushed down and left in a crumpled heap on the floor, and he stood there in nothing but those low-sitting plaid boxers, clinging tight to his hips.

You didn’t even try to look away.

His body was unfair—lean and sculpted, muscles flexing with every little movement, abs etched deep like they’d been carved. But it was the sharp cut of his v-line disappearing under his waistband that made something inside you snap. That, and the way his length was already pressing faintly against the fabric, twitching with every breath he took.

The moment he pulled the blanket back and sat on the edge of the bed, you moved—no hesitation, no warning. You crawled into his lap, straddling him.

“Wha—baby,” he stuttered, eyes going wide as his hands flew to your waist, gripping you gently like he didn’t know whether to stop you or pull you closer. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. You just rocked your hips once—slow, firm—your core pressing directly against the length hidden beneath those thin boxers. Then you just leaned in and kissed him.

Soft at first. Just your lips brushing his, testing, coaxing. But the second he felt it—your warmth, your intention—Bucky melted. His fingers tightened on your waist, pressing you down against his lap as his hips unconsciously bucked up into yours. His mouth opened to yours with a quiet, broken sound. A soft whine slipped from the back of his throat.

His grip on your waist tightened, and he kissed you back—desperate, unpracticed, but so full of want. Every time your lips moved against his, a soft, broken sound slipped from his throat. Whines, low and needy, muffled between kisses like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

Every time your hips shifted, even just a little, he let out the most delicate, involuntary noises—so quiet, so ashamed of them, like he didn’t want you to hear how deeply he felt everything.

But then, just as your hips began to grind faster, you felt his hands pause on your waist.

“Um- I should probably take a shower ,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “Y’know, long day and all…”

You pulled back, just enough to look at him.

“Why do you always run from this?” you asked, your voice soft, not accusing—just wanting to understand.

He sat there frozen for a moment, staring down at your thighs on either side of him, his lips slightly parted, breath shaking.

Then he sighed. His shoulders slumped a little, like he’d just dropped a weight he’d been carrying too long.

“I’m embarrassed” he admitted finally, voice so quiet it almost didn’t reach you. “I haven’t… done any of this in so long. I don’t even know if I remember how.”

He glanced up at you, eyes full of guilt, of shame, of fear that he’d disappoint you.

“What if I’m not good at it anymore?” he said, his voice cracking. “What if I can’t make you feel good? You deserve the best. You deserve to… to fall apart over and over again and I—” He swallowed, brows furrowing hard. “I’m afraid I won’t last. That I won’t be enough.”

Your heart ached at the way he said it. At how much he clearly wanted to give you everything—but didn’t believe he could.

You cupped his face gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek. “Bucky,” you whispered. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You just have to let yourself feel. We can take our time… together.”

He blinked fast, like he was trying not to tear up, his jaw trembling beneath your hand.

“I just wanna be good for you,” he whispered. “I just… I want you to want me.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “Aw, baby. I already do”

And in that silence between your words, he finally started to believe it.

You kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, tender. And in the quiet after, you felt something inside him shift. He let out the tiniest breath, shaky and unsure, but open.

Your hands moved down slowly, no rush, no pressure. This wasn’t about getting off. This wasn’t for you. This was his.

When your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, you felt the heat of him instantly—feverish, twitching, like his body had been holding back for far too long.

And when you finally freed his cock, it sprang forth with a heavy pulse, flushed and swollen, already leaking at the tip. It throbbed visibly in the open air, twitching in rhythm with his shallow breaths, as if even the coolness of the room was too much.

Bucky let out a choked, embarrassed sound, his forearm covering part of his face as he turned away slightly. “S-sorry,” he stammered, as though he had anything to be ashamed of.

But to you, he looked beautiful. So painfully hard it almost looked like it hurt—his cock thick and flushed deep at the tip, slick with arousal. You could see how pent-up he truly was, how his body had been aching for even the slightest touch. Every tiny movement you made had it twitching in your grasp, pulsing against your fingers like it had been waiting for this—for you—for far too long.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, your hand finally grasping at his shaft.

His breath caught in his throat, and he gasped when your fingers wrapped around him—hot and heavy, twitching in your palm like just your touch was too much.

“F-fuck,” he whimpered, brows knitting together as his hips jerked up instinctively. His thighs trembled beneath you. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t help it.”

“You don’t need to,” you murmured. “Just let go.”

You stroked him slow and gentle, the way you’d imagined a dozen times—thumb gliding over his tip, smearing the slick that had already gathered there. His head tipped back, lips parted in breathy moans he couldn’t hide, couldn’t control.

His body was shaking under yours, muscles twitching, his length throbbing in your hand like he’d been aching for this for years.

“I-It’s too much,” he gasped, voice cracking. “You’re so good to me… I don’t know what to do.”

You kissed his cheek, your hand never stopping its slow, coaxing rhythm.

“You don’t have to do anything, baby,” you whispered. “Just let me take care of you. You deserve this.”

His hips bucked up again, completely at your mercy now, as needy whines spilled from him freely—desperation, relief, and disbelief all tangled into each sound. And still, he tried to hold on.

His hips had lost all rhythm, bucking up against your hand with instinct alone—clumsy, desperate, his body trembling beneath yours like he couldn’t take any more. His abs flexed under your palm, every breath a shallow gasp. His head tipped back, throat exposed, lips parted as soft, broken whines escaped him without filter.

His cock sliding skillfully in your hand, hot and soaked with need, leaking over your fingers as you milked him with slow, purposeful care.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, your voice honey-sweet in his ear. “Just let yourself feel it.”

“I—fuck,” he gasped, fingers gripping your waist like he’d fall apart without you. “It feels so good. I didn’t think—God—I didn’t know it could feel this good.”

You kissed under his jaw as he moaned again, hips twitching helplessly into your palm. “I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

He did.

His entire body jerked, breath catching in his throat as his release hit him—hard and overwhelming. His cock pulsed in your hand, thick spurts spilling over your fingers, his stomach, as he cried out softly against your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still shuddering. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t help it.”

“You don’t need to,” you murmured. “You never had to.”

His hands slid up your sides, tentative but aching with need for closeness. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed. “I’ve wanted you. Just to be touched like this... by you. I never knew how to ask.”

You stroked his hair as he slowly melted under you, his breath still shaky.

“Now you know you can always ask, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “No need to be embarrassed about anything.”

His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was scared to let go. His softening length rested warm between your bodies, and you felt the last tremble in his thighs as he relaxed fully into you.

“Thank you,” he whispered again, over and over, burying his face into your neck.

[weenysworld]

JUNO

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 6.3K

SUMMARY: Everyone’s drawn to you, it’s part of what makes you so special, and one of the first things Bucky fell in love with. He admires the way you light up every room, the way people naturally gravitate toward you. But it also means he's constantly sharing you with the world. So one weekend, he decides to take you away from it all, just you, him, and the time he's been craving.

WARNINGS: INCLUDES SMUT (18+) Literally all fluff, clingy Bucky, platonic everyone x reader, set after Thunderbolts* but there are NO spoilers, lots of sexual tension & kissing, unprotected p in v, body worship, oral (female receiving), breeding/praise kink, possessive!Bucky

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! This is my first time ever writing smut so please proceed with caution! Miss Sabrina has corrupted me with her sensual songs! Who else is excited for Man’s Best Friend?! 🙋🏻‍♀️

➩ main masterlist

➩ series masterlist

➩ bucky barnes masterlist

Bucky loved that you were well-liked, adored, even, especially by his new teammates. People naturally gravitated toward you. You had a natural charisma that allowed everyone to feel comfortable around you in a short period of time. Hell it was on of the many reasons as to why Bucky fell in love with you. But right now? He all but hated it.

Ever since moving into the Watchtower, it felt like he barely saw you anymore. Mornings used to start with you curled up beside him, the soft rhythm of your breathing syncing with his, your fingers finding his even in sleep. Sunlight would filter in through the curtains, casting lazy patterns across your tangled limbs and the bare stretch of your shoulder where the blanket had slipped.

Now, half the time, he woke up alone, your side of the bed already cold. The bed always felt too big without you in it. Sometimes it was Yelena who stole you away before dawn, coaxing you into early-morning workouts with the promise of post-training pancakes. Other times, it was Ava, needing a 'worthy' sparring partner. You took the hits, gave them back twice as hard, and came home with bruises you waved off.

Then there were the weekends you spent away, Pepper and Morgan. No matter how much he wanted to go, it always seemed like last minute missions dragged him away. You’d always call him, voice chirping through the phone promising to be back soon. But “soon” never felt soon enough. Sometimes Kate or Peter whisked you off into the city, for coffee, errands, or just something spontaneous and chaotic.

You always said yes, always too sweet to turn them down, even when he could see the exhaustion in your shoulders. Even when he wished you’d stay. Then there was Alexei, roping you into helping with one of his latest “experimental” kitchen masterpieces. You played along, though Bucky was pretty sure your true motivation was making sure the kitchen didn’t spontaneously combust. He’d watch you from the hallway, laughing through the chaos as you tried to wrestle a spatula from Alexei’s hand.

Bob was quieter, more subtle, inviting you out to bookstores or record shops with that shy smile of his, slipping you away for hours without anyone noticing. Bucky noticed. He always noticed. Even Alpine, your spoiled, smug little cat, got more time with you than he did. She curled into your lap like she owned you, purring contentedly as you worked or read, giving him that self-satisfied feline stare that somehow made him feel like the third wheel in his own relationship.

He didn’t blame them. Not really.

He knew what it was like to want to be near you. You were the kind of person people clung to without realizing they needed to. He understood that better than anyone. But still... call him spoiled, call him selfish, but he had grown used to having you all to himself. The soft silences. The late-night whispers. The quiet reassurances no one else got to hear. Which is why he had a plan to keep you all to himself. Bucky had been awake long before the first hint of dawn began to warm the skyline outside the Watchtower’s windows.

For once, he wasn’t watching the clock tick down to your departure, he was preparing to stop it altogether. About an hour before your alarm was set to buzz, he reached across the nightstand in the dark, silencing it with a flick of his thumb. Then, with a quiet exhale, he shifted toward you, strong arms sliding around your waist and pulling you back against the solid heat of his chest. Your skin was warm and soft beneath the covers, your breathing still deep and even.

For a few precious seconds, he simply held you, burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in. The faint scent of your shampoo clung to your hair, sweet and familiar, something he swore he could never get enough of. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to the space just below your ear, scruff brushing against your skin as he did. You stirred, just barely. Your body tensed for a split second, instinctively aware it was time to start your day.

Your internal clock, honed by routine, nudged at you to slip out of bed and head down to the gym to meet Yelena and Ava. But of course, your super-soldier fiancé had other plans. Plans that involved making it incredibly difficult for you to leave. Before you could so much as stretch, Bucky tightened his grip, strong arms flexing around your waist to pull you back flush against him. The warmth of his bare chest pressed to your spine, the beat of his heart slow and steady against your back.

His nose nudged into the crook of your neck, scruff tickling the sensitive skin there as he mouthed lazy kisses along your pulse point, soft, lingering, possessive. A soft sigh escaped your lips, your head instinctively tilting to the side, offering him more skin, more of you. His metal hand found yours under the blankets, cool fingers intertwining with your warmer ones. You didn’t resist. You never did when he touched you like this, slow, intentional, like every movement was a vow.

His legs tangled with yours beneath the sheets, thigh sliding between yours in a way that made it near impossible to move. Not that you wanted to, not when his body heat seeped into every inch of you, not when he was anchoring you so completely to this moment, to him. “You’re not going anywhere,” He murmured into your skin, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing against the spot that always made you shiver. “Not today, doll.” A small, sleepy smile curved your lips as your fingers tightened around his.

You could feel the way his breath hitched just slightly when your hips shifted back, nestling closer. Maybe Yelena and Ava could manage without you this morning. Just this once. You lips curled with amusement and affection, loving just how clingy Bucky was in the mornings, how much he needed to wrap himself around you like a super-soldier sized blanket, as if keeping your body close could somehow shut out the rest of the world. Oh, how far the two of you had come. “Big, bad, brooding super soldier…”

Your voice was soft, still heavy with sleep, but laced with teasing warmth as you turned in his arms to face him. Your legs shifted against his under the covers, tangling tighter. Your arms slid up around his neck, fingers brushing over the edge of his jaw as you pulled him in until your noses nearly touched. The heat of his breath mingled with yours, slow and heavy, like neither of you was in any hurry. "You’ve grown soft, Barnes.” You whispered, voice dripping with playful smugness.

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to your lips, his gaze hooded and hungry. “Mmm,” He rumbled, head tipping slightly into your touch as your fingers raked through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. He let out a low groan, that deep, gravelly kind that always made your skin prickle, especially when you scratched at his scalp just the way he liked, nails grazing along his roots with just enough pressure to make him shiver. You arched a brow, smirking. Point proven.

“Can’t help it, doll,” He murmured, voice dipping even lower, his mouth already dangerously close to your jaw. “You’ve got me all spoiled.” Your laugh came out as a soft, breathy exhale, a little too breathless to be innocent. And before you could fire back with something cheeky, Bucky leaned in and pressed his lips to the curve of your neck, slow, open-mouthed kisses that sent shivers cascading down your spine. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him room, your grip around his neck tightening slightly.

He took full advantage, grazing his teeth against your pulse point before sinking them in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Bucky,” You whispered, half warning, half plea. He chuckled against your skin, low and satisfied, before soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. The heat between your bodies thickened, the space beneath the covers was suddenly too warm. You shifted again, hips brushing against his, the tiniest movement, but enough to feel the way his breath caught.

“As much as I love where this is going…” You murmured between soft, uneven breaths, your voice catching slightly as Bucky’s teeth gently tugged at your earlobe, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His tongue flicked over the spot to soothe it, and you let out a soft moan, fingers curling instinctively into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve gotta go downstairs before Yelena breaks down the door.” You whispered, trying to sound authoritative.

Yet, the conviction in your voice faltered when he pressed himself closer, all muscle and heat, pinning you beneath the weight of his affection. Bucky shook his head slowly, deliberately, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck as he exhaled a warm, lazy breath. “Not today,” His voice didn’t leave room for argument. “You’re mine for the weekend.” You tilted your head, brows raising in amused disbelief, though your body betrayed you, arching subtly, craving more contact, more of him.

“Oh?” You teased, breathless, your fingers dancing down his spine under the sheets, feeling the way his muscles flexed in response to your touch. “And what exactly does that mean, Sergeant?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes smoldering with a look that made your stomach flip. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then dragged slowly back up to meet your eyes with a lazy, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already packed our bags,” He brushed his nose against yours, voice dipped in that slow, rough drawl that always turned your knees to jelly.

“You and me. Hotel suite. Privacy. Room service. A giant bed with no interruptions. And a whole lot more of this.” His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, fingers gripping and pulling until your leg was hitched over his hip. The shift brought your bodies impossibly close, so that you could feel a very prominent bulge, between you both. His metal hand cradled the back of your neck, the coolness contrasting deliciously with the heat building between you. Then he kissed you, not soft, not teasing.

His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that had simmered beneath the surface all week. Lips parted, breath mingling, and then his tongue slid against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep that made your toes curl under the sheets. He tasted like sleep and warmth, like something familiar and utterly addictive. You responded just as eagerly, pulling him closer with a quiet, breathless whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair again, nails dragging against his scalp to coax out another low groan from deep in his chest.

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, catching it just enough to make you gasp, and then he soothed the sting with a lazy flick of his tongue, sensual, unhurried, like he was savoring every inch of you. The kiss deepened, grew slower and heavier, full of unspoken promises and heat that made your thighs clench around him. By the time he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his chest rising and falling just a bit faster, matching your own ragged breath.

His forehead rested against yours, and when he looked at you, there was nothing but lust and devotion burning in those storm-blue eyes. “Privacy, huh?” You whispered, grinning against his lips. “That sounds dangerously tempting.” He grinned back, eyes flickering with a flash of lust and mischief. “Good. Because I’m not sharing you this weekend. Not even with Alpine.” You let out a laugh, breathless and light, your fingers brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “She’s going to be deeply offended.”

“She’ll live,” He shrugged, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then down your neck with renewed purpose. “But me? I might not. I need you, doll. All of you.” And from the way his hands roamed, slow and possessive, from the way his mouth claimed your skin like he was memorizing it all over again, you believed him. You lay together in a haze of half-lidded glances and lingering fingertips, your thigh draped over his hip, his hand splayed low on your back, as if letting go of you might break the spell.

The silence was soft, intimate. A kind of quiet only earned by two people who knew each other completely. Every now and then, his mouth would brush your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, not with urgency, but reverence. Like he was reminding himself that you were really here. That he didn’t have to share you yet. Eventually, as much as neither of you wanted to move, the idea of privacy, true privacy, pulled you both from the comfort of the sheets.

You slipped out of bed first, bare legs brushing cool hardwood as you padded to the dresser, and Bucky’s gaze followed you like a shadow. His Henley, the one you’d stolen off his side of the floor, hung loosely over your frame as you gathered what you needed, catching his smirk in the mirror when your shoulder peeked out from the stretched collar. He moved slower, watching you beneath hooded lids as he tugged on a dark t-shirt, one that clung just right to the lines of his chest.

His fingers brushed yours more than necessary while you finished packing, every accidental touch lingering too long, every stolen glance speaking volumes neither of you said out loud. Before leaving, Bucky moved to the nightstand and, with deliberate ease, turned both of your phones off. Then he tossed them into the drawer and shut it with a soft click, a clear, quiet declaration. This weekend wasn’t for notifications. For distractions. For anyone else.

With that, the two of you slipped down the hallway like a secret, hands brushing, steps slow and careful. The tower was quiet for once, the buzz of conversation strangely absent. You passed the main floor where the sunlight pooled in warm patches across the tile, and just as you reached the elevator, a quiet rustle of pages caught your attention. Bob sat in one of the oversized armchairs by the couch, a book in one hand, the other cradling a half-empty mug, brows raising as he looked up.

He didn't say anything, just gave the two of you a knowing look over the rim of his cup and turned the page, eyes dropping back to his book. Bucky didn’t even glance over. He just reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pulling you gently into the elevator. The doors slid closed with a quiet chime. The car ride was calm, quiet. You rested your head on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers still twined as they rested on your thigh, the city slowly unfolding outside the tinted windows. The farther away you got from the Watchtower, the more your shoulders dropped.

Maybe you really did need this.

The hotel was tucked away in the quieter part of Manhattan, tall, sleek, with understated elegance. Marble floors, tall windows with sheer curtains that caught the light, staff that didn’t ask questions when Bucky checked in under an alias and insisted on the penthouse. He kept you close at his side, his hand firm at your waist as you walked through the lobby, brushing against you just enough to keep your body warm with anticipation. The elevator to the top floor was silent, save for the soft chime as you rose higher.

You could feel his eyes on you the entire way up, as if he was counting down the seconds. The suite itself was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the room, bathing everything in soft, ambient light of the heart-shaped candles. The bed was enormous, dressed in layers of cloud-like linens and plush pillows. A fireplace flickered in the corner, and beyond a set of French doors, was a balcony, offering the hush of the city far below. Bucky didn’t say a word as he dropped the bags to the floor.

He simply walked past you to the windows, drawing the curtains slowly, blocking out the world in measured movements. The light dimmed, shadows deepened. And you could feel it again, that weight between you. The heavy, unresolved tension that had followed you all morning. The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was thick, charged, humming with the ache of everything you hadn’t done yet. You stood there, still, your pulse tapping just under your skin, watching the way Bucky’s broad shoulders moved as he stepped back toward you.

His eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. He stopped just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, his hands hovering, not quite touching, as if waiting for permission. You gave it, without a word. He stood there, quiet and still, but his eyes said everything, dark, slow-burning, full of hunger. His hands lifted, finally closing that small space between you, one brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the other rested at your waist, thumb pressing gently into the dip of your hipbone.

He kissed you like the world had stopped. Like there was nothing else, no time, no place, just the two of you, and this quiet room. It started slow. His lips moved against yours with aching patience, savoring you. You found yourself clutching his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You could feel the restraint in the way he held you, the quiet tension in his shoulders, in his hands, like he was trying not to overwhelm you, not to take too much too fast. But you didn’t want restraint, not today.

You wanted all of him.

As if reading your mind, he lifted you into his arms without breaking the kiss, carrying you to the bed like you were something priceless. He laid you down gently, settling in between your thighs like you were sacred. His eyes never left yours as he hovered above you, thumb stroking over your cheek as you instinctively wrapped your legs around his hips. You could feel the restraint in the way he held you, the quiet tension in his shoulders, in his hands, like he was trying not to overwhelm you, not to take too much too fast.

"Bucky," You gasped against his mouth, your voice thick with need. “Stop being so damn careful. I need you, all of you.” You nipped at his lower lip, a sharp spark of impatience. A low growl vibrated in his chest, a sound both feral and tender. Your plea finally snapped the last fragile thread of his restraint. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze blazing with sudden intensity. The tenderness didn't vanish; it transformed, becoming possessive, hungry.

His hands slid down your sides, palms rasping deliciously against the thin fabric of his your shirt before finding the hem and pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion. Then, with a quiet exhale, he leaned back on his heels just enough to reach for the collar of his own shirt. You sat there, breath caught, watching with parted lips as his fingers gripped the hem. And then he lifted. It was deliberate, the kind of slow that made your mouth go dry. The fabric peeled upward, revealing inch by delicious inch of golden skin and muscle.

Every flex and ripple beneath smooth scars catching in the soft light. His abs tensed with the motion, the deep ridges carved with perfect symmetry. His metal arm gleamed with subtle reflections, a stark, beautiful contrast to the warmth of the rest of him. When the shirt finally cleared his head, he tossed it aside without looking, his eyes never leaving yours. You stared. Blatantly. Breathless. You’d seen him shirtless hundreds of times. After training, after missions, in bed beside you in the quiet haze of morning light. But somehow, this felt different.

Intimate. Like every inch of him was bared just for you, not just in body, but in trust. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He just stood there, letting you look, chest rising and falling as if he felt your gaze like a touch. And you were in awe. Of the sheer strength written into every line of his body. Of the scars he didn’t hide. Of the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Your fingers twitched, aching to touch him.

He took a step forward, quiet and slow, and as he knelt onto the bed in front of you again. Your hands rose on instinct, palms flattening against his chest. The heat of his skin radiated beneath your touch, his heart thudding strong beneath your fingertips. Cool air kissed your skin, but it was instantly replaced by the searing heat of his stare as he drank in the sight of your bared torso, clad in a blue lace bra. His flesh hand spanned your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

While his vibranium fingers traced the delicate line of your collarbone with astonishing sensitivity. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” He breathed out dipping his head, not to your mouth this time, but instead to the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of your throat. His lips pressed there, hot, wet, and open-mouthed, then traced a slow, searing path downward. He worshipped the slope of your shoulder, the valley between your breasts with lingering kisses that made you writhe in pure pleasure.

He took one of your peaked nipple into his mouth through the lace of your bra, sucking gently at first, then harder. The wet heat and the scrape of his teeth sending jolts of pure lightning straight to your core. You cried out, fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him there as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, peeling the bra aside with infinite care to expose flushed skin to his hungry mouth and tongue. "Every freckle," He murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in your bones.

"Every curve, I have memorized." His lips followed his hands, kissing a slow, burning trail down your sternum, his tongue swirling around your navel before dipping lower still. He made quick work of your jeans and underwear, stripping them down your legs with efficient grace. “Soaked for me already, and I’ve barely even touched you,” He rasped against your damp skin, his breath ghosting over your sensitized nipple. “Just like I knew you would be.” And then he was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, broad shoulders parting your thighs with gentle insistence.

He paused for a long moment, just looking at you spread bare before him in the dim light. His gaze was dark, possessive, tracing every curve and fold with agonizing slowness. “Mine.” He stated softly, the word a vow that resonated deep in your bones. Then he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. Not tentative, not teasing, but a broad, flat stroke from the very base of your core up to your clit, gathering your slickness with a low groan of appreciation that vibrated through your entire body.

You arched off the bed with a sharp cry. Bucky Barnes didn’t just go down on you; he worshipped you. His mouth was relentless. He lapped at your entrance, savoring your taste, his tongue delving inside in shallow thrusts before swirling back up to circle your clit with exquisite pressure. His vibranium thumb joined in, rubbing firm, knowing circles just beside that aching nub while his tongue focused its attentions lower, fucking into you with slow, deep strokes that made you see stars.

He alternated, broad licks that covered your entire core, focused suction on your clit that had your hips bucking wildly, deep penetrations with his tongue that mimicked the thrusts you desperately craved from another part of him. His metal hand slid beneath you, gripping your ass, lifting you slightly, angling you perfectly for his mouth. His flesh hand joined the mix, two fingers sliding deep inside you with effortless ease.

They curled upwards in that devastatingly perfect come hither motion that hit just the spot. He hummed against you, the vibration traveling straight to your core, intensifying the coil tightening unbearably low in your belly. "Taste so fuckin' sweet," He growled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Gonna make you come all over my face. Gonna drink every drop you give me." His eyes, blown with lust, flicked up to yours, holding your gaze as he intensified the pressure, his tongue pressing hard, rapid circles directly on your clit while his fingers pumped deep and fast.

“B-Bucky, I-I’m close.” You moaned out, hands fisting the sheets, knuckles white. “Come for me.” As if his words were a direct order, the orgasm crashed over you like a slow-building wave finally breaking shore, utterly consuming. Your back arched, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky moaned against you, lapping eagerly, drinking down your release, his tongue gentling to soft, soothing strokes as the tremors subsided, prolonging the aftershocks until you were breathless beneath him. 

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky surged up over you, his eyes wild with need, lips glistening with your arousal. He shoved his own jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed red, veins standing proud, and already weeping at the tip. The sight alone sent a fresh surge of desperate heat through your spent body. He rose above you, his chest heaving, his cock thick and flushed, veins standing proud, glistening with pre-come.

The candlelight caught the silver of his dog tags where they lay against your sweat-slicked chest, shifting slightly with each breath. His gaze fixed on them, then slid to the diamond ring on your finger. A possessive, primal satisfaction settled over his features. His metal hand reached out, not to touch you, but to gently lift the chain of his dog tags, letting the cool metal slide through his fingers before letting them fall back against your skin. "Right where they belong," His thumb then brushed over your ring finger, tracing the band.

"This too." He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, claiming kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "My future wife." He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head nudging against slick, swollen flesh. “Need to be inside you,” He growled, his voice ragged. “Need it like air. It's been far too long and I’ve waited long enough, baby.” There was no question of protection; the raw need in his eyes, the possessive set of his jaw spoke of something deeper, primal.

He pushed forward with excruciating slowness, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every flicker of sensation across your face. You felt every ridge, every inch of his impressive girth stretching you, filling you impossibly full. He paused when fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours. The feeling was profound, a deep, aching fullness, a sense of being utterly claimed. He paused there for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “So damn perfect,” He choked out. “Like you were fuckin’ made for me.” 

He began to move then, withdrawing slowly, almost completely, before sliding back in with that same deep, deliberate glide. His thrusts were long and slow, a powerful, rolling motion of his hips that ground his pelvis against your sensitive clit with every deep penetration. His metal hand braced beside your head, his flesh hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in possessively, pulling you onto him with each thrust, ensuring he reached impossibly deep.

He kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face. "Look at you," He groaned, his gaze raking over your face, down your body to where you were joined. "Taking me so deep, so fuckin' perfect." His rhythm remained measured, but each thrust carried undeniable power, a claim. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and the next deep glide brushed directly against that sweet spot inside, drawing a sharp cry from you. “B-Bucky!” You gasped, reaching to place your arms around his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh, needing something to ground you. 

"There?" He rasped, a feral grin touching his lips. He repeated the angle, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy on every deep stroke now. Each powerful stroke sent a shockwave through your core, forcing a ragged gasp from your lips. "Yes! Bucky, yes! Right there!" You cried out, the words dissolving into a high, desperate whine as the sensation intensified, stealing your breath. "Gonna make you come again, right on my cock, gonna feel you milkin' me."

The pressure built again, coiling tighter, fueled by the relentless friction against your clit, the deep stimulation inside, and the raw possessiveness in his voice and gaze. His thrusts grew fractionally harder, deeper, the bedframe groaning softly in protest His big hand slid from the curve of your hip, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh of your ass, lifting you higher. He angled you perfectly, driving himself impossibly deeper, stretching you wider.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his sweat-slicked hips, heels digging into the small of his back, anchoring yourself as your head thrashed back against the pillows, a sob tearing from your throat. "Please, Bucky! Need it!" His breath scorched the shell of your ear, his growl a possessive rumble deep in his chest. "Wanna fill you up," He promised, punctuating each word with a brutal shove of his hips that made you see stars. "Wanna pump you full, mark you deep. Make everyone know you’re mine. Only mine."

You felt the primal truth of it in the desperate clench of your own muscles, in the slick gush of arousal coating his cock with every withdrawal. He grunted, a harsh sound of pure lust, his rhythm becoming a frantic piston, slamming into that glorious spot relentlessly. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with your choked cries and his guttural groans. You could feel the tell-tale tightening in your belly, the flutter becoming a frantic pulse triggered by his words, and the exquisite torture of his cock stretching and stroking your inner walls.

"G-Gonna c-come ag-gain." You sobbed, your words barely intelligible. “Oh God, fuck! I'm coming!" The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and shattering, radiating out from your core in violent waves. Your body seized around him, milking him frantically. Feeling your release, his thrusts became frantic, powerful pistons driving deep. He buried himself to the root with a final, guttural groan, his body locking tight as he pulsed hotly inside you. You felt the distinct, thick spurts of his release, flooding your walls, impossibly hot.

He held himself there, buried impossibly deep, grinding his hips against yours as the last pulses left him, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged gasps against your lips. "Mine." He whispered, a satisfied rumble vibrating through his chest and into yours. His metal hand drifted up, his fingers gently tracing the chain of his dog tags resting on your sweat-slicked skin, right over your pounding heart. His thumb found your wedding ring again, rubbing it slowly. "All mine. Filled with me. Marked by me."

He stayed buried inside you, his weight a comforting, possessive anchor, his release a warm, claiming presence deep within, sealing the promise whispered against your skin. A low hum vibrated deep in his chest as he pressed a feather-light kiss to your temple. "Easy," He murmured, the rasp in his voice gentled but still undeniably him. His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there, sweat or tears, it didn't matter.

"Just breathe with me, alright? Deep and slow." He demonstrated, drawing in a long, shuddering breath, encouraging you to follow. The overwhelming intensity of release still shimmered through your limbs, leaving you boneless and trembling. With infinite care, he finally slid out of you, a soft, wet sound accompanying the withdrawal that made you whimper softly at the sudden emptiness. You felt the slick warmth he'd pumped into you trickle free onto the already soaked sheets. "Shhh, I got you." He soothed instantly, his big hands moving with surprising tenderness.

One arm hooked beneath your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, and he gathered you close against his chest as he carefully rolled onto his side. The movement brought you flush against the hard planes of his body, skin sticking where sweat hadn't yet dried. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting out a slow exhale as Bucky reached blindly towards the nightstand, fumbling for the soft cotton washcloth. He’d always come prepared. With meticulous care, he began to wipe the sticky evidence of your shared pleasure from your inner thighs and the swollen flesh between them.

The cloth was a shock at first, then soothing against your overheated, sensitive skin. He paid gentle attention to every curve, every fold, his touch reverent now instead of demanding. The sight of his seed mingled with your own slickness on the cloth sent a fresh wave of possessive satisfaction through him, visible in the slight tightening of his jaw before his expression softened again. A slow, utterly sated smile touched his lips as he tossed the cloth aside and pulled the sheet up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

You subconsciously molded into his side as he kissed your forehead, lingering this time. "My good girl.” Nestled against him, surrounded by the scent of sex, sweat, and him, you felt utterly safe. The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city beyond the windows and the steady rhythm of your breathing as you lay tangled in each other under the soft weight of the duvet. Bucky’s arm was wrapped snugly around your waist, holding you to his chest like he was afraid you might slip away again.

Like if he let go, someone else might steal you back. Your fingers traced lazy, aimless patterns along the metal plates of his left arm, marveling at how gentle something so cold and strong could feel. After a long stretch of silence, you finally broke it, your voice low and hoarse, still coated in the haze of what had just passed between you. “You really went all out, huh?” You teased, tipping your chin up to look around the suite, your lips curving with soft disbelief.

It was breathtaking. The kind of romantic gesture that felt pulled from a dream, except it was real, and it was him. The sprawling king-size bed behind you was draped in white linens, now rumpled from your bodies. Champagne rested in an ice bucket on the nearby table, condensation dripping slowly down the glass. Heart-shaped candles flickered across the space. Bucky looked down at you, his expression softened with something that looked like pride, but not the cocky kind. Something quieter. Earnest.

A hint of bashfulness pulled at the corners of his mouth, crinkling the skin at the edges of his eyes in that way you loved. "You deserve the world," He declared quietly, voice rough. “I figured… if I had a whole weekend, I’d make it count.” You bit your lip, emotion swelling in your chest. That was the thing about him, underneath all the muscle and metal and history, he was tender. Thoughtful. So hopelessly, endlessly in love with you. You nestled closer, letting your forehead rest against his collarbone.

Your breath ghosted against the hollow of his throat as you exhaled, pressing a featherlight kiss to the sensitive skin there. Your hand rested over his heart, fingers splayed, feeling the strong, steady thump beneath your palm. His heart. Your home. “You know I’m already marrying you, Bucky.” You whispered against his skin, as the diamond on your ring finger caught the candlelight. You felt it instantly, the subtle stutter of his heartbeat, the breath he inhaled just a little too sharply. His grip around you tightened.

His hand slid up your back, slow and deliberate, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him like he needed the contact to stay grounded. He held you there, close, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of your body against his. “I know, but I just… wanted to remind you how much I love you.” You lifted your head then, meeting his eyes, eyes that had seen too much and still looked at you like you were something precious.

You kissed him slowly, lips brushing his with quiet gratitude and a love too big for words. “You do,” You whispered when you pulled back. “Every single day. And I'll spend the rest of our lives expressing how much I love you too.” He smiled, that small, rare smile only you ever got to see. Then, without another word, he pulled you into his arms again, pressing his lips to your temple, content to hold you in that quiet, candlelit room where for once, the world had nothing else to ask of you. No missions, no alarms, no interruptions.

Just Bucky and you, exactly where you were meant to be.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[weenysworld]

sergeant's magic mouth

🫦 based on this ask but I definitely diverted from the main plot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, oral sex (f receiving), pussy eating, misunderstanding trope, soft dom!Bucky, desperate!reader, overstimulation, slow burn tension, emotional release

Word Count: 3.5k

The compound was quieter than usual, the aftermath of a long mission settling in like a low, collective exhale. Somewhere in the common kitchen, someone clinked a glass. Distant laughter floated through the hall—probably Sam or Clint. But in the softly lit entertainment room, it was just you and Bucky. Again.

You’d flopped onto the couch hours ago after sparring, half-watching a movie you’d already forgotten the name of. Bucky had joined a little later, tucking himself into the corner of the cushions, red henley hugging the bulk of his arms, the silver glint of his metal arm catching the TV’s light like a low hum in your peripheral.

You hadn’t meant to end up in his lap. Again.

But like always, his palm was already on your waist when you slid over—grounding, warm despite the chill of the metal. His thighs were spread wide beneath you, relaxed and solid, and your legs naturally draped on either side like they belonged there. You leaned into him. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

It had been like this for weeks now. Maybe months.

Long after the dust from the whole Civil War mess had started to settle, you and Bucky had slipped into something wordless. Something sacred. You didn’t know what to call it—it didn’t feel right calling it just friends. Not when you could still feel the way he’d kissed you that first night after the team’s barbecue. The way he’d held you still while your hips rocked against his, slow and aching. Not when your heart stuttered every time he looked at you with that tired, hungry softness that made your skin burn.

The first kiss had been a dare. A stupid, tipsy game where someone dared Bucky to kiss you and no one—no one—had expected him to actually do it.

But he did.

He cupped your face with his warm hand, looked you in the eye, and kissed you like he’d been holding that breath in since 1943. And from then on… something shifted.

Now, he’d let you straddle him during quiet movie nights. His jaw would clench when your hips moved just right. You’d feel him through his jeans, thick and hard under you, and he’d groan—deep and strangled like he was holding something back. He’d mouth at your neck, hands gripping your waist, but it never went further than that. Never inside. Never under the clothes.

And you told yourself it was fine. You told yourself maybe this was just how it was going to be—this undefined, lusty thing. You told yourself it was better than nothing. Because it was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The man women used to whisper about back in the 40s—the charmer with the bedroom eyes and silver tongue. You’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.

And you? You were just… you.

He could have anyone. And maybe you were just the convenient body he used to push those urges away—a warm lap to grind into, a mouth to kiss when the nights got too long. You didn’t know how to ask for more. You were terrified that if you tried, he’d pull away.

Meanwhile, Bucky? Bucky thought you were his. Fully.

He thought you’d been his since the second time you kissed him—the night you’d curled into his lap after patrol and whispered “I missed you” like it meant more than just the day. And it had killed him not to touch you deeper, not to give you everything he had. But he remembered what you said at that same team barbecue, right after everyone settled down with their beers and ribs. Someone had joked about hook-ups and you, ever soft-spoken, had laughed shyly and said:

“I’m a little old school. I don’t really go all the way unless it’s someone serious… like, serious-serious.”

And Bucky? Bucky was from the actual old school. Back in the 40s, that meant one thing—you waited until you were married. And if you were the kind of woman who saved yourself for that, then goddammit, he wasn’t going to be the reason you’d break that promise.

So he held back. Every time your body writhed against his. Every time he could smell your arousal through your leggings. Every time he had to clench his jaw and bury his face in your neck just to keep from coming in his pants.

He never touched himself after. Not once.

Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you, even though he ached to.

Because he wanted all of it—all of you—the right way.

He thought the wait would be worth it.

He just didn’t know you were waiting for him to want you at all.

—

The late afternoon sun cast warm streaks of gold across the compound, tinting the walls and windows with lazy amber light. You’d just wrapped up training and were headed toward the balcony, drawn by the familiar sound of laughter—two deep voices rolling over each other in low, nostalgic waves.

Steve and Bucky.

You slowed your steps as you approached, the soft creak of your boots masked by the breeze curling in through the open doors. They hadn’t noticed you yet, and you paused just beyond the archway, hidden by the sliding glass panel, your eyes flicking over to them instinctively.

They were seated side by side on the wide balcony bench, drinks in hand—Bucky with his legs spread in that casual, careless way, grey shirt pulled tight across his chest, silver arm draped over the backrest. Steve had a glass of something dark balanced in his grip, laughing into it.

“Alright, Buck. Be honest with me,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s boot with his own. “How’s everything with you and her?”

Bucky shifted a little, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the drink in his hand.

You froze, breath catching. Her? You?

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, but sure.

“We’re doing just fine.”

Steve scoffed. “Just fine? Buck, come on. That’s not enough.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of tension in the movement—like he was trying to ease discomfort off his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb along the curve of his glass and glanced sideways at Steve.

“I don’t think I should be talking about her when she’s not here,” he muttered. “That wouldn’t feel right.”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. He was talking about you like—

Steve laughed again, all good-natured and clueless. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You remember the 40s?” Steve leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. “Every girl at the bar was looking past me, and straight at you. I couldn’t get a date to save my damn life. You? You walked in and the whole room turned to jelly.”

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well. That was before the serum. Before your fan club started.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, how the tables have turned, huh?”

Bucky gave him a look—part fond, part annoyed—but didn’t deny it.

Then Steve added, with a smirk far too knowing:

“You know, I still remember the rumors. I wasn’t supposed to hear most of ‘em—but you know how dames talk when they’ve had one too many.” He grinned into his glass. “Word was, anyone who got lucky enough to sleep with Sergeant Barnes left with their legs shaking.”

Bucky groaned immediately. “Jesus, Stevie—”

“No, no, wait—my favorite was the one who said you had a magic mouth,” Steve continued, delighting in the way Bucky tried to sink into himself. “Swore you knew exactly what to do down there. Said it was like being—what was it—worshipped?”

Your heart skipped. What?

You stepped out, your voice too curious for your brain to catch up.

“Wait… Bucky was that good with girls?”

Both men looked up fast. Bucky flinched like he’d just been smacked with a brick.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up immediately, his metal fingers tightening around his glass. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” you said, fighting a grin as you stepped toward them, trying to sound innocent even though your pulse was sprinting. “I didn’t know you had a magic mouth, Bucky.”

Steve glanced between you and Bucky, the corner of his mouth twitching with the kind of subtle amusement only a best friend could pull off.

“Well,” he said, rising from the bench with smooth ease, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

He set his glass down on the ledge, adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with practiced calm, and gave Bucky a pointed look that only made the other man shrink deeper into his seat.

Then, with a polite nod to you, he added,

“Try not to give him too hard a time, huh?”

And with that, Steve turned and walked back inside—composed, quiet, and absolutely smirking.

The silence he left behind was scorching.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his skin already turning crimson beneath the ends of his hair. His silver fingers tapped against the railing like he couldn’t decide whether to escape over it or just melt into a puddle where he stood.

“That, uh… that wasn’t exactly how I wanted that to come up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

You leaned next to him, arms crossed, brow arched just slightly. “You never told me you had a reputation.”

He groaned. “God. It was blown way out of proportion, I swear.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, pretending to think. “So you didn’t make girls’ legs shake?”

Bucky winced. Practically folded into himself.

“I mean—maybe a few,” he muttered. “But not like that. It wasn’t… Jesus, they made it sound like I slept with the whole borough. I didn’t. I wasn’t like that.”

You tried not to smile. “The whole borough, huh?”

His head jerked toward you, eyes wide. “Wait—are you… are you mad?”

“What? No,” you said quickly, brows lifting.

“You sure?” he asked again, more desperate now. “Because I never—look, I wasn’t just screwing around back then, okay? I didn’t sleep with that many people. And I haven’t been with anyone since and I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your breath caught for a second. But you didn’t say anything.

Because your brain was not registering any of that.

Not the panic in his voice. Not the low, sincere way he said to you like it meant something.

All you could think about was what Steve said.

Legs shaking. Worship. Magic mouth.

You were still stuck on that phrase like a scratch on a record.

You let a beat pass. Just long enough to watch the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his eyes, the way he seemed to be running through every decision he’d ever made since 1943.

“I just didn’t know you were into that,” you said lightly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve like you hadn’t just learned something that would haunt you tonight in your sheets.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly spiraling. “I—I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was bragging or anything. I don’t know where Steve heard that stuff. I mean, yeah, I used to, but not—It wasn’t like I slept around. I didn’t. I swear I never—”

“Bucky,” you cut in gently, offering a little smile. “It’s really okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, calm and even. “No hard feelings.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, apologize again, dig his way out of a guilt hole he didn’t even need to be in. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You stepped back toward the door, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then you slipped inside, perfectly composed.

—

Your expression didn’t crack until you turned the corner, heat blooming across your face like a slow, wicked fire.

He used to love it.

He might still be good at it.

He thinks you’re mad about his past… and you’re just thinking about his mouth between your legs.

You pressed your hand against the wall, heart thundering.

Now all you needed was the right moment.

The right excuse.

Something casual. Natural.

Just a little something to get James Buchanan Barnes on his knees.

—

You kept your distance for six days.

Six entire, aching days.

Dinner that night? You smiled. Ate. Laughed with Sam. Passed the mashed potatoes like nothing had changed. Bucky sat across from you, silent and painfully upright, like he was ready for a cross-examination that never came.

The next day? You greeted him with a nod in the hallway. Kept your tone even, your posture casual. Bucky watched you like a man waiting for the world to fall out from under him.

And the day after that? You brushed past him near the weapons locker, arm grazing his on accident—only to duck into the training room before he could open his mouth.

He kept trying. Eyes lingering, mouth parting every time he got you alone for even a second. But you never gave him the space.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Hey, Bucky. You want to eat my cunt sometime? Because I’ve been thinking about it for many nights and I’m dangerously close to humping the corner of my pillow just to cope?

Yeah, no.

So you waited. And stewed. And tried not to fantasize.

But your body had other plans.

By day six, your hormones had you spiraling. You caught yourself grinding your thighs together during debriefing. Sweating during sparring. Biting your lip when Bucky scratched his jaw and muttered something under his breath, not even directed at you.

Day seven, you cracked.

Over lunch, with the team distracted, you leaned close to him—so casual—and said,

“Come to my unit after dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes steady. “Just for a bit.”

And that was all it took.

—

He showed up at your door just past nine. Dressed down in a fitted black tee and dark sweats. Hair tucked behind his ears. Smiling.

Not smirking. Not flirty. Just… happy.

You didn’t know it yet, but he thought this was a date. A real one. The first of many.

You let him in and made small talk. Let him sit on the couch like always. Let him pull you into his lap the way he always did when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Familiar. But deeper.

His hands came to your thighs, dragging up under the hem of your oversized shirt as your knees bracketed his hips. He groaned softly into your mouth when you rolled against him—pressing down, grinding slow and needy right into the heat of his lap.

Then he froze.

You could feel it. The shift. The exact moment he realized there was nothing between you and his pants. No shorts. No panties. Just your bare, wet cunt dragging over the thick line of his cock through cotton.

Bucky broke the kiss, his hands halting on your thighs.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Doll… are you—are you not wearing anything?”

You blushed, chest rising slowly. “No.”

His eyes widened, hand clenching against your skin. “Since when?”

“Since before you got here.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, like it physically hurt him.

You pressed your forehead against his. Voice trembling now, but not from nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Ever since Steve said that thing on the balcony.”

His brows lifted. “About… my mouth?”

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You shifted your hips again. Let him feel the wet drag of your folds against his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands locking tighter on your waist.

“Baby,” he rasped, “are you sure this is what you want? Not just—y’know, ‘cause you’re upset or… jealous or—”

That was the moment it snapped. The misunderstanding, the buried truth, the weeks and months of aching.

Your brow furrowed.

“Jealous? Bucky, I don’t have any right to be jealous. We’re not… together.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re just…” You swallowed. “I thought we were just fooling around. Friends with benefits or something.”

His face went still.

“Wait,” he said. “You thought that’s what we were?”

You nodded slowly.

“I thought we were dating,” he said quietly. “I thought we were just taking it slow. You said at the barbecue that you’re traditional. I figured that meant you were saving sex until… marriage or something.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “I—no. I just didn’t want to sleep with someone who didn’t take me seriously.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open for a second. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh—somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“We’re idiots,” you said, and started laughing too.

He buried his face in your neck and laughed along with you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time without me even knowing?” you teased.

He pulled back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that makes it official now.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because now you’ve got even more reason to go down on me.”

His lips parted. You kissed him before he could speak.

—

What followed wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t wild.

It was reverent.

Bucky laid you back on the couch like you were made of silk and starlight, one hand supporting your back while the other guided your thighs open. He settled between them like it was where he was always meant to be—kneeling, breath shaky, eyes dark.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumbing along the inside of your knee. His voice was low. Full of awe.

You reached for him—but he kissed your thigh instead. Then again. And again. Slow, warm, deliberate. His stubble scraped lightly along your skin, the contrast enough to make you squirm, already sensitive from the slow grind you’d shared minutes before.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Just wanna take my time with you. You deserve that.”

Then he ducked lower.

And when he pressed his tongue to your cunt—broad and unhurried—it felt like the world melted into heat and wet and sound. You gasped, hips twitching, fingers curling into the couch cushions.

Bucky moaned into you. Actually moaned.

“God, you taste like fucking honey,” he rasped, licking another slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. “So sweet, baby. Dripping for me.”

He dragged his tongue through your slick again, groaning like the taste alone could undo him. And then he slurped—an unashamed, filthy sound that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, voice thick and desperate. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

His tongue circled your clit—steady, patient, focused. Then he sucked. A low, wet pull that sent shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, thighs shaking already, but Bucky didn’t stop. He wrapped his lips around that swollen bud and sucked again, swirling his tongue in small, practiced motions like he’d studied every curve, every pattern of how your body trembled for him.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. So warm. Look at this pussy, baby. Look how wet she is for me.”

You whined, head thrown back, chest heaving—and he didn’t let up.

He licked you like it was his only purpose. Like he’d spent years thinking about this. Dreaming of this. His tongue flicked quick, then slow, then down—dipping into your entrance, fucking in and out with soft, rhythmic strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, baby. Feels like I’m high off this fucking pussy.”

You could hear how wet it was. The obscene, slick sounds of his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, the gentle stubble burn brushing your inner thighs with every move. He kept you wide, kept you steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second—like this was something sacred to him.

And when your thighs started to tremble, when your hips bucked once—twice—he held you still with a firm grip of his metal hand on your stomach.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered, licking up your slit with one slow, heavenly stroke. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

You shattered.

Came hard. Loud. Thighs clenching around his head while he groaned and kept sucking, kept licking through it, pushing you higher until your whole body was shaking.

He didn’t stop. Not until he pulled a second orgasm from you with nothing but his mouth and your name falling from his lips like praise.

When he finally eased up—mouth slick, lips swollen, beard shining with your release—he kissed your thighs again. Tender. Adoring. Like he still wasn’t done worshipping you.

Then he climbed up your body, settling over you slowly, his hands gentle where they cradled your hips.

His forehead pressed to yours. He was smiling—dazed and soft and breathless.

You blinked at him, heart still pounding.

“So that’s what all the rumors were about.”

Bucky chuckled, voice low and hoarse.

“They didn’t even know half of it.”

[weenysworld]

i am NOT done yapping about how in love husband! katsuki is with his dear wife.

you were curled up on the couch later that night, katsuki’s arm draped around your shoulders while you scrolled through twitter again. he was half-asleep, head tilted back against the cushions, soft breaths leaving his lips.

just as you were about to close the app, another tweet popped up on your feed— one that made you freeze.

original tweet: "yeah babe gimme a minute, js fighting crime rn"

underneath was a blurry, mid-action shot of katsuki during a recent mission. in one hand, his phone was visible, screen lit up, while his other hand was mid-explosion, sending a villain flying backward.

the kicker? he was grinning at his phone. not his usual battle-hungry, determined smirk. no, this was softer. goofy. a full-blown, lovesick idiot smile.

the kind of smile he only ever gave you.

"oh my god. katsuki," you whispered, shaking his arm. "wake up."

he groaned, cracking one eye open. "what now?"

you shoved the phone in his face. "explain."

he squinted at the screen, brow furrowing. his jaw immediately clenched when he recognized himself in the picture.

meanwhile, twitter had already decided:

- "hero of the year goes to dynamight for texting his wife while fighting crime."

- "bro’s out here fighting for his life and still prioritizing his girl. goals."

- "im jealous. getting a text back while he's FIGHTING VILLAINS IS CRAZYYY"

his mouth opened. closed. then he groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. "shit. didn't think they got that on camera."

"you didn’t think holding your phone in the middle of a fight would get caught on camera?"

"i was multitaskin'!" his ears were bright red.

"oh, for fuck's sake," you huffed, half-frustrated, half-melting into a puddle of affection. "is this why you said 'one sec babe, busy' that one time like you were busy with, oh, i don't know, paperwork instead of fighting a damn villain?"

"i had it under control," he grumbled, running a hand over his face. "was just checkin’ in on you."

"checking in?" you echoed, laughing. "you were literally detonating someone with your other hand!"

he groaned. "s’not my fault. needed to text my girl. s'not a crime."

your heart stuttered. "while fighting villains?"

"yeah, well...ya texted first."

you blinked. "so this is my fault?"

"yeah," he crossed his arms, cheeks turning pink. "maybe if ya didn’t make me smile like a fuckin’ idiot, i wouldn’t get caught slackin’. you seemed excited over something... figured you'd wanna talk."

your heart stopped for a second, warmth flooding through you.

"you’re such a dumbass," you said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. you leaned up, wrapping your arms around his neck, nuzzling into him. "missed me that much, huh?"

he huffed but didn’t stop you, his arms tightened around you, his embarrassment giving way to quiet satisfaction. "yeah, yeah. always miss you."

and the next time you texted him during work, you made damn sure to add:

"don't text back. fight the damn villains first."

he didn’t listen, obviously.

"they can wait. they know my wife is important."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[weenysworld]

୨୧ grumpy bf!bakugo grumbles and sulks while you walk to far ahead. then grabs your sleeve like he didn't just call you annoying. enjoy love bug! mlist.

bakugo katsuki x reader

The sidewalk was cracked in places — just like Bakugo’s mood.

You were a few paces ahead of him, walking fast, arms swinging, a skip in your step like the late afternoon sun had personally charged your battery.

Bakugo lagged behind with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, hood up, scowl deeper than usual.

“Why the hell are you speed-walking?” he grumbled. “This ain’t a damn race.”

You didn’t slow down. “Maybe if you kept up for once, old man!”

He huffed. Loudly. Dramatically. Then stopped walking altogether.

You noticed a beat later, turning around mid-step. “What now?”

Bakugo didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, eyes half-lidded, lips pressed into a flat line.

“You’re annoying,” he muttered.

You blinked, confused. “Okay? And?”

He stalked forward — slow, steady, all heat and quiet frustration. You thought maybe he was about to scold you again.

Instead, he grabbed your sleeve.

Not your hand. Your sleeve.

A soft tug. Subtle. Like he didn’t want to admit he was the one who moved closer.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t say anything.

So he did.

“Stay close, dumbass.”

You didn’t reply — just bit your lip and looked away, smiling like an idiot.

And if his hand stayed there — fingers curled around the cuff of your hoodie the whole walk home — neither of you brought it up.

Not even once.

satsugo 2025 © all rights reserved; do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my writing.