yikesdrama

[yikesdrama]

Forever Mine

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 21.2k words

summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky

a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

April 2024 First Meeting

Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.

Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.

He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.

Or it should have been.

He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.

Only, as he stepped closer, you turned. Quick — almost too quick.

And then the coffee hit.

It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.

“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”

Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”

You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”

Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”

You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.

He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.

For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.

Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.

You didn’t.

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One Month Later Second Meeting

Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.

He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.

That’s when he saw a woman.

Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.

It was you.

The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.

Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.

“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”

Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.

Your confusion didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”

For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”

“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.

“Hey.”

It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”

You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.

“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”

He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.

Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.

“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.

Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”

Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”

“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.

Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”

You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.

And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”

────────────────────────

He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.

They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.

You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”

He blinked. “My deal?”

You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”

That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”

You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.

You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”

Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.

“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”

“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”

You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”

“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”

You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you. Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.

You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.

And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.

Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.

You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”

You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.

“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”

It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.

You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”

“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”

That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”

You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”

“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.

And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.

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The Next Day First Date

Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened. You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.

Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.

It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.

Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.

This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.

Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.

Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.

He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again. Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.

Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.

By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.

Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.

You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.

At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.

────────────────────────

Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.

The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.

Maybe he was desperate.

His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.

And underneath it all, that other thought.

The one that never quite left him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really.

You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.

A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.

His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.

The door opened. And everything went quiet.

You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.

Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.

It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.

His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.

“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”

You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—

Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”

Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.

“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.

You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.

When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.

As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”

He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”

“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.

If you only knew, he thought.

You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”

He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”

It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”

He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”

“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”

He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.

“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.

You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”

“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.

The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.

“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.

He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”

“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.

The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.

Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.

And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”

You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”

“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.

You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”

Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.

The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.

For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.

“You live far?” he asked finally.

“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.

When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”

Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”

He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”

And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.

Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.

By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.

“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”

And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.

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Three Days Later Second Date

You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.

But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.

Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.

It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.

You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.

And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.

That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.

You already knew that.

It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.

If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.

And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.

You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.

So, you decided to give him a little push.

You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.

Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”

The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.

You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”

You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.

“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.

It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.

The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.

You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.

Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”

You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”

“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.

Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”

He frowned immediately. “What? No—”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”

“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”

You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”

“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”

You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.

“Normal’s good,” you said softly.

You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”

Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.

“Are you?” you countered gently.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.

“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”

You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.

“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.

Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”

It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later Third Date

The first date was to hook him.

The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.

And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.

The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.

You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.

By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.

You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.

Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.

His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.

You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.

Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.

There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”

The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”

You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”

There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”

You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”

He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”

And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.

And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.

You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.

The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You took care of that.

Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.

You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”

You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.

A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.

You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”

His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”

And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.

You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.

His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.

“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.

You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”

His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.

Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”

His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.

You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.

The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.

Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.

You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”

He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.

You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.

“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”

His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.

When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.

“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.

“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.

You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”

For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.

“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.

“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”

That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.

Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.

You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.

His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.

“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.

Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.

You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.

The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”

He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.

“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”

His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”

That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.

“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.

With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.

Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.

Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.

“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.

“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.

Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.

“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.

“James… I want you to finish in me.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”

“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”

Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.

“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.

The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.

You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.

Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.

“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”

There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.

And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”

The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.

You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.

“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.

You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.

The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.

────────────────────────

Three Months Later

The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.

“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”

Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.

“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”

Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”

That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”

Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”

Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”

Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”

Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”

“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”

Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”

But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.

────────────────────────

Five months.

If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.

And yet… here you were.

Perfect. Too perfect.

You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.

And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.

That was the problem.

Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.

At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.

Still…

He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.

He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.

And the worst part?

The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.

────────────────────────

It was supposed to be an easy night. Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.

But his head wouldn’t shut up.

You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.

Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.

After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”

He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”

You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”

You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him at first.

You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.

Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.

And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.

You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”

He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.

You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”

Bucky’s stomach knotted.

“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”

A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.

Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you feel better now?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.

And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.

You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.

Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”

Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.

“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”

You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.

“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.

“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”

Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.

“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”

He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”

Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.

“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”

His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.

“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Baby, I—”

“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”

His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”

The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.

You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.

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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.

Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.

This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.

Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.

And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.

Almost like clockwork, it started.

The first text came before nine.

Morning. I’m sorry about last night.

Then another, a few minutes later.

Can we talk? Please?

By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.

By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.

And then the calls began.

The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.

You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.

By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.

That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.

The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.

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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.

But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.

When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.

God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.

For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.

“Can I come in… please?”

The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.

But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.

You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.

Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.

You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.

Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.

He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.

He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.

You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.

He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.

And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”

You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.

“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.

“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”

He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”

You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”

The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can���t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.

You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.

“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”

His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.

You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.

Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.

And then you kissed him.

Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.

This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.

By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.

You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.

And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.

By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.

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Six Months Later May 2025

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.

You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.

“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.

You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.

“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”

You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.

You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.

“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”

His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.

For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.

“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.

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The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.

A year.

It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.

You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.

Because you did love him. You just needed him to love you more.

Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.

It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.

“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.

You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.

The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.

And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.

He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.

And now… now you just needed to secure it.

Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.

You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.

So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.

By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.

You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.

And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.

You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.

James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.

“Good?” he asked.

You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”

And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.

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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.

His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.

You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.

“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”

You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.

Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.

“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.

When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.

“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”

You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.

“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.

On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.

You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.

So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.

You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.

And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.

If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.

Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.

A baby.

Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.

You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.

And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.

You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.

Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The change was instant.

Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.

His answer wasn’t words.

In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.

You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”

Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.

The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.

You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.

“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.

You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.

He didn’t wait for permission.

His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.

His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.

“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.

You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.

The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.

You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.

Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.

Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.

“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”

And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.

He didn’t let up — not even a little.

Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.

“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.

He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.

Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”

That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.

It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.

The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.

Then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.

“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.

“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.

Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.

The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.

And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”

That broke what little restraint he had left.

He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.

You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”

“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”

That was it.

With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.

You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.

By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

It had been exactly a month since that night. The night you’d set everything into motion.

Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.

Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.

And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.

You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.

Perfect.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.

You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.

He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.

Then it hit him.

His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.

“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”

You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”

His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”

He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.

You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”

His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.

“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.

You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror. Simple. Heavy. Perfect.

Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.

You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.

It had been a month since James proposed. You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.

He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.

After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.

You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.

His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”

You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.

“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”

And, of course, you had.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.

Everything was falling right into place.

────────────────────────

Eleven Months Later July 2026

The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.

He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.

His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.

You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.

And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.

They were on you. Like they always were.

The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.

From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.

You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.

“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.

“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”

That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”

His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.

Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.

There she was.

Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.

“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.

Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.

“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.

She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.

“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”

Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.

“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”

She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.

By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.

“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”

She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.

Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.

“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.

Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.

You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.

Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.

“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”

“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.

“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.

It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.

You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.

“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.

And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.

Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.

James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.

And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.

You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.

And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.

Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.

Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.

Forever yours.

a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.

General Bucky Barnes Masterlist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @Onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @Ashpeace888 @Bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @Excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @Millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @Lilac13 @Fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @Ozwriterchick @miaspaperplanes @EspressoPatronum454 @melsunshine @slutforsr @thousandsplendidsunss @c-grace56 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[yikesdrama]

The Arm Bandit

pairing: husband!Bucky Barnes x wife!Reader

requests: OPEN

asks: OPEN

summary: As your daughter grows, her fascination with Bucky’s metal arm gives you a run for your money.

warning: straight fluff, daughters name is Lila but is called sweet pea and baby a couple times.

word count: 1.15k

A/n: Hope you all enjoyy don’t forget to like, comment and reblog. love you lots and lots like jelly tots ❤️

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It first started when Lila was teething. In his sleep-deprived state, Bucky let her gnaw on his finger for some relief and also just to stop her from crying. When you both noticed it worked, Bucky became her chew toy for the time being.

You had tried to get her to use something else, but nothing gave her the relief she wanted, and Bucky didn't mind. He found it sweet and gave him a chance to be closer to her.

By the time she was a year old, she started hitting. Every time Bucky was close to her, she beat his metal arm like a drum. Again, you both tried getting her to stop, but the way her face lit up and her giggles filled the room whenever she did it, Bucky caved immediately and let the strange habit continue.

As she got older, her fascination with his arm became less violent as she began tracing the gold lines that ran along it. Whenever he was near her, her hands had to be on him, more specifically, his arm.

When he had to put her down for a nap, she had her fingers dragging along each indent until she eventually lulled herself to sleep.

Then it got to the point where she couldn't sleep without it, and I mean absolutely couldn't. There were so many nights Bucky came into the room with his arm gone and his eyes tired, and all you could think was how a man who was built for war had now become so gentle, giving, utterly and completely hers.

Then she turned three, and all hell broke loose. There wasn't a moment when she wasn't climbing his arm like a tree or wrapped around it like a koala. The sight never failed to give a heart attack. "Bucky put her down", you'd say. "She could fall and get injured", he always brushed off your worries with a kiss and a simple, "I've got her doll."

And he did have her, until he didn't, when she learned how to detach his arm after a trip to Wakanda. So every time he got her 'mad' or just for shits and giggles, she would detach his arm and go running for the hills as her laughs echoed down the hallway, while Bucky reattached his arm for the third time in a row.

So that's where you are now, with a toddler who detaches metal arms to get out of trouble and a grumpy husband with said metal arm. "Doll, I can't take this anymore", Bucky groans as he enters the kitchen, reattaching his arm once again. "All the other things she did with my arm were cute. This one is just horrible". He groaned.

You glanced over your shoulder, trying (and failing) to hide your smile. “She’s three Buck, her full time job is driving you insane.” He slumped into his chair dramatically, dragging a hand across his face, “She called me ‘bad daddy’ because I wouldn’t let her put stickers on it”

You snort, “Well, can you blame her after the birthday incident?” You smile as you move between his legs. He narrows his eyes. “I still have glitter in my elbow joint from that”, he muttered, his head now resting on your stomach.

Before you could reply, the soft pattering of feet echoes down the hallway. You both turn to see your daughter; her curls a mess, face all innocent as she twirls the ends of her dress between her fingers.

Bucky smiles softly, “What’s the matter, sweet pea?” He asks, still holding onto you as you massage his shoulders. “Daddy, have arm, please?” Her smile is adorably sweet, and Bucky was just about to give in when you intervened.

“Not right now, baby, Daddy’s shoulder is hurting him.” Which wasn’t a lie; Bucky’s shoulder was in constant pain from your daughter taking his arm off too much, and he just ignored it to see her happy.

She looked at you like you just told her Santa wasn’t real. She sported an Oscar-worthy frown as she folded in on herself, and her eyes welled with crocodile tears. You shifted to lift her into your arms to rest her on your hip.

She pouted, looking just like her father, as she rested her head on your shoulder. You rubbed soothing circles on her back as she let out a tiny sigh, her thumb finding its way to her mouth. "I know, baby", you coo as you gently sway her. "Daddy needs a little break, just for tonight".

She huffs as she cuddles deeper into your chest, and Bucky leans back into his chair, fighting the growing smile on his face. "I'll tell you what," she perks up a little as he continues, "you let me keep the arm tonight so we can help mommy make cookies, and tomorrow we'll play princesses and you can put stickers on daddy's arm, yeah?"

She blinked at him slowly before pulling her thumb out of her mouth, "And glitter?"

Bucky sighed, shaking his head a little, and you can't believe the words that fall from his mouth, "Fine. A little glitter. But none in the elbow joint this time, okay?"

Her face instantly lights up, and her smile just melts your heart. "Okay, daddy!"

She wriggles out of your arms, into Bucky's lap and wraps her arms around his neck. You and Bucky exchange a quiet laugh as he holds her a bit tighter, before she runs off to use her newfound energy elsewhere.

"Tell me why we haven't had a second one yet?" Bucky mutters as his arms find their way around your waist, and his lips travel from your cheeks to your temple.

You smirked. "Because you're arm won't stand a chance against two of them". He scoffs in between kisses, "Don't knock it till you try it, doll," he says smugly before throwing you over his shoulder.

"James!" you shriek, lightly hitting his back as he trudges towards your bedroom, locking the door behind him.

BONUS

A series of giggles and deep belly laughs echo throughout the kitchen. The three of you huddle around a baking tray with some questionably shaped cookie dough, victims of Lila and Bucky's cookie competition that you have the honour of judging.

You watch with a smile as Lila sneaks chocolate chips out of the pack while Bucky figures out how to preheat the oven. "Everything okay over here, Super Soldier?" Your hands wrap around his waist from behind, and you rest your head on his shoulder. "Can you figure this out, please?"

You giggle into his shirt before leading him toward the stove to show him what to do. "Ah! What would I do without you, my love!" He smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

"Who knows?" You shrug with a smile as you gently take Lila into your arms while Bucky places the tray into the oven.

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[yikesdrama]

okay but please tell me bucky had a yacht and takes mal and bee out on in the summer for a boat day

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee

A/N: Prequel to their vacation fic.

Part of the Bumblebee series.

"This is perfect."

A few hours ago, Bucky strolled into your bedroom with Bee draped over his shoulder as he asked you if you had any plans for the weekend.

Bee was practicing bursting at the seams, trying to keep herself from telling everything he planned. The more you pretended to think it over, the closer she got to spilling her secrets. Bucky barely convinced her to wait until you gave an answer.

One saucy, playful 'actually I'm really busy' led to the two them deciding that no, no you are not before pulling you out of the house and down to the docks.

Now you're on an yacht that could double as a floating mansion.

The sun warming your legs, chasing away the lingering coolness left by the salt-tinged breeze. Lounge chairs side by side. A large navy blue umbrella casting shade over little Bee.

It's been a lazy afternoon. No worries. No responsibilities. Just basking in the sun.

Bucky told you this morning that he was going to handle everything. And he has. You haven't had to lift a finger since you stepped onboard. The hardest decision you had to make today was to pick which chair you wanted to lie on.

It's been amazing, relaxing. Even more so because you're spending the day with your two favorite people.

Bucky left to arrange lunch and bring up some fresh drinks. Ice cubes melting in the empty glass on the table next to your lounger. Your open book is discarded on your stomach, your face turned towards Bee, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

She's been talking for the past five minutes, lost in her own story. You have no idea what she's talking about but it is always fascinating to listen to her. She has a creative imagination, you don't know how she comes up with half the things she does.

So you keep encouraging her with the occasional question.

It's so quiet except for her cheery, light voice and the faint crash of waves. Nothing else exists. The world has been carved down to this. Nothing else matters. Just you. Your daughter in her black and yellow striped swimsuit.

And him.

You glance over when the sound of a door swinging open captures your attention.

Bucky emerges from the galley with two strawberry lemonades, condensation rolling off the chilled glasses. He looks good—golden tattooed skin, black swim shorts, the sun catching his wedding band.

There's a familiar expression on his bearded face—one he gets whenever he's in his element. That slight tilt of his lips has been there since he sprung this impromptu getaway on you.

A little smug, very pleased.

"How are my girls?"

"Good, Papa," Bee answers, sitting up in her chair with a grin. She looks at you, reaching for your hand. "'We love 'cations. Our favorites. Right, Mommy?"

"They are," you agree, leaning over to nudge her nose with yours, giving her fingers a light squeeze. "It's been great. We really needed this."

Bucky's heart warms, a sense of pride settles between his ribs. He lives for this—works hard for this. To see the two of you so happy and peaceful.

You deserve a lifetime of vacations and he's going to make sure you have them.

"Glad to hear it."

Bucky sets her glass on the small wooden table beside her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Instead of placing yours in your waiting hand, he unexpectedly nudges the cold, cold glass into your side.

You shriek, the shock of cold bursting across your warm skin makes the undignified sound slip out before you can stop it. Bee giggles wildly, her bright eyes watching the two of you.

You glare at him as he blocks the sun from your vision. Laughing, Bucky sits on the edge of your chair. He wipes your side off with his large palm.

"Must of slipped." He smiles innocently, bending down to taste your lips. His groan is low, soft and only for your ears. He'll never get used to how sweet you are. He glances around the deck, noticing a missing green dino. "What happened to Mr. Tato?"

"He left because he doesn't like being hots, Papa." She huffs out earnestly, offended at the even though of her beloved dino getting caught in the heat. Again. "He says he doesn't wanna be baked cause—"

"He is not a potato. And he doesn't like it when his feet get hot. He has so many, Bucky," you droll, hiding your grin when Bee nods seriously.

"You should know that," you sigh with an air of disappointment, like she didn't lecture you about Mr. Tato and his heat aversion after you made the grave mistake of plopping the dino on the lounge chair earlier.

Bee rescued him—safely tucking him away in one of the rooms below. Bee made sure he was in front of a portable fan, lying on a coloring book, before she came back upstairs.

"Yeah, Papa." Your gaze catches Bee's as she takes a sip, and you both shake your heads in unison.

"Ah. My mistake." Bucky's laugh is deep and smooth and leaves you warmer than the summer sun.

"So where are you taking us, Mr. Barnes?" You ask, tracing one of his tattoed abs with your finger.

"You'll find out when we get there, Malyshka. "

Bucky leans back, his arm around your shoulders. That smirk gets a little wider. The slight quirk of his brow letting you know that—unlike the sweet toddler beside you—he can keep secret.

The only thing you know for sure is you're going to love wherever he's about to take you. Because if there's one thing Bucky excels at, it's spoiling his girls.

[yikesdrama]

thinking of wearing pink for Bucky…

(this is WAY longer than I intended it to be.)

thinking about wearing a soft, light pink nightgown for Bucky. trimmed with lace at the top, hits high on your thighs, fits quite loosely. a pair of matching pink lace panties underneath.

when you told him you were going shopping with a friend, he told you, “buy yourself something nice. put it on my card.”

when you saw the gown on the mannequin in the window of the boutique…

you had to.

the silk was soft under your touch when you picked it up. you don’t usually wear pink, or anything this nice to bed—you just wear one of his shirts. he loves seeing you in his clothes.

but this…

you almost wondered if it would even look good on you. if you could even be the kind of girl who wore something as delicate and soft as this.

so you tried it on. and it just felt right, felt good.

you hoped he would like it. of course he would, he’d like anything on you.

but would he like it like it?

when you got home and he asked you what you’d purchased for yourself, you just kissed him softly and told him, “you’ll see.”

one everything shower later, and you’re slipping it over your head, matching panties to go with it

it suddenly doesn’t look as good as it did in the fitting room. it’s not as flattering around your chest, and it’s just not right.

but it’s too late now.

so you step out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where he’s reading a magazine before bed

and he sees you in it, and…

fuck.

he immediately sits up, dropping the magazine, jaw dropping.

“come here,” he whispers, spreading his legs for you to stand between them. his hands hover over your hips, too afraid to touch, looking at you from head to toe.

he’s in awe. you look like a fucking angel, a walking wet dream. too precious and perfect for someone like him to touch.

but oh how he wants to touch you.

“goddamn,” he finally says, forcing himself from his speechlessness. “baby…”

“yeah?” you ask, looking down at yourself, fingers fidgeting with the hem at your thighs.

“oh, yeah,” he says, voice deeper than before. lower. “spin for me, baby.”

you begin to twirl, the silk lifting and softly catching air as you spin, revealing the lace undergarment below.

when you’re facing him once more, he can’t help himself. he finally puts his hands on you.

he rests them on your thighs, pushing up under the gown so he can slip his thumbs under the band of the panties.

“you buy this for me?” he asks, in pure adoration of you, a soft smile forming on his face.

“mhm,” you confirm, reaching to adjust it, to pull it up higher on your chest.

“don’t, baby. just let me look,” he pleads, a soft whisper. “just wanna look at you for a minute.”

his eyes look at you with all the love he has for you, taking in every inch of your body standing in front of him.

after a few moments of him examining, he adjusts his grip on your hips, moving to the back of your thighs. he pulls you forward, not even needing to speak. you get the hint as he settles you on his lap, straddling him.

he plants his mouth on the skin of your chest just above where the silk lays, sucking a few lazy hickeys into your skin.

and then—

he leans down, pressing his mouth to the flesh of your breast over the silk.

“fuck, Bucky,” you whine, and he just keeps going. you can see how the silk begins to grow damp against your skin.

you feel flesh fingers adjusting, pushing between the two of your bodies and reaching between your legs where they’re spread over his lap.

you gasp when you feel him begin to rub your clit over the lace.

“so gorgeous,” he mumbles. “all warm and wet for me.”

you moan, leaning into him further, encouraging his touch.

“that’s a good girl,” he coos, “gonna fuck you soft and sweet in this little getup you bought for me, baby. then I’ll put you on your hands and knees and fuck you like the little whore you are.”

✦ masterlist ✦

divider creds @cursed-carmine

[yikesdrama]

Bucky Barnes who is so much bigger than you.

forgive me I am on a kick today and don't have time to write my next actual post, and also... I'm so sorry for this I'm so self-indulgent.

Bucky Barnes who knows he's well-endowed but would never say such a thing out loud.

Bucky Barnes who loves how easily his entire body covers yours when he's got you in missionary underneath him.

Bucky Barnes who holds you tightly by the hips, grinding you down on his bulge when you straddle him and look so delicate on top of him as you do it.

Bucky Barnes who had a feeling you might react this way when you see his cock for the first time.

"absolutely not, Bucky," you say, half teasing, half truthful. he's huge. you want to be able to take him, want to try to take him, but... how?

Bucky Barnes who uses a single finger on your clit as he hushes you, telling you it's okay, you're a big girl, his girl, you can take it...

Bucky Barnes who fingers you for what feels like hours to open you up for him. taking all the time in the world to make sure it feels good for you.

Bucky Barnes who goes so slow when he finally presses himself in. who adds more lube with every inch he gives you.

"doing so well for me, pretty girl," he tells you. "taking it like a champ, you know that?"

you're not. you're scratching at him, whining and moaning at the alternate sensations of him rubbing at your clit and stretching you beyond anything you've ever felt.

Bucky Barnes who stops fucking you every minute just to squirt more lube onto his dick.

"no, don't stop," you eventually begin to whine at him when the pain turns pleasurable. "keep going."

"want this pretty pussy to take everything I give her, don't you?" he whispers in your ear, petting your hair. "let me make it easy for you."

he's right. but you hate that he keeps stopping.

"please, Bucky?" you beg.

Bucky Barnes who hushes your pleading because he isn't going to hurt you. he knows you want it, you don't want him to stop. but you told him yourself, he's the biggest you've taken--he's not going to push it.

Bucky Barnes who groans at the wet spot on the bed, knowing it's not even from you, but from all the fucking lube.

Bucky Barnes who just wants you as wet as possible so you can both enjoy yourselves as much as possible.

and that first orgasm on his cock?

the best you've ever had.

✦ masterlist ✦

divider creds @/cursed-carmine

[yikesdrama]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides—faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[yikesdrama]

Compromised

pairing | new!avengers!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 10.8k words

summary | sent to infiltrate and execute the new avengers, you never planned on falling for their brooding, self-sacrificing unofficial leader—especially when loving him might just ruin you both.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, using sex as a distraction (tool), kind of enemies to lovers? slow burn romance (if 7 months count as slowburn), THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, trauma, betrayal, and emotional manipulation, seduction as manipulation, but also feelings, emotional vulnerability and guilt, mental spiraling / internal conflict, gentle aftercare, bucky needs a break, bucky eventually chooses peace

a/n | chat, I'm actually really proud of this (cue the debby ryan meme), I hated the draft that I was writing then changed it up, and I'm in love with the ending, if I'm allowed to toot my own horn (I love old sayings). anyway based on this request.

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sterile—and the new “Avengers” sat around the glossy, fingerprint-smudged conference table like a jury no one trusted.

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

────────────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.

“Please don't hate me.”

His chest tightened instantly. Something hot twisted in his throat.

He stared at the handwriting—familiar now, too familiar—and turned the note over with a slow hand.

Scrawled in the same ink:

“Valentina still wants you all dead.”

His blood turned cold. The air left his lungs. With shaking fingers, he opened the folder. And there it was.

Page after page.

Files.

Meticulous, terrifyingly detailed notes. About all of them.

Yelena Belova: Range, reaction time, pressure points. Preferred weapons. Known trauma responses. Jonathan F. Walker: Blind spots in combat. Trigger phrases. Patterns of behavior. Ava Starr: Phase irregularities. Nervous system anomalies. Strategic isolation preferences. Robert Reynolds: Emotional leverage. Psychological profile. Manipulation tactics. Alexei Shostakov: Adrenaline patterns. Hand-to-hand vulnerability. Mental deterioration markers. James Buchanan Barnes: …his stomach clenched.

Your notes on him were brutal. Precise. You’d seen everything.

Handwritten notes. Tactical sketches. Surveillance photos. Labeled files. Bullet-point lists.

It was you. All of you.

Strengths. Weaknesses. Combat habits. Psychological profiles. Interpersonal tensions. Detailed analysis of the the New Avengers.

And suddenly he understood.

You were the failsafe.

The one she kept hidden. The one she trusted to take them all down if they became a liability.

And you’d been with them the whole time.

Sleeping in his bed.

Waking up in his arms.

Loving him.

Lying to him.

His fingers curled around the folder so tight the edges bent.

And still—he couldn’t let it go.

Because beneath the weight of betrayal, beneath the rising devastation, one thing stood out above all:

You’d told him without telling him. You’d warned him. You left him the truth.

This was your assignment. Your mission. And you didn’t complete it.

Instead—

You left this behind. For them. For him.

Bucky’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the folder. He stared at the wall in front of him, jaw locked, heart pounding.

And somehow… even now—

He still didn’t hate you. He didn’t think he ever could.

Six Months Later

The skies above the compound were slate gray, a low growl of thunder humming across the horizon as if the world itself was unsettled.

Inside the facility—steel, silence, surveillance. Maximum security. Triple-reinforced cells. No exits that didn’t require biometric clearance, retinal scans, and six layers of authorization.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine sat in the center of it all.

She wasn’t in chains—of course not. Not her style.

But she was contained.

Her hair had grown out. Her posture was still impeccable. And her smirk? Untouched.

Through the glass, a monitor flickered with news feeds: charges listed in bold. Conspiracy. Treason. Unlawful black operations. Attempted political destabilization.

The Thunderbolts—no, The New Avengers—had done what she never expected.

They had turned on her. And they had won.

The victory had been quiet. Painfully methodical. But every step had followed the trail you left behind: the file you abandoned in your room. The names. The operations. The buried contracts. The coded transactions.

Every lie she’d built unraveled. Every secret surfaced. And now? She was a traitor to her country. A ghost of her former power.

And the world was watching.

────────────────────────

Time passed.

But not in the way that healed.

Not for him.

The New Avengers, now officially recognized—were busier than ever. Diplomatic calls. Rogue cleanups. Recovery missions. Global surveillance detail. Big threats. Bigger egos.

And Bucky? He did the work. Showed up. Fought hard. Kept his head down when he had to, stepped in when it mattered. The world was grateful. Headlines were clean.

But the ache never left.

Because even in the victory—even with Valentina locked away, even with the press finally calling them heroes—you were gone.

No sign. No contact. No coordinates.

Just silence.

And it haunted him.

Every mission, he looked.

Not deliberately—never enough for the others to question it. But it was there, always. In the way his eyes lingered too long on unfamiliar silhouettes. In the way he checked behind every mask, paused too long on female contacts with a certain walk. In the quiet that came after every debrief, when his jaw tightened just slightly as he scanned the room.

You weren’t in Moscow. You weren’t on the Omega Bunker list. You weren’t at the safe house in Tbilisi, even though it still smelled faintly of your perfume, though that was definitely his imagination. You weren’t on the encrypted black ops list Ava recovered from the Andes.

You weren’t anywhere.

And that—that—was what hurt the most. Because if anyone could disappear, it was you.

And you’d chosen to. You didn’t leave a signal. Or a clue. Or a damn apology.

Just that folder. That warning. And him. Alone. Still reaching for something that wasn’t reaching back.

────────────────────────

The briefing room was quiet.

Dim light. Flickering monitor. Stale coffee left forgotten on the edge of the table. The latest mission files spread in a neat arc—intelligence, recon, target maps.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat in the corner, arms folded, brow furrowed—not in focus, not really there.

Yelena noticed it first. Of course she did. She always noticed.

She crossed the room slowly, boots soft on tile, then leaned against the edge of the table across from him—arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Hey,” she said, flat. “Earth to Sad Eyes. You here or still hoping Ghost Barbie shows up mid-mission?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Yelena snorted. “Jesus Christ. Still with this?”

He looked up, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t have to.” Her voice sharpened. “You haven’t been present in months.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been chasing shadows. Running recon like you’re not hunting leads, and we all know who you’re really looking for.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I said drop it.”

Yelena stepped in. “You do remember she betrayed us, da?”

He stared.

“She was Valentina’s insurance policy. The kill-switch,” Yelena went on. “Sent to eliminate us if we got out of line. Got information on all of us—every weakness, every flaw—and you still look at her like she’s gold.”

Bucky stood. “She didn’t use it.”

“Yet.”

“No,” he insisted. “She had it. And she didn’t use it. Not once.”

Yelena scoffed. “You think that’s love? That’s not loyalty, Barnes. That’s indecision. That’s unfinished business.”

“She had every chance to kill us. You. Me. All of us. And she didn’t.”

“Because she got in too deep. Doesn’t mean she loved you.”

Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “It means something.”

Yelena didn’t soften. Not even a little.

She crossed her arms tighter, her stare unwavering as Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, drowning in every word she’d just thrown at him. But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You need to wake the hell up, Barnes,” she said, her voice low but sharp, the kind of voice that cut because it had to. “You’re chasing a ghost. And I get it—I do. She had that perfect face, that mystery, that voice—we all felt it. We were drawn in.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, like maybe if he stayed still enough, he could hold onto the last pieces of you.

“But I need you to feel this,” Yelena continued. “She played us. Every single one of us. For months. She gathered data, memorized habits, logged vulnerabilities like a fucking Hydra operative. She knew how to kill us before we even started to like her.”

She stepped closer.

“And you let her in the furthest. You let her crawl into your bed, into your chest, into your head. And now? Now you’re acting like maybe she was the victim in this. Like she just didn’t know any better. That she was confused.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, she knew exactly what she was doing. Every calculated smile. Every touch. Every slow night where you let her inside and thought she'd actually stay—she planned that.”

His hands clenched at his sides. She saw it.

“And maybe—maybe she cared, somewhere in there,” Yelena added, a bitter twist to her voice. “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger because some part of her felt something. But she still left. No note, no trace. Like you were just another mission she couldn’t finish and didn’t want to explain.”

She took one more step. Right into his space.

“So you’ve got two choices, Soldat: keep pining like a lovesick idiot and let her haunt you forever, or get your head back in the goddamn game and remember who you are. Because while you’re busy looking over your shoulder, the rest of us are picking up the slack.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just sat there, hollowed out and burning, her words settling like ash in his chest.

And Yelena, finally, exhaled.

“I’m not saying forget her,” she added quietly. “I’m saying either find her and get answers… or stop bleeding for someone who doesn't care.”

And with that, she turned.

Left him sitting there alone, in the echo of all the things he didn’t want to hear—but needed to.

One Year Later

Yelena didn’t look up from the mission tablet at first. Her boots were propped on the edge of the table, fingers tapping absently as she scrolled through next week’s ops schedule. Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his reflection faint in the glass.

“I’m leaving.”

She didn’t react at first. Just blinked, brows pulling together as she slowly looked up.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“I mean I’m done.”

Yelena sat up straighter. “Done with the mission? Or…?”

He finally turned, his eyes tired—not just from the day, or the month, but from years. From everything.

“With all of it.”

She scoffed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re quitting? You?”

Bucky just nodded. No bite. No drama. Just done.

Yelena stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

Silence.

She stood now, closing the tablet, crossing her arms. “Okay. No offense, Barnes, but what the fuck are you even talking about?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve been giving pieces of myself to someone else’s mission for a so many years, Yelena.”

Her jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been alive a hundred years. Most of it, I’ve been used. As a weapon. As a ghost. As some tragic propaganda machine. First, the Army. Then Hydra. Then the U.S. government, then Congress, and now this—superhero bullshit.”

He looked back out the window. The city shimmered.

“I’ve done what everyone needed. What they told me was ‘right.’ What would ‘make it right.’ And it never did. It never will. There’s always another war. Another mission. Another reason to shove who I am back down just to fit the narrative.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off.

“And don’t tell me I matter. Or that I make a difference. I know that. I’ve made peace with that. But I’m tired. Bone deep, soul deep. I’m tired. I’ve never done anything just for me. Not once. And I’m not gonna die with that still being true.”

Yelena was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly: “So what? You just walk away?”

He shrugged, voice soft. “Why not?”

“You’re a leader.”

“You’re better.”

“You’re still needed.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be down my partner.”

That one hung in the air.

Bucky exhaled, finally meeting her eyes. “You don’t need me. You never did. You just didn’t want to be alone at the top.”

Yelena’s jaw worked for a moment. But she didn’t argue.

Didn’t because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at her, something in his expression softer now. “You’re the best shot they’ve got. You always have been.”

She swallowed thickly.

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I can’t keep doing this, Lena. I need to figure out what my life looks like without being a weapon. Or a mascot. Or a ghost.”

“…So what does it look like, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to find out.”

She blinked fast. Then, finally—finally—nodded.

“Just… don’t disappear without a damn postcard.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

If someone had asked him ten years ago—hell, even five years ago—where do you see yourself? Bucky Barnes would never have answered Fiji.

But here he was.

Fiji.

The sun was hot. Unrelentingly so. Not in the way that choked or scorched, but in a way that settled into your bones, warmed you from the inside out. He’d never felt heat like this without the edge of a battlefield waiting on the other side.

There were no missions here. No directives. No knives tucked under pillows. No coded radio chatter in the dead of night.

Just waves.

Just air thick with salt and lazy breeze.

And quiet.

He sat barefoot on the edge of a wooden deck, knees drawn up, sunglasses slipping slightly on his nose. His metal hand—gloveless, finally without shame—rested on the railing beside him, catching the sunlight like it had been born to. For once, it didn’t feel like a relic of war. It just felt like part of him.

The water below sparkled like someone had poured diamonds across it. The breeze brought the scent of fruit and ocean and something sweet he couldn’t name. Every few minutes, a bird called out, or a scooter whirred by in the distance.

It felt like another world.

One he didn’t belong in. Not really.

But he was trying.

Trying to belong to himself, finally.

He’d never taken a vacation before. Never even thought to. The idea of sitting still without guilt had always felt foreign. But now? Maybe this counted. Maybe this—quiet mornings, soft shirts, no schedules—was vacation. Maybe it was also retirement. If he let it be.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what came next. But for once, that didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like freedom.

The beach bar was little more than a thatched roof, a polished wood counter, and a few half-drunk tourists slowly melting into their plastic chairs.

The scent of citrus and rum hung in the air, and some lazy guitar version of an old Marvin Gaye song drifted through the speakers.

Bucky stepped up to the counter, brushing a bit of salt off his sunglasses, the sand still warm between his toes. He leaned against the bar, gave a polite nod to the bartender.

“Beer, please. Whatever’s cold.”

The bottle landed in front of him with a satisfying clink. He popped the cap one-handed and brought it to his lips just as a voice slid in—smooth, familiar, laced with something sharp and knowing.

“You’re a long way from New York, Sergeant.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Just took a sip. Swallowed. Let the faintest smirk touch his lips as he rested his beer back down.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I finally figured I deserved a vacation.”

A pause.

“Why Fiji?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still forward, letting the sea wind hit his face for a beat longer.

“Clear skies. Soft sand. Water so blue it hurts to look at.” He finally turned, his gaze sliding to the left—to you.

“And… beautiful women.”

There you were.

Hair sun-touched and swept back. Skin glowing from the sun. Dressed like you belonged to this place—effortless, radiant, wild. And yet you didn’t blend in. Not at all. You never blended in. You could’ve been wearing armor or silk or nothing at all and you’d still feel like a presence.

His eyes lingered on you.

And when they met yours?

Everything else—every sound, every breeze, every wave—faded.

For just a second.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, casual like the past hadn’t happened, like this was just two people on a beach at the end of the world. Your eyes flicked over him—sunglasses, salt-tousled hair, beer bottle sweating in his hand like he’d actually managed to settle into this place.

You lifted a brow, just enough mischief behind it to crack the tension.

“So…” you said, voice like silk. “Planning on staying?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze was still fixed on you, the way it always had been. Steady. Intent. Like he was memorizing every new beauty mark, every glint of heat behind your eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a pretty good reason to.”

Something flickered across your face. The faintest pull at your lips. You could’ve said something sharp, something defensive—but instead, you just turned slightly toward the bar, tapping your fingers once on the counter.

“Then buy me a drink, James,” you said, flashing a sly smile. “So long as you're planning to make it a roundtrip to forgiveness.”

His mouth curled.

And for the first time in a long time, the air between you wasn’t just heavy with uncertainty.

It was full of possibility.

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

The first thing Bucky felt was the warmth.

Not the sun, though that was already creeping in through the wooden shutters, slanting across the room in golden bands. Not the heat from the open window, or the lazy tropical breeze curling through the linen curtains.

No—the warmth was you.

Your body sprawled across his, half-draped over his chest like you’d always belonged there. Bare legs tangled with his, skin soft and sun-kissed, your breath slow and even where it fanned against his collarbone.

He could already hear the waves outside, steady and close. The faint rustle of palms, the rhythmic hum of island life waking up. It should’ve been loud—but it wasn’t.

It was perfect.

For the first time in… maybe ever, he’d woken up before you.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he just lay there, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, the other resting behind his head. Relaxed. Grounded. Not braced for attack. Not aching from loss.

Just present.

His eyes drifted over your face—peaceful, still, impossibly beautiful. And he let himself look. Really look.

No dread curled in his chest.

No panic waited behind his ribs.

Because you were here.

You’d stayed.

And he’d woken up to warmth.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[yikesdrama]

[yikesdrama]

cravings

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Smut - Porn with plot - oral (f! receiving) - Established relationship face-sitting - praise - thigh worship - needy!Bucky - overstimulation Word count: 1000 Summary: Bucky can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About your thighs. About why he hasn’t had the nerve to ask for yet

Bucky knew he was staring again. He’d been trying not to. Really, he had. But she was pacing around the apartment in those damn shorts. Those little cotton things with frayed edges that clung to her hips and barely covered your ass, and he was helpless. She wasn’t even trying to tease him. He was just looking for her book, totally unaware that her boyfriend was five seconds away from dropping to his knees behind her and begging.

The worst part? It wasn’t just today. He’d been having this thought. This constant, buzzing, can’t-look-away obsession. A desire so vivid that almost embarrassed him. He wanted her to sit on his face. 

It’s not strange wanting the goddess in your life to sit on his face. Right?

Not just because the idea was sexy, though it was. It was filthy, and that alone made his cock twitch in his sweats every time he thought about it. But it was more than that. There was something intimate about it. Something worshipful. Needy. He wanted her weight on him. Wanted to drown in her. Looking up and watching her face twist in pleasure while your thighs squeezed around his head. But no matter how many times he played it out in his mind, he never said it. Not out loud. Not until tonight.

She walked past him again, muttering something about her missing bookmark, and Bucky reached out suddenly, fingers curling around her wrist. She stopped. Looked down at him on the couch. “Everything okay?” He swallowed. Nodded once. “Yeah. Just…” He tugged her a little closer, sliding his hand up her arm, to her waist, to the curve of her hip where skin peeked out under those shorts. His thumb pressed in. “What?” she asked softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. He tilted his head up at her, eyes glassy and dark. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s… kinda filthy.” she blinked, but her smile was already blooming. “Buck, do you remember how many orgasms you gave me on the kitchen counter last week?” He huffed a quiet laugh, dropping his gaze to her bare thigh. “Yeah.”

“Then I think we’re past the ‘kinda filthy’ season.” He looked up again, this time steadily. Serious. His hand flexed against her waist. “I want you to sit on my face.” There was silence. Her lips parted, but no words came out yet. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he added. “For weeks. I watch you walk around in these tiny little shorts and all I can think about is how you taste. How you’d feel, sitting on me. Riding my tongue until your legs give out.” her breath caught. His voice became quieter. “I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. I wanna be used. Let you fall apart while I hold you there and—fuck—I’ll keep going until you tell me to stop.” her thighs shifted instinctively. “Say something,” he whispered. She exhaled. A little stunned. “I… didn’t know you thought about that.” 

“Every goddamn day,” he admitted. “I just didn’t know if it was… too much.” She straddled his lap without a word, cupping his jaw, her eyes dark and sweet all at once. “Nothing you want from me is too much, James.” He groaned, low and needy, and surged up to kiss her. Deep. Desperate. His hands dragged down her back, gripping her thighs like he already knew they’d be wrapped around his head in minutes. “C’mon,” she whispered, tugging his hand. “Bedroom.”

 He laid back, pupils blown wide as she stripped out of her shorts and panties slowly, standing between his knees. “Take your shirt off too,” he murmured. “Wanna see all of you.” she obliged. And when she climbed onto the bed, onto him, she hesitated. Hovered. “Bucky-”

“Don’t worry about me, doll,” he murmured. “I want this. Please.” she sank down slowly, thighs braced around his face and fuck, the sound he made was inhuman. He buried himself in her like a man starved. Moaning into her pussy as his hands squeezed her ass and pulled her down harder. His tongue was firm and insistent, stroking through her folds, flicking at her clit until her hips bucked. “Bucky-shit-baby-”

He groaned at your voice, your taste, the wet heat of you dripping on his tongue. One hand snaked up your body to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while he devoured you like it was the only thing that mattered. And you. God, you looked perfect. Knees shaking, head thrown back, one hand gripping the headboard while the other threaded into his hair.

“Fuck, Buck-you feel so good-oh my God-” He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even when she started to tremble and cry out, even when her legs tensed and her thighs clamped around his head, he held her there. Let her ride it out. Let her ride him. When she came, he moaned like he’d come too. And then he kept going. Tongue slower now. Gentle licks, teasing, coaxing. Drawing it out. “Too much?” he asked into her cunt, voice hoarse and wrecked. “No,” she gasped. “Not yet. I want-wanna come again-” He smiled against her. “Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s it. Use me.” And she did. she came again with a scream, back arching, thighs shaking so hard he thought she might fall, but Bucky held her through it. Worshipped every second.

Only when she collapsed over him, boneless and dazed, did he ease his grip and kiss her inner thighs, her belly, her hips. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, lips soft and swollen, voice raw with adoration. she nodded against his chest. Then, “Why the hell did you wait so long to ask for that?” He chuckled, arms wrapping around her. “I was scared you’d say no.” she looked up at him, dazed and grinning. “Bucky Barnes, I will sit on your face anytime you ask.” He smirked, cock already hard again beneath her. “Then we might need to make this a regular thing.”

tag list -> @onlyjunisworld @moonlitmorgan if you wanna get tagged, let me know

[yikesdrama]

need tender sex with beefy bucky.

it’s him holding your face as he’s rocking into you “feels so good, sweetheart.” and he coos down at you while his big and beefy arms keep you anchored into the sheets

“buck…” you all but let out a soft whine at him, his cock driving into you slower, deeper. hitting all the right spots

“yeah baby? that feel good?” and you nod as you clench around him and pull him closer

[yikesdrama]

Sam: “Bee you’re so spoiled by your Papa” ☺️

Bee: “I not an egg, Uncle Sam” 🙄

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee

"'Sides I not spoiled. Papa spoiled."

Sam nods sagely, never turning down the opportunity to tease one of his closest friends. "You're right. You do too much for him."

"I knows but I can't helps it cause it's weally fun," Bee answers earnestly, unaware of how close Sam is to losing it.

"Seriously?" Bucky asks, glancing down at her.

"Yeah, I sorry you weally spoiled. It jus' happens." Bee apologizes with a sigh, like it was out of her control.

Like he's not carrying her across the parking garage because she took one look at gravel outside—still damp from the rainstorm a few hours ago—and decided she didn't want to get her shoes dirty.

They're brand new and pink and most importantly sparkly.

She didn't even have to ask, Bucky saw the frown on her face and was already bending down to get her.

Her legs swing loosely as he carries her, holding her like she's a princess surveying her lands.

Sam tsks. "You can't keep doing that, Bumblebee. He'll get a big head. And then he won't be able fit inside your house. He'll have to sleep outside."

Bee gasps. Her poor Papa. She can't let that happen to him. "I gotta asks Mommy what to do so Papa doesn't gets big head and fall overs."

Bucky envisions how that conversation would go. He can almost hear you cackling as she explains everything. He'll never live it down.

"I'm sorry to say but it's too late." Sam whispers conspiratorly, clearly eating this up. "Bumblebee, his head just grew. Look at it. Wait, it just did it again."

Bucky coldly stares at Sam. He doesn't know how this got turned around him but he's going to stop it before it gets out of hand.

Except he can't deny he's spoiled because he doesn't want to hurt Bee's feeling and in a way she's right. He is spoiled. Just not in the way she assumes.

Bucky's glare intensifies when Bee peers up at him and lets out another horrified gasp. "Oh—oh you rights Uncle Sam."

"I know I am." Sam claps him on the back. Bucky shifts her to one arm and manages to clip Sam on his side. He only grins and moves out reach.

Bucky runs his tongue across his teeth, nodding to himself while his best friend continues to goad his sweet Bee into unknowingly roasting him.

Then Sam takes it too far just as they reach his Maserati. "Maybe you should be mean to him. See if that'll shrink his head down."

Bee's answer is swift, sure. "I not being mean to Papa." She wouldn't even know how. "He good Papa."

Bucky grins, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Thank you Bumblebee."

"You welcomes. It's okay. You can has big head. And I not going lets anyone be mean to you." She narrows her eyes at Sam.

It's uncanny how much her little glare resembles Bucky's. Even Sam knows when he's up against a formidable opponent, he concedes. It was fun while it lasted. On to the next victim.

"You know who else has a big head Bumblebee?"

"That's cold. But so damn right." Sam grins, pulling his phone out of pocket to find Steve's number. "And this is why you're my favorite goddaughter."

"Uncle Steve?"

[yikesdrama]

Against bullies since ‘30

[yikesdrama]

soft and shy y/n treating bucky's wounds and him being all flirty and smug... would love to see that 😁❤️

While you didn’t go on missions with the rest of the team, you did lots of other things, the reports, the debriefing, meetings, all that business shazam. The biggest and most important thing you were, was Bucky’s precious girlfriend, no one ever thought you would end up together considering you were a ball of sunshine— soft, sweet, gentle while Bucky was a big brooding doberman.

The team had just come back from a mission in Vienna, you were in your office during that time until a message from Sam come through on your phone.

Sam

scratches and scraps, only one wound, he’s being stubborn.

You frowned knowing how your boyfriend was. Without hesitation you left your office before finding Bucky walking down the hall, he looks up at before he can say any thing you’re guiding him to the bathroom.

“Baby—“ “No bucky.” You said, cutting him off. Guiding him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, already pulling out a first aid kit.

Bucky watched you, his body immediately relaxing at your touch, watching your eyebrows furrow in concentration, your cute lips in a pout. His face had tiny scratches, a few near his eyebrow, a cut lip, a wound on his abdomen.

He was in love with you.

“Look at my sweet girl.” He mused, smirking, “Takin’ care of me, you my nurse now baby?”

Your cheeks felt warm as you bit back a shy smile, cleaning his cuts.

“Bucky..”

His larger hands settled on your waist, squeezing gently, “I’d get hurt every day just to have you take care of me baby..” His hands slipping underneath your blouse.

“James Buchanan! M’tryn’ help you and you’re flirting.” You said, giggling softly.

“Can’t help it baby, turns me on.”

[yikesdrama]

𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝙱𝚢𝚎, 𝙸 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛.

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader ✦ Genre: Fluff, humor, drunk!Bucky, social media chaos, established relationship ✦ Word Count: 2.2K ✦ Summary: When a tipsy Bucky accidentally hits "Go Live" on Instagram, the world tunes in to see the Winter Soldier slurring about how pretty his girl is, how much he loves her, and how he wants to “buy her a thousand sunflowers.” You find out when Sam sends you the link… halfway through Bucky’s dramatic heart-eyes monologue.

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ✦✦ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ✦✦ ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“Why is Bucky live on Instagram?”

That’s the first text you get.

“YOUR BOYFRIEND’S DECLARING HIS LOVE TO THE INTERNET.”— Sam Wilson, 11:43 PM

You blink down at your phone, confusion laced with panic, and click the link Sam sends. It opens to a shaky, dimly-lit livestream. And there he is.

Bucky. Tipsy. Glowing. Wearing a soft black hoodie and your scrunchie on his wrist, hair a little messy, cheeks flushed pink.

He’s got his phone propped up on the kitchen counter. There’s a half-drunk glass of wine beside him (the cheap kind Tony bought ironically), and he’s leaning forward like he’s about to spill secrets to the camera.

“I don’t even know how this works,” he mumbles. “Is this… Can you see me?”

The chat explodes: 🗨️ YES KING WE SEE YOU 🗨️ WHERE’S Y/N 🗨️ He’s glowing omg 🗨️ Drunk Bucky supremacy

You cover your mouth, equal parts mortified and endeared. He has no idea what he’s doing.

“Okay,” he says, squinting. “So I uh I pressed the button cause I wanted to send a video to her my girl. Y/N.” A dreamy smile blooms on his face. “She’s so pretty.”

You gasp. “Oh my god.”

“She’s got this laugh,” Bucky says, placing a hand over his heart. “It makes me feel like there’s cotton candy in my chest.”

🗨️ COTTON CANDY IN MY CHEST STOPPP 🗨️ y’all he’s so gone 🗨️ WHERE IS SHE. GET HER IN HERE.

“She thinks I don’t notice when she wears my shirt to bed,” he slurs fondly, “but I do. Cause she sleeps better when she smells like me. She told me once but pretended she didn’t mean it. But I knew.” He nods sagely.

You’re frozen on the edge of your bed, heart pounding, a blush creeping up your neck so fast you could catch fire.

“She makes pancakes even when she’s tired,” Bucky adds, now fully lying on the counter, cheek smushed. “And she dances while brushing her teeth. I’d die for her.”

Someone next to him whispers, “Dude, you’re live,” and Bucky still confused blinks at the camera “I know,” he says proudly. “This is a public love letter.”

You shriek into your pillow.

Then he sits up again, serious. “Also, she—she looks really cute when she’s annoyed. Like when I eat her fries. Or use her purple razor even though I have my own. But she lets me. She always lets me. Because she loves me too.”

He holds up a peace sign. “Okay bye. This was just to say I love her.”

And the screen goes black.

You find him twenty minutes later, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a satisfied smile, phone forgotten on his chest.

“Buck?” you whisper.

He squints up at you, eyes soft and dazed. “Baby. Did you see it? I made internet poetry.”

You bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. “You went live, sweetheart. Like publicly.”

“Did they like it?”

You crawl into his lap, cupping his flushed cheeks. “They adored it.”

He beams. “Good. Cause I meant every word. Especially the cotton candy.”

You lean in and kiss him, soft and slow, while the entire world replays his confession a thousand times over.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Author’s Note 🖤 hiee, I wrote this one while I was away… and technically, I’m still not fully back yet. just needed a little time to breathe and process everything , went through a really hard breakup that’s taken a toll on me mentally and emotionally. but even in the middle of all that, I didn’t want to leave you guys hanging. I still wanted you to have something soft to read, something that might make you smile. so here’s a fic straight from my slightly-bruised but still-loving heart. I hope you enjoy it, I really do. thank you for being patient with me. thank you for all the sweet messages—I read every single one, and they meant more than I can ever explain. I’ll be back soon… like actually soon. promise.

love always, taashu 🤍

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack 🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[yikesdrama]

hungover morning after, first time drunk in front of not-yet-boyfriend bucky

you wake up tangled in unfamiliar sheets that smell like him, with the distant scent of soap, coffee, metal, and — heartbreakingly — a little bit of you.

you squint one eye open. the light is merciless, slicing through the half-closed blinds. your brain feels like it’s trying to climb out of your skull using rusty garden shears.

and then it hits you — the sheets are too nice. the bed’s too big. the room smells too… bucky.

oh god.

you pry your face off the pillow and realize with horror that you are, in fact, in bucky barnes’s bed. and you are wearing — wait. is that his t-shirt? oh no. oh NO.

your memory plays a cruel little highlight reel:

you giggling on his couch, legs draped over his lap, slurring something about how his arms look like a snack.

insisting you were “totally fine to go home by yourself, i swear,” while trying to put your shoe on your hand.

him muttering “jesus, doll,” before just scooping you up, bridal style, no hesitation.

you poking his cheek and going “you’re so PRETTY it’s actually disgusting.”

you… oh god. you might have tried to kiss him. but missed. and kissed his jaw.

you bury your face back in the pillow with a groan.

“kill me now. seriously. assassinate me. put me outta my misery.”

from somewhere to your left, you hear a soft snort.

“morning, sunshine. how’s that head?”

you crack an eye open to find bucky standing in the doorway, hair wet from a shower, grey sweatpants slung low, holding two mugs. one glance at your expression and he tries — tries — not to grin. fails spectacularly.

he crosses the room and sets a mug on the bedside table.

“here. coffee. and water. and advil if you can keep anything down. how’s my favorite lightweight doing?”

you let out a muffled whine.

“i hate you.”

he laughs, low and warm, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“no you don’t. last night you said you loved me. like four times. then you tried to marry my toaster.”

you pull the blanket over your head.

“god, why didn’t you let me go home and die in peace?”

he peels the blanket back just enough to see your pouting face.

“because, sweetheart, you were very determined that my apartment was — and i quote — ‘more emotionally stable than yours.’ plus, you kept falling over. i wasn’t gonna let you crack your head open just because you’re stubborn.”

then he softens, brushing a knuckle along your cheek.

“besides… kinda nice having you here. even if you did snore.”

you groan again, hiding your burning face in his thigh. he just chuckles, hand sifting through your hair, thumb rubbing gentle circles against your scalp.

“hangover or not, doll — you can stay here as long as you want. bed’s always open to you.”

and maybe your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

[yikesdrama]

scary dog privileges

bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: everyone tells you bucky is so scary, but you don’t see it—until your teddy bear of a boyfriend breaks someone’s jaw for you

warnings: attempted abduction/assault, fear, biting, blood, breaking someone’s jaw lol, unedited as always

notes: i saw a lot of love for this idea on my ‘works in progress’ post so here you are!! this was a request but i lost it so whoever requested a scary protective bucky, this is for you. enjoy :)

you’d met bucky barnes at one of the wilson’s neighborhood parties; you’d known sarah since playground days, and had reluctantly known sam, as he refused to abide by the “no boys allowed” sign taped on your treehouse door. since then, you had come to every party, every one of the kids’ events, and every holiday, so you knew all of these people like the back of your hand.

but then bucky had waltzed in, a platter of homemade cookies in hand, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and you just about keeled over.

“holy biceps, batman,” you mumbled, trying to hide your obvious stare with a sip from your drink.

“that’s bucky, sam’s new friend,” sarah explained, poking your side. “you should talk to him.”

“talk? the man looks like he was carved out of marble, i’m not just talking to him.”

nevertheless, sam decided that simply wasn’t your choice, and introduced you two with suspicious haste; after all these years, he was still such a pain in your ass.

however, you did have him to thank for the past six months of bliss with the man of your dreams.

as you’d told sarah, ‘man of your dreams’ was not an exaggeration in the slightest. bucky barnes was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word.

he opened every door, carried every bag, guided you around with a hand on the small of your back. he spoke to you gently, touched you even gentler, and he looked at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.

he was perfect.

however, as little as you could believe it, the rest of the world did not view him that way.

you’d noticed quickly that when you and bucky walked down the street, people crossed to the other side. when you went on dinner dates to fancy restaurants or on morning hikes in the park, people quieted their conversations and kept their heads down. even bucky’s teammates joked about the intimidating air that followed your boyfriend around like a storm cloud.

but you just never saw it! your bucky was the sweetest man on earth, and under all those muscles and rough callouses, he was really just a big old teddy bear.

“teddy bear?” sam had snorted when you told him about your observation. “more like real bear. you’re prancing around with the white wolf, kiddo, people are gonna stare.”

“why should people stare, huh?” you defended. “just because of his past? that’s not okay.”

“it’s not a bad thing! it’s like when you see someone with a big dog,” he explained. “you have scary dog privileges.”

you’d scoffed, dismissing him and returning to your movie. you didn’t speak of it again—honestly, in the whirlwind of romance that came with bucky, you had hardly had time to think of it.

it was the first thing you thought of, though, when you were walking home one night, phone dead, and realized someone had been following you for the past few blocks.

you turned, they turned.

you slowed, they slowed.

you walked faster, they nearly broke out into a jog.

god, what you wouldn’t give to have your scary dog privileges right now.

luckily, you were only a block from your house, where bucky was inside, waiting for your phone call saying you were ready for him to come get you from work. but with your stalker closing the distance between you, you began to worry if you would even make it inside.

sure, you could defend yourself; but you weren’t a superhero. what if this guy had a gun? a knife? some sort of chloroform rag? you wouldn’t stand a chance.

as you reached the neighbors driveway, you could practically feel breath on the back of your neck. you kept your head forward.

so close, you are so close.

when you reached your house, you decided to make a run for it, barreling up your driveway like a mad woman. unfortunately, you only managed to slam your first against the door once before an arm wrapped around your middle.

you screamed bloody murder, thrashing against your assailants hold. he tried to put a hand over his mouth and you bit ferociously until you tasted blood, and your fists pounded on his arms.

“god—just stop struggling, you stupid bitch—” before he could finish, the door swung open, and there stood bucky: tight black t-shirt, metal arm whirring, cold stare targeted right above your head.

your assailant dropped you with a curse and attempted to run, but bucky was on him in a slow and steady stride—jesus, it was like michael fucking myers.

you backed yourself into the corner of the porch, watching as bucky pulled the other man back, first bunched in the hood of his sweatshirt.

your attacker was a middle aged man, balding, probably about forty-five, and vaguely familiar in the way a lot of middle aged men were. bucky did not bother pulling him to stand, opting to drag him by the hood back to the steps of your home.

“do—should i call the police—”

bucky shook his head. “nah. go inside and wait five minutes, then call sam.”

you nodded, trying to ignore the pleading look the man on the ground sent your way. huh. predator becomes prey.

you’d followed his instructions (almost) and called sam five minutes later. however, bucky had implied you stay away for those five minutes, and the curiosity had gotten the better of you after about two.

tiptoeing to the door, you looked out the crack, hidden enough so neither men would notice you. at first, you couldn’t really see what bucky was doing—he had pulled the man to his feet and backed him against the wall, broad shoulders blocking your view, but you did hear something.

a sickening crack of bone.

you stifled a gasp as your attacker screamed, muffled by bucky’s hand as he shoved him back down to the ground, hand going back to his hood like it was a leash.

sam arrived in record time and the man was gone before you knew it, clutching his jaw and cowering all the way.

when bucky came back in, you were sat on the sofa, flicking through streaming services and trying to hide your shaking hands. your boyfriend had just broken a man’s jaw like an eggshell. you’d hardly even seen him cock back.

he sits down next to you, making sure to leave some space between you. “are you okay?” he asks softly. “hurt?”

you shake your head, still not meeting his eyes. “i’m fine. just a little bruised.”

you let the silence hang over you, that scary storm cloud suddenly present. after an agonizing minute of silence, bucky speaks up.

“you saw me break that guy’s jaw, didn’t you?”

you nod shyly.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, raising a hand but stopping short of your arm. “are you okay to—”

you nod, settling in against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around you like a weighted blanket. “that was intense,” you admit. “i’ve never seen you like that before.”

he nods, smoothing your hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i’m sorry, honey, i didn’t mean to scare you.”

you couldn’t help but notice the distinction in his words; he was apologizing for letting you see him do it, not that he did it in the first place. “it’s okay. i should’ve stayed inside.”

he continued to pet your hair, arms tightening every once in a while, like he was scared you’d get up and run away. you could almost here the thoughts running through his mind: ‘i’m not dangerous, i promise. please don’t leave me.’

“thank you for protecting me,” you whispered, rubbing his chest right over his heart. “i don’t know what i would’ve done without you.”

“please call me next time,” he whispers. “i don’t want you walking home alone in the dark.”

“my phone died,” you grumbled.

“call me from a payphone then.”

“a payphone?” you laugh.

he cringes. “did i say an old people thing again?”

you nod, leaning up and kissing the little creases by his eyes. “it’s okay, i love my old man.”

he grunts, and you feel it vibrate in his throat as you bury your face in his neck. god, you could suffocate in his cologne and you’d die happy.

“you promise you’re not scared of me now?”

you shake your head, kissing his pulse point. “you’re still a big teddy bear to me. plus, i plan to take advantage of my scary dog privileges now.”

“dog? i’m not a dog.”

“hey, sam said it first.”

[yikesdrama]

Love Island!Bucky Headcanons

pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 3.5k words

a/n | yooooo, guys, ive literally been working since tues, every night closing 11:30pm😃🔫. this life is nawttt for the weak, on my soul, this job is taking years off my life, i just wanna be my teenage girl self and this life is not letting me!!!!

this is literally the first time I'm doing headcanons and I don't think I've done it right at all, but YOLO

alsoooooo im so glad my amaya papaya chose bryan and yesterday's ep made me smile so hard. anywayyyyyy pls americans vote for my girl amaya and bryan as best couple, im begginggg

y'all it's almost 3am and I'm tired af. and I'm going to sleep, i have work tomorrow at 12

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

First Coupling (Not Together) 💞

You walk into the villa confident and cracking jokes, immediately becoming a fan fave for your sass and no-BS attitude.

Bucky comes in a few days later as a bombshell — and everyone’s jaws drop. He’s flirty from the jump, but he picks another girl, one of the sweet ones who's all giggles and long lashes. You're unbothered (publicly), but the tension? PALPABLE.

You Get Played (Classic Villa Move)

You couple with this gym bro type who talks like he’s serious, but starts flirting with other girls behind your back.

The classic "I'm just keeping my options open" guy. When the truth comes out during a challenge or truth/dare night? You serve face, roll your eyes, and say, “I knew he was full of it, but I wanted to be wrong.”

Bucky sees it all. He’s been lowkey watching you the whole time, sending little comments like:

“That guy’s a fool, y’know. I wouldn’t’ve let you out of my sight.”

But he’s still with his OG girl, so you brush it off. Maybe he’s just being nice. (He’s not.)

The Twist Coupling 💞

It’s recoupling night. Everyone’s paired. You and another girl are the only ones left. You’re resigned to going home — standing there with your arms crossed and chin high, trying not to show you’re mad that your guy played you and Bucky’s still with the other girl.

But then.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s fiery, honest, and doesn’t take anyone’s crap. She’s been through it this week, and I think she deserves someone who actually sees her worth... So the girl I’d like to couple up with is—”

Cue dramatic pause. Camera on shocked faces.

When Bucky says your name, the villa goes SILENT. Literal gasps. Even the producers are gagged.

His original girl looks like she’s been slapped.

You blink. You squint. You’re convinced you heard wrong.

You walk over in pure shock, and when you stand next to him, instead of giving a sweet line, he hits you with:

“Don’t get excited, doll. I just flipped a coin.”

Confessional (cut to you, wild-eyed):

“Everyone’s lookin’ at me like I Jedi mind-fucked this man into saying my name. Meanwhile, if they took one look at my face they’d see I was just as gagged. You're confused? I'm fucking confused, bro. I mean, I'm standing there rehearsing my ‘fuck y’all, it’s been real’ speech and then—boom. My name. From him. What the helly?”

Post-Coupling Confrontation 👀

You pull Bucky for a chat after the coupling, already skeptical.

He’s relaxed on the beanbags like he didn’t just blow up the villa dynamics.

“I didn’t pick you to be a hero, sweetheart. I picked you ‘cause I wanted her gone. Clingy’s cute for five minutes—then it’s just loud.”

You laugh, a little surprised by the honesty, and nod.

“So what, you picked me to prove a point?” “Nah. I picked you ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t throw herself at me or cry when I don’t cuddle. Plus, we’d make a solid team.”

You stare at him for a moment, annoyed but impressed.

“So, we’re friends now?” “Friends who don’t get dumped from the villa. Unless you’ve secretly been in love with me this whole time.”

You flip him off.

Platonic Coupling Agreement 🤝

You both agree to couple up "strategically" — a villa alliance. You tell each other it’s platonic while secretly spending way more time together than necessary.

You lounge together, nap together (strictly no cuddling — at first), and throw sarcastic comments from the daybeds like the villa’s own Statler and Waldorf.

“She’s doing her baby voice again,” you mutter during a convo across the pool. “Should we start placing bets on who cries in the next 10 minutes?” Bucky adds.

But the chemistry? Dangerously high. And the longer you stay in this “platonic” couple… the blurrier the lines get.

Bucky in the confessional: “Nah, she’s just my emotional support chaos gremlin.” You in yours: “He’s like a sexy golden retriever who talks like he’s from the 40s and can’t stop winking. It’s actually like seriously annoying.”

────────────

You and Bucky become the commentary couple. Always on the daybed, sunglasses on, whispering into each other’s ears like you’re the villa’s own messy podcast.

“Why is she acting like they’ve been married ten years? They’ve been coupled up for four days.” “It’s the delusion for me.” “She’s already picked out baby names and I don't even think he knows her last name.”

You have a routine: share breakfast, roll your eyes in sync, and deliver savage but accurate commentary during firepit chats. Viewers are OBSESSED.

New Bombshell Enters 🔥

Tall, charming, with perfect teeth — he immediately clocks you as the villa’s "hard to get" girl and makes a beeline. Starts flirting. You’re flattered but playfully skeptical, throwing jabs but keeping it light.

Across the villa, Bucky watches with way too much interest for a “platonic partner.” Crossed arms. Jaw ticking. He will not stop glancing over.

Later, he corners you with a smirk.

“So, Mr. Model’s your type now?” “Didn’t know I had a type.” “Yeah, apparently it’s ‘generic charm and hair gel.’”

You raise a brow, amused.

“Are you jealous?” “What? No. Just saying—he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.”

Jealous. Absolutely jealous.

He Falls First ❤️

He starts doing little things bringing you coffee the way you like it, staying up late to talk about random stuff, getting defensive whenever a new guy even talks to you. But you don’t catch it. You’re convinced he’s playing the long game — riding your partnership to the finals.

You in confessional:

“Bucky’s a good partner. Strategic. Smart. Kinda hot when he’s not being annoying. But I know his game — he’s making sure he gets to that 100k. I’m not an idiot.”

Meanwhile, Bucky’s lying awake next to you, staring at the ceiling like:

“How the hell did I fall for the one girl who thinks I’m just in this for screen time?”

Casa Amor🏖️

The girls stay in the main villa, while the boys head off to Casa Amor. Before Bucky leaves, things are… weird. Tension’s been building. He’s been acting almost like he wants to say something, but never does. And you?

You in confessional:

“He’s not mine. He’s free to explore, obviously. I’m not gonna be the girl who waits around and gets played. But also… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care.”

And yet — when temptation arrives in the form of gym-honed muscles and cologne that smells like deception, you hold your ground. Flirty convos? Sure. But when it comes time to choose, you say:

“I’m staying single. My connection with Bucky might be confusing, but I’m not ready to throw it away yet.”

Meanwhile at Casa Amor 🔥

Bucky’s spiraling. He misses you. Constantly thinking about your jokes, the way you roll your eyes, how you always call him out. But… he also believes you don’t feel the same.

Bucky in confessional:

“She’s never shown me more than friendship. And I— I need to protect myself. I can’t come back single and get humiliated on national TV.”

So, he couples up with a new girl. Not because he wants to. But because he thinks he has to.

The Recoupling — THE Scene 💔

The villa is silent as the boys walk back in. Bucky’s holding hands with his Casa Amor girl. Cocky smile. Trying to convince himself this was the right call.

And then—he sees you.

Standing alone.

Single.

Waiting.

Not even crying — just staring at him like he’s a complete stranger.

Camera cuts to everyone’s shocked faces.

Ariana: “You’ve decided to remain single. Can you explain why?” You (calm, almost nonchalant): “Because I thought what we had was worth waiting for. (you shrug your shoulders) Guess I was wrong.”

Bucky’s face drops. He’s instantly sick. Guilt. Regret. That look of someone who just fumbled the person who was actually real.

The new girl’s smiling awkwardly. The silence is deafening.

Post-Recoupling Fallout 📽️

You’re sitting in the confessional chair, body stiff, hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are glassy, rimmed with red — but no tears fall. You’re holding them back with everything in you.

The producers ask how you’re feeling.

You take a shaky breath, force out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, and say:

“I wanna go home. I’m actually being so for real right now. Please, someone get my suitcase. Because I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

You glance away from the camera, blinking fast. Your jaw tightens like you’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep it together.

“I stood there, alone, in front of everyone. Looking like this dumbass while he walks back holding some other chick's hand. Like I’m the fucking idiot for having feelings. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

You shake your head, voice cracking:

“And the worst part? I didn’t even expect him to come back single. I just— I thought maybe he’d show me I mattered. But I guess I’m not worth that.”

Cut to Villa 🎬

You’re sitting alone, sunglasses on at night, hoodie pulled up — doing your best to disappear on the beanbags while Bucky’s across the firepit, staring at you like he knows he ruined everything.

Bucky in confessional (head in hands):

“I thought she didn’t feel the same. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt her. But when I saw her standing there all alone… I’ve never felt more like a loser in my life.”

Confrontation Scene 💥

It’s late. Most islanders are inside. You’re sitting outside by the pool, arms crossed tight over your chest, hoodie still up, knees drawn in. Silent. Closed off.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

“Can we talk?”

You don’t even look at him.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Pause. Tension thick in the air. He doesn’t move.

“Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to you.”

You stand up fast, like your body can’t sit through this conversation. Still not facing him.

“What, so you can make me feel even more shitty than I already do? Newsflash, Buck, you nailed that one already.”

He takes a step closer. Carefully.

“No. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I need you to hear me.” “I heard you. Loud and clear. You walked back holding her hand. That said everything.”

You try to walk past him — but his hand reaches out. Not rough, not forceful. Just… steady. He catches your wrist, and when you try to pull away, he doesn’t let go. Gently, but firmly, he keeps hold.

“Please. Just let me explain.” “Why? So you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? That you ‘didn’t know how I felt’? You knew. You just didn’t care.”

You’re standing there, body tense, wrist still in his grasp. You’ve tried to push him away. He won’t budge. Not with force — just that stubborn, aching softness that says he’s still clinging to hope.

“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out when I finally got the guts to admit I messed this up. I chose wrong. And I regret it every second I look at you.”

That’s when your voice drops to barely a whisper.

“Why didn’t you just pick me?”

His eyes meet yours — red-rimmed, tired, exposed. And when he answers, his voice cracks open.

“Because I didn’t think you’d pick me.”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Everything in your chest lurches forward and backward at the same time. You can’t tell if you’re about to scream or cry — maybe both.

“Are you serious?” “You were always laughing with other guys. Saying we were just friends. I thought… I thought I was just someone you could lean on. Not someone you’d actually want.”

Your eyes well up. You take a shaky step back, pulling your wrist from his grip — and this time, he lets you go.

“You thought I wouldn’t pick you, so you didn’t pick me. And now we’re both here. Hurt. For what, Bucky?” “For being two idiots who couldn’t say how we felt.”

You’re shaking your head now — furious, exhausted, and done holding back.

“You don’t get to stand here acting like the victim, Bucky. You chose her. You didn’t even hesitate. And I stood there — in front of everyone — like a fucking joke.”

He stays quiet. Still. Just watching you with those ocean-deep eyes, face full of regret. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.

“You made me feel like I was nothing. Like everything we built meant nothing. And now what? You want to fix it? With what, exactly? A sad little speech and puppy blue eyes?”

Still no response. He just lets you speak.

“I was loyal to you. I waited. I trusted you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself not to catch feelings for you, I still—”

Your voice breaks.

You turn away. Take a breath. Hands clenched at your sides.

And he still says nothing.

Not because he doesn’t have anything to say — but because he knows this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you.

“You didn’t even fight for me, Bucky. That’s what hurts the most.”

He finally steps forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I know.” “That’s all you’ve got? ‘I know’?” “Yeah. Because there’s nothing I can say that makes it okay. I fucked up. I didn’t trust what we had. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was hurt you.”

You look at him then. Eyes still glassy. He’s not defensive. He’s not deflecting. He just stands there, open and raw, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. And if there’s anything I can do to make this better — I’ll do it. Even if it means walking away.”

You’re quiet now. Too quiet. Hands trembling slightly as you bring them up to your face, fingers pressing under your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over.

You don’t look at him when you speak again — your voice is soft, but it cuts sharp:

“You made me feel really fucking dumb.”

That’s the one that almost takes you out. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.

“Like I was some naïve little girl, thinking the guy I joked around with every day — the one who brought me coffee, made me laugh, looked at me like I mattered — was actually choosing me.”

You pause, breathing ragged. You wipe at your face again, but it’s useless now. A tear slips down anyway.

“I stood there thinking, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it hurt.’ But it did, Bucky. It fucking hurt.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I know it did.” “And I hate that I’m the reason. I hate that I made you question something that was real — something I felt every damn day.”

You finally glance up, just in time to see him take a step forward.

“I didn’t think I deserved you. But I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.”

He’s closer now. Slow, careful steps. Like he’s giving you a hundred chances to pull away. But you don’t.

“You were always enough. I just... didn’t think I was.”

And when he’s close enough, he pauses for half a second — eyes searching yours, hand hovering like he’s waiting for permission.

Then he pulls you in.

Arms wrap around you, steady and strong. Not desperate — grounded. Like he’s trying to hold in all the pieces he broke.

And this time… you don’t fight him.

You bury your face in his chest, fists clinging to his shirt, and finally let yourself feel it. The ache, the betrayal, the hope you tried to kill off.

“You’re such an asshole.” “I know. But I’m your asshole… if you’ll still have me.”

Night After the Recoupling 🌙

The villa’s quiet. Everyone’s in bed. Except you.

You can’t do it — sleep in that room while Bucky’s still sharing a bed with her. Even if nothing happens. Even if he’s trying to make things right. It still feels like betrayal just breathing the same air in that space.

So you grab your blanket, slip outside, and curl up in Soul Ties — the same place where you two used to whisper jokes and throw shade. The place that used to feel safe. Now it just feels cold.

You try to sleep.

You don’t.

Later That Night ✨

Bucky stirs. Looks across the room.

Your bed? Empty.

He checks the patio door and sees you — curled up alone, hood pulled over your head, blanket tight around you like armor.

He waits. Watches the others settle. Listens to the breathing shift from restless to deep sleep.

Then he slips out of bed.

Soft steps. Quiet hands as he opens the door.

He walks outside, crosses over towards Soul Ties, and pauses — just watching you.

Then, gently, carefully, he climbs in behind you. Doesn’t say anything. Just slides in slow, his chest pressing to your back, arm coming around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

You sighed softly, not even bothering to turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here.” “Don’t care.”

His voice is low, honest. No bravado, no teasing — just a quiet ache. His arm tightens just slightly around you. You don’t pull away. You don’t even breathe for a second.

Then, slowly, you turn in his arms.

Now you're facing him. Just inches apart. His eyes searching yours in the dark, moonlight casting soft shadows over his face.

“She’s still your girl. You’re still coupled.” “She’s not you.”

His hand slides up, knuckles grazing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you realize it.

“I couldn’t sleep. Not with you out here thinking I didn’t mean what I said.” “And what did you mean?”

He leans in closer — forehead almost brushing yours.

“That I’d choose you. Every time. I was just too much of a coward to do it when it counted.”

The air thickens. His gaze flicks between your eyes, then to your lips — slow and deliberate, but not assuming. Waiting. Giving you the chance to back away.

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie, anchoring yourself there. A silent yes.

He moves first — barely.

His nose brushes yours. Then his lips hover just over your mouth, not quite touching. Close enough to feel the heat, the need, the way he’s holding himself back like he’s afraid if he takes too much, he won’t be able to stop.

Then finally — finally — he closes the space.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s slow, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing you with every second. His lips part against yours in a careful pull, then press in deeper, surer, like he’s been aching for this and never let himself believe he could have it.

You respond instinctively — your hand sliding up into his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck. You tilt your chin slightly, meeting him with just as much intensity.

He groans softly into your mouth — barely audible, but there. It makes your heart stutter.

The kiss turns messier for a breath, more urgent — like the both of you are falling into something you’ve been holding back for too long. But even in the tension, it never loses the softness — like you’re trying to comfort each other in the only language you both understand now.

Camera zooms in — soft lighting, silence but for the wind — the kind of moment the audience screams over.

When you finally break apart, lips swollen and foreheads pressed together, there’s no sound but the whisper of wind and the ragged way you’re both breathing.

He doesn’t let go. He just holds you tighter — like letting go now would undo all of it.

And you stay there. In that tiny, stolen piece of peace. Just you, him, and a kiss that changed everything.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(