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wynnevee · 1 day ago

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Interstate Love Song

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

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Best friends to lovers. Fluff, bit of angst, reader is mentioned to be an ex-cage fighter. Reader is part of the team. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Stone Temple Pilots.

Requested by : anon (the ask is very spoiler-y so I have not answer that yet!)

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Please keep the post-thunderbolts* requests going! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Before the Blip, you were just another number in the system. You were just another fighter in a concrete box, thrown into illegal cage matches as entertainment of the rich and corrupt.

You weren’t there by choice.

You’d been taken young, trained to fight, to break and survive.

You, like many that ended up in the ring, had no family. For as long as you could remember, the only love you knew of was crowds that screamed for blood.

When Thanos snapped his fingers, half your captors turned to dust.

The door was unlocked, and for the first time, no one came to stop you.

You ran.

You later spent the next few years working in the shadows: Bounty hunting, private contracts, smuggling.

You had no real allegiances, just a reputation: you always got the job done.

You’ve assisted Sharon Carter with her art smuggling, helped Xu Xialing train fighters in her more ethical, opt-in cage fighting endeavours, and ironically, some of the same people you used to fight besides turned to crime when the world lost structure, so you started hunting them for cash.

Others had taken to more righteous but extreme causes—like the Flag Smashers. You tried to keep your distance until Sam Wilson showed up at a bar you get your bounties from and dropped a name you hadn’t heard in years. And then Bucky Barnes sat down beside him and said, “We could use someone like you. Sharon Carter gave you a pretty good reference.”

The mission was to track down an old cage mate of yours who was loyal to Karli Morgenthau.

So you took the job. Then the next. And the next.

Working with Sam was easy—he had a leader’s clarity. Getting to know Bucky, however, was a bit of a slow burn. He was distrusting at first, he had little words to say for strangers.

You didn’t push, but the more you went on these missions, the more you started noticing the way he always kept you in his eyeline, the way he started covering your flank, and the way he actually laughed at one of your dry jokes on a mission in Beirut.

Over time, it stopped being just a job. You started grabbing takeout with Sam and Bucky. You stuck around their shitty motel rooms talking about music and how weird the world felt now. Joaquin started joining in, too, and somewhere along the way, you became friends.

By the sixth joint mission with Joaquin, you and Bucky had inside jokes. By the tenth, he was texting you first when he was lonely— not Sam.

It wasn’t that he intended to spend less time with the new Cap and more with you— but when Joaquin became his de facto second-in-command, it made sense for Bucky to seek companionship in you.

Then came the day he told you he was thinking about running for Congress. You blinked and laughed. He shrugged, saying something about “making amends on a bigger scale.” And when you stopped laughing long enough to realise he was serious, you listened. You offered advice, telling him he’d need to hire a security team to keep his campaigns safe.

“That’s why I want you to oversee it,” he said that day.

“Are you kidding me?” you chuckled, sipping on your beer in the bar he had chosen to hang out in, “I’m not a fucking secret service agent.”

“Exactly,” he gave you that infuriatingly charming grin— the one you were sure would win him votes. “I don’t trust those people. I trust you.”

So that’s how you became head of security for his campaign. And it wasn’t just work. Those nights often ended in long conversations. Sometimes you’d find him on his balcony after an event, and you’d just sit with him.

By the time the campaign was over, you began working private security gigs around D.C., your apartment only ten minutes from his. You both stopped pretending it was coincidence when he started showing up with food or you’d crash on his couch after staying out too late. Somewhere along the line, you’d become his closest friend.

After everything you’d both been through, it just made sense.

—

Post-void New York, 2027.

Bob had just quite literally been dragged out of a personal hell of his own making and nobody at the table came out unscathed. Not really. Not after that.

But at least you all were alive. And starving.

Especially after Val ambushed you with that press conference.

The five of you had decided on the dingy pizza joint. It was a miracle the place was even open considering what had happened to the city, the old red-neon “PIZZA BY THE SLICE” sign buzzed overhead like it was short-circuiting from your collective trauma.

Yelena had chosen the booth closest to the back. She claimed it was strategic—"less visibility from the windows"—but Alexei knew she just liked to sit with her back to a wall. She had a slice of extra cheese, grease dripping down her fingers as she methodically peeled off the mushrooms.

Alexei was next to her, cutting his slice with a plastic knife and fork like it was a fine steak. “I’m civilized,” he announced when Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Ava was perched on the end of the booth, chewing through two slices stacked on top of each other, sauce smeared across one cheek. Her tactical suit. had one broken buckle that kept slipping open.

John sat across from them with his boots up on the chair next to him, leaning so far back in his seat it creaked like it was about to break. He had a half-empty cup of soda and two untouched slices in front of him.

You were tucked into the booth with Bucky beside you. He hadn’t said much. Neither had you. But you kept elbowing each other every few minutes, like some kind of private Morse code. He could tell you were spiraling; you could tell he was deflecting. Classic.

The pizza in front of you was a crime scene of pepperoni and pineapple, but it was food, and no one had eaten in hours. The last time you'd all stopped was... hell, who even knew? Between the vault and New York, you probably haven’t eaten in more than half a day.

Bob sat at the far end of the table, happily munching through the single marinara in front of him.

You tore off a piece of Bucky’s crust (because he didn’t really like the burnt bits) and popped it into your mouth. “Okay,” you said, loud enough to cut through the clatter, “Void Talk. Let’s go. Everyone cough up your horror visions.”

Everyone around you let out a chorus of groans.

“Nope,” said John, around a mouthful of dough. “Absolutely not.”

You narrowed your eyes and smacked him upside the head — not hard, just enough to remind him who was in charge of emotional vulnerability tonight.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“Johnathan,” you said, sliding into your Serious Voice. Bucky turned toward you slightly, recognising the tone immediately. “We are a family now. Families communicate. Have you learned nothing from all this shared trauma?”

“I learned you’re annoying,” John almost snapped, rubbing his head. “Also, don’t call me that. You’re not my mom.”

“You wish I was your mom,” you shot back. “You’d actually be emotionally stable.”

“And get your horrible taste in pizza?” he snapped, but kept earring anyways. “No thanks.”

“Rude,” said Yelena, pointing at the pie with righteous indignation. “This is quality dollar-slice. Best in New York. Kate Bishop said so.”

“Oh, well if Kate Bishop said so,” Ava deadpanned, finally skewering an olive. “Let me just re-evaluate my whole palate.”

“She has good taste,” Alexei defended, somehow sipping from two sodas at once.

You laughed. For once, you felt warmth in your ribs. You felt Bucky’s elbow nudging yours again, this time a little more gently. He still hadn’t really spoken, but when you glanced his way, he gave you that half-smile, the one he reserved just for you.

“Come on, then,” you said, “Trauma-sharing time.”

Bob’s smile faltered, the small in his eyes dimming in his eyes a little. “I have a feeling you all saw me in there,” he said, though he aimed it mostly at Yelena.

She didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for another garlic knot and tore it in half with more force than necessary.

Ava smiled, softer than usual, then said, “No shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose, like it took effort just to stay seated. “Mine was Red Room,” she said with a shrug. “All of it. The smells. The punishments. Everything.”

Alexei’s hand tightened around his soda. The can crinkled slightly.

“I saw the day I sent you and Natasha away,” he said, with a deep breath.

Yelena glanced at him, eyes still unreadable, but her mouth curved just a little. Forgiveness, maybe. Or just understanding.

Ava poked at the toppings “Pain. Again. Thought I was over it, but apparently my brain missed the memo.”

You looked over, met her eyes. She offered a crooked smile and nudged your ankle under the table.

John cleared his throat, rough like gravel. “Lemar,” he said, knowing everyone could put two and two with just the name. “And… my kid. You know the rest.”

You reached over and bumped your shoulder against his. This time, he didn’t flinch.

Then the attention turned, inevitably, to you.

You rolled your shoulders, and looked down at your grease-stained napkin on the table like it was about to reveal the location to the fountain of youth. “Cage match. My opponent was new. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” You picked at the crust in your hand. “I didn’t have a choice, it was kill or be killed.”

You heard murmurs of understanding around the table— sympathy, but not pity. Even John, who had the emotional bandwidth of a concrete wall most days, sighed.

No one noticed how Bucky’s eyes darted to you. No one noticed how his shoulders went just a bit tighter.

Then Bob turned, casual and curious.

“What about you?” he asked Bucky. “You saw something, right?”

For half a second. Bucky looked like he might actually answer.

His eyes met yours briefly.

He looked away too fast for you to read it clearly and stood up from the booth abruptly. “You know what? This was fun. I’m gonna go… clean up,” he said. “Or get ice cream. Probably both. Anyone want ice cream?”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, Buck.”

He shot you a look — that subtle one that said not here, not now. The one that always left you guessing.

John snorted. “We know what you saw anyway.”

Bucky froze. “Do you?”

“Hydra, right? Gotta be.” John shrugged, still a little too smug. “It’s your Greatest Hits playlist.”

“Yeah,” he said, his pinky finger twitching as he looked away. “Sure. That’s all it was. Wouldn’t want to bore anyone.”

He grabbed his jacket, eyes flicking to you one last time. You watched him go and said nothing, for now.

The team went back to eating, like the moment had passed. Jokes began to be thrown around again. Slices were being grabbed left and right.

But you didn’t move.

No one noticed how your smile faded into a worried frown.

No one noticed the twitch in Bucky’s human pinky as he stepped out.

But you did. You always did.

—

Later that night.

Val spared no expense—meaning she booked seven rooms in a hotel that had more broken vending machines than working elevators. Still, after dragging the entirety of New York back from the void, even a spring-poked mattress felt like luxury.

Yelena had already claimed the room with the least stained carpet. Ava was currently phasing her hand through a vending machine to get free Hot Flamin’ Cheetos. John passed out with a half-eaten bag of pistachios in his lap somewhere in the lobby. Alexei was arguing with a front desk clerk about how he clearly deserved the king suite because of his "reputation."

Bob didn’t go to his room right away. You caught him sitting in the hallway for a while, back against the wall, head down like he was trying to recover. You passed him a granola bar without a word and walked away.

That’s what he needed.

Not pity.

Just a constant reminder he wasn’t alone.

You and Bucky had been given rooms side by side. Which was always interesting.

—

You unlocked your hotel room door with a dull click, the metal groaning like it hated being disturbed.

You kicked off your boots—one landed upright, the other flopped on its side—and shrugged your jacket off with a sigh, letting it fall haphazardly over the armchair that should’ve been retired ten years ago.

The beige ceiling loomed above you as you stared up and nothing. You did your rounds. You showered, changed, and drank a bottle of water.

Then you heard it.

The unmistakable thud from the hotel room next door.

He was in.

You didn’t hesitate.

Still wearing your pajamas— plaid pants and an oversized shirt—you slipped out into the hallway.

You knocked, once, twice.

He didn’t answer. “Bucky,” you called, your voice just above a whisper. “Open up.”

You heard nothing, but still waited. Then knocked again, harder this time.

This time, the door cracked open.

Bucky was in his dark shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the end. He was wearing a hoodie that was zipped only halfway, and his dog tags glinted faintly beneath the fabrics.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice frayed.

You matched it with a small smile. “Hey.”

Bucky stepped aside, inviting you in.

The room was dim, washed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. You climbed onto his mattress, sitting cross-legged at the foot like you’d done a hundred times before.

Bucky stayed by the window, staring out like the skyline might offer him answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie,

You picked up a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

It hit him squarely in the side of the neck, making him flinch.

He chuckled. “Seriously?”

“You were brooding too much again,” you said, already reaching for another. “I had to restore balance to the Force.”

He caught the second pillow mid-air, tossing it lightly back at you. “What balance?”

“I’m the charming one. You’re the grumpy one,” you grinned, “It's the dynamic. We have to maintain the ecosystem.”

He rolled his eyes— but the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile that softened all of his sharp edges.

And then, for a second, it slipped—just a flicker. Something must’ve crossed in his mind, because you caught the furrow of his brows.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice lower now.

He didn’t answer, but sank down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away.

“Just tired,” he said, though it sounded like something he’d practiced saying.

You nudged your shoulder into his. “You know I didn’t buy what you said at the pizza place, right?”

Still, he didn’t look at you. But you saw it. That twitch of his pinky finger— his right hand.

Yeah. You knew.

“Why not?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

“Because you’re lying,” you said gently, without sounding like an accusation.

Bucky didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what you meant. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He stared at the carpet like it might split open and offer an escape route underground.

“I told you,” he said, the words slurred by exhaustion, as his finger uncontrollably moved again. “It was Hydra. Red and black nightmare sequence. All very on-brand.”

You just raised a brow. “Pinky twitch.”

“What?”

“It’s your tell. That’s how I know you’re lying.” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. “You are so fucking annoying.”

You smirked. “Says the guy who keeps inviting me in.”

“You showed up to my door in pajamas,” he said, half-laughing as he turned to face you. “And you just barged in.”

“I did not,” you insisted, shrugging, “and even if I did, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”

He shook his head but didn’t deny it.

He let the silence fester in place before offering answers. “You really wanna know what I saw?”

You nodded.

He swallowed hard. You could see the muscles in his neck working. Still, he didn’t look at you.

“You remember that mission in Munich?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. It was a recon mission that went sideways.

“You jumped in front of a bullet for me,” he said, like it still didn’t make sense to him. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I…” You furrowed your eyebrows. “I didn’t know you saw that.”

“I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at the moment. I was behind you. All I saw was you hitting the ground.” Then he looked at you, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, “That’s what I saw in the Void,” he said, voice shaking like a tightrope. “Over and over. I felt… useless. I– I… for a second. I thought I lost you..”

His hands clenched into fists on his knees and admitted, “I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Your chest tightened. “That was your worst memory?” you whispered, almost in recognition. “Thinking I died?”

He flinched like the words had teeth and had sunk its fangs into his legs. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it means something,” he said, voice breaking at the edge. “And I’m not supposed to—” He cut himself off with a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair like it might help. “God— well you know what? Since we’re on this, what about you?” he asked. “You were lying, too.”

You gasped, only a little. “Excuse me?”

He gave a sad smile. “You don’t think I know your tell?”

You squinted. “I don’t have a tell.”

“You do.” He insisted, shifting a little closer. “You look down when you lie. You did it earlier.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but all that came out was a strangled noise of offended denial. “That is not—”

“It is,” he said, interrupting you. “So. What did you actually see?”

You looked away, then back at him again.

Because he deserved that much.

Because you didn’t want to lie anymore, either.

“Do you remember,” you said carefully, “when you got stabbed on that mission in Rabat?”

Bucky nodded. He frowned, confused.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I remember. Back alley. Guy with the gold tooth. You iced him before I even hit the pavement. Why?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.

“That’s what I saw,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You, bleeding on the ground.”

He froze.

“The story I told—about the kid in the ring,” you added, your voice more hoarse now, “was true. All of it. It just… wasn’t what I saw in the Void.”

The air between you thickened, like the seconds had turned to diamonds and trapped you both inside them.

“I remember thinking I was too late,” you continued, words spilling before you could second-guess them. “I remember thinking I couldn’t get you to safety in time.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Because now he knew you’d both seen different sides of the same coin in there.

Your worst memory wasn’t the ring.

His wasn’t the Hydra orders.

Once, it might have been. But not anymore.

The worst thing—for both of you—was thinking you had lost each other.

Not cages.

Not torture.

It was each other.

You exhaled, the edges of your eyes brimming with tears. He looked back at you like he was seeing you through an entirely different lens— like something had cracked open and the sunlight was finally getting in after a century of darkness.

He studied you for a long time —eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he might speak but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then he said it.

Like he’d just thrown a grenade in the room.

“Are you in love with me?”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“What,” he echoed flatly, like he hadn’t even processed the question himself, as if the words had slipped out of his mouth without permission.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering in your throat like it wanted to escape. Heat warmed up your neck, your ears, your face. “Bucky—”

He leaned back slightly, like your flustered cheeks had just confirmed everything. “You are,” he said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am not,” you snapped to quickly. Without meaning to—you looked down.

Fuck.

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed. “Your eyes—”

You scowled, half in horror, half in deflection. “You’re one to talk! Why was your worst memory thinking I died, huh?”

“Yours is too, dumbass! So what? ” he shot back, arms flaring in exasperation. “You want me to say it?”

“I don’t know!” you fired back, your voice rising. “Do you want to say it?”

Silence settled again. But this time, it wasn’t brittle—

“Fine,” he finally said, a lot quieter now. “I’ve been in love with you since that stupid night in Prague when you made me carry your three-foot-tall duffel bag full of grenades and gummy worms and said, ‘Trust me, it’s all essential.’”

Your voice came out barely audible, cracked around the edges. “Oh.”

But he wasn’t finished.

“And ever since then,” Bucky went on, “I’ve been more scared of the future than the past.”

Your breath hitched. “What does that even mean?”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on yours,

“It means,” he said, like it cost him something to admit it, “that my nightmares are less about Hydra and more about losing you.”

It hurt. God, it hurt, in the way truth always does. You could feel it echoing in your chest, splitting you down the middle— because you were friends, right? And just friends weren’t supposed to have these unbearable feelings. What was this going to do to your relationship?

Because everything had changed.

And now there was no going back.

His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, like the confession had physically cost him stamina.

And you— You couldn’t breathe.

“You…” The word barely made it out. “You’re in love with me?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

You didn’t answer.

Your body stayed frozen, your mind reeling, spinning, flipping through every moment you could’ve known. Every time he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in a world that had never betrayed him. Every time you’d ignored what was right in front of you because it was safer to pretend it wasn’t real.

“But it’s okay,” Bucky whispered, eyes dipping to the floor once again. “I know I might be wrong about what you feel, so you don’t have to say anything. I know I’m—”

Enough.

Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, clinging on to it and bringing him ever closer

“Shut up,” you whispered.

His breath hitched in his throat like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“Just—don’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because if you do, I’m going to say something I can’t unsay, and then we’ll ruin it, and I can’t—I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

His hands rose slowly, palms open. He cupped your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbones.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he promised. “You can’t.”

Your forehead stayed pressed against his. You could feel his breath against your lips.

So close.

“I’m in love with you too,” you breathed out

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. You felt the tremor in his body ripple through yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Your voice was barely steady. “I’m in love with you, dammit,” you laughed a little. “I’ve been in love with you since Sam sent us on that mission to that cramped motel with one bed and no hot water. Since you patched me up in Munich. Since before Munich. Since always.”

Fuck.

He didn’t wait.

He kissed you.

Not carefully.

But like hellhounds that had been caged too long had finally broken loose.

It was desperate. It was breathless. Mouths crashing, bodies colliding like you’d done this in every dream you hadn’t dared speak of. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close like he was terrified you’d vanish. And yours gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid you’d wake up.

By the time you pulled apart, you weren’t sure whose heart was beating faster. But you stayed close—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, sharing oxygen.

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

Then Bucky’s hands slid down from your face, fingers tracing along your jaw, your neck, and your shoulders like he needed to relearn you. Like he needed to prove to himself this was real.

“You’re shivering,” he pointed out, brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat.

“I’m not cold,” you said, breathless.

He chuckled. “No. You’re not.”

His lips brushed yours again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a question. And when your mouth opened under his, when your hands slid beneath his hoodie and found bare skin, the heat roared to life like it had just been waiting for permission.

The kiss deepened—a little reckless, all tangled need and pent-up frustration. His hands found your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him, and God—you’d felt his strength before, on missions, in training, but this was different. This was personal.

This was want.

“You always smell like gunpowder and cinnamon,” he muttered against your jaw, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

“I just smell like gunpowder,” You laughed—half-dazed. “You smell like cinnamon.”

“Hmmm,” he said, trailing kisses down your neck, “whatever.”

You sighed, tilting your head to give him more space, your fingers tugging gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.

He groaned as his hands slid under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. You gasped at the contact and he froze, just for a second.

“You okay?” he asked. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

You looked at him—his hair was mussed, lips swollen. He had a familiar crease between his brows that said he was afraid of wanting too much.

So you kissed it.

“We’ve survived everything else together," you whispered, "Don’t you think we can survive wanting each other, too?”

He backed you toward the headboard slowly, lips never leaving yours, hands exploring like he’d been dying to touch you for two years and finally had the courage. You fell back with a breathless laugh, legs tangling instinctively around his hips.

Bucky settled over you like he belonged there—which he did. Every inch of him was familiar and new all at once.

“Still in pajamas,” he complained, grinning against your collarbone.

“What, don’t like em’?”

“Never,” he said, mouth sliding lower, “but they’re in my way.”

You gasped as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants, his eyes locking on yours. You nodded as he peeled them off.

This wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t just lust.

This was two years of friendship, late-night missions, teasing over meals, arguments that always ended in laughter—this was trust.

This was love, finally allowed to want.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@buckybarneswife125 @wingstoyourdreams

#wynne’s recs 💫

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wynnevee · 1 day ago

Text

love this, yes, please pretty please 🫶

teething

dad!bucky barnes x mom!reader

synopsis: a little blurb about girl dad bucky and his metal arm—a little angst, mostly cute.

warnings: bucky’s past, insecure bucky, adorable girl dad bucky, crying babies

“shhh, i know, i know, honey.”

baby rebecca was barely four months old and already, the teething was unbearable—so much so that nights of restlessness and countless rejected soothing toys became a staple in the barnes household.

“what do you need, baby girl? daddy’s tryin’ so hard here,” he cooed, leaning back on the couch. as becca snuggled into his chest, gazing up at her father, bucky swore he could hear her little voice in his ears.

‘daddy, it hurts! why aren’t you helping me?’

he frowned, chest aching as he brought a cool metal finger to brush some tears off of her chubby cheeks. “i’m sorry, honey, but i don’t know what you need… is it mama? do you want your mama?”

he had been trying to give you a much needed night off but at this point, he was desperate.

becca gave a less than definitive coo, squirming in his arms, and for a split second, bucky was sure that he’d somehow made it worse. that was, until, she latched onto the finger, gargling in contentment as she began to chew.

he froze, brow furrowed as he watched her tears clear, all of her problems seeming to vanish as she gnawed on his finger.

his metal finger.

see, ever since you’d told him you were pregnant, bucky was… weird about his arm.

sure, it had been an issue early on in your relationship, but any insecurities were relatively short lived as you coaxed him into relative comfort. after a few months with you, he’d even grown to like his arm. you helped him feel like it was truly a part of him, not the weapon he once viewed it as.

and so when you had told him you were pregnant and all that healing fell apart before your very eyes, you were incredibly concerned.

suddenly, his nightmares of it crushing your windpipe, driven with a life of its own, reappeared with disturbing vividness—and just as quickly, he’d taken to abandoning his arm on the dresser across the room.

once becca was born, bucky became a master of one armed parenting. of course, he kept his arm attached in case of emergency, but the thought of tainting his precious little angel kept him from embracing it like he once had.

but now, as he watched her nibble on his fingers, a gummy smile stretching across her face, it was hard to think of it that way.

it had been a week of this teething nightmare and absolutely nothing could soothe her—except for his arm. except for him.

“does that feel better, babydoll?” he whispered, unable to stifle his smile as she cooed up at him. “you like daddy’s arm?”

“i think she does.”

bucky looks up, smiling softly as he sees your figure hiding in the shadows, leaning against the doorframe. “i told you to stay in bed.”

you shrug, moving forward into the stripe of moonlight in the middle of the nursery. “she likes the arm,” you say, ignoring his comment. “in fact, it’s the only thing she likes right now.”

he looks back down at becca, gaze softening as it always did when his eyes met hers. you sat just beside him, leaning on his shoulder.

after a long moment, he looks back to you with tear filled eyes. “i don’t deserve her.”

she sighed. “jamie—”

“i mean, look at her!” he exclaims, voice still hardly above a whisper. you oblige, watching as becca eagerly bites on his finger, unbothered by her parents conversation—she was adorable, but your focus couldn’t help but be captured by the way your husband looks at her with such reverence in his eyes. “she’s so innocent. she just showed up here one day and she doesn’t know what’s going on or—or what this arm has done—”

“you know what she does know?” you interrupt, knowing better than the let this spiral spin out. bucky looks back to meet your eyes, and you meet his pout with a gentle smile, massaging is shoulder gently as you speak. “she knows that you’re her daddy. she knows that you’re warm, and you smell nice, and that you have the magic hand that makes her feel better… and she knows you love her endlessly.”

he shakes his head, looking down at the baby, who had began to drift off. “i just… i never thought i’d get to have this. you, her, any of it.”

you lean in, kissing his cheek softly. “and you deserve it more than anyone.”

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wynnevee · 1 day ago

Text

Milestones

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

Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!reader (she/her), You have a baby named Jamie.

Warnings/tags : little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, Baby Jamie, Tower fic! Lots and lots and lots of fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.4k

Note : This could be read as a sequel to Elevator, Baby! Or on its own as a one shot. Enjoy!

You stood at the base of the jet ramp, your heart in your throat and Jamie in your arms, bundled in a little blue jacket with bear ears on the hood. Bucky had been holding it together all morning—packing, checking gear, getting briefed—but the second he turned around and saw the two of you standing there, it all fell apart.

His eyebrows relaxed, lips parting just slightly as he took you in—your tired eyes, your little smile, the way Jamie was chewing on his tiny mitten.

“C'mere,” Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.

He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamie’s cheek, then your lips, then Jamie’s nose—over and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.

This mission was unavoidable.

A Hydra remnant had resurfaced— and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.

It had to be Bucky.

But it killed him to go.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “So much. You take care of Mama, alright?” he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. “We’ll be right here, Buck.”

Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. “You’re my whole world,” he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamie’s level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his son’s chubby cheeks.

“Love you, Jamie,” he cooed. “I’m so proud of you already,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. “Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone, okay?”

Jamie laughed, squeezing his father’s vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.

Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.

Then he stepped away— like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.

—

You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone.

“It’s safer,” he had said with his hand on your back. “Security’s tighter. You’ll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,” he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, “It’ll help me sleep at night.”

You couldn’t argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldn’t be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Bucky’s peace of mind—and maybe yours, too—you agreed.

But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.

That’s what Bucky said—“Just a month, sweets. They won’t even know I was there.” He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. “It'll go so fast.”

It didn’t.

The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddy—how brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.

The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you weren’t hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didn’t), and Ava had access to the baby monitor— because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.

And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field.

“Alive.”

That was all you got. Nothing more. You weren’t allowed to respond, couldn’t ask if he was warm, if he’d eaten, if he missed you—though you knew the answer.

Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.

“Need more time. One month.”

You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.

John placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he said. “And he’s gonna be okay.”

But you didn’t feel great, though.

—

Around week six, it happened.

You’d just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamas—the yellow ones with little moons and stars—and were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. He’d been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.

But this time… he did it.

With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself upright—his pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right way—and he sat…. unassisted.

You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.

“You sat up on your own, Jamie!” you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. “You’re so clever!”

Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explode—and you clapped for him like he’d just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.

But then you looked up— just for a second.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture it—the way he’d whisper "Atta boy..."

But the doorway was empty.

Oh, right. He wasn’t here.

Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. “Daddy would’ve loved that,” you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. “He would’ve clapped louder than me.”

—

It was around week seven when it happened— a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtower’s windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. “Wait—wait, wait! bozhe moy—he’s doing it!”

You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first time— straight toward his favourite stacking rings.

Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. “Look at this strong little soldier,” she said, laughing. “He has places to be!”

You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,” you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. “You did it, baby. You did it!”

Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelena’s commentary, Jamie’s babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered around—Ava and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.

“He did this today?” Ava said, visibly impressed.

You nodded. “He just… took off.”

“Bucky would lose his mind,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s been waiting for this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.

“He’s growing up so fast,” you said softly. “Too fast.”

And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for once— Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.

—

Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.

But the screen displayed:

“Need more time.”

That was it.

No follow-up and no time estimate.

You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach him— like it might let him know how much you needed him now.

You hadn’t realised just how much hope you’d pinned on hearing something different today.

After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chest—washed too many times but still faintly smelling like him—and glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.

It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamie’s head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.

You looked at it every night— and lately, you’d started talking to it.

“I swear, Buck, he’s got your attitude,” you murmured with a smile. “Fights nap time like he’s trying to break out of a prison transport. He’s teething now, too—two little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.”

You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. “And he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. I’m fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.”

You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.

Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.

“Wanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?”

As part of your nightly routine, you’d started showing Jamie a few photos of Bucky—his favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. You’d hold it up and say, “That’s your daddy. He loves you so much.”

Then you’d pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamie’s favourite bedtime story— Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording “just in case.”

As his voice filled the room—“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”—Jamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadn’t seen in more than three months.

—

By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You weren’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if you’d eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamie’s routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.

“Alive.”

That was all he was allowed to say. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to you.

But then came the night the comms didn’t crackle at all.

You’d finished Jamie’s bedtime routine—bath, bottle, story—and sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.

Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.

“Delay in transmission,” she reassured. “There’s been some disruption on the line. It doesn’t mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.”

You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. “Thanks.”

But sleep didn’t come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.

So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didn’t fully wake— just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.

“Daddy’s okay,” you whispered, rocking slowly,“He’s coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.”

—

One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Tower’s main comm crackled to life.

You weren’t expecting much— maybe the usual “Alive”, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.

“On my way back. ETA: 2 hours.”

You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.

Oh.

Oh. Oh my God.

Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamie’s warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. “He’s coming home, baby,” you whispered to him.

Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtower’s hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there.

Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.

Bucky.

He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when he’d left. His face was gaunt with fatigue—like he’d lived a lifetime in the past three months—but none of that mattered.

Because his eyes were on you.

And then he ran.

You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your hair—frantic and tender.

You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.

“I made sure Jamie was napping,” you murmured, “Wanted to have you all to myself first.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.

“You did?” he chuckled playfully.

You nodded, eyes wet.

“Sweetheart…” His breath hitched. “God, I missed you. So much.”

You pressed your lips to his in a kiss— and there was no rush, no frantic edge— just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.

“I don’t care what Val says,” he whispered against your lips. “No more long missions. I don’t care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrush— the longest I’ll ever go without you is a weekend. That’s it.”

You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.

—

Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.

The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.

Bucky stood in the doorway.

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.

“He’s so big…” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. “I mean, I knew he would grow—but…”

“He did,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. “He grew up so much.”

Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.

“I missed him,” Bucky murmured. “I missed everything. His face… He’s changed.”

You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. “He looks more like you now.”

Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamie’s chest rise and fall. “I wanna hold him so bad,” Bucky said. “But I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.”

“He’ll be up in the morning. He’s become a morning person, like his dad,” you whispered, “But I don’t mind the dirt.”

Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t you, now?” he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.

You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.

“I missed this,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Missed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching you—loving you.”

Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. “Bucky—” you whispered, heart racing.

“Let me love my girl,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Let me come home to you properly.”

You nodded.

He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.

—

The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom — until it didn’t. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.

You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. “He’s up,” you whispered, barely a breath.

But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.

You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.

He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and there—right where you'd left him—was Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quiet—like reverence wrapped in gravel. “There’s my boy.”

Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.

Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. “You remember me, huh?” he whispered, almost amazed.

He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.

You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course he did.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamie’s hair and shut his eyes. “God, he’s heavier,” he said.

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Bucky’s collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it.

The three of you curled up on the couch not long after—Jamie nestled in Bucky’s lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.

You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.

“Here,” you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. “You missed a few things. I saved everything.”

Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.

It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.

Bucky’s breath caught. “Look at him go,” he whispered, brushing Jamie’s hair back. He kissed his son’s temple.

You smiled and swiped to the next.

This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.

Bucky’s smile was gentler this time.

Clip after clip, moment after moment—Jamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for “banana” — These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.

You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Bucky’s teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.

“And here,” you said, “this was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.”

You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.

“That’s… that’s great,” he whispered, barely audible.

You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. “You okay?”

He met your eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good, sweetheart. Just… taking it all in.”

You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamie’s.

He kissed Jamie’s cheek again.

Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his son’s life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldn’t help but think—

I should’ve been there.

—

That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life—a fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.

You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.

“I got this, honey,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.

Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open.

Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cry— the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.

“Hey, hey, alright, buddy,” Bucky soothed, already reaching in. “You mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.”

He changed him on the table— hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon stars— he one Jamie always settled best in.

“There we go,” Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. “Better?”

Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.

But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bed— it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..

So, he drifted into the Watchtower’s common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.

“You hungry, too, huh?” he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamie’s hands.

And Jamie… gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.

Bucky didn’t help anymore, he didn’t have to. Jamie had it handled.

Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.

“You’re so good at that now,” he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamie’s brown curls. “You don’t even need me to help.”

Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Bucky’s chest.

“I should’ve been here for that,” Bucky continued. “Should’ve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and you’ve already moved past it.”

He looked away, wiping at his face, “What kind of dad misses that?”

“Someone who is trying,” came a gravelly voice behind him.

Bucky twisted to look behind him.

Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.

“Hey there, malen’kiy medvezhonok,” he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, “And bol’shoy medved,” he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusement— his long-standing nickname for Bucky’s bear-like devotion to fatherhood.

Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.

Bucky sighed. “He figured out the bottle on his own.”

Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. “Babies do that.” he said, dropping his bag, “But I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.

“Be honest with me, Alexei.”

Alexei raised a brow. “Always.”

“Am I a failure of a father?”

Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.

“What? No.”

“I missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her I’m fine, that I’m proud, but I’m already behind and he’s not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?”

Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. “You want truth?”

Bucky nodded.

“You are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.” He gestured vaguely. “That alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men I’ve known—including my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelena’s lives.”

Bucky frowned. “But—”

“Listen to me.” Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. “I used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stay— and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

He paused, then added, “John —he is not perfect. He missed much of his child’s early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?”

“No,” Bucky admitted, remembering when John’s kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, “Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” Alexei said, “And John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.”

Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“You think he’ll forgive me?” Bucky asked.

Alexei snorted. “He is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.”

That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and closed his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alexei stood with a stretch. “I go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.” He gave Jamie a parting glance. “Good baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.

—

The light of morning spilled across the Watchtower’s windows. The city below hummed—cars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.

You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.

It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. You’d be back often, of course—visits, Bucky’s (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the team—but today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.

He’d slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. “Let me do something useful, sweets,” he’d said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small ways— over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes you’d already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.

And you let him.

Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.

Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table.

CLACK!

It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.

Jamie flinched.

His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And then— like a dam cracking open— the cries began— the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didn’t understand the world enough to explain it.

“Oh, baby—no, no, it’s okay,” you whispered, immediately rocking him. “Just a sound, it’s alright. Just a noise. Mama’s got you—shhh…”

But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.

That was the moment the door slid open.

Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation he’d just had with John on the comms. “Hey, I found the monitor and that book you always—oh—”

He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down

“What happened?” he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.

“He scared himself,” you explained. “He knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.”

You didn’t need to explain more. He was already reaching.

“Come here,” Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. “Come to Daddy. Daddy’s got you now.”

You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tight— one hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. “Shhh… It’s alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll kick its ass later, huh?” he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. “Plates are overrated anyway.”

Jamie’s cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Bucky’s shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.

And then it came in his small, raspy voice “...Dada.”

Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.

And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamie’s face. “What… What did you say?” he whispered in disbelief.

Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Bucky’s beard.

“Dada,” he said again, clearer now.

Bucky’s knees almost buckled.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“Is this—has he...?” he asked, barely turning his head toward you.

You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. “It is,” you whispered, kissing Jamie’s forehead. “That’s his first word.”

Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking. “That’s me. That’s me, Jamie. I’m your Dada.”

He kissed the top of Jamie’s head over and over again, before kissing you— gentle and sweet.

Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud “Dada.”

You smiled, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder.

All those nights you’d shown Jamie picture after picture of his father—telling him over and over, “That’s your Daddy. He’s coming home.” All those times you’d held your breath hoping Jamie wouldn’t forget him… It had all paid off.

Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldn’t believe this little boy—this squishy miracle—was his. And yours.

And that his very first word had been Dada.

Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Bucky’s chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. “Dada,” Jamie said again, sleepily this time.

Bucky leaned down and whispered, “That’s me, buddy.”

—end.

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wynnevee · 1 day ago

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teething

dad!bucky barnes x mom!reader

synopsis: a little blurb about girl dad bucky and his metal arm—a little angst, mostly cute.

warnings: bucky’s past, insecure bucky, adorable girl dad bucky, crying babies

“shhh, i know, i know, honey.”

baby rebecca was barely four months old and already, the teething was unbearable—so much so that nights of restlessness and countless rejected soothing toys became a staple in the barnes household.

‘daddy, it hurts! why aren’t you helping me?’

he had been trying to give you a much needed night off but at this point, he was desperate.

he froze, brow furrowed as he watched her tears clear, all of her problems seeming to vanish as she gnawed on his finger.

his metal finger.

see, ever since you’d told him you were pregnant, bucky was… weird about his arm.

and so when you had told him you were pregnant and all that healing fell apart before your very eyes, you were incredibly concerned.

but now, as he watched her nibble on his fingers, a gummy smile stretching across her face, it was hard to think of it that way.

it had been a week of this teething nightmare and absolutely nothing could soothe her—except for his arm. except for him.

“does that feel better, babydoll?” he whispered, unable to stifle his smile as she cooed up at him. “you like daddy’s arm?”

“i think she does.”

bucky looks up, smiling softly as he sees your figure hiding in the shadows, leaning against the doorframe. “i told you to stay in bed.”

you shrug, moving forward into the stripe of moonlight in the middle of the nursery. “she likes the arm,” you say, ignoring his comment. “in fact, it’s the only thing she likes right now.”

he looks back down at becca, gaze softening as it always did when his eyes met hers. you sat just beside him, leaning on his shoulder.

after a long moment, he looks back to you with tear filled eyes. “i don’t deserve her.”

she sighed. “jamie—”

he shakes his head, looking down at the baby, who had began to drift off. “i just… i never thought i’d get to have this. you, her, any of it.”

you lean in, kissing his cheek softly. “and you deserve it more than anyone.”

#bucky barnes x reader #the avengers #thunderbolts #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #dad!bucky #dad!bucky barnes #dad!bucky barnes x reader

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wynnevee · 2 days ago

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🥹 omg

Have We Met Before?

Summary : America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wife! Sorceress! Reader (she/her) (+ brief Reporter!Bucky x spider woman!reader / ravager!Bucky x Nova Corps!Reader / knight!Bucky x princess!reader)

Warnings/tags : multiverse stuff, slight cursing, Injury. Featuring America Chavez, Strange and Wong. Fluff!!!!!!!

Word count : 6.9k

Note : This was inspired by the song of the same name by Tom Rosenthal. I also just think Bucky would be super protective over the MCU’s young heroes, y’know? Like, he knows what it’s like to be young and talented in this field and would try his best to make sure none of the next generation of heroes would get taken advantage of and used like he was. Anyway, enjoy!

Earth-616...

The sun hung low over the terracotta roofs the day you first met America Chavez.

You, a teacher of shielding magic in Kamar-Taj, often sought out to train new recruits in the art of defensive spells, were meditating when she arrived.

She stood near the center of the courtyard, her jacket dusted with ash, boots scuffed and worn from a recent battle. She looked relaxed, but her eyes scanned the space with the paranoia of someone who had seen too many things go wrong too quickly. Strange had brought her in personally.

There was a spark about her—a being of chaos and confidence wrapped in a teenage body. Even the air around her seemed to him with potential. As you walked toward her, preparing the same measured welcome you gave all new students, she looked up, caught your eye, and smiled.

“Hi!” She exclaimed, “I know you!”

You furrowed your eyebrows, puzzled. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Not this you,” she said with a smirk. “Other yous. I can travel to different realities.”

You studied her for a moment, and in that instant, your understanding of the multiverse shifted slightly—not in theory, not in abstract philosophy, but in practice.

She was real, tangible, and standing three feet in front of you, smiling like this sort of thing happened every Tuesday.

And maybe, for her, it did.

—

You quickly became her favourite teacher.

She liked Strange, but you were more sympathetic than him, and less rigid than Wong. You were enough of a challenge to keep her attention— on good days, anyway. America had a habit of brushing off lessons she didn’t think she needed. If a spell didn’t explode or glow or bend reality sideways, she wasn’t that interested. But she also had a habit of punching holes through space and tearing through dimensions like they were paper. She could travel without a Sling Ring, which made her a magnet for trouble.

See, that kind of power doesn’t go unnoticed. That kind of power needed protection.

So you pushed her a little harder. Taught her advanced shielding techniques, the kind that could hold up against dimensional anomalies and the occasional demon. You worked patiently with her, correcting her form, teaching her to stabilise her breathing, to anchor her focus in the midst of chaos.

She rolled her eyes more than once, but she listened. And when it mattered, she applied what she learned.

She wasn’t a quick learner, but she was talented.

You liked her instantly.

By the end of your first month teaching her, you established a rhythm. She’d show up (sometimes late), and you’d teach her something new.

Sometimes she challenged you, sometimes she surprised you, but always, she reminded you why you taught in Kamar-Taj in the first place.

That day, after a particularly solid session—she’d finally nailed an advanced protection spell, the Sigil of the Aegis, and managed to hold it steady under pressure. “You’ve been practicing—good. It shows,” you said with a smile. “But I gotta run. My husband’s waiting for me at home.”

America perked up immediately. “Oh! Tell Bucky I said hi!”

You blinked. “I never told you about Bucky.”

She gave a little shrug, casual as ever. “Didn’t need to. You’re with him in every universe.”

Oh?

You paused, her words lodging deeper than you ever expected. You felt a gentle warmth bloom in your chest— perhaps a sense of inevitability, of cosmic affection. You smiled, more to yourself than to her.

“Well,” you finally said, after processing her words, “That’s good to know.”

—

After the first six months, the classrooms of Kamar-Taj weren’t enough for America anymore. She craved more than theory, more than chants and sigils. She wanted something real. She wanted something to punch.

And being married to a feisty ex-assassin, you understood that hunger better than most. You understood the calling that came from knowing you were built for something bigger than the four walls of a training room.

So… you started bringing her on missions.

At first, it was small stuff— clearing out rogue spirits in the Alps, helping Wong seal a breach in an ancient temple, handling a cursed artifact that had ended up in the hands of an unsuspecting kid in Tokyo.

She was fearless on the field, and just reckless enough to keep you on your toes. And she loved every second of it.

Sometimes it was just the two of you. Other times, when physical force was needed, Bucky joined you.

Where you moved with grace, he moved with force. Where you cast with precision, he fought with instinct. You were opposites in many ways— but you worked like clockwork together.

The first time the three of you teamed up, America gave Bucky one long look and smirked. “So, the Winter Soldier in this universe, huh? Doesn’t look so scary.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Give me five minutes and a reason.”

“He’s all bark until someone threatens me,” You laughed. “Then it gets messy.”

From then on, the three of you became a strange little unit. America would tease Bucky constantly—calling him grumpy, old man, or “Sergeant Sunshine” on good days. She’d stick close to you when he got too serious. You always laughed.

—

When this all started, America had two legal guardians— Wong and Strange. Recently, you and Bucky were added to the list.

So you started inviting her to yours and Bucky’s home more, especially when Strange or Wong had pressing matters to attend to. Dinner at your apartment became a regular thing. She’d crash on the couch in an old hoodie, eating popcorn and flipping through your spellbooks like they were comic books. Bucky cooked big, hearty meals more often than not, recipes that reminded him of a time before this one. You’d float the dishes clean afterward with a flick of your hand, and America would clap.

Strange and Wong would sometimes be invited too, and they’d bicker about magical ethics. At least they’d brought dessert. One time, Wong showed up with six tubs of ice cream and didn’t explain why. No one asked.

Then came Madripoor.

A Skrull impersonated you during an ambush, but America decked her with a right hook, and she dropped like a sack of bricks.

“My sister doesn’t stand like that,” she said, shaking out her fist.

You didn’t say anything right away, but you beamed with pride.

After that, she started calling you her big sister like it had always been the case.

Bucky didn’t argue. In fact, he was fond of it.

He started teaching her how to throw knives, how to read people’s movements in combat, how to hit where it counted. “Just in case the magic fails.” he’d say with a shrug.

He trained her like she mattered to him, like he’d already decided she was family.

“She reminds me of you, you know,” he said one night, after America had passed out on your favourite armchair in the living room with her mouth open, TV still on.

You were curled up beside him on the couch, your legs over his lap, a cup of tea floating in the air between you.

“She’s louder,” you replied with a smile.

He chuckled. “Yeah, but she’s got that same… fire. She knows she’s meant for more, just waiting for the world to catch up.”

You glanced at her, snoring under your old jacket, curled up like she hadn’t fought a demon with Wong twelve hours ago. “I get it. She doesn’t just want to survive. She wants to matter.”

Bucky tangled his metal arm in your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. “She does. Especially to you.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “To us.”

Bucky smiled and nodded, kissing the top of your head.

—

Then, something started… changing. Especially in lessons.

America started showing up late, later than usual—and when she did, her energy was all over the place. Spells fizzled out, sigils came out crooked, and her focus was… somewhere else entirely.

She was still trying, still cracking jokes, but something had… shifted.

After the third lesson in a row where she couldn’t hold a basic containment shield (even though she’d mastered it weeks ago), you finally decided to ask around.

You found Wong and Strange in the library, deep in a debate about magical interference patterns in unstable realities. They paused when you walked in, and Wong raised an eyebrow at the look on your face.

“America is distracted,” you said simply. “I’ve tried scolding her, grounding exercises, even bribing her with snacks. Nothing’s working.”

Wong gave a thoughtful nod. “Food usually does the job. That is serious.”

Strange leaned back in his chair with an annoyingly smug grin. “I think I know what it is.”

You folded your arms. “If it’s dimensional exhaustion, just say so. Don’t be cryptic.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” He smirked. “I think she’s got a crush.”

You blinked. “A what?”

Strange gestured vaguely toward the southern wing of the compound. “On that new teenage sorcerer. The cocky one from London. You know, the one who wears sunglasses indoors and thinks enchantments are a ‘vibe.’”

You stared at him. “Huh?”

Wong groaned. “Dear gods. Leo?”

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I caught her staring at him throw basic sparks into the air. She didn’t blink for, like, five whole minutes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “She’s letting her shields drop because she has a crush?”

“She’s sixteen,” Wong said with a sigh. “It’s developmentally appropriate.”

“Tell that to the demon who nearly melted my eyebrows off yesterday.”

Strange raised a finger. “To be fair, you were the one who let her take point on that breach.”

You scowled. “She begged to.”

“She wanted to impress Leo,” Strange said with a shrug. “Teenagers do dumb things when they have crushes.”

Wong crossed his arms. “So did you. Still do.”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make this about me.”

You sighed and dropped into the nearest chair. “Okay. So. Teen crush. What do I do? Forbid her from seeing him? Set your cloak on surveillance duty?”

“Or,” Wong said gently, “talk to her. Like you always do.”

You groaned dramatically, head in your hands. “I liked it better when the only thing she wanted to punch was interdimensional rifts.”

“She still does,” Wong said with a small smile. “She just also wants to punch them while looking cool in front of Leo.”

“Honestly, you should be proud,” Strange added, “She’s becoming terrifyingly normal.”

You could only chuckle, because they were right. She was growing. And real growth was never clean or controlled.

Especially not when teenage feelings got involved.

But you were still a legal guardian to her. The only female one, too. Neither lunatic wizards in front of you would know how to handle it, and as much as you loved your husband, he would not know how to handle girl talk.

So you stood up, dusted off your robes, and said, “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if he hurts her, I’m sending him into a mirror dimension for a week.”

Strange grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

—

You found her by the koi pond, skipping stones with the same power she usually reserved for punching demons. Her robe sleeves were pulled down over her hands.

You didn’t approach right away. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, watching the way she groaned every time a stone bounced fewer than three times.

Finally, you said, “You know your shields are garbage lately, right?”

America sighed without looking at you. “Yeah.”

You stepped beside her, picked up a pebble, and skipped it clean across the pond— six hops.

She gave you a side-eye. “Okay, show off.”

You smiled. “You wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated, but then said without looking up, “You ever like someone who’s... dumb hot but also kinda ridiculous?”

You nodded solemnly. “Bucky had an eyeliner phase.”

She turned to you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Long story,” you shook your head, “Focus. You mean Leo?”

She winced. “You know?”

“Everyone knows. Wong’s pretending he doesn’t, but Strange tells me you stare at him like he’s a walking portal to a candy dimension.”

“I hate it,” America groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I hate it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s cool and I’m… I dunno. I punch holes in space,” she sighed, “Not exactly first-date material.”

You nudged her shoulder. “You just need a plan, kid.”

She looked up, hopeful. “You’re gonna help me?”

You grinned. “What are big sisters for?”

After some (a lot) of encouragement, she found him in the spellcasting chambers and stammered out something along the lines of, “Hey, do you wanna get noodles and maybe talk about...like...not magical stuff for once?”

Leo blinked behind his ever-present sunglasses and gave her a grin that somehow tied her stomach into a knot and annoyed her all at once.

“Only if you don’t punch open a portal in the middle of dinner,” he said.

She punched his arm lightly. “No promises.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

—

Back in your home, America was pacing like a storm in a bottle while you tossed clothes across the guest bed, which has turned more and more into her second bedroom.

“I don’t know what to wear. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, right?”

You held up a bright red flannel and black jeans. “There. Makes your eyes pop.”

She grabbed them, holding them up in the mirror. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Then came the shoes decision, and the hair style spell, and a tiny protective charm you discreetly stitched into her jacket pocket— just in case.

And when she was almost ready, Bucky strolled in.

He looked at the pile of clothing chaos, then at America.

“…Where are you going?”

America froze like a deer in headlights. You smiled. “She has a date, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “With who?”

America muttered under her breath, “Leo.”

Bucky stared at her. “Sunglasses Indoors Leo?”

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yep.”

He crossed his arms, metal plating shifting with a whir. “Is he human? Does he have a criminal record? What’s his GPA? Has he ever made a pact with an ancient entity?”

You stepped between them before America combusted from secondhand embarrassment. “He’s fine, Buck. Wong already did the background check.”

Bucky looked unconvinced. “If he hurts her—”

“I’ll punch him into another reality,” America said quickly. “Relax, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, but he still handed her a switchblade. “Keep it in your boot. Just in case.”

“I can tear open a hole in space.”

“Still.”

—

That night, America left through a portal with flushed cheeks, perfect eyeliner (Bucky’s doing), and the world’s most awkwardly concealed switchblade in her boot.

You and Bucky watched her go, standing side by side at the window.

“She’ll be fine,” you said.

“She’s still just a kid,” he grumbled.

You leaned into him. “She’s got this.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “Still interrogating the boyfriend when I see him.”

You smiled. “Obviously.”

—

The date went well—really well. America came back that night practically floating.

She walked into your study smiling from ear like she’d just discovered treasure in a new universe, then immediately collapsed face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“He ordered dumplings for me without asking,” she mumbled into a cushion. “Because I mentioned it one time like two days ago.”

“That’s your bar?” You raised an eyebrow. “Dumpling telepathy?”

She rolled over, eyes bright. “It’s not just that! We talked for hours. Like, real talk. He told me about how his dad was a monk and he hated it. He said I’m like— this walking, talking reminder that the multiverse is bigger than all the rules he grew up with.”

Bucky, sitting nearby cleaning a knife, glanced over. “Sounds like he talks a lot.”

America waved a hand. “Yeah, but it’s good talk.”

For the next few months, it was like a new light had switched on in her. Still reckless, still stubborn—but brighter around the edges.

She practiced spells with more purpose (if not more focus), sometimes scribbling his name in the margins of her notes with tiny hearts, like magic school had turned into high school overnight.

And she gushed. Oh god, she gushed.

Leo said this. Leo did that. Leo levitated an entire tray of fries because he didn’t want to stop holding her hand. Leo cast a musical glamour to make her laugh. Leo kissed her in the rain and she swears it was like being in a movie.

You smiled through most of it. You’d tease her sometimes. You offered advice when she asked. And when she didn’t, you still made sure she knew you were there.

Bucky, of course, took longer to warm up. He never threatened Leo outright, but every time the boy showed up at your door, Bucky just happened to be cleaning a rifle.

“Be safe,” he’d always say as America ran out the door. “No unsupervised pocket dimension hopping.”

But then the stories… changed.

Not in tone— she was still breathless, still had rose tinted glasses on—but in content. She started mentioning how he didn’t like sparring with her anymore because he said she “came on too strong.” How he’d get quiet when she talked about going on missions.

“He says I make everything too big,” she said once, curling deeper into a blanket while your tea kettle whispered in the background. “That I treat magic like it’s a fight instead of a philosophy.”

You didn’t say anything then.

You just handed her a cup and listened.

Because it wasn’t your place to step in— not yet. Not when she was still so hopeful, still so sure she could bend the edges of her world to match his if she just tried hard enough.

But you noticed the red flags.

You noticed how, after a couple of months, her posture shrank when she talked about him. She laughed less when he was around. How her magic sparked in unpredictable, frustrating bursts when she thought no one was looking. How she said “sorry” too often. For being late, training too hard, for simply… taking up space.

Once, during a lesson, she flubbed a shield charm she could’ve done in her sleep, and when you offered to go over it again, she waved it off with a tired smile. “Leo says I overthink everything. Maybe I should just... stop trying so hard.”

That one hurt.

But still, you didn’t say anything. You just adjusted the angle of her stance, guiding her through the sigil again.

You’d built a relationship on trust and choice, so you needed to let her figure things out for herself while still making sure she held her head up high.

Now, even Bucky’s muscles tensed every time she brought Leo up. But even he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth he were starting to see:

That sometimes people can love you and still not understand the way you’re built.

That sometimes, someone wonderful just isn’t right.

That he wasn’t bad— but he was small, and she was infinite.

So you just waited and watched.

—

One day, Strange poked his head into the training hall after a novice lesson, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, like a man who had been asked to do brain surgery with chopsticks.

“America in Wong’s study,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “She asked for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your spellcasting hand. “Everything okay?”

“Leo… well...” Strange scratched the back of his neck. “I... tried. I made tea. I offered her a lecture on heartbreak through a metaphysical lens.”

You snorted. “You two tried to girl talk, didn’t you?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I thought I was doing well. Wong even mentioned Beyoncé.”

“… dear god.”

“She’s waiting,” he said, already walking away.

—

Wong’s study was unusually quiet when you stepped inside. The Sorcerer Supreme himself was nowhere in sight.

America probably told him to go because he just didn’t have anything worthwhile to say to get over a boy.

She sat curled up in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, oversized robe sleeves hanging past her hands. She stared at the floor.

You didn’t say anything, but you walked in slowly, careful not to startle her, and took the chair opposite her. You waited.

Eventually, her voice came flat, like it had been sanded down. “I told Leo it’s over.”

You nodded once. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She took a deep breath. “He said I’m becoming… too much.”

There it was, the dealbreaker.

You could almost hear it, the way she'd been turning that phrase over and over in her mind.

“He said he loves how strong I am, but he also said I have too much of a temper. That I make everything a fight. That he doesn't like being around someone who’s always ready to run headfirst into danger.”

You let her keep going.

“He said I never sit still. That I always want more. And I tried, you know? I really tried. I stopped portaling. Skipped training. Just to show him I could be… less.” She swallowed hard. “It didn’t help. He wasn’t happier. I just felt like a stranger to myself.”

“You’re never too much,” You leaned forward slightly, “He was just too little.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” She blinked, tears threatening to spill but not quite falling. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Would you have listened?”

She froze, before giving you a rueful shake of her head.

“I was a teenage girl once, too, y’know.” You smiled gently. “Sometimes you have to feel it for yourself. Sometimes love has to fall apart before you see it was never really whole. But I need you to know— I’m here. No matter what.”

Her fingers trembled, just slightly. “It sucks.”

“It does.”

“He was almost enough,” she whispered. “But I can’t do almost.”

You studied her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, wide with the kind of grief that makes a person seem older than they are.

You reached over and took her hand in both of yours, “America, your standards are already higher than most people twice your age. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You gave her hand a squeeze. “You knew it didn’t feel right, and you walked away. That takes guts.”

She sat quietly for a moment. Then, she hiccuped. “You know… there’s a reason for that.” She looked up at you now. “It’s you. You and Bucky. You’re always together.”

Your breath hitched. She hadn’t said it like a compliment. She said it like it was an undeniable truth.

“In every version of you I’ve seen,” she continued, “you two are always in love.”

You tilted your head. She had mentioned this before, but never quite expanded on it. “What do you mean?”

America sniffled, shifting slightly in her seat. “There’s a universe where you’re Spider-Woman. Bucky’s this sarcastic, reckless reporter who keeps getting himself kidnapped. You save him from actual robot ninjas and kiss him upside down in an alley.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds dramatic.”

“Oh, it was.” She smiled faintly. “There’s another one where you’re a Nova Corps commander and he’s a Ravager. You risk everything to protect him. Your rank, your life. You betrayed your division to be with him.”

You hadn’t asked for these glimpses before—never wanted to pry into how the multiverse folded versions of you into different shapes. But now… now you realise how much more she actually knew you and Bucky.

“And this one—this medieval one—where you’re a princess, and he’s your knight. He loses an eye protecting you during a siege.” Her voice cracked. “I cried in that one.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of it all settling in your soul.

“In every universe,” she said softly, “you choose each other. No matter how different the world is. Even when it doesn’t make sense. You always find your way back.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently along her skin. “That’s… a lot.”

“Well…” She shrugged, cheeks flushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re why I have high standards. Every time I see you, I think—that’s what love is supposed to look like. That’s why I couldn’t take ‘almost.’”

You hadn’t realised she'd been watching. That across every world she slipped through, she’d been collecting pieces of your love story like broken glass, trying to piece together something whole for herself in the process. Perhaps, it explained why she got attached to you both so quickly.

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, your voice soft. “You just haven’t met your Bucky yet.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she smiled through it. “That makes sense.”

You opened your arms, and she folded into them like she’d been waiting for permission. You held her close, her forehead against your shoulder, breathing finally evening out.

Because maybe that was the secret the multiverse had been trying to whisper to her all along—that some loves echo. That some hearts are meant to find each other, no matter how many versions of the world exist. No matter how far apart they start.

And maybe one day, she would find that kind of love. A love that wasn’t almost. A love that chose her back, again and again, across time and space.

But until then—she had you.

She had Strange.

She had Wong.

She had Bucky.

And for now, that was more than enough.

—

Meanwhile, on Earth 363…

You crept in through the second-story window like you always did, the faintest thwip of your web the only sound betraying your arrival. The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow from the living room

Still in your Spider-Woman suit, you moved stealthily through the hall, peeking around the corner just as Bucky stepped into view, holding a mug in one hand and a half-eaten cookie in the other.

“You’re late,” he said, amused and entirely unsurprised. He was still in his work clothes, the name tag from the Daily Bugle still clipped to his pocket.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch. “How do you know I’m here? I didn’t even make a sound.”

Bucky grinned, setting his mug down as he walked over to you. “You smell like roof tar and adrenaline.”

“…well, shit.”

He leaned down and gently tugged at your mask. “C’mere.”

You let him peel it off, your hair a messy halo from hours of swinging across rooftops. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks, then kissed you. You felt loved and warm and so very home.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Still.”

You grinned and kissed him again, slower this time, one arm snaking around his back, the other cradling the back of his neck. The cookie he had was now abandoned for good.

Eventually, you both sank onto the couch, limbs tangled and a blanket pulled over you.

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe had given him a sudden urge to ask, his voice muffled as he buried it in your shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

You blinked, then smiled. “Me neither… wonder where she’s gone off to.”

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the slight thump of Bucky’s heartbeat against your ribs.

Wherever she was, you hoped she was safe.

You hoped she found good people.

—

Meanwhile, in Universe-8990…

The engine hum of Bucky’s ravager ship was a familiar purr beneath your boots, the kind of sound that settled in your bones’ memory after enough time spent in deep space. You sat cross-legged on the floor of the weapons bay, your busted blaster disassembled on a crate in front of you, hands smeared with grease and face in frustration.

“I swear,” you muttered, yanking at a stubborn coil, “I could field-strip this thing in my sleep during basic training, and now I can’t even hold it right.”

“You’re probably just mad because it reminds you of the Nova Corps, babe,” Bucky said, waltzing over with a crooked grin and a Nanobot Welder in hand.

You narrowed your eyes at him, but couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not. I'm devastatingly handsome and occasionally insightful.”

He dropped to his knees beside you, his shoulder bumping yours. Without a word, he took the blaster from your hands, flipped it over, and adjusted the coil with a flick of his wrist. The click of realignment was so smooth, you almost didn’t hear it.

You gasped. “You’re kidding.”

“Ravager skills,” He winked. “We get creative out here without a billion credits in R&D.”

You rolled your eyes. He always looked and sounded so cocky, but underneath was the man who risked a death sentence by harboring a former Nova Commander like you. The man who never once asked if you regretted choosing him over the Corps.

“Thanks,” you said, gentler now.

“For fixing your weapon, or for stealing you away from a galactic space militia?”

You tilted your head. “Both.”

Bucky smiled, then leaned in slowly and kissed you. As always, the kiss was gentle. His fingers brushed under your chin, thumb ghosting over your cheekbones.

When you pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his.

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe suddenly told him to say it. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Yeah... me neither.”

She had helped you once—ripped open the stars and gave you a door when you thought there wasn’t one. And now, with the Corps calling you a traitor and half the galaxy after your head, you hoped she was somewhere out there, safe and happy.

–

Meanwhile, on Earth-223…

The castle halls had been quiet for hours, the usual echoing bustle replaced with the rustle of wind through ancient stone and the occasional hoot of an owl beyond the nursery window. You rocked gently in the gilded chair beside the cradle, your newborn swaddled in your arms, his tiny fists curled against your chest as he breathed in adorable hiccupping sighs.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Everything felt… right.

From across the room, you heard the familiar clink of armour being put down. James stood by the wardrobe, his tunic slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick wash. The eyepatch over his left eye caught the firelight like polished obsidian— your knight, and now your husband.

“You’re still awake,” he said as he padded over barefoot.

“He wouldn’t settle,” you whispered, glancing down at the bundle of joy in your arms. “Too curious, I think. Like his father.”

James chuckled softly, lowering himself to one knee beside you. He reached out and ran a calloused finger down the curve of your son’s cheek— the heir to the throne.

“He’s perfect,” he said.

“You say that every night.”

“And I’ll say it every night after this.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead. “He’s going to be strong, like his mother. Brave, too.”

You looked at James, heart swelling until it threatened to spill over. “You’re not too bad in those departments yourself, my love.”

He could only give you a tired grin.

You reached out, brushing your fingers through the hair above his ear— careful not to disturb the scar that ran beneath his eyepatch— a souvenir from the siege. The day he nearly gave his life for you. The day he threw himself in front of you, sword drawn, as the enemy breached the gate.

“I still think about that night,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he replied just as quietly. “I only think about this one.”

You smiled down at your child, who had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep.

James leaned his head against your knee for a moment, before sighing, as if the universe had told him to ask this question. “I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” he said, almost absently. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your smile faltered just slightly, but fondness curled in your chest. “Me neither, my love.”

She had disappeared like a star falling sideways through the sky, always moving, always needed somewhere else. But there had been a time, not so long ago, when she stood at your side—young and fierce and loyal beyond reason.

Wherever she was, you hoped she found a kingdom to settle in.

—

Back in Earth-616…

You had just gotten back from Kamar-Taj.

The buzz of a sling ring portal hummed behind you, your muscles sore from the emotional more than the physical toll. The second you stepped into your home and shut the door behind you, you let out a deep breath.

And there he was, your husband, half-reclined on the couch, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a book resting on his lap. He looked up the second he sensed you, and the lines on his forehead relaxing instantly.

“Hey,” he said, already setting the book aside as he stood.

You let your bag drop to the floor and walked straight into his arms.

He pulled you in without a word, hugging you, metal hand pressing gently against the small of your back while the human combed into your hair. You melted into his chest, burying your face in the cotton of his Henley.

“The kid okay?” he asked after a moment, “Wong called. Told me everything.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and nodded with a sad smile. “She will be.”

He watched you for a second, like he was trying to gauge how okay you were. Then he led you to the couch, letting you curl into his side with your legs thrown over his lap and his arm around your waist.

“America was the one who broke it off,” you said, head resting against his shoulder.

Bucky’s arms twitched just a little. “Good.”

You blinked, tilting your head up at him. “Good?”

He gave you that wicked smirk—the one that said he was already plotting something. “Where’s this Leo kid live again? Is it the left wing of the eastern temple?”

You groaned. “Bucky—”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he said, which was exactly what he would say before doing something. “I’m just saying. You care about her. So I care about her. That’s the rule.”

You bit back a smile. “Since when is that the rule?”

“Since I fell in love with you,” he said without missing a beat.

Even after all these years, your heart still did a stupid little backflip.

“Well…” You hesitated, tracing patterns on his vibranium arm with your fingertip. “She said we are the reason she has high standards. She’s seen us together enough times to believe that kind of love is real. That she… wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, processing that. Then he exhaled, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“Huh,” he said, “I’m proud of her.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded, “Took me long enough to learn that lesson. She’s ahead of the curve.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours.

You kissed him then. Slowly. Sweetly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as he pulled you closer, if that was even physically possible.

“Have I mentioned lately,” you whispered, “how much I love you?”

“Not since this morning,” he let out a small laugh, kissing you again and smiling into it. “I was starting to worry.”

You chuckled.

One day, you’d tell him the rest of the conversation. You’d sit him down and let America tell him about all the other versions of the two of you she’d seen—the princess and the knight, the runaway and the Ravager, the dramatic spider-kiss.

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to just this version of you and him. The one where his hand fit perfectly in yours, and your hearts beat in sync on a worn down couch that felt like the center of the universe.

And honestly… it kind of was.

-end.

yes it’s 616 for all intents and purposes even though I am well aware it is also the designation for the main comic universe. Edit: a lovely comment pointed out that America is a lesbian and dw, I am aware and I didn’t mean to undermine her sexuality! I should’ve mentioned that I am currently working on a part 2 where America starts questioning her sexuality ft. Bi!reader that centers around setting apart aesthetic attraction vs romantic attraction 🫶

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

2K notes · View notes

wynnevee · 2 days ago

Text

this is a masterpiece omg 🥹🫶

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.

It was meant to be.

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”

“Wasn’t the other day.”

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”

His eyes go wide at your tone.

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you.

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.

“So what, Mick?”

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”

You snort. “So, seduce him?”

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”

You roll your eyes. “Both.”

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.

“Why are you wearing a thong?”

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“How many are left?” Natasha asks.

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”

Bob blinks at her. “You do?”

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”

“What game?” Javy asks.

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”

“You bitch,” Jake mutters.

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.

Then the room explodes.

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.

What is it they call that?

Oh yeah… big dick energy.

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.

Stop staring, she mouths.

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.

“Yeah?”

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.

Your frown deepens. “What are you-”

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.

You blink. “What?”

“For your clothes,” he says simply.

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.

…Right?

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.

Too much silence.

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.

It doesn’t.

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.

No. No, you’re not.

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.

“Bob,” you whisper.

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.

“Like what?” you ask softly.

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.

You don’t sleep. Not at all.

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”

You snort. “Little?”

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.

Then you both nod. It’s show time.

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob��s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

She snorts. “That was very convincing.”

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.

“I doubt it.”

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.

“You’re annoying.”

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”

You frown. “Yet?”

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”

“Swear it.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”

You roll your eyes.

“I want in.”

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I want to help,” he says, plainly.

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.

Great. Now Hangman is involved...

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.

But Bob notices.

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”

Bob shakes his head. “No.”

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”

“You want us to lie?” you ask.

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.

You frown. “What?”

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.”

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.

He’s furious.

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.

Hangman might be a genius after all.

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.

You freeze. “What?”

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.

You twist around.

And promptly forget how to breathe.

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.

And holy shit.

It’s glorious.

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.

But in the light of day?

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.

But it’s not a wave.

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”

He winks. “Because we’re the best.”

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”

And the game is back on.

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.

And Bob sees everything.

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.

Bob.

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.

This is it.

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.

It’s just Bob now.

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.

You don’t move.

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.

You lean in just a little.

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—

He snaps.

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.

“Shit.”

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.

Then he turns and jogs toward the water.

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.

“Cooling off.”

END.

#wynne’s recs 💫

5K notes · View notes

wynnevee · 2 days ago

Text

too freaking cute omg 🤭

Get Around

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

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center.

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common?

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him.

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky.

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued.

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best.

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right.

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night.

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly.

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you.

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new.

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that.

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah.

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard.

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything.

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.”

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner.

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back.

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round.

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—”

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned.

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised.

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock.

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. ��Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter.

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end.

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wynnevee · 2 days ago

Text

love love love 💕

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

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

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

#wynne’s recs 💫

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