alpinekrypto

Bucky lets out a long, pained sigh as he gives you that look. The look that means that he can never really say no to you, no matter how hard he tries. “Fine.” He concedes, uncrossing his arms. “You better do a good job, though.”

You let out a small sound of triumph as you walk over. “Okay, okay. I will,” You step closer to where he’s sitting on the couch. He gives you an unimpressed look as you stand between his knees and lean forward. “Just close your eyes.”

“Y’gonna fall over leanin’ like that,” He raises a single brow before leaning forward and sliding his hands behind your thighs to tug you forward. 

You let out an embarrassing sound of surprise as he pulls you to sit in his lap. You settle against him, your knees on either side of his hips. The intimate position makes your cheeks burn hot.

“There,” Bucky says, looking up at you expectantly with that same damn eyebrow still raised. His hands rest on your thighs, the cool feeling of his metal hand seeping through your clothes. “Go on. Do your thing.”

“Give me a warning next time,” You mutter, watching a small smirk form on his lips.

“And ruin the fun?” He huffs, his hands squeezing your thighs. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Just close your eyes, Buck,” You say, trying not to get flustered at his usual flirty comments. You uncap the eyeliner as his eyelids close. 

“Bossy, bossy,” He murmurs as your hand settles against his jaw, tilting his head towards the light. 

It’s hard not to get distracted by the rest of his face as you lean closer. The light catches his long eyelashes, casting small shadows against his cheeks. His jaw is warm and rough with stubble under your hand, and you can’t help but reach up to brush a stray hair off of his face with your free hand.

“What’re you doin’?” He asks in that gravelly tone that means he’s really relaxed. It usually comes out when you’re sitting close on the couch watching a movie or when you’re cuddled in bed after a long day. 

“Clearing the area,” You respond, resisting the urge to press kisses all over his face. Instead, you uncap the eyeliner and rest the side of your hand on his cheekbone. “Hold still.”

He hums in response as you begin to trace his eyeline with the dark makeup. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips from being so close, and it sends an unexpected warmth through you. 

You subjected yourself to a special kind of torture.

“Is it done yet?” He asks, his eyes still closed.

“Almost. I gotta do the other side…” You say, already tilting his head slightly to the side to reach it better. 

“We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry,” He comments as you apply the finishing touches. 

“Okay, okay. There,” You cap the pen and tilt his head side to side, inspecting your work. “All done. You're all good.” 

You weren’t prepared for how he looked when he opened his eyes.

The eyeliner made him look edgy, accenting his pretty blue eyes in a way that was fatal to your already vulnerable heart. Your breath got stuck in your throat as he gave you that usual, almost unimpressed look.

“You’re staring, sweetheart.” Bucky says, jolting you out of your stupor.

“I’m not staring,” You say defensively, though you knew he was right. You catch the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smirk as you deny it.

“Whatever you say,” He says, and it’s clear in his tone that you’re not convincing him. His hands slide off of your thighs to let you stand. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.” 

You climb off of his lap and he stands. You always forget how tall he is when you’re straddling him, since he’s always looking up at you. 

Now you have to resist the urge to climb the six foot something supersoldier like a tree before the concert.

You watch him walk to the small mirror that hangs near the door. He turns his head from side to side, letting out a small hum of satisfaction. “Not bad.”

“Told you, it makes you look good,” You say as you pull on your shoes. They give you a good two or three inches, but you’re still nowhere close to Bucky’s height. “Now you’re ready.”

When you arrive at the concert venue, you join the crowd of people chattering excitedly about the band you’re about to see. Bucky looks around, a bit shocked at people’s outfits around him. He holds your hand as you squeeze through the crowd of spikes and leather.

Obviously, he’s drawing attention with his metal arm and huge stature. He’s wearing dark jeans and that sleeveless shirt that shows off his arms. You even convinced him to wear a leather cuff and a few of your silver bracelets, insisting that ‘Accessories make the look!’ The eyeliner doesn’t help either, making him look like some sort of rock god among the crowd.

“Nice arm, bro!” One guy shouts with a huge grin, holding his hand up in a classic rock sign.

Bucky snorts and shakes his head. “Seriously? This is your kinda crowd?”

“Oh come on, it’s fun,” You insist as you climb the concrete stairs to your seats. “You’ll totally like it. It’s your kinda thing.”

He hums in response as you take your seats. 

You’re practically vibrating with excitement when you see the stage. “See?” You gesture over the seats, one hand gripping the railing in front of you. “You better be ready to lose your hearing for at least a few hours.” 

“Lose my hearing?” Bucky gives you a questioning look. “I don’t think a little music is going to deafen me.”

“Just you wait,” You tease, leaning your forearms on the railing in the dim light. “It’s life changing. I swear.”

“Whatever you say, doll.” He says, leaning next to you on the railing as you wait.

When the lights finally dim, the crowd starts to clap and cheer around you. You join them, grinning ear to ear as the first chord rings out in the darkness. 

Then, BAM!

The rest of the music comes in like a storm of instruments, bursting loudly out of the speakers in that familiar, heart-pounding way. 

Bucky is…surprised by the intensity. Obviously you’ve played some of the band’s songs for him, especially on long car rides after the radio gets boring. But the live music is so much different than hearing it blasting out of your car speakers.

He’s especially surprised by the way you get into the music. The way you shamelessly bang your head along to the beat, letting out a loud whoo! every time the guitarist completes a complicated solo.  You’re even yelling the words that you know with all of your heart in a way that ensures a sore throat tomorrow.

Bucky always knew that you didn’t care what others think. Especially in a place like this where hundreds of people are doing the exact same thing. At first he thought the concert would be ridiculous, but seeing how much you truly enjoy it makes his heart have other opinions.

He’d never completely admit it, but he’s having a good time. 

Until the pyrotechnics come out.

The sudden flash of flame startles you, but you recover with a surprised laugh. “They’re going all out, huh?” You say over the heavy music. 

But he can’t quite hear you. 

Everything suddenly sounds like it’s underwater, and a cold rush of adrenaline pumps through his veins before he can stop it.

He’s not seeing the concert. 

He’s seeing the flames spewing from the front of Stark’s car, bright even against the glow of that streetlight. He’s feeling Howard’s hair between his fingers. He’s hearing Maria Stark’s gasps, her heart beating fast through her artery under his palm as he wraps his hand around her throat—

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Bucky blurts out, quickly leaving his spot and darting down the concrete stairs before you could respond.

You watch him go for a minute. You don’t really think anything of it. The concert can be pretty intense for people who aren’t used to them.

A scream.

Bucky splashes water on his face before gripping the edge of the sink. 

A gunshot.

No, he reminds himself, squeezing the porcelain so hard it starts to crack under his metal hand. You’re at a concert. You’re not there. You’re here. Breathe. 

Bucky takes a shaky breath in, holding it for a few seconds before letting it back out. Just like you taught him. 

His heart starts to slow down from its frantic crashing against his ribcage. That’s better.

He opens his eyes, and looks up at his reflection.

His past stares right back at him.

Bucky freezes, looking at the familiar smudges around his eyes. His heart hammers wildly against his chest as his hand feels for the weight of that mask on his cheek. He can feel it now, pressing against the bridge of his nose and into his jawbones. 

You only make it through one more song before you go after him.

“Bucky?” You find him clutching the sink with his metal arm, the other hand inches from his face like he was trying to make sure he was real.

His head snaps towards you, a look of panic flashing in his eyes before he recognizes you. He lets out a long shaky breath, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

You don’t say anything else yet. You give him a minute before you take a slow step forward. He flinches, and you pause.

You’ve been through this a few times with Bucky in the time you’ve been with him. It’s never really deterred you. If anything, it just makes you worry about him, even if he’s told you a million times not to.

So you wait until he gives you that nod to walk over. 

“I’m alright,” He says as you approach him, his voice rough from the leftover panic in his system. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

“It’s just a concert, Buck,” You reach up and smooth back a stray hair with a gentle hand. He leans into  your hand like it’s an anchor in a storm. “I can go to another one.”

“You were so excited, though,” He slides his hand off of his face, smudging the makeup further. His blue eyes meet yours in the dim bathroom fluorescence. “I’ll just go wait in the car.”

“You’re not waiting in the car by yourself,” You shake your head, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser. You turn the sink on and wet the towel to help him clean the smudged eyeliner off of his face. “We can just go, okay?” 

You wipe the wet paper towel under his eye, and he closes his eyes again. “Fine,” He huffs. “I owe you some tickets then.” 

“Bucky.”

“What? This is ridiculous,” He mumbles as you swipe over his eyelid. “I should be able to make it through a goddamn concert without acting like a freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” You say. “You’re adjusting. There’s a difference.”

He huffs again as you move to the other eye, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just lets you help like he always does, keeping quiet when you can practically hear the thoughts churning in his head.

“There we go,” You whisper, tossing the paper towel into the nearby trashcan. “There’s Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky takes one last look at the mirror, just to make sure he’s himself. Just to make sure that the screams won’t come back. He manages a small smile as he looks back at you, just for your sake.

“Come on. Let’s go,” You squeeze his hand, slowly tugging him out of the bathroom. You can still hear the muffled metal music through the tiled walls. 

Bucky’s chest squeezes at the sound, at the fact that you’re missing out because of him. He stays quiet all the way to the car, walking next to you like a silent sentry. 

Not that he talks a lot in the first place, but this silence is different. This silence is his hand feeling clammy in yours, gripping it a touch tighter than usual. This silence is the way his eyes scan the sidewalks for a hidden enemy. This silence rests in the line of his shoulders, where they stay tensed and ready for action.

You rub the back of his hand with your thumb as you walk.

“Do you want me to drive?” You ask as you approach the car in the parking lot.

Bucky sighs, still not meeting your eyes like a guilty dog that got caught digging in the trash. “If you want to.”

“I’m not mad,” You say, squeezing his hand. “Or disappointed.”

“Alright,” He says, finally looking at you. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

“I do say so,” You respond, offering him a smile as you open the door and slide into the driver’s seat.

He rounds the hood in front of you and hops into the passenger seat next to you. 

The drive home is quiet, too. You turn up the radio to fill the silence between you. The streetlights flash orange through the windows as you drive, occasionally lighting Bucky’s face. 

Bucky is still feeling bad for his reaction. He knows that you were excited for that concert. Hell, you talked about it for weeks. He never knew why you were so understanding about it, why you stuck around to deal with his bullshit. 

That didn’t mean that he wanted you to leave him. It meant the complete opposite, actually. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without you there to pull him from the dark edges of his mind.

Before you know it, you’re back at the apartment building. The car rolls to a stop in the parking space, the glow of the dashboard lighting Bucky’s face in a way that shows the circles under his eyes.

“Come on,” You say, opening the car door and snapping him out of his train of thought. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” He asks, following you out of the car.

“Just trust me,” You smile, walking backwards for a few steps.

“Turn around, sweetheart. You’re gonna trip.” He says, and you spot a flicker of a smile on his face.

You can already see that familiar light returning to his eyes as you make your way upstairs.

When you reach the apartment, you quickly change out of your concert clothes and into something more comfortable. You find Bucky sitting on the couch in the dim light from the lamp nearby in a plain white t-shirt and pajama pants. 

“You feeling alright?” You ask, sinking into the cushions next to him.

“Yeah,” He slips a hand around your waist, tugging you close to his side. “I’m alright, doll. You don’t have t’worry about me.” 

“I know,” You say, resting your head on his shoulder. His hand slides up and down your side, soothing you and grounding himself from the emotion of the hectic night. “But I thought of another way we can still hear the concert. If you want to, anyway.”

“Oh? Sure,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to your hairline as you pull up a playlist of the setlist. You plug in your headphones and offer him one. 

He takes it, placing it in his ear with care like he was scared he’d break it. 

The first track fires up, heavy guitar rocketing through the speakers right into your ear. 

“Good?” You glance at Bucky, who’s already looking at you. 

“Yeah,” He nods, his hand squeezing your waist. “Sounds great. It was pretty good live too.”

“I know, right?” You grin, already nodding along to the beat of the fast-paced track. “The drummer goes nuts on the next song. You’ll love it.”

“You think so?” He asks, reaching over to brush a stray hair out of your face. 

He likes it when you’re like this. No makeup, in your comfiest clothes, curled close and warm against his side. There’s something so domestic about it that it makes his chest feel tight. 

It’s something he never thought he’d have. Now he has it with you. 

You, who stuck around during the weird, hard times. You, who doesn’t mind waking up in the middle of the night when his nightmares are too much. You, who held him close without a word when he finally broke down about all the bad things he did.

And never, not once, did you make him feel like the monster he thought he was.

“Oh, I know so—“ You pause, snorting as you spot a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek. “You’ve got…” You gesture to your face with a grin.

“Here?” Bucky asks, rubbing the side of his face and missing the spot of eyeliner completely.

“No, over a little bit,” You laugh as he misses it again, his eyebrows pinching in annoyance.

“Oh my god. Just hold still…” You lick your thumb and smear it over his cheekbone. “There,” Your hand stays there, resting against his stubbly jaw, smoothing your thumb under his eye. 

You look over his face for a minute, the heavy rock still blasting in your headphones.

“You know,” He starts, leaning a bit closer to you in a way that already has your cheeks burning. “You have a really bad habit of staring at me.” He mutters, a smug smile already spreading on his face.

“Oh shut up,” You huff.

“Make me,” He challenges right back, that rare, playful light sparking in his blue eyes.

You don’t waste any time.

Your lips are on his before he can get another word out, your hand still planted on his jaw. The other slides to his shoulder as you make a small contented noise. 

Bucky’s hands tighten on your waist as the sudden kiss, though he’s always extra careful with the metal one since he’d never want to hurt you. His lips are warm under yours, meeting your movements in a smooth, unhurried way that makes butterflies erupt on your stomach every time.

“Knew it,” He mutters between kisses. “Y’couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

“It’s not my fault,” Your breath hitches as he tilts his head to deepen the next kiss. “You look way too good in eyeliner.”

“Well,” Bucky tugs you over to sit sideways in his lap. “Maybe I should wear it more often.” He teases, one hand sliding to your thigh and the other holding your waist.

“Maybe you should.” You kiss him again, and this time you’re both smiling into it.

When you part, you rest your head on his shoulder and look up at him. The rock music is still playing in your ears, the heavy drums contrasting the soft moment. 

You make the mistake of yawning, and of course, he notices.

“You’re tired, huh?” He says, and you shake your head with a soft smile.

“No, I’m good.” You say, even though your limbs feel like lead. He’s way too warm under you to get up now.

“You sure you’re not gonna fall asleep right here?” He asks, giving you that familiar unimpressed look.

“I won’t fall asleep to heavy metal, Buck.” You insist, though you’re already your body to get comfortable in his embrace.

“Mmhm,” He hums, smoothing his hand up and down your spine. “Sure you won’t.”

You end asleep in his arms anyway, one headphone still in your ear, even though Bucky paused the music long ago. He won’t move now, even if he knows he’ll have a cramped neck in the morning. 

Captain America was at his most dangerous. One would assume it was because someone he loved had been threatened. No, Steve Rogers was bored.

He’d tried everything, listening to music, reading, even cooking. Nothing seemed to work. Peggy was doing a double shift, and he couldn’t expect her to stay over — they’d been too busy to even make their relationship official, stealing what little time they could together.

Steve pulled on his coat and headed out, he knew where he could go.

Bucky had been away for two weeks with you for your honeymoon. He’d managed to borrow a cabin from a friend in New Jersey, without paying a dime.

The two of you had been back for over a week. You’d returned to your office job at reduced hours, no longer needing to work to keep a roof over your head. Bucky had gone back to doing little with Steve, but now retired from the SSR — he said he had other priorities now.

Surely his best friend and his sister would spend the evening with him, they could have a few drinks and a laugh together.

Steve knocked on the door before entering, assuming the two of you might be sitting down for dinner. He had held a key to Bucky’s place since he’d moved here, so surely they knew he could show up any moment.

He walked in, shuffling his boots against the mat at the door, you would never let him walk around your home with muddy boots, and began to unlace them.

It was then he heard something strange. A creak, like furniture moving. Then a soft sigh. Then he heard it.

“Bucky,” you moan. “Please.”

Steve’s head turned like lightning, and saw a sight he wanted bleached from his mind.

The doorway to the bedroom was open, giving an open view of the bed and the two of you on top. Bucky was on top of you, completely bare, his hips rocking slowly into yours. Steve was immensely grateful he couldn’t see you properly, only your bare legs around Bucky’s hips and arms wrapped around his back — clinging to his shoulders.

Neither of you noticed his presence, too entranced by each other.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, heading down to brush his lips against yours.

Steve had seen enough, he debated leaving, but knew if he ran off now then you would be both embarrassed and mad.

You’d only just begun to forgive him. He couldn’t lose you both, not again.

Instead, he slipped into the living area, helping himself to a beer and pulled out his notepad to start sketching. Even with his mind elsewhere, he could still hear the soft moans, encouragement, praise and thudding of the bed against the wall.

It was over ten minutes before Bucky emerged from the bedroom, stalking into the room in only his underwear.

Bucky froze in place. “Steve?”

Quick footsteps follow, the sound of you rushing down the hall. You appear behind him, tying your nightgown at the front.

“Steven!” Your voice had that familiar tone that your mother had had. “What the fuck?”

Steve blinked. “Language, young lady.”

Bucky snorted. “That’s my wife, Steve. She can swear if she wants.”

“How long have you been here?” You demand.

“Long enough,” Steve replied.

You glare at Bucky. “Did you give him a key?”

“When I moved in,” he admitted. “I forgot about that.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “Peggy is doing a double shift, and I wanted company.”

Bucky looked at you, wrapping his arm around you.

“There’s enough food for three, right, doll?” He asked you.

You shrug, feeling sympathy for your brother for once. “It is the least we can do after hearing us.”

Steve slid down the chair slightly, groaning as he remembered.

“I need bleach,” he muttered.

Bucky laughed.

“Did I wound your manhood, Steve?” He taunts.

“You’re lucky I don’t deck you right here,” your brother threatened. “That’s going to burned into my brain.”

Bucky laughed again, as you slipped out of his grasp, shaking your head and headed to the kitchenette. Bucky walked over and sat himself next to him, giving him a nudge.

“Told you the wedding planning would be nothing,” he chuckled.

Steve gave his best friend a glare, fiddling with the sketch he’d done of Peggy.

“I didn’t consider I’d see that,” he grumbled, his eyes distant. “You two are loud.”

You choked on air.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Bucky calls, then grins at his friend. “You’re just inexperienced.”

“Oh don’t start,” Steve shook his head, and gulped the last of his beer. He found himself once again wishing he could get drunk.

“No chance pal,” Bucky taunted him. “You’ve been seeing Peggy for over a year and the two of you haven’t slept together once. She’s gorgeous, and she loves you. It’s on you.”

You glance over your shoulder to give Bucky a stare. He shrugs at you.

“She’s not you,” he promises.

“You made a pass at her didn’t you?” You reply.

Bucky reminded quiet.

Steve then smiled, glad of the distraction. “Yeah, he did.”

You bring over three glasses, handing over one to each one of the men.

“Naturally,” you plop yourself next to your husband. “What did she say?”

“She didn’t even look at him,” Steve chuckled.

“Classic Peggy,” you take a sip of your drink as you eye your husband.

“You’re better,” Bucky told you, putting an arm around you.

“Uh huh,” Steve smirked.

Bucky turned to face him. “I’m happily married.”

Steve groaned at the reminder. “You’re never going to let this go are you?”

“Nope,” he replied. “You’re either going to have to live with it, or finally put a ring on that Captain’s finger.”

You interrupt him with enthusiasm. “You should probably think about proposing, Steve. She’s put her life on the line for you, you’re not going to find some better than that.”

“Don’t you join him,” he rumbles.

“You did this to yourself,” Bucky told him. “Maybe don’t walk into our place unannounced.”

Steve sighed. “Fine, next time I’ll knock louder.”

“Good idea,” you agree. “But Bucky does have a point Steve. If you at least moved in with Peggy then you might not get the idea to walk in like this.”

“I guess,” he looked down at his sketch. “When I visit I won’t use the key.”

“We can do one better,” you say and give Bucky a look. “We’re moving out.”

“What?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ve put a down payment on a house for us.”

“No breaking and entering,” you added.

Steve looked between his sister and his best friend, too much information bouncing around his head.

“Well, congratulations,” he says, taking a sip of his drink and slowly considering. “Then, maybe it is time I settled too.”

“Fucking finally,” Bucky grumbled. “Get you out of our hair.”

You giggle. “We’ll never be rid of him, Buck. He will always be keeping an eye on us.”

“After what I just saw,” Steve shrugged. “You can be sure I’ll be keeping far away.”

Years passed and the war ended.

At least, on paper.

The reality was, everyone still felt the cruel sting of its aftermath. Soldiers returned home different men, women were no longer dependent on those men — having had to spend years doing the “work of men”.

You were no different.

After Steve foolishly got enlisted, experimented on and moulded into America’s favourite Hero, you’d had no choice but to fend for yourself.

You’d settled into the spare room of a widowed woman’s home, paying a pittance just for a roof over your head.

You started small, doing chores for the widow at first. Then started cleaning around houses, delivering food to those in need and helping cook for the elderly.

Eventually you’d started waitressing at a restaurant uptown. The customers were obnoxious, often high class folk who benefitted from the war, but it paid your rent.

As the war ended you found a steady job, working in an office only a few streets away. One where your hours were stable, with no need for overtime.

Then they walked back into your life.

You’d smacked Steve when you saw him again, cursing his pride and moral sense of justice. It didn’t matter than he was three times the size. He’d left you.

Bucky hadn’t said a word, but his lips twitched slightly in amusement at the sight. Anyone else, and he’d have defended his best friend, but not against you. You had a right to be angry.

You tried hard to ignore the warmth in your stomach, when your eyes met Bucky’s. He looked the same… yet he didn’t.

The playful smirk on his face had long since vanished, leaving lines on his forehead, crinkles by his eyes that still were startlingly blue. He looked bigger, not like Steve did, but just enough for you to notice how his jacket seemed to strain to contain him.

“Do I get a hug, doll?” He offered in that voice you’d heard so many times, the one he used whenever he asked a girl to dance.

“You’ll be lucky to get a smile, Barnes,” you sass him. In the past, he would have retorted — tell you that you were prettier with a smile, instead he smiled, a twinkle of pride in his eyes.

Bucky was in trouble.

Not the kind he got in as child, when him and Steve snuck into construction sites. Nor the kind he got in when he ditched a girl to help Steve in a fight.

This was serious. The kind of serious that could ruin his life, because when you’d met them at the Station, clutching a bag of Steve’s favourite treats and then slapped your own brother.

Bucky fell hard.

You’d always been stubborn, fiery even. Growing up, he’d seen you go from a little girl, who picked herself up every time she fell, to a teenager who shouted at a naval officer for putting his hand on her.

You called him out every time he took out a girl, and he couldn’t even argue with you about it. Because you were right, he had a mother and sister to take care of and there he’d been, in a dance hall with some girl he hardly knew.

Now, here you were with your hair curled neatly into the back of your head, having to wear make up because the world was brutal and gave you no choice. Having slapped your brother for leaving you, then offering him the bag with a narrowing of your eyes.

He couldn’t help but be a little cheeky, and ask for a hug.

Your refusal made him smile, you hadn’t changed. You were as strong willed and stubborn as ever, except now you were a woman. You weren’t a scrawny teenager, you’d grown to have curves, ones that Bucky fought to keep his eyes off.

He really was in trouble.

It took months for the tension between you to break.

You’d elected to ignore it. So what if Bucky’s arms were huge, muscle beneath the skin, the veins standing out against his forearms as he lifted metal into Steve’s truck. So what if he hadn’t gone on a single date? Instead, he spent his days with his ma and his sister, watching carefully over every man who dared look at Rebecca.

Then he did the same to you.

First it had been the shopkeeper, a young man you’d known for years. He always gave you a peppermint when you bought a paper for your landlady.

Bucky and Steve were there, laughing over ridiculous news articles about the famous Captain America.

Then Bucky saw it, the shopkeeper smiled and slid you a peppermint. You gave him a small smile back, and thank him.

He froze him place, he’d never seen you smile like that.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” He hissed to Steve.

Steve looked over for a moment and shrugged. “No, she can handle herself.”

Bucky could hear blood rushing in his ears, but swallowed down his anger.

The breaking point had been the dance to commemorate the end of the war.

All the 107th would be in attendance, alongside the Howling Commandos. Bucky expected Steve to bring Peggy along, after all they’d been dating for several months.

Instead, he brought you.

Steve wanted to show you the part of his life you’d missed, and introduce you to the men he held in such high regard.

Peggy was already there, a honorary member of the Howling Commandos. She and the Commandos had greeted you with enthusiasm.

They all loved you, because how could they not? Steve had spoken about you none stop for years. He’d told stories about how you’d punched a bully at only eight years old, how you’d snuck into theatres just to watch a musical, and shouted at a Navel Officer in front of his superiors after he got handsy.

Then James Montgomery had shuffled closer to you, his British accent thick from the alcohol.

“Why don’t we go for a dance?” He suggested.

You laugh quietly. “Ask me when you’re sober, James.”

He pouted slightly, but seemed to accept the answer.

Bucky sat by the bar, on his third double of whiskey holding back a frown, his eyes never moving from you.

“I’m going to go dance with, Peg,” Steve announced to his best friend. “You going to find a partner, Buck?”

“Mhm,” he barely registered Steve’s words, briefly noted Steve walk away and begin a slow dance with Peggy.

As soon as he was out of eyeshot, Bucky carefully placed his glass down and slid between the dancers until he was behind you.

You feel a warm hand land on yours, pulling you up. You turn to berate the man who dared touch you, only to meet the blue eyes of the man you’d been seeking to avoid.

“Dance with me,” his tone made it clear, it wasn’t a request.

You stand, allowing him to pull you to the dance floor, hearing the chuckles of the Commandos behind you.

“Bucky? What are you doing?” You hiss, his hands guide yours to his shoulders, and his land high up on your waist. Slowly you begin to sway with the music.

“Dancing with you,” he says plainly.

“You’re drunk,” you shake your head.

“No,” his gaze was intense, focused. “No, I’m not.”

You squinted slightly. You could have sworn you saw him and Steve down several glasses of whiskey, and that was after the three rounds of beers he had with the Commandos. Yet, he appeared sober, he was steady on his feet, his voice was clear and his eyes focused.

“I saw you drinking with Steve,” you say. “I know Steve can’t get drunk, but I’m not naïve enough to believe the same for you.”

Bucky sighs.

“Things are different, doll,” his voice goes quiet. “I’m different.”

“War does that,” you agree.

“No, I don’t mean,” his jaw tightens, and he ponders. “I was captured at Azano.”

“I know,” you say softly. “Steve wrote me.”

He pulled you slightly closer. “It was more than being a prisoner, sweetheart. They did something to me.”

You frown.

“Since then, I can’t get drunk, I’ve picked up the back end of trucks and I’m the best marksman in the 107th.”

You blink up at him, remembering. “When Steve picked up that engine last week, you lifted into his truck like it was nothing.”

He nodded. “Steve thinks the Nazis gave me a prototype of same Serum he took. I have all the same capabilities as him, just…” he shrugged. “I didn’t triple in size.”

You didn’t want to believe it, but you couldn’t deny the truth of your own eyes. “You are… bigger than you were before you were enlisted.”

“You think so?” He murmured low. “You have to promise— no, swear to me. You’ll keep this between us. If the government find out, they’ll lock me up and strip me down to find out what happened to me.”

“I swear,” you say easily. “I remember when Steve was getting tests done on him, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

He exhaled slowly, his forehead falling to press against yours.

“Why tell me?” You ask. “We’re not friends.”

“I trust you,” his voice was low.

He turns away then, looking at Steve dancing with Peggy. You follow his eyes, allowing a small smile on your face.

Bucky’s eyes flicker back to your face, taking in the smile.

“They look good together,” you breathe.

“They do,” he agrees. “Steve got damn lucky.”

“Hm,” you return to swaying with him. “I’m still mad at him.”

“I know,” Bucky swallowed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t stop him.”

“He’s stubborn,” you sigh. “I don’t blame you.”

“No?”

You shake your head. “No. I knew there was no stopping him just…”

Bucky studied you a moment, taking in how your eyes watered.

“One day, he was going on a double date with you. Then he was enlisted, then he’s Captain America,” your voice broke. “Did you know he visited New York four times on his tour? He never visited, not once.”

His lips part. “That’s why you hit him.”

You nod. “He wrote, of course, but he never even tried to visit. The war had to come first, even before his baby sister.”

You could feel fingers slowly guiding up and down your spine.

“I want to punch him,” Bucky admitted. “For hurting you.”

You recoil. “You’d never.”

“To defend a girl? One I’ve known almost my whole life?” He asked rhetorically. “You doubt how far I’d go for you, doll.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that, Bucky”

“Why not?” He demands. “We’ve known each other a long time, sweetheart. I watched you grow up from a scrawny kid who broke Henry Pollard’s nose, to a woman who shouted at a Naval Officer in front of his superiors for being handsy.”

“Not my finest moment,” you mutter.

“You were incredible” he corrected. “Steve and I were going to drag him round the back for touching you when you started shouting. Everyone was looking and knew not to touch you.”

“James, be serious,”

“I am serious,” he glared at you intently. “I’m tired, doll. I’m tired of being right hand man to Captain America. I’m tired of protecting my sister from the inevitable. I’m tired of pretending I don’t see you every day and wish it was me that makes you smile.”

“You’re Steve’s best friend,”

“I know,” his tongue moved in his mouth anxiously. “You think I haven’t thought of that? Steve would kill me if he knew I even thought about dating you.”

“He would,” you agree.

“I don’t care,” he cut through your thoughts. “You’re worth it. If… you give me a chance.”

Your mind screamed at how wrong this was, dating your brother’s best friend, but your heart won out.

“Okay,” you give him a single nod.

Bucky walked you home, his army jacket over your shoulders, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead once you reached the house.

The kiss stuck with you for days.

Your landlady noticed, spotting a distant expression at breakfast.

“You look lost,” she noted.

“It’s nothing,” you shake your head.

“It’s over a man, isn’t it?” She guessed too quickly.

“How did you—”

“I saw that Sergeant walk you home the other night,” she shrugged, tidying away her plate. “A rather handsome lad, that one.”

“He is,” you quietly agree.

“Then what’s stopping you?” She asks.

“He’s a friend of my brother’s,” you frown.

“Ah,” she smiled then. “Tell me something, honey?”

You nod once.

“Since when did you let any man tell you what to do?”

The first date came only days later, then a second and a third.

Suddenly you knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Bucky’s charms. To have all his attention, the smiles that made you heart thud in your chest, the nicknames that made your thighs squeeze together and his eyes — dear god, his eyes.

Things moved fast, faster than you expected.

By the fifth date, you’d already cosied up in the back of the cinema, his mouth lazily brushing yours before your pulled him closer for more.

It felt so right, yet so wrong at the same time.

You couldn’t keep denying yourself any more, you’d fallen for Bucky. Yet it hurt to lie to your brother.

You kept telling yourself that he was too busy with his own girlfriend to notice, but deep down you knew it would be a matter of time before he noticed his best friend and his sister were both busy at the same time.

It had been two months, and you’d decided to surprise Bucky with a visit. The paper bag under your arm held fresh bread to have for lunch.

You reached up to knock on the faded red door when you heard your brother’s voice.

“Why’d you think you could hide it, Buck?” Steve’s voice was cold, controlled. “It’s my sister.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything,” you hear Bucky speak. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“What the fuck do you expect?” He demanded. “Before the war, you’d been out with half the girls in Brooklyn! Is that what she is to you? Just another girl to flaunt?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Steve,” Bucky’s voice was tense. “Do you think I’d risk our friendship if this was a one time thing?”

“You’re serious?” Steve’s voice was quiet. “You’re seriously dating her.”

There was a pause.

“And she said yes,” Steve continued. “Of all the men who have tried, she said yes to you.”

“I’m lucky, I know,” Bucky said.

You chose then to knock, three gentle taps so as to not startle them.

There is the shuffling of feet, before you hear a voice behind the door.

“Who is it?” Bucky calls.

“It’s me,” you speak softly. “Can I come in, James?”

The door opens, revealing Bucky stood still in his work gear.

“Doll, this isn’t the best time,” he leans forward. “I’m sorry.”

“I heard Steve,” you say. “I’ll talk to him.”

Bucky frowns. “This is on me, sweetheart. Don’t go getting yourself in trouble with Steve for my sake.”

“I won’t,” you promise, sliding past him into the small apartment. You see Steve stood in the living room, arms crossed, lips pressed together as you placed the bread on the kitchenette counter side.

“Anyone want some bread? It’s fresh?” You offer.

“Later, doll,” Bucky says, taking himself to the sofa, sighing deeply.

Steve only stares at you, as though it was a mystery as how you could be in this room.

“Steve?”

“No,” his voice cut through you.

You sigh. “Suit yourself.”

You choose to turn then, leaning against the counter and copying your brothers body language. Your arms crossed across your belly as you glare at him.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded.

“What does it look like?” You put your hands on your hips. “I’m visiting my man.”

You can’t help but notice the smile on a Bucky’s face, smug.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Two months,”

Steve lurches. “Two months?”

You shrug. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem,” he attempted to console his voice. “Is you are dating the one man you swore off.”

Bucky frowned for a moment, then chuckled.

“You swore off me, huh?” He teased you.

“Shush,” heat rose in your cheeks. “Bucky is different, Steve.”

“Yes, he is, but that doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” you glared at him. “And it’s not up to you to decide what’s good for me.”

“Like hell it isn’t, I’m your brother,”

Your jaw tensed, inhaling slowly. You could see Steve’s frustration, and Bucky’s amusement — his lips curled up in pride, he knew what was coming next.

“Yeah? Then where were you for the past three years?” You demand. “I could have easily gotten married and had children by now, and you couldn’t have stopped me.”

Steve was silent a moment then spoke. “The war—“

“I don’t care about the war! You ran away from me! You washed your hands of me the moment you signed that damn enlistment form!” You shouted. “And now you have the goddamn nerve to think you can decide who I have in my life?”

Steve blinked at you like you’d slapped him again.

“I’m not leaving,” you shake your head. “I love him, Steve.”

Bucky’s jaw fell at that, his eyes shining slightly.

“You and every other girl in Brooklyn,” Steve muttered, a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He marched out after that, you flinched at hearing the slam of the door, and clutch your sides to hold yourself together.

Warm arms envelope you, pulling you against the soft muscle of Bucky’s chest.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“I hate him,” you sob. “I hate that he thinks he can walk back into my life and decide what I do.”

“You don’t hate him,” Bucky’s voice is knowing. “You aren’t capable of hating anyone.”

“I do hate him, I really do, Buck,” you press yourself into his shoulder.

His hand reaches up, taking your chin and tilting your tear stained face up.

“He’s not worth your tears, honey,” his thumbs brush your tears away.

You sniffle, unable to reply, and watch Bucky’s face turn slightly teasing.

“So, you love me, huh?” He smirked.

You choke slightly. “I— that wasn’t how I planned to tell you.”

He laughs. “It was perfect, doll.”

His thumbs brush your cheeks again. “And for the record, I love you too.”

“Really?” You croak out.

“You think I’d go through all this trouble if I didn’t?” He replied. “Steve hates my ass right now, and I don’t care. I have you.”

Red faced, and tear stained as you were, that was enough to make you smile.

You stayed to your word and didn’t leave Bucky’s apartment that day. Instead the two of were a tangle of limbs, crammed together on his mattress on the floor, bodies bare and sweaty.

“Why don’t you have a bed?” You wonder, fingers playing with the dog tags on his chest.

“Got too used to sleeping on the ground,” he rumbled. “Most nights I sleep on the floor.”

You peek up at him, heart tightening in your chest. It was yet another reminder how the people around you had been scarred by the war.

“Guess I have an excuse now,” he ponders. “I’ll need a bed if you’re staying over.”

“I’d like that,”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’d have to marry me though, doll.”

You stiffen at the thought. The whole night it hadn’t occurred to you that your actions likely would lead to marriage. You couldn’t just lay with a man out of wedlock.

“Take your time,” he whispers. “You don’t have to answer right away.”

“I didn’t except you to ask so soon,”

He chuckled. “Kind of have to now. Look where we are.”

He nodded to how your body was wrapped around his.

You groan and press your face into his shoulder, he chuckles again, holding you close.

“As though Steve isn’t angry enough,” you mutter.

“Please,” he voice was rough. “I don’t wanna think about him when I’ve just had sex with you.”

You giggle.

“And there’s my girl,” you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Have you… have you done this before?” You ask hesitantly.

“Propose?” He smirked.

“No, sleep with someone,”

“Ah,” his lips twitch. “Yes. A few.”

You press your lips together, you’d suspected as much.

“With you, I knew the moment you took you to that dance floor, this is what would happen,” his fingers brushed through your hair. “I couldn’t have you if I wasn’t committed.”

“You don’t have to commit to anything,” you whisper.

“I do, sweetheart,” he responds. “I love you, and I can’t guarantee we won’t end up like this again. People will notice and talk, and I’m not seeing them broke you like that.”

“I don’t need you to protect me, James,” you say softly.

“I know you don’t need it,” his smiled. “But, I’m going to anyway.”

Steve was angry for months. He didn’t speak to Bucky and only visited you to drop things off.

Even when you got engaged, there was no sight of him. Peggy had shown up to the party without him.

“He’s being a stubborn pig,” she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

You’d haven her a faint smile and nod. It hurt, but you knew it hurt Bucky more. You’d had years of separation from Steve, so the deafening silence didn’t bother you as it did him.

Bucky however, tried to hide the pain, rather unsuccessfully. He couldn’t drink away the pain and he had to mask his feelings in public. You could see it gnawing away at him, until one night he broke down, heavy tears falling down his cheeks, eyes bloodshot and hiding his face in his hands.

You’d wrapped your arms around him, pulling him to your chest.

“Let it out, Buck,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

You’d expected it to last half an hour. It lasted all night. He’d been hiding it, but you realised he was heartbroken.

That was what really hurt you, not Steve’s absence, but seeing the man you loved so pained by the actions of your own brother.

You’d been on a walk on the pier when you offered to fix it.

“We should break up,” you’d murmured.

Bucky looked panicked. “What? What did I do, doll?”

You peek up at him, biting your lip, trying to hide the pain in your voice. “You haven’t done anything.”

“Then why even suggest it?” He demands.

“Because our relationship is hurting you, keeping you from your best friend,” you’d shake your head, eyes beginning to water.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t you dare, sweetheart. I won’t let you.”

You frown. “Don’t you want Steve back?”

“I want you more,” his response was quick. “And Steve hate me even more if we broke up now.”

Your lips part for a moment.

“I love you, and I’m marrying you,” he cut you off. “And I won’t let anyone change that.”

“But—”

“I haven’t persisted this long to give in now,” he shook his head. “It hurts to be away from Steve, but to be away from you — that would be intolerable.”

You lean into him, pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he gave you a small smile. “Steve’ll come back, and I’ll prove to him this wasn’t a mistake.”

Bucky hadn’t been wrong. Steve did come back, on a Tuesday when the rain was falling and sky was dark. Bucky’s place was closer to your work than your rented room, you figured you’d stay there to dry up.

When you opened the door, and hung up your coat up, you could smell the liquor. The stench of it, heavy in the air, then came the laughter.

You peer further down to see your own brother, sat on the floor across from your fiancé wheezing with laughter. Beer bottles scattered across the room, yet you knew they weren’t drunk – they couldn’t get drunk.

You stand in the doorway, unsure who you were angrier at — Steve for showing up out of nowhere, or Bucky for letting him back into his life so easily.

Bucky spotted you first, because of course he would, bounding to his feet.

“Hey beautiful,” his arms wrap around you. “This is a surprise.”

You pull away gently, and peer up at him. “I thought I could dry off on the way home.”

Your eyes narrow and you scowl down at your brother.

“But I can see you’re busy,” you shrugged Bucky off before turning your heels, and reached for your coat.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bucky’s hand stopped you. “You’re soaked, you’ll catch your death out there, come and dry up. I’ll lend you some clothes.”

You glare at him. “No, thank you.”

His fingers curl around your hand, and he steps close, speaking low so Steve can’t hear him. “Don’t do this, sweetheart. Not now.”

Your jaw was clenched. This wasn’t your first fight, but the betrayal stung enough that it felt like the first all over again.

“Then I won’t,” you sharply exhale. “I’m not being in the same room as him.”

Bucky’s eyes study you for a moment, before letting go of your hand.

“Thank y—” he picked you up with ease, straight over his shoulder then stepped sideways into his room. The door slammed as he kicked it, and put you down.

“Bucky—”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m not letting your hot headedness ruin this and put you in danger.”

You cross your arms. “I’m not being hot headed.”

“You are,” he snapped. “I used to keep Steve from doing the same thing. I’m not going to let you hurt yourself like this.”

“And you don’t get to tell me what to do, Bucky,” you yelled back.

He sighed. “You’re right. I don’t. But, I’ll be damned before I let you march out into the pouring rain when you're freezing already.”

“I’m not staying here with him.”

You expected him to defend his best friend, to make some excuse.

“I’ll tell him to leave then,” he replies simply.

“You will?”

His lips twitch. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

“He’s your best friend,”

“And you’re my fiancé,” his added. “If you aren’t ready to forgive him, then there’s not much I can do. You’re both as stubborn as each other.”

You freeze in place then slump onto his bed.

“I thought this would happen,” you murmur. “The moment Steve stormed out, I knew it would be me or him.”

Bucky crouched down, taking your hands in his.

“It’s not him or you,” he says. “There is no choice to make, but I’m also I wasn’t going to push him away when he came back. He’s apologised to me, and I’ve accepted. But he hasn’t apologised to you, you deserve one more than I do. If you want to keep your distance from him, I’ll stand by you. Don’t act like I have to choose between you, because I love both of you, and I couldn’t stand to lose either of you.”

Bucky was quiet when he emerged from his room, leaving you to change in peace.

Steve was tidying up, the room seemed less chaotic.

“You talk her ‘round?” He asked.

“Not exactly,” Bucky sighed. “Sorry buddy, but she’s still hurting.”

Steve sighed. “Guess I earned that.”

“That and more,” Bucky agreed. “I’m surprised she didn’t hit you again.”

“Hm,” he smiled sadly. “I thought she’d hit us both.”

“I couldn’t blame her if she did,” Bucky began to help him, throwing the bottles away. “We probably looked a mess.”

Steve laughed. “Don’t we always.”

Bucky smiled slightly. “I can’t put you before her. She’s my girl.”

“I know,” he nodded. “I’d kill you if you did.”

Bucky smiled wider.

“You’ve done good by her,” he brushed his hands together, grabbing his jacket from over the chair. “You’ll make a good husband.”

“I hope so,”

Steve reached over, patting his best friend on the back. “I’m still invited to the wedding, right?”

“You have to apologise to her first,” Bucky’s tone was firm. “And she has to forgive you.”

Steve groaned. “She’s so stubborn.”

“You didn’t speak to her for nearly three months,” Bucky reminded him. “It’s the least you can do.”

“I guess,” he sighed. “You gonna walk her home?”

Bucky’s tongue moved in his mouth.

“Buck?”

“She’ll probably stay tonight,” he admits.

“You’ve been…” his eyes widen. “God, I don’t want to think about it.”

Bucky laughs then. “Get going, punk. Before I have to kick your ass.”

You did end up staying the night, but not in the way Bucky had hoped. Instead you’d been quiet, curled up against his side picking at your nails, scowling at walls or simply asleep.

You didn’t want to go out, and you didn’t want food.

Bucky couldn’t even persuade you to stand up and slow dance with him. You simply shook your head and spoke quietly.

“I just want you next to me,”

You’d slept with his arm around you, holding you as though he feared you’d run away any moment.

Bucky on the other hand, has hardly slept, his mind heavy with guilt. He’d forgiven Steve so easily, but you were his sister. He cursed himself for not insisting he apologise to you first, for letting himself fall back into his old ways.

By morning, he’d knew his best hope was Steve would apologise soon. He couldn’t change the past, all he could do was be here for you until the time came.

It was a Saturday, the day you usually ventured around the city into markets for as many deals for yourself and your landlady as possible. Often you’d go by yourself, but today proved to be the exception.

Bucky refused to leave you alone, he’d clutched your hand as he walked to you to your landlady’s house. He’d even insisted on entering whilst you changed in your room.

You could hear the faint chatter between the landlady and your fiancé. They met several times now, Bucky ever the gentleman in front of her and offering to pick up an antique she needed collecting from Manhattan.

“I have a question for you, James,” you hear her say, she never used his nickname.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“When are you marrying that girl? You’ve been together half a year now,” her tongue clicked. “She stays with you most nights.”

“We’re engaged—“

“Yes, yes,” she cut him off. “All men think that is enough. Put a ring on her finger, and hold off the bells until she’s pregnant. You’re clever, James. I’m sure you have a date set by now.”

You hear Bucky’s voice go low. “Next month.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yeah,” you could imagine the discomfort on his face. “We wanted to give it enough time for Steve to cool off, especially after he didn’t attend the engagement party.”

“I see,” her tone was clipped. “Has he apologised yet?”

“Not to her,” his voice was heavy with guilt.

She sighed. “Men. They think we can do nothing without them, and forget we managed for two wars.”

“You sound like her,” Bucky noticed.

She laughed. “She’s been in my keeping for nearly four years now. When her brother left, I helped her back to her feet. I rubbed off on her.”

“Thank you,” he sounded grateful. “For caring for her when we co— didn’t.”

“You don’t need to thank me, dear,” she still sounded amused. “She’s been like a daughter to me. She’s helped me in my old age, and now I have to watch her leave the nest.”

“You don’t mind that I’m taking her from you?”

“Not at all,” she replies. “You’re a fine man, and you make her happy. All I ask of you is that you protect her when she cannot protect herself.”

“I will,” Bucky sounded certain. “I’d die for her if I had to.”

“Men,” she sounded amused again. “Always so foolish in love.”

Bucky had been quiet whilst you scouted the markets, holding your hand with his left and bags in his right. The weight of them not even bothering him.

You reached the markets in down-town Brooklyn, familiar sights that you’d spent most of your childhood in. You recalled as a child clutching to your mother here, much as you clutched Bucky’s hand now.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called.

You flinch slightly, you’d forgotten your brother still lived in this area of Brooklyn.

“Steve,” Bucky gave him a nod, but you could see from his eyes that he was torn.

You couldn’t even look at your brother.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” You murmur up to Bucky.

Bucky shook his head.

“You always are here on a Saturday,” Steve replied. “Can we talk?”

You lean closer to Bucky, eyes flickering to your brother. “If I say no?”

Steve’s lips part in surprise and he looks at Bucky.

“You’re on your own with this one,” Bucky shrugs.

“It’s been three months…”

“I know exactly how long it’s been, Steven,” you snapped. “That’s exactly why you’re going to have to do better than that. I’m not Bucky, you can’t just show up and expect everything to be better.”

You inhaled. “You walked away from me, again. This time you didn’t even have the excuse of a war. You weren’t at our engagement party, and you didn’t reply to the invite to the wedding. Why should I give you a chance when you so clearly want me out of your life?”

Steve looked like he’d been hit, even Bucky seemed taken aback. Suddenly it was clear, when you’d told Bucky about making a choice it hadn’t been about him — it was about Steve, about every time he’d go out with Bucky over taking care of his baby sister and made the choice to pick his best friend over you.

“Doll,” Bucky’s hand released yours, wrapping around your waist to keep you by his side.

“There’s nothing I can say, is there?” Steve realised, and you simply glare at him.

He sighs. “I am sorry. I believed you two wouldn’t last this long.”

You didn’t respond.

“I know Bucky better than, well, anyone,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen how he was before the war, seducing girls over with only a hand and a smile. I didn’t want you to be one of them.”

“I’m not a fool,”

“I know,” he agreed. “But you swore off him. You told me you’d never go near a man like him, and I thought — that’s good, she’ll keep herself safe.”

You remain silent.

“So, when I saw you two going to the theatre that day, I couldn’t believe it,” he shook his head. “That you’d be so foolish, and Buck would betray me like that.”

“You’re my sister, and he knows what I’d do to protect you, hell he’s even taken punches meant for me when I’ve gone after boys who wanted you,” he admitted.

Your eyes flicker over to Bucky, who just shrugs as if it were nothing.

“I didn’t know how to handle the thought that he might hurt you,” he frowned. “I thought it was inevitable. So I pulled away, because I couldn’t stand to see you hurt but I am not brave enough to stand against my best friend, not even for my sister.”

“He’s like a brother to me,” he admits softly “You can’t imagine what we’ve had to go through together. The idea of losing him hurts as much as losing you.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” your voice is quiet.

“I know,” he agrees. “I’m the one who has hurt you both, and I’m sorry.”

You stare at him and feel Bucky lean into your ear.

“Want me to hit him for you?” He offers.

You smile a little. “If you want to.”

Bucky laughs quietly.

“I’d deserve it,” Steve smiles. “And Bucky is probably the only person who could make it actually hurt.”

“Don’t tempt me, pal,”

Steve laughed at that. Bucky returned back to you.

“What do you think, sweetheart?”

“I wanna hit him,” you were honest, and Bucky grinned. You look back at your brother. “You’re going to have to work your ass off if you want me to forgive you.”

Steve sobered up then. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky snickered, hiding his face into your shoulder.

“I mean it,” you tell him. “You’re going to have to help with the wedding. Organising the cake, flowers… oh and I still have a dress fitting.”

Steve’s eyes widen, realisation hitting him that you were subjecting him to a month of wedding planning as penance.

“Alright,” he nods. “And I still get to be Best Man, right?”

“Obviously,” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“And you get to be my brother-in-law,” he cheered up at the idea.

“I’m going to kill him,” you mutter.

“Give him a slow death, doll. He thinks it’s bad now with wedding planning,” he grins at his best friend. “Wait till Uncle Steve has to babysit our kids.”

Steve let out an audible groan. “Fuck, I didn’t think of that.”

Your fiancé pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you giggle. If anyone knew how to make Steve Rogers regret not trusting you both, it was going to be you two.

The more nuanced answer is yes, but how he uses it has changed.

I can imagine in the falcon and winter soldier era he probably knew he was eligible and chose not to use it — it would be a dead giveaway to his identity. Instead (if the US have this), he probably used the military/veteran discounts you can get because of him being a former Sergeant.

However, Congressman Barnes era. I can see using his senior discount, after all he’s a public figure. People know who he is and what he was.

“You mind doing me a favour, sweetheart?” Bucky had spoken, his fingers were intertwined with yours, walking steadily with you by the riverside.

“Of course,” you couldn’t help but keep the words from slipping out. You were smitten by this man, he’d asked you out at a dance hall, smoothly offering you a dance with a smile. Now only three days later you were on a date, you’d had dinner and were out for a walk in the sunset.

Dear Lord, the man was a romantic, and it felt too easy to fall for him.

“You can say no,” he promises. “I’m taking my buddy to Coney Island next week, and I would love you to come.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” you smile.

“It will,” he promises with a charming smile. “Do you have a friend you could bring for my buddy? He doesn’t have many people in his life and could use some company.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Sergeant Barnes, you have some nerve.”

“I know,” he winks.

You shake your head. “What’s this friend like?”

He seemed to think for a moment. “He’s kinda scrawny, stubborn, but he has a good heart.”

“Not a charmer like you?”

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. “I could have told you he was, but I can’t lie to you, sweetheart.”

Your lips press together, he still managed to make it romantic — as though he was so taken by you he couldn’t lie to you.

“Alright,” you smile. “I might know someone who would give him a chance.”

“You do?” He grins. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“One ferris wheel ride,” you offer. “Just me and you.”

You should’ve known when he pulled you onto his lap without a word.

That look in his eyes had already told you everything you needed to know.

He didn’t speak, just sat on the edge of the bed thighs spread wide, hands sliding up the back of your legs until his palms were gripping your thighs like he owned them. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh possessively as he guided you down onto him, inch by inch, with that look.

The one that said you’re gonna take all of it no matter what.

You’re still adjusting.

Still struggling to breathe.

Your palms press against his shoulders like you might be able to steady yourself, but it’s useless. The moment you sink down fully, he’s everywhere, so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs.

“Too much for you, baby?” Bucky smirks, voice husky and rich, the sound vibrating through his chest into your fingertips. His hands slip under your shirt, rough palms against your warm skin kneading at your hips. “You’re always so cocky until I get inside you.”

He’s not wrong.

Your knees are shaking where they’re braced on either side of his thighs. Your nails are dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave little crescent moons. Your pussy is aching around him, stretched and stuffed full in a way that borders on overwhelming.

It’s too much.

He’s too big.

Too thick.

Too long and he knows it.

“That’s it,” he whispers, one hand sliding down to the base of your spine, holding you close so there’s no space left between you. “Take all of me. Look at how full you are, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters. Your walls flutter around him from just being filled.

“F-feels… fuck… it’s so much... Bucky...” you whimper, burying your face in his neck inhaling the smell of leather and soap and him. “I can’t move.”

“You don’t have to.” He hums satisfied. “Just sit here a minute. Let that sweet little cunt adjust.”

He brushes a kiss against your jaw, then another at your temple. His fingers rubbing gentle circles into your back.

It’s a confusing mix.

Softness wrapped around something utterly filthy because even as he holds you like glass, his cock twitches inside you and he groans, rough and low against your ear.

“Every single time, baby,” he growls. “Every time I fuck you, it’s like you’re not ready for it.”

“I never am,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He chuckles darkly, lips grazing your skin. “I know. That’s my favorite part.”

You moan.

Humiliation, arousal and disbelief that you still haven’t gotten used to the way he stretches you.

He tilts your chin up with a finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown, blue almost swallowed by black.

“Look at how small you are on me,” he whispers. “Fucking made for me.”

And then he grabs your hips and rocks you forward. You cry out, hands scrambling for balance as he lifts you and slams you back down on his cock.

The stretch, the impact and the way he hits that spot deep inside.

You’re already falling apart and you haven’t even started moving on your own yet.

“That’s it,” he hisses. “Let me see you bounce on it. Show me how good you can take it.”

You’re a mess in his lap, trying your best lifting and sinking slowly, your movements shaky and desperate. Your walls clench hard around him, like your body’s trying to keep him inside even as you rise.

“It’s too deep,” you gasp. “You’re hitting… ah... Bucky!”

“You can take it,” he growls, voice like gravel. “You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again. You’re mine. You were made for this cock.”

His grip tightens and then he takes over completely, bouncing you in his lap like a doll. Using his strength to drive you down onto him again and again, until your thighs burn and your eyes roll back, mouth falling open around a soundless cry.

“You’re fuckin’ ruined for anyone else,” he mutters into your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “No one else is gonna stretch you like this. No one’s gonna fill you the way I do.”

You moan helpless, breathless, loving every filthy word. His cock drags along your walls with every thrust, pushing deeper than you thought possible and keeping you open around him, stuffed full.

It’s relentless heat, friction and pressure. Everything blurring until all you can do is hold on. You’re already so close it hurts.

“Feel that?” He pants, pressing a hand to your lower belly where he bulges against you. “That pressure in your belly? That’s me. All of me. Filling every inch of you.”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Can’t... can’t hold it...”

“Don’t.” He groans. “Fucking come on it. I wanna feel you squeeze me.”

The command tips you over.

You fall apart in his lap, crying out as your orgasm crashes over you clenching around him like a vice, pulsing and shaking, thighs trembling as you writhe in his grip.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking up into you harder now, chasing his own high, hips snapping as he drives you through the aftershocks until tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

And then he slams you down one final time, grinding deep and groans as he comes thick and hot, flooding you so deep you feel it everywhere. His hands are gripping you so tightly you think you might bruise, but you need it.

Need to be held together.

You’re shaking overwhelmed and full.

He doesn’t pull out right away, just holds you there cock buried inside, breathing hard against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice gone rough. “You always do that to me.”

You slump forward, boneless in his arms. “Because you’re huge, Bucky.”

He chuckles, breathless and proud. “You love it.”

You nod, dazed. “I love you.”

His arms wrap around your waist, grounding you as your heartbeat slows. “I love you too, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re so good for me.”

You nuzzle into him, still full, still twitching around his cock. “You’re staying inside, huh?” You mumble.

He grins against your skin. “Damn right. Gotta keep all that come in there. Make sure it takes.”

You laugh soft and wrecked. “You’re insatiable.”

“And you’re perfect.”

He shifts you slightly still buried in you, rubbing slow soothing circles on your hips as your body finally begins to calm.

The room smells like sweat and sex and him, warm and heavy.

Bucky never saw this coming.

After years of being a super-soldier, he thought he finally had it all figured out; the unlimited stamina, the lack of fatigue, and the sheer strength and muscle that the average person couldn’t obtain in two lifetimes of effort.

But Hydra’s serum never came with a handbook on side effects. Bucky never imagined he’d encounter anything like this—until he met you.

You were the first woman Bucky had dated since coming out of cryofreeze, and he was damn well going to make sure you were the last. Being with you made him open up both emotionally and physically. He let you into his heart and, well... you made the mistake of letting him between your legs.

The first few times you had sex, you assumed his uncontrollable trembling and heavy breathing were just nerves. After all, it had been decades for him. But even buried deep inside you, he always made no effort to move. His muscles strained and his face twisted into a grimace, as if it were taking every ounce of his will just to hold back.

Hold back on what, exactly?

At the time, you didn’t know yet.

“Bucky,” you whispered, resting both hands on his shoulders.

He hovered above you, eyes half-lidded, his bare chest heaving as his strong arms caged you against the mattress. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can take our time. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not that I’m not ready,” Bucky let out a low, agitated groan. “I’m more than ready, doll. I just—fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You frowned slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “You’re doing great, honey. Just… move your hips. Create a little friction, like this—”

You began to rock your hips up against him. Bucky’s head dipped, his arms nearly giving out as he threatened to collapse on top of you. The feel of your tight, silky walls rubbing against him was clearly more than he could handle.

“Fuck—Jesus, baby!” he barked out, his hips twitching involuntarily as he rutted even deeper into you. “Careful—shit, I’m gonna cum if you keep moving like that—”

“I know, baby,” you encouraged. “I want you to cum.”

When your boyfriend—who’s a literal super-soldier—is a panting, trembling mess on top of you, eyes rolled back and babbling filthy words, how could you possibly stop?

Especially since, despite being together for a while, you had yet to actually see him cum.

Determined, you wrapped your legs tight around Bucky’s waist. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance and topple fully onto you, his weight pressing you into the bed as his cock pushed even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat as you felt him sink more inside, rocking your hips rhythmically against his.

“Shit, baby—this isn’t good—” Bucky babbled, his hips slowing their movement as he rocked lazily against you. “Fuck… I’m—”

You felt your heart leap into your throat. Every time Bucky was close to cumming, he pulled out at the last second and never let himself finish the job. He’d always excuse himself and run to the bathroom, never saying what for—but he’d always come back with his shoulders a little less tense.

It didn’t take more than one brain cell to piece together that he was finishing on his own in there.

But now, with your legs clamped tight around his waist, you weren’t going to give him the opportunity.

You squeezed your legs tighter, your cunt clenching around his shaft as you felt him pulse. Bucky groaned, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his whole body began to shudder and shake against yours.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” Bucky moaned. “I’m gonna cum inside you. I can’t… need to pull out!”

“It’s okay, Buck,” you reassured him against his ear, your hands rubbing up and down his broad back. “I’m on the pill. You can cum inside, baby.”

“Fuck—no, that’s not it…” Bucky grunted, his voice breaking as his breathing grew even heavier. “Fuck… baby. I can’t cum inside you—you can’t take it.”

“Bucky, just do it,” you groaned, ignoring his warning as you ground your hips up one more time.

You didn’t care about his excuses.

All you wanted was to finally feel him come undone inside you.

“Cum inside me, Bucky. I want to feel you. It feels too good to stop now.”

He let out a panicked, strangled sound, his metal hand clenching the bedsheets so hard the fabric began to tear. He tried to lock his arms to push himself up, desperate to pull out before it was too late, but you weren’t having it. You shifted your hips, tilting your pelvis just right to catch the head of his cock, locking your legs tighter around his waist and pulling him back in.

He moaned loudly as he sheathed back into you, the sensation of your tight cunt deliciously squeezing his shaft making his mind go dizzy.

“Wait—baby, no!”

Bucky arched his back as his cock pulsed and throbbed, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled into his head. The wet heat hit your cervix, making you gasp, but it didn’t stop there. He just kept coming, and coming, and your legs felt like jello around him as he kept pumping you full.

Bucky’s body spasmed, his muscles bunching and twitching as the super-soldier serum’s side effect made itself known. He was absolutely flooding you, filling you deep. You felt like you were drowning inside, the hot, thick weight of him filling every spare inch of you. It was too much for your body to hold—the excess began to spill out, slicking your thighs and the bedsheets beneath you as he continued to pulse and pour into you.

He let out a long, broken moan, finally collapsing against your chest as a trembling, sweaty mess.

He looked completely mortified, refusing to look at you as if he expected you to shun him or push him off in disgust.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice shaky. “I… I’m sorry. Fuck. Let me grab a towel to clean you up—”

“Bucky, wait—”

Before you could even tell him to stay, he quickly scrambled off the bed. He fumbled for his boxers, pulling them up as he ran for the bathroom in a hurry.

While you waited for Bucky to return, you flopped back onto the bed and let out a disbelieving breath. You propped your legs up, tilting your head down to see the “damage” he was so painfully ashamed of—and your heart skipped a beat.

You were a total mess.

His cum was dripping down to your navel from when he had desperately tried to pull away, trailing down to your mound and between your folds. When you lifted your leg a little higher, your cunt made an embarrassing squelch as more of his seed trickled out of you, staining the sheets.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, eyes going wide at just how much he filled you.

Your face went bright red over the fact that he could produce such a… massive load. It was a testament to just how much the serum had changed him, turning him into something more than human, yet vulnerable in the best possible way. Knowing that his body was capable of filling you so completely—of literally overflowing—was the hottest thing you had ever experienced.

Bucky returned, but he wouldn’t even look in the direction of the bed. He moved shamefully, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He had a clean, damp towel in his hand, and he moved to the edge of the mattress without saying a word.

“Bucky…” you spoke softly, reaching out for him.

“Don’t. Just—don’t,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He gently spread your legs to get to the mess, but his eyes stayed fixed on the towel, never once meeting yours.

As he began to wipe you down, he just kept repeating the same words under his breath, like a mantra of shame. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll. God, I'm sorry.”

The towel was already becoming saturated, and he had to fold it over twice just to try and catch what was still sluggishly leaking out of you. Every time he moved the cloth, more spilled out, coating his fingers and the sheets. The more he cleaned, the more he seemed to sink into himself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his face twisting with guilt. “You’re a mess. I... I literally drowned you in it. I told you that you couldn’t take it, and I still let it happen. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, his movements frantic as he tried to clean you up. He was so caught up in his own head, so convinced that he had done something disgusting, that he didn’t even notice you weren’t looking at him with disgust at all.

You reached out, your fingers gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic movements. “Bucky, look at me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It’s okay. I promise, I’m okay—”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he finally met your eyes. He swallowed hard, his gaze searching yours as if he were expecting you to judge him for what he was about to say.

“It’s the serum,” he confessed. “It doesn’t just make me stronger or faster. My metabolism, my recovery, even this. It’s like my body is constantly over-performing, and working overtime to produce more of everything. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold back or how many times I go to the bathroom before we start… it’s always like this.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched with embarrassment.

“And it’s not just the physical part. The serum enhances every feeling that’s already inside you. Everything is louder. Every feeling is dialed up to fucking eleven. When I’m with you, and I’m… I’m horny,” he blushed, sheepish. “It’s not just a feeling. It’s feels like a goddamn command. My body just takes over.”

When he finally looked back at you, his blue eyes were watery with guilt, and it made your heart hurt.

“Especially because it’s you. I love you so much, and that love just feeds the serum. It makes me want you so bad I can’t breathe, and then my body reacts by… by doing this to you. I’m a super soldier, doll. I’m supposed to have discipline. But when I’m inside you, I’ve got none.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to keep eye contact. You didn’t care about the mess all over your body and the sheets; you just wanted him to see that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Bucky, listen to me,” you pressed, thumb swiping over his cheek gently. “I don’t want your discipline. I want you—all of you.”

You leaned in closer, your voice turning into a comforting whisper.

“And if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s incredibly hot. Knowing that you want me so much that your body literally overflows. It makes me feel wanted in a way I can’t even describe—”

Bucky flinched slightly, his face getting even redder. He broke contact by looking down at the sheets in denial. “You’re just saying that to be kind. You’re covered in me, doll. I ruined the bed. I practically drowned you. There’s nothing ‘hot’ about losing control like a—” he grimaced, “—pervert.”

“Okay…” you took a careful breath, trying for a different angle. “What if we found a way to make you feel more in control? Something to try to contain it?"

He glanced at you, wary. “Like what?”

“We could start using condoms,” you suggested softly. “The heavy-duty kind. It would catch everything, Bucky. It stays inside the latex, so there’s no mess, and no reason for you to feel like you have to run to the bathroom the second you’re done. Then after we have sex, we could just lay together instead of having to worry about staining the sheets. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“We could at least try it?”

Bucky stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to the towel in his hand. You could see the gears turning as he considered the idea of a physical barrier—something to keep his “situation” under wraps so he could focus on you instead of his own anxiety.

But the truth was—he hated that he even had to consider this.

Internally, every heightened cell in his body recoiled at the idea of a barrier—even if it was something as flimsy as a condom.

The serum didn’t just make him produce more; it made him feel more.

Every nerve ending made him sensitive, making the sensation of being inside you an all-consuming experience. His mind couldn’t fathom putting a layer of latex between himself and your warmth. He lived for the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him, the friction of skin-on-skin, and the way he could feel every internal pulse of your climax against his own. To him, a condom felt like a cage, a dulling of the one thing that made him feel truly alive and connected to his humanity.

But when he looked down at the towel—stained with the evidence of his own lack of control—the shame came roaring back harder.

He couldn’t keep doing this to you— drowning you, staining everything, making the room reek of sex, and then hiding in the bathroom like a pathetic, wounded animal.

“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, doll. If that makes you feel better… if it keeps things cleaner… then we’ll use ‘em.”

He reached out and squeezed your hand, his metal fingers careful and gentle, hiding the fact that his body was already mourning the loss of the direct contact he craved. He’d trade his own pleasure for a bit of his dignity back if it meant he didn’t have to see you covered in his ‘freakish’ excess ever again.

“We’ll try it your way,” he whispered, leaning in to press a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it takes to keep me from making a mess out of you.”

A few days had passed, and the heavy-duty box of condoms sat on the nightstand like a silent mediator between his shame and your desire.

Now, with the lights dimmed, Bucky was over you again. But everything felt wrong. To his enhanced senses, the thin layer of latex felt like a suit of armor. He was moving into you, but the friction wasn’t the same. He couldn’t directly feel the small flutters of your muscles or the exact texture of your silkiness that usually drove him mad.

It was driving him towards a different kind of frustration—a sensory deprivation that made him groan in irritation.

“You okay?” you asked softly through a moan as he rutted into you.

“Fine,” he grunted, his thrusts diving deeper into you, desperate for that satisfaction.

Bucky grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder as he repositioned himself. One strong, flesh arm tensed next to your head while the other whirred in its vibranium casing. He angled your hip so he could fuck even deeper into you, your back arching as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot.

“Oh, fuck! Bucky—!”

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his hips moving at an uneven, frantic pace. “If you keep crying out like that, I’m gonna cum.”

The condom suddenly felt excruciatingly tight, stretching to its limit as he felt himself begin to pulse. His body shuddered as his cum started to balloon the latex; the sensation of that extreme stretch made him panic.

He couldn’t stay inside. The pressure was simply too much.

The rubber wasn’t going to hold.

“Shit—I can’t—”

You felt his hips pull away, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his back, whimpering as you tried to hold him, but it was no use. “Buck—stay inside, please—”

And with a groan, Bucky pulled out at the last possible second.

He collapsed onto his knees between your legs, his breath ragged and hitching desperately. The condom was dangerously full, the reservoir tip engorged and already starting to seep at the base from just pumping it full.

He couldn’t stop. His hands flew down, his fingers—both vibranium and flesh—wrapping around himself over the slipping latex. He began to stroke himself with quick, heavy pumps, the sensation of cumming so much making him painfully sensitive—his body couldn’t help but crave more. His back arched, and he gasped as he watched his own seed continue to flood the condom, spilling over the rim and coating his knuckles as it dripped down on the bed.

You could only pant, watching him finish himself off right in front of you.

He looked like a wreck, his eyes rolled back and his chest heaving. Even with the latex in the way, the release was still so intense, it was dripping out of the condom and making the room smell like the musky scent of sweat and sex.

Bucky let out a long, jagged exhale that sounded more like a snarl than a breath.

“Fuck,” he rasped, irritated. He didn’t look at you—he just stared at his hands, watching the excess drip onto the sheets he had tried so hard to keep clean. “I knew it. I knew the goddamn condom wouldn’t hold.”

You swallowed hard, sitting up and reaching for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t seem sad this time. Instead, his shoulders were shaking with the frustration of himself and the entire situation.

“Honey, please—”

“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” he snapped. His blue eyes were dark, blown out with frustration. “I told you. I told you it was too much for a piece of rubber, and I just fucking embarrassed myself in front of you again.”

He gestured wildly at the mess—the leaking latex and the white streaks dirtying his vibranium fingers.

“I couldn’t even feel you, doll. I was suffocating in that thing, and I still ended up making a mess of everything anyway.” He let out an agitated sigh. “It’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke. I’m trying to make love to you like a normal partner should—trying to be a goddamn gentleman—and I just end up looking like a fucking animal jerking himself off on the bed because I can’t even stay inside my own girlfriend.”

You were starting to get tired of him apologizing for something that made your blood sing, tired of him treating his own body like a broken weapon instead of a source of pleasure. He was so busy being angry at the mess that he was completely missing the fact that you were practically fawning over him because of this.

Instead of arguing or trying to soothe his ego with words you already knew he wouldn’t listen to, you decided to show him exactly what you thought about his ‘problem’.

You sat up and crawled towards him, your legs finding his waist as you toppled yourself over him. Bucky was so caught off guard, so deep in his self-loathing, that he didn’t even resist as you forced him down against the pillows.

“Sweetheart—what are you—!”

“It’s always about what you think, Bucky,” you said.

Your hand reached down, your fingers sliding down his stomach and fingers grazing gently against his half-hard, half-soft, cock. “You’re so busy deciding for me that this is ‘disgusting’ or ‘wrong,’ but you never once stopped to even consider what I think.”

Bucky’s breathing grew heavier at the sight of you on top of him, his flesh hand coming up to hover over your waist, unsure if he should pull you closer or push you away. “Doll, look at me. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah,” you sighed wistfully, taunting. “But not nearly as messy as I want you to be.”

Your hands found the base of the condom, pulling it off in one quick swipe. It popped off the head of his cock, and his dick sprang free, sending the cum pooling out of the rubber and onto his shaft, his pelvis, his thighs, and the sheets.

“Jesus—baby! No! It’s getting everywhere!”

Without another word, you leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling through the thick, salty cream of his seed.

Bucky’s entire body jolted at the feel of your warm tongue caressing his tip. A broken, high-pitched moan escaped his throat as his back arched off the bed. His fingers tangled into your hair—not to pull you away, but to hold you there in sheer disbelief.

You sucked him deep, your throat working to swallow the heavy pulsing of his cock, making it clear with every wet, hungry sound that you didn’t just want him—you wanted all of him.

Even the parts he was afraid of.

He was trembling underneath you, the frustration and shame finally melting away into helpless surrender.

“Fuuuck,” he whined, tossing his head back against the pillow.

The sound was a complete contrast to the angry, frustrated man he had been just seconds ago. Encouraged by his moans, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive veins of his shaft, lapping at the leftover seed from before.

Because he had just finished, his nerve endings were painfully sensitive and overstimulated. Every wet slide of your lips felt like an electric shock to his system. His metal hand clamped onto the headboard, the wood creaking under his vibranium grip, while his flesh hand stayed buried in your hair.

“Doll, it’s—too much,” he gasped, though his hips stuttered upward in a helpless, jerky motion. “I’m too sensitive... I just... god, I can’t breathe.”

He was hyper-responsive, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his own pleas, he didn’t pull you away—and he didn’t want to.

The sensation of you worshiping the very thing he’d been ready to hide, and the feeling of your mouth swallowing every last remaining drop, was overwhelming his brain. Every time your lips hit the base of his cock, or your cheeks hollowed out to take it all in, it elicited a sharp, broken sob from his throat.

And when you looked up at him— your lips glistening and chin smeared with his seed—and gave him a slow, hooded stare, he felt like he was going to collapse right then and there.

“Shit, baby. Take it out… out of your mouth. Fuck.”

Bucky’s hands shook as they tightened in your hair, trying to tug you away, desperate to spare you from what was about to come. But you were determined, your hands locking onto his thighs to keep him in place.

You had made a silent promise to yourself to take every bit of him, and once the first thick pulse hit the back of your throat, Bucky’s protests instantly dissolved into a moaning mess.

He felt as if his entire body were on fire; his mind and vision spun in circles. The feeling of your wet lips suctioning around the base of his shaft and your warm tongue pressed against the heaviness of his cock was all too much.

He lifted his head off the pillow, watching your throat work rhythmically as you tried to keep up with his pace. Seeing you so dedicated to him—seeing your cheeks stretch and your eyes water as you refused to let a single drop go to waste—did something to his heart.

“Fuck… baby,” Bucky rasped. “Look at you… you’re taking everything.”

As he watched you through hazy eyes, he realized just then how good it felt to be taken like this.

To have his flaws not only accepted, but also devoured.

Eventually, the volume of his cum became too much. You gasped, pulling back as you began to choke on the thick, salty heat, and as soon as his cock was free of your mouth with a wet pop, the pressure sent his seed nearly spraying across your face. It painted your cheeks, your chin, and even caught your eyelashes as he continued to pulse.

Bucky was spent, his muscles twitching as his chest heaved. “Fuck.”

He should have felt ashamed for cumming too much again. He should have ran to the bathroom like he always did, grab a towel, and clean you up.

But as he watched his seed slowly trail down your cheek—a thick white contrast against your flushed skin—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to. You were panting, your lips parted and glistening, looking like a beautiful, sultry masterpiece he had personally painted himself.

“My god,” he breathed, his voice gravelly.

Bucky reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw. His thumb moved slowly as he smeared a streak of his mark across your cheekbone.

For the first time, he didn’t want to clean you; he wanted to look at you like this for hours—covered in his love.

“I thought I was making a mess of you.” he whispered, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “But you look... god, you look perfect like this.”

Bucky’s heart leaped in his chest as he watched you lick your lips, tasting him. Then you gave him a soft yet sultry smile that finally shattered what little defense he had left.

“I love it, Bucky,” you whispered. "I love every bit of you—especially the mess.”

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head as the light from the table lamp caught the white streaks on your skin. “Besides,” you teased, your a little playful and teasing. “Don’t I look so pretty, marked by you?”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your words. He had never thought of seeing it this way, but witnessing the way you batted your lashes, your face dirtied with his release—it was as if the question had uncovered something dirty deep inside him.

The shy, apologetic man was gone, replaced by a man who wanted nothing more than to paint his partner with his love.

His vibranium hand came up to slide behind your neck, his cool fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his eyes took in your debauched face. Meanwhile, his flesh hand cupped your jaw, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your pearly lips pucker.

“Pretty doesn’t even cover it,” he rasped, his eyes dark and possessive. “You look like you belong to me. And if you’re tellin’ me you like it... if you’re tellin’ me you want this...”

He parted your mouth with his thumb, his own seed already slicking his digit as he pushed past your lips. Bucky let out a deep, shuddering exhale as he watched you instinctively twirl your tongue around his thumb, the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him.

“If this is what you really want, then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every time—I’ll give it all to you. And from now on, I expect you to take it all.” He pulled his thumb back slowly, watching the strand of saliva and seed stretch between his hand and your lips.

“And you will take it all, right?”

You nodded, eyes hazy with lust and love. “I will.”

no words. thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!

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You couldn’t believe what was staring back at you. You couldn’t believe that your husband of many years would do something like this.

The bright screen displayed banking statements. Several hundreds, then thousands of dollars being sent to a woman you had never heard of—some lady who went by the name “Samantha Wilsbury.”

You had never heard of this woman in your life. Neither Bucky nor his crew had ever mentioned her. Bucky trusted you completely with all his banking and money information. When you first saw the five thousand dollars sent to Ms. Wilsbury, you didn’t blink an eye. You knew how demanding his job was; transactions were constant, money moving in and out so often that you hadn’t even bothered to check up on it anymore.

The only reason you started caring was because of the new transfer staring back at you right now.

Half a million dollars sent to Samantha Wilsbury.

With an accompanying message that read: “Treat yourself to something nice. — B.”

A million emotions came crashing down hard on you. This empire that Bucky had built for you, all the vows he said with tears in his eyes when you two got married, all the hopes and dreams of having a family together—all of it was thrown away in one cold and daunting wireless money transfer and a five-word sentence.

Your heart should have sunk at the sight. You should have closed the laptop, run to your king-size bed, and started crying. You should have ripped apart Bucky’s Prada tuxedos, or keyed his precious Bugatti.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed the laptop calmly. You put on your best dress, slipped into your fancy heels, applied your overpriced makeup, grabbed all of his credit cards designated for your use, and walked out the front door with a fur coat and the keys to his Rolls-Royce.

No bodyguard, no chaperone.

All you needed was your rage, and his money.

The first stop was Dolce & Gabbana. The Vittoria Calfskin bag. Fall and Winter collection. You barely even tried it on before deciding you also wanted the larger size in leather, and with one quick swipe of Bucky’s black card, he was already down eight thousand dollars in the span of fifteen minutes.

Bucky normally never batted an eye whenever you spent his money—in fact, he encouraged it. But despite that, you rarely splurged. You believe that spending extravagantly is a privilege, not a right. The most you would typically spend in a day would range between thirty and a hundred dollars—never over. When a few minutes passed and he still hadn’t reacted to your sudden eight-thousand-dollar transaction, you figured this wasn’t nearly enough.

You were just scraping the surface.

The next stop was Versace. You picked up a black wool-cashmere coat with an A-line cut, a mere four thousand dollars. And you might as well pick up a few pairs of pumps, right? Black wool matches with everything. So, you added a red La Medusa Slingback pump and a Gianni Ribbon Patent pump in both burgundy and light pink. While you were there, you completed your unnecessary brand-new outfit with the signature cat-eye and square sunglasses in black.

Another swift swipe of his card, and he was down another seven thousand dollars.

You knew that Bucky was drowning in work—whatever mob bosses like him do. You knew his day was going to be stressful, and adding to his stress little by little for his infidelity was going to be the perfect cherry on top.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s phone was pinging with back to back notifications from his bank.

Purchase Approved: $34,960.00 at Chanel Boutique, Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $25,400.00 at Tiffany & Co., Pierrepont St., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $19,480.00 at Cartier, Bedford Ave., Williamsburg. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $50,340.00 at Jimmy Choo, Front St., DUMBO. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

He raised his brow in confusion as he stared down at the purchase history on his phone. He could never be upset over you spending his money. But he couldn’t help but be curious about his wife, who usually stayed at home and only spent money on takeout, was suddenly lavishing herself with designer purchases, all in the span of two hours.

Bucky brought up your contact information, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers worked over the keyboard.

Bucky: You having fun, baby?

You left him on read for about five minutes, but you eventually replied.

You: Lots of it.

Bucky wasn’t the best when it came to reading undertones through text. After reading your message, he felt a strong swell of pride. His smile grew wider, happy knowing that he was the source of your enjoyment—his money, his hard work, and you were finally using it to treat yourself to something nice.

His heart raced with anticipation. Had you gone and bought yourself a sexy set of lingerie? Some more bedroom heels to add to your tumbling pile of stilettos? Regardless of what it was, he couldn’t wait to see you prance around in it.

Bucky: I can’t wait to see what you’ll put on for me tonight.

You: 👍

For the rest of the day, Bucky’s mind was occupied with thoughts of you.

He imagined you waiting for him at the house with a bright smile, surrounded by shopping bags bigger than you. He pictured you, head to toe, dressed in Fleur du Mal—a silk robe, sheer tights, and black lace. His favorite.

In the backseat, one hand clutching a fresh bouquet of roses, he used his other hand to subtly adjust himself. His erection kept pulsing in his pants as he clearly pictured the scene; you meeting him at the edge of the bed, your bare legs on full display as you walked across the marble floors in your brand-new Louboutins.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, tugging at his belt to ease the growing tightness. Unfortunately for him, the shuffle of his hips only pressed his cock harder against his slacks—the friction instinctively making him throb for more.

He sat up straighter, one hand clamping hard on the driver’s seat. “Mind stepping on the gas a little? My wife is waiting for me at home.”

“You’ve got a special date night planned for Mrs. Barnes?” the old man behind the wheel cooed, peering at him through the rearview mirror.

Bucky was never one for small talk—but he didn’t mind this time. He only smiled, smoothing his hair back as he pictured your face, beaming once he stepped inside with the bouquet of roses. He had a rough day. Work was demanding, calls were incessant, Sam and Steve couldn’t get the job done right, and the only thing he wanted was to go home and make sloppy, sweet love to his adoring wife.

“You bet I do.”

When Bucky walked through the double front doors of his mansion, he expected to find you waiting for him in the foyer, jumping into his arms and marking his face with red lipstick as you always do.

Instead, he found his butlers hauling boxes and suitcases—your suitcases—down the stairs.

One of them looked up, catching their breath. “Good evening, Mr. Barnes—”

“What the hell is this?” Bucky hissed. “What is going on here? What is my wife’s luggage doing in the middle of my foyer?”

One of the butlers straightened, swallowing hard. Bucky could see a trail of sweat trickling down the side of the man’s head as he spoke. “Mrs. Barnes told us that she’ll be moving to the spare house in Santa Fe, sir. She requested that we have her belongings packed no later than—”

“Moving?” Bucky scoffed, raising his hands in disbelief, rose petals flying everywhere. “Moving? Packing?”

All of the men froze, standing there like deer in headlights. They glanced at each other, none of them knowing what else to say.

“Where is she?” Bucky asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.

None of them moved an inch.

“I said,” Bucky exhaled, finally losing his patience. “Where the hell is my wife?” he barked, his voice echoing off the grand entrance walls.

One of the butlers raised a timid finger, pointing up past the stairs. “S-she’s in the master bedroom, sir—”

The poor man couldn’t even finish his sentence before Bucky shoved past him, the sound of his expensive shoes clicking urgently against the clean marble floors. He left a trail of angry rose petals as he stomped up the stairs. His heart was beating anxiously fast, his ears ringing with the words “moving” and “belongings packed.” He hadn’t felt this anxious since his best friend Steve got shot during a job.

Bucky couldn’t believe it—you, his precious wife, the very person he devoted everything to, was going to milk his bank accounts and leave without a word or explanation.

He practically kicked the door down, finding you in the middle of the master bedroom—not in the silk robe and red bottoms he expected—but tossing clothes haphazardly into your luggage.

“Oh,” you said, turning to him and narrowing your eyes. “You’re home.” You then dug back into the closet, dismissing him as if he were one of the butlers.

He tip-toed around the bundles of clothes you had strewn all over the floors, the sad display of roses still clutched in his hands. “Honey,” he began with a voice that was softer than how he spoke to the butlers downstairs. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m leaving,” you said flatly, tossing a shirt into the suitcase without another glance.

He frowned, setting the flowers on the dresser before walking over to you. He rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, the touch immediately making you stiffen.

“Baby,” he sighed. “If you needed a little private getaway, you should’ve just told me. I can book us something right now, somewhere far with just the two of us—”

“No, Bucky,” you turned, glaring up at him. “I’m leaving you.”

All the color drained from his face and the ringing in his ears only grew louder. His vision started to blur, and he blinked once, then twice, before he forced himself to focus back on you.

“What?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You pressed your lips together, keeping your head down and your eyes focused on the task at hand: packing your belongings into a suitcase. While you were walking back and forth from the closet, all Bucky could do was stand there, jaw agape and his eyes wide.

“What the hell do you mean you’re leaving me? Where are you going?” Bucky snapped, but you continued to ignore him. You moved as though he wasn’t even in the same room as you.

“Angel, answer me.”

You still ignored him. You brushed past him, your heels clicking against the floor as you bent down to pick up a stray dress you had thrown. Before you could even stand up completely, his hand wrapped around your arm, giving it a light squeeze and forcing you to face him.

“I told you to answer me, sweetheart,” he frowned. His hold on you was tight, but his voice was soft. Even then, you could tell it was taking everything in him not to shake you for an answer.

“You want an answer, Bucky?”

He nodded.

“Then why don’t you answer this—” you pulled your arm away in one harsh tug, jabbing a finger into his chest, “—why don’t you explain the series of transactions you’ve been sending to this random woman you’ve told me nothing about—”

“Series of transactions?” His brows furrowed. “Random woman? What are you talking about—”

“Don’t act like you don’t know!” you snapped in his face. His eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but you breezed right on, not caring what he had to say. “Thousands of dollars being sent daily—whatever, that’s nothing. But half a million dollars with a message saying ‘treat yourself’ to a... Samantha Wilsbury? Are you kidding me? Who the hell is that, anyway? A hooker?”

Bucky blinked. “Okay, hold on—” His words died in his throat as you pushed past him roughly, causing him to stumble back a bit.

You zipped up your luggage, hauling it off the bed. “I’m not sticking around to hear whatever you have to say. I don’t care about the money or the luxury life. If the man who was supposed to be the love of my life isn’t being loyal to me, then what the hell is the point?”

“Sweetheart, stop,” he stood in front of you, halting your movements. “Stop this. You’re not going anywhere. Just listen to me—”

You glared up at him. “There’s nothing for you to say. I’ve already made my decision. I’m leaving.” You rolled your luggage, trying to move past him, and he trailed after you, calling your name, but you didn’t look back.

“Christ, baby. Listen to me!”

“Don’t push me, Bucky. Be glad that I’m only leaving your sorry ass with a mere dent in your bank account and didn’t crash your fucking car—”

“Samantha Wilsbury is a man!”

You paused at the doorframe, looking over your shoulder at him, your hand still gripping the luggage handle. “What?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustration and exhaustion evident in his voice. “Samantha Wilsbury isn’t some woman I’m sneaking around with—it’s a code name. For Sam.”

You raised a brow. “Sam Wilson?”

“Who else?”

“Well—I don’t know! You don’t tell me anything!”

“You never really asked,” Bucky frowned. “And besides, I don’t want you worrying about my silly little job,” he explained, as if he wasn’t the mob boss of all of Brooklyn. “Your job is to be sitting at home, safe and sound, wearing your cute outfits—like a good little wife should.” He took a step closer, looking down at you as he cupped your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not spending all of my money out of spite without hearing me out first.”

You furrowed your brows. “What the hell could you possibly be sending half a million dollars to Sam for? And what was up with that ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message, then?”

“I sent him that money to clean out a property to protect us from an investigation,” Bucky let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And the ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message is code for a successful transfer.”

You frowned and crossed your arms tightly over your chest, still not convinced. You had seen the messages “treat yourself to something nice” once or twice—but they were usually sent to men like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark. None of which had ever been sent to a woman.

Bucky sensed your hesitation and let out another sigh, his thumb rubbing your chin soothingly, then tracing the curve of your lips slowly. “You’d really think I’d be unloyal to you—my wife of many years?” His blue eyes bore deep into yours before trailing down to your lips, then to the line of your jaw. “You have access to everything I own. My credit card information, my phone, all of my passwords. I’ve always been so open with you, angel. You know that.”

You pressed your lips together, averting your eyes to avoid his gaze. It was true—Bucky gave you access to everything. Everything he said made sense, but even as you stood here, slightly embarrassed by your overreaction, your pride was still standing strong.

You had a hard head—always so damn confident to the point you didn’t like to be proven wrong. That’s why Bucky married you.

“Well, what else was I supposed to think? You don’t communicate with me.”

“And you think this,” he motioned around the messy room, “packing your bags and swiping my cards is communicating?”

You stayed silent, your jaw clamped stubbornly tight.

Bucky gave your chin a squeeze, making your lips plump out slightly. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“That’s not what a good wife does, you know?” he mumbled, his voice growing quiet and deep. “Good wives don’t think their devoted husband is out cheating on them. Good wives don’t milk their husband’s bank account dry out of spite,” he continued, his thumb probing against your glossed lips. “And good wives certainly don’t pack up their stuff and leave without a word.”

He then pushed his thumb past your lips. Your mouth closed around his finger as you blinked up at him. “Now make it up to me and suck.”

“Bucky…” you muttered, your voice muffled around his finger.

“No,” he shook his head. “I told you to suck,” he demanded.

His other hand flew up to the back of your head, giving your hair one harsh tug before holding you still as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth. His hold was tight, but his words came out gentle. “Be a good wife for me now.”

You never broke eye contact with him. Your cheeks slowly began to hollow out as you sucked on his thumb, letting out soft whimpers as he began to stroke it back and forth into your mouth.

“Look at that,” he breathed, exasperated. “You look so damn cute when you’re not spouting lies in my face.”

You swallowed the saliva building up in your mouth around his finger. “I… mmph—thought—”

“I know,” he cooed gently. “I know what you thought. And you thought wrong—letting your pretty little head wander to every bad thing without consulting me first.”

You only muffled around his finger as he rocked it back and forth against your tongue. The sight of you like this—hair tousled by his own hands, your plump and glossed lips sucking eagerly at his thumb, and the soft, helpless whimpers vibrating out of your mouth—only made his cock throb in his pants.

If his erection was unbearably hard on the car ride home, his cock was practically jumping out of his slacks now. He watched his thumb, glistening with your spit, stroking in and out of your warm mouth.

“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling his thumb out with a wet pop. He smeared his wet finger over your sloppy, glistening lips. With a growl, his hands started working on his belt and zipper, looking down at you with hungry eyes. “Get on your knees.”

You barely had time to wipe your wet lips with your hand before his rough hand found your hair again, quickly pushing you to your knees before you could protest. You stumbled to the floor, your hands catching on his clothed thighs as you let out a startled gasp, coming face-to-face with his cock, already hard and swaying.

You yelped as he tugged your hair back, forcing you to arch your neck to look up at him. “Buck—” before you could finish saying his name, he grabbed his shaft, slapping your soft face with his cock—it was heavy and warm.

A low groan rumbled from his chest as you winced, urging him to continue giving your face gentle slaps with his dick. He smeared his pre-cum all over your face—your cheeks, your lips—ruining the time you took to make yourself look pretty in a matter of seconds.

“Look at you, princess,” he taunted, a grin tugging at his lips. “How cute of you to think you’d be able to leave me. Got all your bags packed, and now you’re here on your knees, with my cock—my scent—all over your pretty little face.” He let out another groan, his cock probing at your closed lips. “Real cute.”

“You’re ruining my makeup,” you whined.

The act was humiliating and degrading, yet you couldn’t deny the arousing feeling that came with it. It was a shameful part of you that you knew Bucky took advantage of—and tonight was no exception.

He let out a sigh of pleasure, rubbing the tip of his cock against your cheek. “Don’t know why you’re so worried about that. You’re not going anywhere anymore,” he rocked his hips gently, the warmth of his shaft rubbing along your face. “You’re going to stay right here, on your knees, where you belong.”

Bucky gave your hair another tug, pulling your face closer. “Now suck.”

When you didn’t move, he poked his cock against your lips, nudging his tip past your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt his length slowly slide against your tongue, your lips stretching around his shaft as he started to rock his hips. You tried not to gag as he eased himself in.

“I know blow jobs aren’t your favorite because you can’t fit it all in,” he tossed his head back and groaned before looking back down at you. “But after that little stunt earlier—you owe me this.”

His grip on your hair tightened as he nudged you deeper, bobbing your head up and down against his shaft. Tears pricked at your eyes as his cock hit the back of your throat, choking around his length before he pulled away, giving you room to breathe.

“Fuck. I’m sorry baby,” he rasped before moving your head back down, causing you to gag and cough around his cock. “You just look so damn cute trying to take it all.”

He pulled more than halfway out, letting you catch your breath before he went back to fucking your mouth, his thrusts shallow as the tip of his cock disappeared in and out of your warm, pillowy lips.

You looked up at him, your eyes glossy with tears as you sucked at his cock. The sight of your angry husband—his eyes fluttered shut, his brows knitted tight with frustration from earlier, his jaw slightly hung open as desperate groans and grunts escaped his lips, his hips rocking into your mouth slowly—it was enough to make your cunt flutter. Your hands clenched around his slacks, your tongue now fervently lapping around his dick—trying to please him.

“Bu-Buck—mmm,” you muffled around his cock. “P-please…”

He shuddered, the soft rumble of your words vibrating around him. His eyes landed back down on you—pulling your face away and drawing his hips back, his length leaving the warmth of your sweet mouth with a wet pop.

“Fuck—what’d you say, baby? Did you just say ‘please’?”

You let out a cough, sniffling as you nodded your head. He growled, a strange feeling swelling in his chest. The sight of you catching your breath and tearing up after what he’d just done made him want to take care of you—but also ruin you completely.

“Get up,” he commanded, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet in one swift motion. He then nodded toward the king-size bed. “Go.”

You swallowed hard, your heart beating faster in your chest. Bucky was usually gentle with his lovemaking. He never barked orders at you, only at the people who worked for him. To see him take charge like this made you move to the bed without a second thought. It scared you, but you were also excited.

You kicked your heels off and lay down in the center of the bed, but as you got comfortable, you didn’t see Bucky follow. Instead, he walked over to the dresser, pulling out the third cabinet.

He reached in slowly, digging around before pulling out a rope and a silk blindfold.

“Wait,” you spoke up, grabbing his attention. “I don’t want to be blindfolded. I want to see you while you—”

He scoffed. “Honey, you’re not in any position to be making demands now.” He shut the drawer roughly, taking slow and heavy steps toward you, the rope and blindfold clutched tightly in his hands.

“I don’t care if you want to see me,” he said, grabbing your hands roughly and pinning them to the bedpost. He ignored your whimpers as he began tying the rope around your wrists and the frame, his movements precise and swift.

He stepped back, looking down on you. “Go on,” he taunted. “Give it a nice tug for me.”

And you did. It didn’t budge.

Bucky hummed in approval. “Good. Now you can’t run away.”

He lifted the blindfold, bringing it closer to your face. You squirmed, turning your face away and avoiding the silk.

“I don’t want to be blindfolded,” you whined, writhing on the bed. “I want to see you!”

When he failed to put it on, he let out an agitated groan. With one hand, he grabbed your chin, squeezing your cheeks to force you to face him.

“And I wanted you to be a good wife and show me the things you lavished yourself with after my shitty day at work,” he hissed. “But instead, I walk in to find U-Haul boxes all over my foyer, the bedroom a mess, and my wife threatening to leave. And now you want to see me?”

He let out a laugh, the sound completely condescending, but it only made your panties wetter.

“No. You don’t get to see a damn thing, spoiled brat.”

He quickly tied the blindfold around your eyes, the black silk blinding you completely. You were stuck on the bed, immobilized and blind as a bat. You let out a shaky exhale as you heard the sound of his clothes ruffling; the careless toss of his expensive shoes, the belt, and his pants hitting the ground.

You felt butterflies in your lower belly once his weight pressed down on the mattress, his warmth and scent growing closer to you.

There was a brief, agonizing pause. You could feel his presence. He was close, unbearably close, yet he didn’t move.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “You’re still there, right? W-what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t reply. The only sounds you could hear were the light shuffle of the bed and the sound of skin rubbing against skin. Then, his breathing grew heavy, and quiet grunts escaped his mouth.

He was jerking off to the sight of you—bound, blind, and completely helpless.

“S-sweetheart, please—” you pleaded, your legs squirming and thighs squeezing together to soothe the ache that had been left unattended. “Please, touch me.”

“Yeah? You want me to touch you? After you threatened to ‘leave my sorry ass’?”

A pathetic, almost whiny sound left your lips before you could stop it. “I know what I said was stupid, but fuck, just please, just touch me.”

He crawled closer to you, his fingertips trailing the hem of your dress. “Touch you here?” His hand started crawling up underneath, smoothing across your bare thigh and rubbing over your clothed pussy. “Or here?”

“Just undress me. Do something—”

You let out a sharp gasp as his hand suddenly came up to the V-neck of your dress, and in one harsh pull, the fabric tore right through the middle—his strength ripping it apart as if it weren’t a thousand-dollar dress, as if it were simply cheap wrapping paper and he was opening his present.

“No fucking bra,” he gritted through clenched teeth, disapproving. “You weren’t wearing a fucking bra when you were out shopping in this tiny little dress?” his hands found the waistband of your lace panties, ripping that open in one hard tug. “And lace. My favorite. You were never planning to leave, were you? You were just hoping to piss me off—begging to get fucked.”

As if anything you could possibly say mattered—as if you had any pride left—you shook your head in futility. “No, I—”

Before you could finish your sentence, his rough hand clamped hard on your thigh, making you jump. Without warning, he poked his cock against your slit, his tip catching at your entrance.

You were already so embarrassingly wet that his cock head slipped inside, your walls already fluttering around him; accommodating him, inviting him in.

“Oh my God!”

His thumb found your clit, giving it slow, soothing rubs. “Fuck, that’s just the tip, and—and—shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he rambled. He slowly pushed in deeper, testing you as his cock went about halfway in.

Your cunt stretched around his pulsing cock, the burn slightly painful as you tried to adjust to his size. You wanted to hold onto him, you wanted to look into his eyes as he fucked you, but you were bound and helpless. The very thought of being spread open, tied up for your husband’s pleasure, only made you wetter.

And that only made it easier for him to slip inside even deeper.

He moved his hips, his cock slowly sinking further inside. A low groan rumbled from his chest—and God, you wished you could see his face right now. You wished you could see your husband, eyes shut and head thrown back at the feel of your tight pussy clamping down on him.

“God—so fucking…” he grunted, rocking his hips back and forth, slowly easing the rest of himself in, “warm, so hot and warm—and tight. Jesus—”

You cried out as his hand moved your thigh up and over his shoulder, your leg swaying helplessly in the air as he fucked you—this new angle allowing him to drive into you deeper. Your warm walls clenched around him, welcoming every ridge, every pulse, as he rocked his hips back and forth.

The bed started to creak as a litany of curses left Bucky’s lips; “Fuck, baby. Feels so damn good.” “Don’t want to stop, don’t ever want to stop fucking my girl.”

His fingers circled your clit even faster, making you arch your back and your legs tremble around him even more.

You couldn’t touch, you couldn’t see, you couldn’t even form a coherent thought. He had reduced you to a babbling mess as he fucked you so deep—the only thing you could do was feel.

“Can’t believe…” he rasped, the sounds of his heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin filling your ears, “… you actually thought you could fucking leave me.” He gripped your thigh harder, holding your leg up. “Spend all my fucking cash,” his fingers sped up against your clit. “And leave me just like that. Shit—this is what fifty thousand at Cartier gets you—blindfolded and tied up for my fucking pleasure.”

His nasty and filthy words made you feel warm, your pussy fluttering around him helplessly as you felt yourself getting close.

“Oh my god, don’t stop, Bucky! I’m going to—”

He let out a disapproving grunt, stilling his hips—or rather, forcing his hips to stop—and his fingers paused right above your clit. “You know what I just realized, honey?”

You gasped, lifting your head up off the pillow and looking at him—despite being blindfolded. “W-why’d you stop—”

“I just realized you haven’t apologized,” he pointed out. “I haven’t heard a single ‘I’m sorry’ leave your lips yet.” He slowly moved his hips back, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix goodbye. “All I’ve heard from you tonight were lies and demands—begging me to fuck you. And here I am, giving you what you want.”

“Bucky,” you whined, your voice rising higher in pitch the more you felt his cock retreat. “Please, don’t—”

“God, what kind of husband am I if I let my wife brat out like this?” He laughed, incredulous. “What a fool I am.” He pulled back far enough that only his tip remained inside you—just barely.

“No!” you cried, your voice shaky. You rocked your hips, trying to sink back down on him, but the ropes against your wrist kept you in place.

He gave you one very short, very shallow thrust with just the tip. “Go on, sweetheart. Tell me you’re sorry.”

One thing Bucky knew was that you were very prideful. So prideful that he’d tear down his own just to make you happy. But how much pride could you hold onto when you were lying here, completely bare and tied up, with your vision gone and desperately needing to come?

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“What was that?” he moved his hips back, only half of his tip inside.

“N-no!” you gasped. “Don’t leave me like this—please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

He sighed, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he withdrew completely, his cock leaving the warmth of your pussy with a wet pop, leaving you utterly empty—leaving you fluttering around nothing.

“And here you are, still making demands.”

“No, no!” you cried out, shaking your head. You writhed on the bed, tears spilling down your cheeks and dampening the silk. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry for not communicating with you—I’m sorry for not trusting you—please. Please don’t leave me.”

Without another word, Bucky grabbed both your legs, pulling them up again and against your chest, nearly folding you in half as his cock pushed past your entrance—giving you one hard and deep thrust, filling you up completely again in a matter of seconds.

“Good girl.”

You arched your back off the bed, moaning in pleasure as he filled you deeply. He fucked you harder, harder than he had before, your body shaking and bouncing uncontrollably against the mattress, the bed frame hitting the walls obscenely.

“Fu-fuck… yes, Bucky!”

“Shit,” he grunted, leaning down so that his body completely enveloped yours. “Feels so fucking good, angel.”

Your hips were aching because of the fold he had you in, but you didn’t care. You were so close, and you knew he was too. His hips started to move into a frantic rhythm, his cock throbbing inside you, his breathing growing heavier and uneven.

You let out a cry as you felt yourself come undone unannounced. Your pussy clamped down on him hard as your body shook with the overwhelming sensation. Bucky still pounded into you—chasing his release right after yours.

“God, baby. You’re gripping me so tight—fuck,” he grunted. “Shit. Gonna fucking cum, sweetheart. Gonna pump you full.”

And with one, hard, sloppy thrust, he filled you completely with his seed. He moaned loudly before his body dropped on top of yours, his hands wandering all over your body lazily, groping and feeling you as his body trembled with pleasure.

With shaky hands, Bucky removed the blindfold from your face, and you squinted, your eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Once your vision focused, you were met with Bucky’s gaze—soft, adoring, with that lazy boyish smile. It was a complete contrast to how he had treated and spoken to you just a few moments ago.

“Look at you,” he breathed, in awe. “Your makeup’s all over the place.” His finger crept up to wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, trailing down the curve of your jaw. He ran his thumb over your lip before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss. “So pretty.”

You melted into his kiss before he pulled away. You wanted more of him. You wanted him to hold you and you wanted to wrap your arms around him. You tugged against the ropes that bound you to the bed, giving him a frown.

“Untie me,” you requested.

“I don’t know,” he teased, smiling. “I like seeing you like this.”

Your frown deepened into a dramatic pout. “Untie me!”

“Say please,” he laughed softly. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

“Please?”

Bucky let out another quiet laugh, his hands coming up to untie the knot around your wrist. Once you were finally free, you let out a small wince, rubbing at your wrist from the slight burn of writhing against the rope. He frowned, grabbing your wrist and looking down at them.

“You were moving around too much, baby.” He brought one wrist up and kissed it gently, then did the same thing to the other. “This is why I don’t like using ropes on you. Come here,” he shuffled around on the bed, moving your body easily against his.

He held you close as you both lay there in silence for a moment, your breathing steadying and softening as he gently caressed your hair.

After a moment of silence, he spoke up again.

“You don’t think I’d actually cheat on you, do you?” he asked, his voice quiet and slightly breaking at the end.

“No, I—I… should’ve heard you out before going all money crazy,” you sighed into his chest. “It was so obvious too—Samantha Wilsbury is a ridiculous code name.”

Bucky chuckled, the vibration comforting against your cheek as you lay against his bare chest. “At least you had a good time shopping, right? Who chaperoned?”

You hesitated for a second. “No one.”

His hands stilled in your hair. He pulled away slightly to look down at you, but you kept your face buried in his chest. “No one was with you? You were out alone? What the fuck—I’m going to kill Walker—”

“No,” you protested, chuckling softly. “Don’t kill him—” you warned, because he would actually do it. “I wanted to go alone.”

“That’s dangerous, baby,” he frowned. “But at least you’re home safe and in my arms, I suppose. Just don’t do that again.” He sighed, his fingers running lazily through your hair again. “What’d you buy today? I want to see.”

“Oh. I don’t have them,” you said casually.

His fingers paused in your hair a second time. “You mean, you left the shopping bags in the Rolls-Royce?”

“No,” you shook your head against his chest, nuzzling even closer, preparing for a nap. “I donated them.”

“Wait. What?”

Later that week, Bucky was out on another grueling mission. He was gone all day, and curiosity got the best of you. You were scrolling through his bank statements again, and the sight of the most recent money transfer made you snort.

Three hundred thousand dollars had been sent to a Stevie Rodgina with a message that read: “Take this money and shove it up your ass. — B.”

Your mom would lecture. Your roommate was visiting her boyfriend. Wanda was… somewhere. And going back to the dorm wasn't an option; you'd already gotten written up twice this semester for noise violations, and if the resident advisor found you stumbling in drunk at 2 AM, that was strike three. Which meant a meeting with Residential Life, which meant possibly losing your housing.

Bucky's number sat third on the list, right below the campus library. You stared at it, thumb hovering. He probably had better things to do than deal with drunk undergrads, even if he did tutor you every Tuesday in social theory and sometimes almost smiled when you made him laugh.

But you were out of options, so you pressed call.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" His voice was rough with sleep. Oh god, you'd waken him up.

"Bucky!" You tried to sound sober and failed spectacularly. "Hi! Hey, it's me!"

There was a pause, and you could almost picture him staring at his phone confused. "I know it's you, are you okay?"

"I'm great! I'm so great, actually. I'm at Murphy's—you know Murphy's? The bar with the good fries?— and I can't find Wanda and my phone is dying and I can't go back to my dorm because Collin's, that's my RA… well she already hates me and if she catches me drunk I'm dead, like actually dead, like expelled from housing dead, and I didn't know who else to call and—"

"Jesus Christ," more rustling, the clink of keys. "Stay inside, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"You're coming?" Your voice went embarrassingly soft. "Really?"

"Stay inside." He hung up.

You clutched your phone to your chest and waited, trying not to think about how much trouble you were in or how Bucky had sounded annoyed or how you'd definitely just ruined everything.

Bucky looked like murder when he pushed through the bar's front door.

His hair was messy, shoved back from his face, and he hadn't bothered with a jacket even though it was October. His jaw was set in that way that meant he was pissed, and when his eyes landed on you,something like relief flickered in his expression, but he masked it immediately with irritation.

"Hey!" You lit up despite his scowl, smiling up at him. "You came! You actually came! I wasn't sure you would because you sounded kind of mad on the phone, but you're here and you look—" You reached up, fingers catching his sleeve. "You look really nice, I mean, you always look nice, but right now you look extra nice even though you're making your grumpy face."

"My grumpy face." His voice was flat.

"Yeah, the one where you do this—" You scrunched your eyebrows together in imitation. "When I get something wrong during tutoring, but I think it's cute so it doesn't really work as intimidation."

"I'm not trying to intimidate you, I'm trying to get you home." He caught your wrist as you reached for his face. "How much did you drink?"

"Not that much!" You held up your fingers, trying to count. "Like… this many?"

"That's seven."

"Is it?" You looked at your hands delighted. "Math!"

He took your elbow, firm and impersonal. "Come on."

"Wait, I should find Wanda—"

"Already texted her roommate, she left an hour ago with some girls from her anthropology class." He was already steering you toward the door, moving with efficiency. "Now walk."

You tried, you really did. But the floor was tilted and your boots were too heavy, and you stumbled into him, grabbing his shirt with both hands.

"Whoa! The ground moved."

"The ground didn't move, you're drunk." His arm went around your waist, steady and sure. "I got you."

"You always got me," you said happily, beaming up at him. "Every Tuesday at three PM, you've got me and social theory and sometimes you bring me coffee even though you pretend it's because you were getting some for yourself anyway."

"Because I was getting some for myself."

"Liar, you don't even drink the fancy vanilla stuff… you think it's too sweet, I heard you tell your roommate it tastes like liquid cookies.

His jaw ticked. "Walk."

Outside, the October air was crisp, and you sighed, turning your face into his shoulder. He was so warm and solid and he smelled like laundry detergent and something woodsy.

"You smell really good," you announced. "Like, really, really good. Is that your shampoo? Or your detergent?"

"It's called basic hygiene."

"No, it's more than that." You nosed against his collar, shameless. "It's like… woodsy. Clean. Really nice."

"I'm not nice. I'm the guy, who makes you rewrite your essays."

"Because you want me to do well." You pulled back up to look at him, which was a mistake because the world tilted again and he caught you, his arm never leaving your waist. "That's nice! You're secretly nice, Bucky. You walk around with your grumpy face and your serious eyes but you're actually—"

"Stop talking."

"—really, really attractive," you finished. "Like, so attractive. Wanda says I have a thing for grumpy guys but I think it's actually just you. Just specifically you."

He made a noise that sounded deeply pained. "You're drunk."

"Doesn't make it not true!" You reached for his free hand, fumbling until your fingers tangled with his. He let you, even though his expression stayed carefully neutral. "I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes during Professor Williams' lectures I'll completely zone out because I'm thinking about Tuesday and the way you lean back in your chair and you look so—"

"Stop."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to hate yourself tomorrow."

"I won't," you said earnestly. "I mean every word. You're the smartest person I know and you're so patient with me and sometimes you smile at me like you actually like me and it makes my whole—"

"We're almost there," he said, which wasn't an answer at all.

A couple passed you going the other direction. The guy glanced at Bucky with a smirk. Bucky's expression went ice-cold.

"Fun night?" the guy asked.

"Keep walking." His voice could've stripped paint.

But his hand around yours was so gentle.

"Are you mad at me?" you asked quietly.

"No."

"You seem mad."

"I'm not mad at you." He squeezed your fingers once. "I'm mad at the situation."

"What situation?"

"The one where you're drunk and saying things you don't mean."

"I do mean them," you protested. "I mean all of them. You're smart and hot and nice and your hands are really—"

"We're here." He stopped in front of a building you've never noticed before. "Come on."

You looked up at the brick facade, then back at him. "Where's here?"

"My place."

"Your place?" You felt your whole face light up. "I'm going to your place? Like, your actual apartment?"

"You can't go back to your dorm and I'm not leaving you alone like this." He was already pulling you towards the entrance. "So yeah. My place."

"This is the best night ever," you said enthusiastically.

He muttered something under his breath you couldn't understand, but the drunk haze had taken over your brain at this point for you to care at all.

Everything about Bucky changed the moment his apartment door closed behind you. The hard line of his shoulders dropped, his expression softened, and when he guided you to the couch, his hands were careful on your arms.

"Sit." He crouched in front of you, and you watched him unlace your boots with steady, practiced movements. "Let's get these off."

"You're taking care of me."

"That's the idea." He slipped off one boot, then the other, setting them nearby the door.

"No one really does that." You said it without thinking, and his hands stilled on your ankle.

"Does what?"

"Takes care of me. I'm usually the one taking care of people. Wanda calls me her emotional support golden retriever." You laughed, but it came out sadder than you meant. "But you came to get me and you're taking off my boots and being so nice even though you're pretending not to be."

He looked up at you, but you couldn't read his expression. "I'm not pretending anything. Stay here."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pint glass of water and two ibuprofen. When he sat beside you on the couch, you immediately listed into his side.

"Drink," he said, holding out the glass.

You drank obediently, very aware of how his thigh was pressed against yours, how he smelled even better up close. When you finished half of the glass, he took it from you, setting it on the coffee table.

"Better?"

"Yeah." You turned to face him, tucking your legs under you. "Bucky, I need to tell you something."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm gonna tell you anyway." You smiled at him. "I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest. It's embarrassing how much I like you."

His throat worked. "You're drunk."

"I know! That's why I can finally say it!" You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. He went very still. "I've wanted to say it for weeks but you're always so serious and smart."

He didn't pull away. That was the first thing you noticed through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion—Bucky stayed perfectly still as your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of his apartment.

"You're going to regret this in the morning," he said quietly, but his voice had lost its edge. It was almost gentle now, the way he spoke to you during tutoring when you were frustrated and on the verge of giving up. "All of it."

"I won't." You were so sure, so absolutely certain, even as the room spun gently around you. "I've never been more sure of anything. You're the best part of my week, Bucky. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish I was stupider so I'd need more tutoring sessions."

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And for the record, you're not stupid at all."

"It's true!" You dropped your hand from his face but only so you could grab his hand instead. His fingers were calloused and warm. "You're so smart it's intimidating. And you're so grumpy but you're actually the kindest person I know. And your hands—I think about your hands a lot. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

"It's the alcohol talking."

"It's the alcohol letting me finally say it." You yawned, and Bucky's expression went softer. "M' sorry. I'm not tired. I want to keep telling you how great you are."

"You can tell me in the morning." He stood, and the loss of his warmth made you make a noise of protest. "Come on, you need sleep."

"I don't want to sleep, I want to stay here with you."

"You'll still be here with me." He held out his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. The world tilted dangerously, and you grabbed his shirt with both hands to steady yourself. "Easy, I've got you."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

He guided you down a short hallway to his bedroom, and you were too tired to properly appreciate it—the books stacked on his nightstand, the worn paperback face-down on the bed, the fact tht his sheets were dark blue and looked incredibly soft. He pulled back the covers with one hand while keeping you upright with the other.

"Lie down," he said, and you obliged, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that turned into another yawn. The pillow smelled like him and you pressed your face into it shamelessly.

"Your bed smells like you," you mumbled. "S'nice."

He was quiet for a moment, and then you felt the covers being pulled up to your shoulders. "Sleep."

"Are you going to sleep too?"

"I'll be on the couch."

"No." You reached out blindly, catching the hem of his shirt. "Stay, please?"

He hesitated. You could feel it in the tension of the fabric under your fingers.

"You're drunk," he said finally, gently detaching your hand. "I'm not going to take advantage of that."

"Not taking advantage," you protested, but your eyes were already closing. "Just want you close, you make me feel safe."

There was a long silence, then, so quiet you almost missed it: "You make me feel a lot of things too."

You wanted to ask what he meant, but sleep was pulling you under, heavy and inexorable. The last thing you registered was the brush of his fingers against his forehead, pushing your hair back from your face, and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Sunlight was a personal attack.

You woke up in stages: first the pounding head, then the dry mouth, then the dawning realization that these were not your sheets, this was not your room and you were absolutely, catastrophically still wearing your clothes from last night.

You sat up too fast that the room spun around you. You groaned and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.

Oh god.

Fragments started filtering back: Murphy's, the phone call. Bucky's face when he'd walked through the bar door, his arm around your waist, his hand in yours… The things you said.

I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest.

I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

Your hands—I think about your hands a lot.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were going to die. Actually, literally die of embarrassment. You'd have to transfer to a different school. Move to another country. Change your name. You could never look at Bucky again without wanting to sink into the earth.

The door creaked open, and you flinched.

Bucky stood in the doorway, dressed in a henley and sweatpants, holding glass of water and the ibuprofen bottle. His hair was still messy from sleep, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, and he looked so unfairly handsome that you wanted to cry.

Or climb him like a tree.

"Morning," he said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes were watching you carefully.

"Hi." Your voice came out as croak. "Um. Good morning, I'm so sorry."

He raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He set the glass and pills on the nightstand. "For what?"

"For… everything?" You couldn't look at him. You stared at your hands instead, twisted in the dark blue sheets. "For calling you at two in the morning and making you come get me. For… whatever I said. I was really drunk. I don't usually—I mean, I shouldn't have—"

"You don't remember what you said?"

"I remember," you admitted quietly. "I remember all of it. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to make things weird. I know you're my tutor and I'm just some drunk undergrad you had to rescue, and I completely understand if you want me to find someone else for tutoring because this is so unprofessional and—"

The words died on your lips as he closed the distance and kissed you.

One moment you were spiraling into panic, words tumbling out faster than you could control them, and the next his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up and his mouth was on yours soft, but insistent.

"You done apologizing?" His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft. "Because I've been waiting to do that since October, maybe September."

You blinked at him, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it through your ribs. "You—what?"

"I like you too." He said simply, like he was stating a fact. "Have for a while. Thought I was being obvious, honestly."

"Obvious?" Your voice came out squeaky. "You glare at me when I get citations wrong."

"That's me flirting." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not very good at it."

You stared at him, cataloging every Tuesday afternoon: the extra coffee he always had waiting, the way he leaned closer than necessary to point at your notes, the fact that he never once looked at his phone during your sessions even though you knew he was busy. Or last night, when he answered your call at two in the morning without hesitation.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "I'm an idiot."

"You're not." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're the best part of my week too. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish you'd fail more assignments so you'd need extra sessions."

A laugh bubbled out of you, half-hysterical. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard."

"Yeah, well… you started it."

You kissed him this time, leaning forward and catching his mouth with yours. It was messier than the first one—you were still groggy and hungover and your aim was terrible—but he made a pleased sound against your lips and his hand slid into your hair, and suddenly the headache and the embarrassment were all worth it.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I was going to tell you eventually. When you weren't drunk and I didn't feel like a creep."

"When were you planning that?"

"Next Tuesday. I had a whole thing planned, was gonna take you to the coffee shop after tutoring, buy you one of those vanilla monstrosities you like, and tell you I'd very much like to take you on a date."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "You definitely hate vanilla lattes."

"I hate seeing you light up when I hand you one even more." He pulled back, and his cheeks were faintly pink. "That came out wrong. I mean—I like seeing you light up. I just hate pretending I don't."

"You're so bad at this," you said, grinning.

"I told you." He shrugged, but his eyes were warm and steady on yours. "I'm not good at flirting. You'll have to be patient with me."

"I can do that." You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his the way you had last night. "I can be very patient for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I have a crush on you, remember?"

"I remember." He squeezed your hand. "You told me at least seven times last night. Also that my hands are attractive and I smell good."

"Oh god." You buried your face in his shoulder. "I'm never drinking again."

"You're adorable when you're drunk." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Confusing, but adorable. Now drink your water and take the ibuprofen. We can talk about all of this after you don't look like you're about to pass out."

"Bossy."

"You like it."

You did. You really, really did.

You reached for the glass of water, but didn't let go of his hand. And when he smiled at you, you decided that getting drunk at Murphy's was maybe the best accidental decision you've ever made.

"So," you said, after swallowing the ibuprofen. "Does this mean Tuesday is still happening? The coffee date thing?"

"If you want it to."

"I want it to."

"Okay," he let out a breath you haven't realized he'd been holding. "Okay. Tuesday. But maybe we can also do something before then? Like, I don't know, dinner tonight? If you're feeling better?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Bucky?"

"I'm trying to." His ears were turning red. "Is it working?"

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Very much yes."

Your mom would lecture. Your roommate was visiting her boyfriend. Wanda was… somewhere. And going back to the dorm wasn't an option; you'd already gotten written up twice this semester for noise violations, and if the resident advisor found you stumbling in drunk at 2 AM, that was strike three. Which meant a meeting with Residential Life, which meant possibly losing your housing.

Bucky's number sat third on the list, right below the campus library. You stared at it, thumb hovering. He probably had better things to do than deal with drunk undergrads, even if he did tutor you every Tuesday in social theory and sometimes almost smiled when you made him laugh.

But you were out of options, so you pressed call.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" His voice was rough with sleep. Oh god, you'd waken him up.

"Bucky!" You tried to sound sober and failed spectacularly. "Hi! Hey, it's me!"

There was a pause, and you could almost picture him staring at his phone confused. "I know it's you, are you okay?"

"I'm great! I'm so great, actually. I'm at Murphy's—you know Murphy's? The bar with the good fries?— and I can't find Wanda and my phone is dying and I can't go back to my dorm because Collin's, that's my RA… well she already hates me and if she catches me drunk I'm dead, like actually dead, like expelled from housing dead, and I didn't know who else to call and—"

"Jesus Christ," more rustling, the clink of keys. "Stay inside, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"You're coming?" Your voice went embarrassingly soft. "Really?"

"Stay inside." He hung up.

You clutched your phone to your chest and waited, trying not to think about how much trouble you were in or how Bucky had sounded annoyed or how you'd definitely just ruined everything.

Bucky looked like murder when he pushed through the bar's front door.

His hair was messy, shoved back from his face, and he hadn't bothered with a jacket even though it was October. His jaw was set in that way that meant he was pissed, and when his eyes landed on you,something like relief flickered in his expression, but he masked it immediately with irritation.

"Hey!" You lit up despite his scowl, smiling up at him. "You came! You actually came! I wasn't sure you would because you sounded kind of mad on the phone, but you're here and you look—" You reached up, fingers catching his sleeve. "You look really nice, I mean, you always look nice, but right now you look extra nice even though you're making your grumpy face."

"My grumpy face." His voice was flat.

"Yeah, the one where you do this—" You scrunched your eyebrows together in imitation. "When I get something wrong during tutoring, but I think it's cute so it doesn't really work as intimidation."

"I'm not trying to intimidate you, I'm trying to get you home." He caught your wrist as you reached for his face. "How much did you drink?"

"Not that much!" You held up your fingers, trying to count. "Like… this many?"

"That's seven."

"Is it?" You looked at your hands delighted. "Math!"

He took your elbow, firm and impersonal. "Come on."

"Wait, I should find Wanda—"

"Already texted her roommate, she left an hour ago with some girls from her anthropology class." He was already steering you toward the door, moving with efficiency. "Now walk."

You tried, you really did. But the floor was tilted and your boots were too heavy, and you stumbled into him, grabbing his shirt with both hands.

"Whoa! The ground moved."

"The ground didn't move, you're drunk." His arm went around your waist, steady and sure. "I got you."

"You always got me," you said happily, beaming up at him. "Every Tuesday at three PM, you've got me and social theory and sometimes you bring me coffee even though you pretend it's because you were getting some for yourself anyway."

"Because I was getting some for myself."

"Liar, you don't even drink the fancy vanilla stuff… you think it's too sweet, I heard you tell your roommate it tastes like liquid cookies.

His jaw ticked. "Walk."

Outside, the October air was crisp, and you sighed, turning your face into his shoulder. He was so warm and solid and he smelled like laundry detergent and something woodsy.

"You smell really good," you announced. "Like, really, really good. Is that your shampoo? Or your detergent?"

"It's called basic hygiene."

"No, it's more than that." You nosed against his collar, shameless. "It's like… woodsy. Clean. Really nice."

"I'm not nice. I'm the guy, who makes you rewrite your essays."

"Because you want me to do well." You pulled back up to look at him, which was a mistake because the world tilted again and he caught you, his arm never leaving your waist. "That's nice! You're secretly nice, Bucky. You walk around with your grumpy face and your serious eyes but you're actually—"

"Stop talking."

"—really, really attractive," you finished. "Like, so attractive. Wanda says I have a thing for grumpy guys but I think it's actually just you. Just specifically you."

He made a noise that sounded deeply pained. "You're drunk."

"Doesn't make it not true!" You reached for his free hand, fumbling until your fingers tangled with his. He let you, even though his expression stayed carefully neutral. "I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes during Professor Williams' lectures I'll completely zone out because I'm thinking about Tuesday and the way you lean back in your chair and you look so—"

"Stop."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to hate yourself tomorrow."

"I won't," you said earnestly. "I mean every word. You're the smartest person I know and you're so patient with me and sometimes you smile at me like you actually like me and it makes my whole—"

"We're almost there," he said, which wasn't an answer at all.

A couple passed you going the other direction. The guy glanced at Bucky with a smirk. Bucky's expression went ice-cold.

"Fun night?" the guy asked.

"Keep walking." His voice could've stripped paint.

But his hand around yours was so gentle.

"Are you mad at me?" you asked quietly.

"No."

"You seem mad."

"I'm not mad at you." He squeezed your fingers once. "I'm mad at the situation."

"What situation?"

"The one where you're drunk and saying things you don't mean."

"I do mean them," you protested. "I mean all of them. You're smart and hot and nice and your hands are really—"

"We're here." He stopped in front of a building you've never noticed before. "Come on."

You looked up at the brick facade, then back at him. "Where's here?"

"My place."

"Your place?" You felt your whole face light up. "I'm going to your place? Like, your actual apartment?"

"You can't go back to your dorm and I'm not leaving you alone like this." He was already pulling you towards the entrance. "So yeah. My place."

"This is the best night ever," you said enthusiastically.

He muttered something under his breath you couldn't understand, but the drunk haze had taken over your brain at this point for you to care at all.

Everything about Bucky changed the moment his apartment door closed behind you. The hard line of his shoulders dropped, his expression softened, and when he guided you to the couch, his hands were careful on your arms.

"Sit." He crouched in front of you, and you watched him unlace your boots with steady, practiced movements. "Let's get these off."

"You're taking care of me."

"That's the idea." He slipped off one boot, then the other, setting them nearby the door.

"No one really does that." You said it without thinking, and his hands stilled on your ankle.

"Does what?"

"Takes care of me. I'm usually the one taking care of people. Wanda calls me her emotional support golden retriever." You laughed, but it came out sadder than you meant. "But you came to get me and you're taking off my boots and being so nice even though you're pretending not to be."

He looked up at you, but you couldn't read his expression. "I'm not pretending anything. Stay here."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pint glass of water and two ibuprofen. When he sat beside you on the couch, you immediately listed into his side.

"Drink," he said, holding out the glass.

You drank obediently, very aware of how his thigh was pressed against yours, how he smelled even better up close. When you finished half of the glass, he took it from you, setting it on the coffee table.

"Better?"

"Yeah." You turned to face him, tucking your legs under you. "Bucky, I need to tell you something."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm gonna tell you anyway." You smiled at him. "I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest. It's embarrassing how much I like you."

His throat worked. "You're drunk."

"I know! That's why I can finally say it!" You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. He went very still. "I've wanted to say it for weeks but you're always so serious and smart."

He didn't pull away. That was the first thing you noticed through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion—Bucky stayed perfectly still as your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of his apartment.

"You're going to regret this in the morning," he said quietly, but his voice had lost its edge. It was almost gentle now, the way he spoke to you during tutoring when you were frustrated and on the verge of giving up. "All of it."

"I won't." You were so sure, so absolutely certain, even as the room spun gently around you. "I've never been more sure of anything. You're the best part of my week, Bucky. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish I was stupider so I'd need more tutoring sessions."

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And for the record, you're not stupid at all."

"It's true!" You dropped your hand from his face but only so you could grab his hand instead. His fingers were calloused and warm. "You're so smart it's intimidating. And you're so grumpy but you're actually the kindest person I know. And your hands—I think about your hands a lot. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

"It's the alcohol talking."

"It's the alcohol letting me finally say it." You yawned, and Bucky's expression went softer. "M' sorry. I'm not tired. I want to keep telling you how great you are."

"You can tell me in the morning." He stood, and the loss of his warmth made you make a noise of protest. "Come on, you need sleep."

"I don't want to sleep, I want to stay here with you."

"You'll still be here with me." He held out his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. The world tilted dangerously, and you grabbed his shirt with both hands to steady yourself. "Easy, I've got you."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

He guided you down a short hallway to his bedroom, and you were too tired to properly appreciate it—the books stacked on his nightstand, the worn paperback face-down on the bed, the fact tht his sheets were dark blue and looked incredibly soft. He pulled back the covers with one hand while keeping you upright with the other.

"Lie down," he said, and you obliged, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that turned into another yawn. The pillow smelled like him and you pressed your face into it shamelessly.

"Your bed smells like you," you mumbled. "S'nice."

He was quiet for a moment, and then you felt the covers being pulled up to your shoulders. "Sleep."

"Are you going to sleep too?"

"I'll be on the couch."

"No." You reached out blindly, catching the hem of his shirt. "Stay, please?"

He hesitated. You could feel it in the tension of the fabric under your fingers.

"You're drunk," he said finally, gently detaching your hand. "I'm not going to take advantage of that."

"Not taking advantage," you protested, but your eyes were already closing. "Just want you close, you make me feel safe."

There was a long silence, then, so quiet you almost missed it: "You make me feel a lot of things too."

You wanted to ask what he meant, but sleep was pulling you under, heavy and inexorable. The last thing you registered was the brush of his fingers against his forehead, pushing your hair back from your face, and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Sunlight was a personal attack.

You woke up in stages: first the pounding head, then the dry mouth, then the dawning realization that these were not your sheets, this was not your room and you were absolutely, catastrophically still wearing your clothes from last night.

You sat up too fast that the room spun around you. You groaned and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.

Oh god.

Fragments started filtering back: Murphy's, the phone call. Bucky's face when he'd walked through the bar door, his arm around your waist, his hand in yours… The things you said.

I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest.

I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

Your hands—I think about your hands a lot.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were going to die. Actually, literally die of embarrassment. You'd have to transfer to a different school. Move to another country. Change your name. You could never look at Bucky again without wanting to sink into the earth.

The door creaked open, and you flinched.

Bucky stood in the doorway, dressed in a henley and sweatpants, holding glass of water and the ibuprofen bottle. His hair was still messy from sleep, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, and he looked so unfairly handsome that you wanted to cry.

Or climb him like a tree.

"Morning," he said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes were watching you carefully.

"Hi." Your voice came out as croak. "Um. Good morning, I'm so sorry."

He raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He set the glass and pills on the nightstand. "For what?"

"For… everything?" You couldn't look at him. You stared at your hands instead, twisted in the dark blue sheets. "For calling you at two in the morning and making you come get me. For… whatever I said. I was really drunk. I don't usually—I mean, I shouldn't have—"

"You don't remember what you said?"

"I remember," you admitted quietly. "I remember all of it. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to make things weird. I know you're my tutor and I'm just some drunk undergrad you had to rescue, and I completely understand if you want me to find someone else for tutoring because this is so unprofessional and—"

The words died on your lips as he closed the distance and kissed you.

One moment you were spiraling into panic, words tumbling out faster than you could control them, and the next his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up and his mouth was on yours soft, but insistent.

"You done apologizing?" His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft. "Because I've been waiting to do that since October, maybe September."

You blinked at him, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it through your ribs. "You—what?"

"I like you too." He said simply, like he was stating a fact. "Have for a while. Thought I was being obvious, honestly."

"Obvious?" Your voice came out squeaky. "You glare at me when I get citations wrong."

"That's me flirting." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not very good at it."

You stared at him, cataloging every Tuesday afternoon: the extra coffee he always had waiting, the way he leaned closer than necessary to point at your notes, the fact that he never once looked at his phone during your sessions even though you knew he was busy. Or last night, when he answered your call at two in the morning without hesitation.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "I'm an idiot."

"You're not." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're the best part of my week too. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish you'd fail more assignments so you'd need extra sessions."

A laugh bubbled out of you, half-hysterical. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard."

"Yeah, well… you started it."

You kissed him this time, leaning forward and catching his mouth with yours. It was messier than the first one—you were still groggy and hungover and your aim was terrible—but he made a pleased sound against your lips and his hand slid into your hair, and suddenly the headache and the embarrassment were all worth it.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I was going to tell you eventually. When you weren't drunk and I didn't feel like a creep."

"When were you planning that?"

"Next Tuesday. I had a whole thing planned, was gonna take you to the coffee shop after tutoring, buy you one of those vanilla monstrosities you like, and tell you I'd very much like to take you on a date."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "You definitely hate vanilla lattes."

"I hate seeing you light up when I hand you one even more." He pulled back, and his cheeks were faintly pink. "That came out wrong. I mean—I like seeing you light up. I just hate pretending I don't."

"You're so bad at this," you said, grinning.

"I told you." He shrugged, but his eyes were warm and steady on yours. "I'm not good at flirting. You'll have to be patient with me."

"I can do that." You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his the way you had last night. "I can be very patient for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I have a crush on you, remember?"

"I remember." He squeezed your hand. "You told me at least seven times last night. Also that my hands are attractive and I smell good."

"Oh god." You buried your face in his shoulder. "I'm never drinking again."

"You're adorable when you're drunk." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Confusing, but adorable. Now drink your water and take the ibuprofen. We can talk about all of this after you don't look like you're about to pass out."

"Bossy."

"You like it."

You did. You really, really did.

You reached for the glass of water, but didn't let go of his hand. And when he smiled at you, you decided that getting drunk at Murphy's was maybe the best accidental decision you've ever made.

"So," you said, after swallowing the ibuprofen. "Does this mean Tuesday is still happening? The coffee date thing?"

"If you want it to."

"I want it to."

"Okay," he let out a breath you haven't realized he'd been holding. "Okay. Tuesday. But maybe we can also do something before then? Like, I don't know, dinner tonight? If you're feeling better?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Bucky?"

"I'm trying to." His ears were turning red. "Is it working?"

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Very much yes."

There are exactly three kinds of phone calls that happen after 2:17am.

The first are emergencies. The second are mistakes. The third belong to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Your ears buzz with your ringing phone from beneath the dim blue glow of your apartment television, half-curled on the couch with paperwork balanced over your knees and takeout gone cold on the coffee table. Outside your windows, rain slicks the fire escape silver beneath the streetlights. Inside, your apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds, printer ink, and the lavender candle you forgot to blow out two hours ago. It would almost be peaceful until the screen flashes her name.

Because of course it does.

You let it ring once longer than you should before answering.

“Tell me you’re alive,” Valentina says by way of greeting.

You close your eyes. “Wouldn't answer if I wasn't.”

“Cute. I need Coney Island locked down by Friday.”

Your stomach sinks immediately.

There’s the rustle of papers on her end, heels clicking somewhere distant, voices moving around her like orbiting satellites. Valentina never really exists in silence, she exists in motion, in disruption. In perfectly sharpened smiles and impossible demands delivered like casual suggestions.

You glance toward the calendar taped beside your kitchen, every visible square is already full. Press conference Tuesday. Magazine interview Wednesday. Damage control briefing Thursday. A breakfast segment Friday morning where you'll have to remind John Walker to not call a reporter a communist on live television.

Again.

And somewhere between all of that, you’re supposed to sleep.

“Locked down for what?” you ask carefully, already knowing you won’t like the answer.

“The festival.”

Your face scrunches to yourself as you click the television off.

“The what?”

“The promo event for the New Avengers initiative.” She says it like this has always existed. Like you’ve simply forgotten. “Public morale is still shaky after New York.”

Shaky, that’s one word for it. Another might be catastrophic.

The Void incident had left the city bruised in ways news reports couldn’t fully capture. Broken storefronts, candlelight vigils, protestors outside federal buildings. Viral footage looping endlessly online and every headline asking the same question in different fonts:

Who cleans up the people meant to save everyone else?

Valentina’s answer, apparently, is a carnival.

You press your fingers against your forehead. “You want me to plan a festival in four days.”

“A patriotic community outreach event,” she corrects smoothly. “Family friendly. Charming. Nostalgic Americana. Think hot dogs, ferris wheels, smiling children.”

“You’re describing propaganda.”

“I’m describing public relations. Which is your department.”

Your department. Which, in practice, means every department. You handle schedules, rewrite interviews, stop Alexei from drunkenly live-streaming classified conversations. You remind Walker not to threaten journalists. You once spent six straight hours convincing a publication not to run an article titled THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You coordinate meetings, smooth scandals, track medication schedules, answer six phones at once, and carry emergency aspirin in every handbag you own because stress headaches have become less of an inconvenience and more of a personality trait.

Sometimes you think your real superpower is surviving on four hours of sleep and shitty vending machine coffee.

“You’ll have the team there,” Valentina continues. “Photo opportunities. Meet-and-greets. Humanize them.”

Humanize them as if they aren’t human already, messy and difficult and exhausted human beings carrying too much aching violence in their bones. You think of Yelena rolling her eyes through interviews while secretly making sure catering staff eat before security does. Bob nervously apologizing every time he takes up space in a room. Ava standing closest to exits without realizing it. Bucky Barnes sitting through press briefings with the expression of a man enduring minor dental surgery.

Your chest tightens a little at the thought of him. Not because you know him well, you don’t, not really. But you know the shape of him around the edges. The quiet way he lingers after meetings to stack abandoned coffee cups when nobody’s looking. The way he always notices when you haven’t eaten lunch. The low rasp of his voice saying your name carefully, like he’s worried about handling it wrong. You know he watches you when Valentina gets especially cruel. You know he hates these events, and now you’re about to force him into another one.

“There’s one more thing,” Valentina says.

Of course there is.

“The board wants something memorable.”

You stare blankly at your dark television screen. “…Define memorable.”

Valentina's laugh is all you get before the call clicks.

By the grace of cold brew and a supercharged energy drink, your own concoction that you only resort to in times of ultimate need, three days later Coney Island looks like someone tried to shove patriotism and Valentine’s Day into a blender.

Workers haul string lights across vendor stalls while event coordinators scream into headsets. Red-and-white banners snap violently in the ocean wind. Somewhere down the boardwalk, someone is testing a carousel organ loud enough to qualify as psychological warfare. Your clipboard is tucked against your chest while three phones vibrate simultaneously in your coat pocket and you haven’t sat down in nine hours. There are very few moments in life where you can physically feel a migraine settle in the back of your mind like a sedimentary rock, but this is definitely one of them. You pinch the bridge of your nose hard enough to see stars while the vendor beside you shifts awkwardly beneath your silence.

Behind you, Bucky's waiting beside a post. You can feel the weight of his stare somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not impatient or angry, just deeply suspicious in the way stray dogs eye thunderstorms.

You turn slowly, daring your approach.

The ocean wind catches strands of his hair as you walk over, dark and unruly from the humidity. He’s dressed down today—henley beneath a leather jacket, gloves tucked into one pocket like he’d debated wearing them and decided against it. The afternoon sun cuts sharp across the tired lines of his face, then his eyes flick past you toward the booth. Toward the giant pink sign with his name on it.

His expression goes completely blank which is somehow worse.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “Before you react—”

“Kissing booth.”

“Technically it’s more of a charity—”

“Kissing booth.”

You inhale slowly through your nose.

“It's a temporary kissing-adjacent promotional… station?”

Bucky stares at you, and you fearfully stare back. Somewhere nearby, Alexei loudly shouts something in Russian followed by what sounds suspiciously like metal bending. The boardwalk rattles with activity around you. Workers finish nailing the last of the stakes while vendors wheel carts into position. Someone tests the speakers again, blasting an aggressively cheerful rendition of Love Shack across Coney Island and you swear for a whole minute the universe is laughing at you.

Bucky gestures vaguely toward the booth like he’s not entirely convinced it’s real yet. “You want me to sit in there.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. Kind of. This is just— there was a mix-up with the booth assignments.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Assignments?”

You pull the clipboard tighter against your chest.

Because, yes, assignments. The assignments you had spent the last forty-two hours fighting to organize while surviving exclusively on caffeine and stress. It had started reasonably enough, Valentina wanted a carnival and you had insisted if the Thunderbolts were going to do public outreach, they needed something interactive instead of forcing traumatized assassins on some stage for another dead-eyed press conference.

So you made booths.

Alexei immediately claimed the strength tester after nearly breaking it during setup. Yelena requested “something dangerous but whimsical,” which somehow became axe throwing and tightrope demonstrations after three separate insurance waivers. Ava chose disappearing tricks because, according to her, “I already vanish, might as well monetize it.” Walker took ring toss with the terrifying intensity of a man preparing for combat. And Bob—sweet, nervous Bob spent two entire nights teaching himself how to make balloon animals from YouTube tutorials because he wanted “kids to have a nice time.”

It should have worked perfectly and it almost had. Until Bucky never handed in his assignment slip. You had reminded him three times, once after a briefing, once outside the elevator and once while he was making coffee at two in the morning in the compound kitchen, sleeves shoved up his forearms while rain hammered the windows.

He’d looked exhausted that night. Distant. You remembered him rubbing a hand over his face and mumbling, “I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” Tomorrow had become three days later, three days later had become now, and now every booth was filled except one.

You clear your throat. “The thing is Mr. Barnes, since I didn’t get your slip back in time, you’re on the last rotation for the—”

“No.” The word comes instantly, flat and immediate.

You blink. “But Mr. Barnes—”

“No.”

The breeze snaps sharply through the velvet curtains behind you. Bucky folds his arms now, jaw tightening beneath the scruff.

“I’m not doing that.”

His voice isn’t harsh, and that’s the problem. If he sounded angry, maybe this would be easier. Instead he just sounds tired, sunken bone-deep tired. Like the very idea of sitting beneath a neon sign while strangers lined up to kiss him feels less embarrassing and more fundamentally cruel.

Guilt twists hot beneath your ribs and you lower your voice instinctively.

“We can figure something else out.”

And you mean it. You’ll rearrange the rotations. Move people around. Take over a booth yourself if you have to. You can fix this. You always fix this. But before another word leaves your mouth, heels click sharply across the boardwalk behind you and every muscle in your spine tightens immediately.

Valentina. Of course.

She appears beside you draped in cream silk and diamonds despite the salt-heavy wind, sunglasses perched elegantly atop perfectly styled hair. She takes one look at the booth, then at Bucky standing there like he’d rather be shot, and smiles.

Not kindly.

“Oh, good,” she says smoothly. “We’re discussing the crowd favorite.”

Bucky’s expression darkens instantly. “I said no.”

Valentina doesn’t even pause. “Put up or shut up, Barnes. You signed a contract.”

Silence drops hard between them, so hard that the nearby laughter buzzes faintly across the wind. The ferris wheel creaks overhead somewhere down the pier, each sound that once felt distant now nearly echoed in the silence.

Bucky stares at her with the particular stillness of someone barely holding himself together.

“You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t particularly care whether it’s a good idea,” Valentina replies. “I care whether it works.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s publicity.”

“It’s demeaning.”

“It’s one afternoon.”

You watch his jaw flex sharply as he looks away first out toward the ocean, toward gray water crashing endlessly against the pylons beneath the boardwalk and suddenly you remember that article again. THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You remember ripping it from a reporter’s hands before Bucky could see it, remember staying late to bury the piece before publication, remember the way people look at him sometimes—not like a person, but like something to dissect. A weapon wearing human skin.

Your chest aches unexpectedly.

“Val,” you start quietly, “I can figure something else out, maybe we should just—”

“No,” she says simply.

Then, to Bucky, “You want the public to stop fearing you and seeing you as this weapon of mass destruction? Then give them something else to look at.”

The words land harder than she probably intends, or maybe exactly as intended. Bucky goes still, he's not angry or defensive, just closed off somewhere distant behind his eyes. You hate that expression. Hate how familiar it’s become around the compound. Because every time someone talks about him instead of to him, he gets that same look on his face like he’s already halfway gone from the room.

For a long moment, nobody speaks, then Bucky lets out a quiet humorless laugh and shakes his head once.

“Unbelievable.”

“You’ll survive.”

His eyes flick toward you then and somehow that’s worse. Because he isn’t looking at Valentina trying to asses the best way to dispose of her. He’s looking at you, not accusingly, he doesn't even look upset, really. Just tired. There's the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes that if you didn't know any better, looked apologetic, like he knows you’re caught in the middle of this too.

You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Something shifts briefly in his expression at that, something small enough you almost miss it. Then he sighs through his nose and drags a hand back through his hair.

“When do I start.”

Valentina smiles immediately, victorious. "Gates open in ten.”

By eight-thirty, Coney Island is glowing.

Not metaphorically, but literally glowing. Strings of carnival lights burn gold against the dark sky while neon signs flicker to life across the boardwalk. The ferris wheel spins slow and bright beside the ocean, all color and motion reflected against black water. Music drifts through the salt-heavy air—old pop songs, laughter, barkers shouting over games, the distant metallic scream of roller coasters cutting through the evening.

And somehow, it works. You stand near the main stage clutching your three phones and a clipboard while the crowd surges around the booths in thick waves of people. Families, tourists, influencers and reporters. Children running around with cotton candy bigger than their heads. Nobody’s yelling, nobody’s protesting, nobody’s asking who died in New York. For the first time in weeks, the New Avengers aren’t being looked at like loaded weapons. They’re just people. Messy, strange people at a carnival. Alexei becomes an instant favorite with teenage boys after “accidentally” lifting the strength tester clean out of the ground during a demonstration. He spends the next hour flexing for selfies while loudly insisting he could have beaten Steve Rogers in arm wrestling.

Ava disappears mid-conversation often enough to make children shriek with delight. Yelena’s booth develops the longest line after she starts mocking participants while perfectly splitting balloons with throwing axes.

“You throw like frightened raccoon,” she tells one businessman flatly. “But good effort.”

Walker gets weirdly competitive over ring toss and starts coaching children with military precision.

“Follow through, buddy. Commitment. Wrist control.”

And Bob ends up surrounded by kids hanging onto every balloon animal he makes like he’s performing actual magic. You buy a ticket from his booth for good measure after you catch him smiling to himself at one point while a little girl hugs a balloon dinosaur to her chest like treasure.

It’s good, better than good. It’s human.

Your chest loosens slowly throughout the evening in tiny increments you barely notice. Every successful interview, every laugh, every smiling photo opportunity. Every headline you know tomorrow won’t be catastrophic. Maybe this is what relief feels like you think, or maybe it’s just exhaustion finally numbing you properly. Either way, you’ll take it. You weave through the crowd toward the last booth on the pier, heels clicking over old wood planks sticky with spilled soda and ocean mist.

You already know what you’ll find before you get there. Chaos, soft red lipped line chaos. The line for Bucky’s booth stretches nearly halfway down the boardwalk because of course it does. The pink curtains glow warmly beneath hanging fairy lights while the giant KISSING BOOTH sign sways slightly overhead. Ticket stubs litter the counter. Someone has thrown rose petals everywhere for reasons you genuinely cannot begin to understand.

And seated inside like a deeply reluctant beauty pageant winner is Bucky Barnes. Miserable, popular, radiantly handsome and absolutely doomed.

You stop just outside the booth and watch for a moment unnoticed. He’d compromised eventually, after nearly an hour of arguing how the booth was going to run. No actual kissing, that had been the line. People could approach, take pictures, kiss his cheek if they wanted, maybe the corner of his mouth if they were brave enough and respectful about it.

That was it. No lap sitting, no flirting encouraged, no weird requests. And honestly? That restraint somehow makes the whole thing worse. Or better, you’re not entirely sure. Because Bucky sitting there all broad shoulders and reluctant charm while blushing every time someone kisses near his mouth has apparently become the event of the century.

A girl in her twenties leans over the booth counter carefully. “Can I kiss your cheek?”

Bucky sighs like a man moments from death. “Yeah. Sure.”

She kisses just beside his mouth instead and his ears turn immediately pink. The entire group of friends behind her starts screaming and you have to look away before he notices you smiling.

“You enjoying yourself?”

The voice startles you slightly, Bucky’s watching you now from beneath the booth lights, one brow lifted seemingly catching your not-so-slick smile.

You recover quickly. “I’m enjoying that nobody’s been arrested.”

“Still plenty of time.”

Someone shoves another handful of raffle tickets into the jar beside him so much so that the thing is nearly overflowing now.

You eye it suspiciously.

“You realize you’re winning by a concerning margin.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” you murmur. “You just accidentally became the main attraction.”

Another woman approaches the booth already clutching her phone for a selfie. Bucky gives you one last tired look before turning back toward the crowd. And maybe it’s the lights, or exhaustion, or the strange warmth of the evening settling around all of you. But something about him looks softer tonight, less guarded. Not happy exactly, just a little lighter maybe, like he’s forgotten to brace for impact for a few hours.

You leave before he catches you staring.

By the end of the night, the carnival's glow grows hazy and golden with exhaustion. Children sleep against parents’ shoulders, the boardwalk smells like sugar and salt and fried dough as workers begin shutting down smaller game stalls while music drifts quieter now beneath crashing waves.

You stand offstage near the raffle table reviewing final attendance numbers when Valentina sweeps past in her silk and diamonds like she personally invented public approval.

“Excellent turnout,” she says smoothly.

You glance at the overflowing crowd gathered before the main stage. “Shockingly.”

“I’m rarely wrong.”

“You’re frequently evil, though.”

She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”

Before you can reply, she steps onto the stage to thunderous applause and immediately slips into performance. God, she’s good at it too. Warm smile, measured pauses, the exact cadence of someone manufacturing sincerity in real time.

“Tonight,” Valentina announces smoothly into the microphone, “was about rebuilding trust. About community. About reminding the world that heroes do not stand above the people—they stand beside them.”

You nearly choke.

Nearby, Yelena mutters, “If I roll my eyes harder they will fall out of skull.”

Applause erupts anyway and Valentina continues effortlessly.

"We thank you humbly for your contribution tonight, all funds will proceed to the Rebuilding Manhattan Foundation along with a hefty donation from yours truly. But enough about our success. It's time to celebrate you!"

Two workers brought out matching clear globes full of tickets.

“And now—our raffle booth winner.”

Oh, you had forgotten about the raffle.

The booth competition had been a last-minute addition. Whichever Avenger earned the most tickets throughout the evening became the grand prize, and whoever held the matching raffle ticket would win “an exclusive evening experience” with them.

You’d assumed Yelena would win. Or maybe Alexei. Certainly not—

“And by overwhelming demand,” Valentina says dramatically, “our winner is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

The crowd loses its mind, actual screaming and cheering erupts across the pier while spotlights swing wildly toward Bucky near the side stage.

His face goes completely blank.

“No,” he says immediately.

Walker laughs so hard he nearly folds in half. “Oh my God.”

Yelena is openly crying from laughter while Bob claps supportively while somehow also looking apologetic about it.

Bucky gets shoved toward the stage anyway beneath deafening applause. You watch him climb the steps with the expression of a man approaching his own execution as Valentina beams beside him.

“Now,” she says, lifting the massive raffle jar from his booth, “let’s see who our lucky winner is.”

You barely pay attention at first. You’re checking engagement numbers on your phone while she digs dramatically through the tickets, then she reads the number aloud.

And your stomach drops clean through the floor.

No. No, absolutely not.

You know that number because you bought exactly one raffle ticket all night at Bob’s booth. Because he'd looked so proud of himself and that stupid dinosaur balloon. It was just one ticket. Your hand fumbles for the ticket in your pocket, freezing when you feel the paper brush against your fingertips. Around you, silence spreads slowly. People start turning and looking as your blood goes cold and Valentina repeats the number. You stare down at the crumpled pink ticket as you pull it from inside your coat pocket like maybe reality will change itself if you wait long enough.

It doesn’t, unfortunately. Walker notices first, the grin that spreads across his face is instant and catastrophic.

“Oh, this is unbelievable.”

Yelena physically doubles over laughing. Bucky looks confused at first then he sees your expression and realization hits him all at once. His eyes widen slightly.

“Oh no.”

The crowd begins clapping impatiently while you briefly consider faking your own death. Instead, against every survival instinct in your body, you slowly raise the ticket and the screaming somehow gets louder.

“Oh my God,” Bob whispers delightedly.

You want the boardwalk to split open and swallow you whole. Disappointingly it leaves you whole as you climb the stage steps feeling heat crawl violently up your neck while hundreds of people cheer like this is the greatest romance of the century.

Bucky stares at you as you step beside him. He doesn't look upset, he seems more stunned than anything.

“You bought a ticket?” he asks quietly.

“It was for Bob.”

“How does that somehow makes this worse.”

Valentina appears beside you both practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she says even though absolutely nobody agrees with her.

Someone shoves a bouquet into your arms. Another worker places ridiculous little carnival crowns onto both your heads to roaring applause from the crowd below. Then comes the champagne bottle, you stare at it in horror while Bucky looks like he’s dissociating.

"Now how 'bout a kiss? In honor of the booth." Valentina grins, all teeth like a predator closing in on its prey. It may have sounded like a question but there was only one answer allowed.

You dared a look over to Bucky who's eyes have now dropped to the floor, if looks could kill the stage would evaporate beneath you. Clearly charity wasn't enough for Valentina, and what's a successful Da Fontaine affair without a little public humiliation?

Slowly, with a crack of feedback from the mic, she starts up. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

And like sheep, the crowd follows behind her, a sea of echoing voices overlapping each other in front of you until it all blended into one symphonious torture device. You think you could die right here. There had to be a way to convince your heart to give up, maybe you can feign a drop in blood sugar and faint, though you're sure Valentina would spin it off as you swooning over the—

"Goddamnit."

You don't know how you heard Bucky's voice over the cries of the crowd. You also don't know when he got so close to you. And you definitely don't know what to do with the fact that his lips are on yours. His hand ghosting the side of your forearm, fingers just barely grazing the skin leaving a strange tingle of warmth in their wake.

Just as quickly as you realized what was happening, it was over. He had stepped back to his spot, plastic crown crooked on his head and eyes back to the floor.

“Enjoy your night!” Valentina announces brightly into the microphone, shocking you back to reality.

The crowd cheers again. Pictures flash endlessly from below the stage capturing your smile that feels medically concerning. Then Valentina leans toward you subtly while applause swells around the pier. Still smiling perfectly for cameras, she murmurs from the corner of her mouth,

“Stock and popularity reports on my desk by midnight.”

You blink at her.

“You’re assigning homework during my public humiliation?”

“Adaptability is important.”

Then she steps away smoothly to wave at the crowd while you stand there beside Bucky wearing a plastic crown and holding champagne like the world’s most exhausted newlyweds. For a long moment after you step off stage neither of you speaks. Then Bucky looks over at you, looks at the flowers, the matching crowns, the absolute despair on your face. And to your horror, he laughs. Quiet and dry, the closest thing to boisterous you think he's probably capable of.

The sound hits you strangely hard beneath all the carnival lights.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

You stare at him flatly, the morbid embarrassment coursing through your body not even allowing you to register the nickname that he slipped out.

“No.”

Bucky only laughs again as he finally steps off the stage.

You stayed behind for a couple hours to make sure the cleanup of the fair went smoothly, watching the vendors roll out and the workers breakdown the booths and rides with practiced ease. There's a strange serenity to it, watching a near dozen people move so fluidly despite all doing different things. And the end result is well worth it, a glittering Coney Island all to yourself. There aren't many perks that come with this jobs as the cons often outweigh the pros but it's in the little moment like these that you find yourself lucky to do what you do.

The tower is quiet by the time you get back, not wholly silent but quiet enough. The New Avengers Tower never really reaches silence anymore—not with old pipes humming through the walls, elevators sighing faintly at odd hours, distant footsteps echoing somewhere several floors away. There’s always movement lingering inside the building like it hasn’t fully decided whether it’s headquarters or home.

But compared to Coney Island, the stillness as you walk in feels deafening. The carnival lights are gone now, no echoing music, no cheering crowds. No champagne bottles shoved into your hands while strangers screamed because apparently public humiliation counts as team bonding. Just fluorescent hallway lights and exhaustion settling heavy into your bones.

The others scattered almost immediately after returning as they usually do. Walker probably disappeared toward the gym swinging some rings around his fingers he took from his booth for "practice purposes only". Yelena likely stole three leftover funnel cakes from catering “for emotional recovery.” Alexei would loudly insist tonight proved he was “man of people" and you have no doubt that Bob carefully carried his remaining balloon supplies back to storage like they’re precious cargo.

And Bucky, you don’t know where Bucky goes. Not that you look when you get there, you head straight toward your office, even if you didn't have paperwork to do it's just second nature to you now. Your arms and legs strangely yearning for the hunch of your desk chair. The room greets you exactly as you left it: dim desk lamp glowing amber over scattered paperwork, abandoned coffee cups lining the windowsill, schedules pinned crookedly across the corkboard beside your desk.

Home sweet home.

You sigh quietly and set the ridiculous bouquet onto your desk and for a second you just stare at it. The pink roses, baby’s breath and tiny glittering ribbons curled around the stems. The thing looks aggressively romantic to the point where you almost throw it away. Yet after a long moment, you find an empty vase near the filing cabinets and fill it carefully from the office sink. The flowers settle into the water slowly, softening the harshness of the room in a way you immediately resent.

Then there’s the crown. Cheap plastic silver with fake rhinestones glued along the front. You turn it over once in your hands and a laugh nearly escapes you remembering the look on Bucky’s face wearing the matching one beneath all those flashing cameras. You should throw this away too. Instead, without entirely meaning to you place it carefully on the shelf beside your desk. Right between the “World’s Best Boss” mug Bob gave you ironically and a stack of outdated press binders. You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you sit down and go back to work, because that’s what you do.

Hours blur strangely after midnight.

The tower grows quieter floor by floor while your office remains trapped in artificial daylight from computer screens and desk lamps. You build itineraries, rewrite schedules, confirm hotels. Cross-reference security routes and everything in between for next month’s national press tour. Florida. Louisiana. Texas. Nevada. California. Washington. Every city another performance as another attempt to convince the public the world is safe in the hands of people barely holding themselves together.

Your eyes burn by one-thirty. By two, your shoulders ache, by two-forty-seven in the morning, you’re staring blankly at a spreadsheet without actually reading it.

The knock at your open office door startles you anyway.

You look up too quickly, your eyes needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in view, and when they focus they go wide in surprise. Bucky leans against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of gray sweats, dark t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders. His hair is damp like he showered recently, slightly curled at the ends. There’s still a faint crease between his brows like he's been contemplating something for far too long.

For one disorienting second, he looks soft and domestic. Dangerously human in the warm low lighting of your office. Then you notice the plastic crown still balanced crookedly on his head.

You blink.

“…You kept it.”

He reaches up absently, touching the crown like he forgot it was there.

“Yelena tried to superglue it while I was asleep. Waiting on the solvent to set in.”

“That tracks.”

A small smile tugs briefly at his mouth before fading. Then his eyes drift over the room to the stacks of paperwork, your open laptop, the half-finished reports. You watch as his eyes slow over the vase of flowers beside your desk and the matching crown on your shelf. Something unreadable crosses his face.

“You’re still working?”

You glance back toward your screen automatically at the mention of it, your brain shifting back into work mode.

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s almost three.”

“Mhm.”

Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “So.”

“So?” You keep typing.

“Aren’t you gonna collect your reward?”

Your fingers stop over the keyboard as you look up slowly.

He’s watching you carefully now, expression unreadable beneath the soft shadows of the room. The question settles awkwardly between you. He doesn't seem like he's teasing exactly or entirely serious either.

Your stomach twists anyway.

“That’s not…” You clear your throat lightly. “It’s not like that.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “No?”

“No.”

You look back toward the spreadsheet because somehow that feels safer than looking directly at him.

“The raffle thing was just publicity. If it’d been someone else maybe they would’ve wanted the whole grand-prize experience but…” You shrug lightly. “It’s just me. You can ignore it and go about your night.”

Silence.

When you finally glance back up, Bucky is still staring at you. You can't tell if he's offended or relieved or none of the above. He's just studying you with this strange quiet intensity that makes your chest feel suddenly too tight.

“Just you,” he repeats softly.

You immediately regret the wording. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

But something about the way he says it makes it clear he’s not entirely convinced. You turn back toward your laptop quickly.

“I still have to finish these reports anyway.”

Bucky steps fully into the office then, slow and quiet against the carpet.

“You work too much, y’know?”

The words are almost too gentle.

You huff faintly. “I don’t think I work enough actually. If it was too much all this would be done by now and I’d be in bed.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is in this building.”

He leans against the edge of your desk now, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement brings him closer, too close, because now you can smell soap and clean cotton and something distinctly him beneath it all. It dizzies you but your mind insists it's the lack of sleep and combined caffeine bombs running through your bloodstream instead.

“Valentina isn’t worth you being here losing sleep,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should, making you stare down at the papers in front of you.

“I’m not here for Valentina.”

A beat passes.

“You’re her personal assistant.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m here for her.”

“Then what are you here for?”

The question should be easy. It isn't. Why isn't it? Your mouth opens automatically but nothing comes out and suddenly the exhaustion hits all at once. Not physically but emotionally, like a crack in the dam finally splintering beneath pressure of the water. You think about the last year, the endless damage control, the constant emergencies. The way your entire life has slowly narrowed into schedules and briefings and fixing problems before anyone notices they exist, how much of yourself you've carved out and sacrificed to the greater good of the team even when there was nothing left to give.

You think about tonight. About how happy everyone looked for a few hours, how they all seemed to just breathe and exist in peace beneath the lights, how Bucky laughed onstage beside you like he’d forgotten how tired he was. And for the first time since God knows when, you realize you genuinely don’t know why you’re still doing any of this.

The silence stretches too long.

Bucky watches you carefully now as concern beginning to soften the edges of his expression. And before you can stop yourself, the truth slips out quietly.

“…I don’t know anymore.”

The sincerity of it horrifies you instantly. You force yourself to recover after that, fast, too fast. Straightening in your chair and looking back toward your computer, rebuilding the walls before he can see through them properly. You gather the reports quickly into a neat stack.

“I’ve gotta go get these copied and fax them over to Washington,” you say lightly, voice suddenly professional again. “So feel free to let yourself out.”

You stand before he can respond.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

The formality lands colder than intended, you feel it immediately and so does he. But neither of you says anything about it, you brush past him toward the printer room with papers clutched tightly in your hands while the office door swings softly behind you.

And Bucky stays standing there beside the flowers for a very long time.

The thing about exhaustion is that eventually it stops feeling temporary. It settles into people, becomes them. Bucky's good at noticing these kinds of things. He sees it in you that night when you walked past him out of your office. That slight crease at the corner of your eyes, the gentle downturn of your lips. It's more than just tired. It's the same exact same way he used to be after missions. Not sleepy ,or overworked but worn down from within. There’s a difference.

And unfortunately for him, once he notices something, he can’t seem to stop noticing it.

It starts innocently enough, at least that’s what he tells himself. Two weeks after the carnival, he catches sight of you asleep in one of the conference rooms at six-thirty in the morning. Not properly asleep, but the kind where your cheek rests against folded arms beside an open laptop while a spreadsheet still glows across your face. Your coffee has gone cold beside you. One heel dangles half-off your foot beneath the table.

You wake the second he opens the door on instinct, sitting up as if you were trying to reject the sleep from your skin, like your body no longer trusts rest enough to stay in it.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

You blink at him once, clearly disoriented, before straightening too fast.

“No, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were asleep.”

“I know.”

“You should probably do that more.”

You laugh quietly at that, not because it’s funny, because you’re too tired to respond properly. Then you grab your laptop and hurry toward another meeting before he can say anything else. And for some reason, that bothers him, more than it should.

And he starts noticing more things.

The way you’re always the first person awake in the tower. The way your office light stays on long after everyone else has gone to bed, the stack of dry-cleaning hanging behind your office door because you haven’t gone home properly in three days. How you survive almost exclusively on vending machine coffee and whatever leftovers the kitchen staff can force into your hands. How every time Valentina calls your phone, something in your shoulders visibly tightens before you answer.

And then there’s that sentence.

I don’t know anymore.

It stays lodged irritatingly somewhere in the back of his head. Because Bucky knows what it sounds like when someone loses sight of themselves. He’s spent years listening to that exact emptiness in his own voice. So one night, after watching you miss dinner again because you were reorganizing a diplomatic security route for the third time, he does something he absolutely should not do.

He starts digging.

Not maliciously, not even deeply, at first. Just enough to satisfy curiosity, that’s what he tells himself anyway. Turns out, you’re surprisingly easy to find once he starts looking. There’s an old university article buried online about graduating journalism students. Your picture sits beside it smiling brightly into the camera, younger and softer somehow, eyes alive in a way he’s never actually seen in person.

The caption beneath it reads: Aspiring investigative journalist hopes to focus on political corruption and humanitarian reporting.

Bucky stares at that sentence longer than necessary. Investigative journalist. Not PR manager, not assistant, not professional crisis cleaner. He keeps reading. There are archived campus articles under your name too. Human-interest pieces with local interviews. A profile on immigrant-owned bookstores in Brooklyn, an article about public housing funding cuts. One opinion piece angry enough to surprise a laugh out of him. Your writing was good, really good. Honest in a way most modern journalism isn’t anymore. There’s warmth in it and curiosity, the clear desperate hope of someone who thought words could still matter.

Bucky leans back slowly in his chair.

Huh.

The next part takes more effort. Internal employee records aren’t exactly public, but neither are most things he can access if he really wants to. The file paints the picture quickly. Originally: summer internship with government media relations, some resume padding. Temporary. Then came the first extension, then the job offer, then Valentina personally requested you transferred under her division after a year.

Four years later, you’re still here.

The timeline unsettles him more than expected. Because somewhere between those records, he can practically see it happening one delayed dream at a time. One promotion, one emergency, one “just until things calm down.” Until suddenly four years are gone and now you sit in fluorescent offices at three in the morning saying things like I don’t know anymore.

Bucky closes the file as agitated energy crawls beneath his skin unexpectedly. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how personal this feels when it shouldn’t. You’re not his responsibility. Hell, you work for Valentina which alone should make him keep his distance. Instead, he starts watching more carefully, not in a creepy way at least he desperately hopes not.

Just observant.

He notices your schedule before you even mention it aloud now. Knows when your meetings run long by the way you rub your temples afterward, knows you skip lunch on Thursdays because that’s when Valentina schedules back-to-back press briefings. Knows you take exactly nine minutes to drink your coffee every morning before the interruptions begin.

And eventually—because apparently he’s lost his mind—he taps into Valentina’s phone. It wasn't hard, not for him. He tells himself it’s because Valentina is secretive and manipulative and generally worth monitoring anyway. The fact that he immediately searches your name in her messages is entirely irrelevant.

Mostly, it’s work. Schedules, orders, and demands. Other texts read like dog commands. Move this meeting. Fix this interview. Get Barnes under control before he kills someone during press week. Bucky snorts quietly at that one, but underneath the logistics, another pattern emerges. Messages sent at absurd hours.

2:14 AM.

5:47 AM.

11:58 PM.

And every single time you answer. Immediately no matter the hour, no matter the request. One message in particular makes something cold settle heavily in his chest.

VALENTINA: Need revised public sympathy projections before morning.

YOU: Working on it now.

Timestamp: 3:11 AM.

Bucky checks the next message.

VALENTINA: Also your article draft for the congressional media package was overwritten. Rewrite before briefing.

Long pause.

Then finally:

YOU: Understood.

No complaint, no argument, nothing. Just understood. Bucky stares at the screen for a long time after that with his jaw tight because suddenly he understands something he hadn’t before. You aren’t staying because you love the work anymore, you’re staying because somewhere along the line, you stopped believing you were allowed to leave it.

And for reasons he absolutely cannot explain, that realization makes him angry.

The week the tour begins feels less like preparing for travel and more like trying to hold back the ocean with your hands. Every completed task reveals three more beneath it, every checked box spawns another checklist. You suppose that's the nature of public relations, nobody notices when things go right only when they go wrong.

So you sit alone in Conference Room Three at six-thirty in the morning surrounded by enough paperwork to qualify as structural support. The city beyond the windows is still waking up, sunlight creeps slowly between skyscrapers, painting the glass in soft gold, traffic hums faintly thirty floors below. Somewhere in the tower, coffee brews. The smell drifts down the hallway and for a moment, it reminds you of college. Early mornings in the journalism building, the campus newspaper office, stacks of articles spread across tables while everyone survived on caffeine and deadlines. Back then, exhaustion felt different, temporary and purposeful. You were tired because you were building something, not maintaining it.

The memory flickers briefly before another email notification drags you back to reality.

You sigh.

Florida. Louisiana. Flight manifests. Texas. Nevada. Security routes. North and South California. Washington. Hotel confirmations. Media schedules. Emergency contingency plans. It all blends together until the words feel foreign.

You move through the checklist automatically now, pen tapping softly against the table as you verify each item. Alexei's dietary accommodations. Bob's interview briefing packets. Yelena's legal waiver forms. Walker, God, Walker. You add another note reminding him not to argue with local reporters. Again.

The conference room door opens quietly but you don't look up.

"If that's another change request, I'm pretending not to speak English."

A pause.

"I don't think that'd work."

Your pen stills. Bucky. Of course.

You glance up briefly. He's dressed casually today—dark henley, jeans, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair's tied back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. He looks rested. You try not to resent him for it.

"Morning."

"Morning."

Neither of you says anything for a moment as Bucky steps further into the room.

You immediately notice he has coffee, and because the universe enjoys cruelty, he notices you noticing. Without a word, he slides the second cup onto the table beside your paperwork. You stare at it, then at him, then back at the coffee.

"...What is this?"

"Coffee."

"I know it's coffee."

"Then we're making progress."

You blink and Bucky looks suspiciously pleased with himself as a laugh almost escapes before you stop it.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes."

"You're welcome."

You reach for the cup and take a testing sip, it's exactly how you take it. Not too sweet, not too bitter with just enough cream.

Your stomach does something strange. "You remembered."

Bucky shrugs. "You seem to live off this stuff, you always get the same thing every morning."

That shouldn't surprise you that he knows that, but somehow it does because most people only notice your mistakes, not your coffee order. You take another careful sip and warmth settles into your chest. Unfortunately, it also makes you realize how tired you are.

Bucky sits across from you, the chair creaks softly beneath his weight. You immediately know this conversation is about to become dangerous. Not dangerous in the life-threatening sense, dangerous in the personal sense.

The kind you've spent years avoiding.

"So," he says casually.

Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

"So?"

"What'd you do before this?"

There it is. You knew it was coming eventually, ever since that night in your office, ever since I don't know anymore slipped out and you accidentally gave the both you an existential crisis.

You return to your paperwork immediately. "Nothing exciting."

Bucky doesn't move.

"Everybody did something before they got here."

"Not me. I spawned fully formed from a spreadsheet."

His mouth twitches and you refuse to acknowledge it.

"You probably went to college, right? What'd you study?"

"Writing." Technically true, partially, somewhat. True enough for this conversation.

"That's it?"

"Mhm."

"Must've been some real interesting writing."

"Thrilling."

"What kinda stuff d'ya write?"

You look back down at the checklist. Florida press briefing. Check. Louisiana catering. Check. Avoiding conversations about yourself. Hopefully check.

"It's not important."

Bucky studies you for a second.

The problem with him is that he notices things, not loudly, not obviously but thoroughly. Like he's assembling a puzzle nobody else realized existed.

"Seems important."

"It's really not."

"Why not?"

Because once upon a time you wanted things. That's why. And wanting things feels embarrassing now, like showing someone an old diary. There was a time when your future felt bright and specific. You were going to write and travel, report stories that mattered. You were going to chase truth through cities and courtrooms and tiny towns nobody paid attention to.

You were going to make a difference. Instead you're color-coding transportation schedules for superheroes, which sounds cooler than it feels.

You push the thought away quickly. "We need to focus on the tour."

Bucky sighs.

The sound is deeply familiar now, you've learned there are different versions. Annoyed sighs. Amused sighs. This one falls somewhere between concerned and stubborn.

"The tour's done."

"No, it isn't."

"It starts next week."

"Which means it isn't done."

He opens his mouth.

You point your pen at him immediately. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"Probably."

"Exactly."

Bucky leans back in his chair and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Sunlight stretches further across the conference table, the room grows warmer. Outside the windows, Manhattan continues waking up as your checklist waits patiently.

Eventually Bucky nods toward the stack of folders beside you.

"How many pages is that?"

You glance over. "...Two hundred and twelve. Double sided though."

He stares. "You counted?"

"I printed them."

"That's horrifying."

"Thank you."

"You need help."

"I have help."

"No, you have stress."

You try not to smile. You fail a little. His expression softens immediately when he catches it and the realization makes you look back down at your paperwork far too quickly. A strange silence settles afterward as Bucky watches you work. You pretend not to notice. Every so often he asks another question, small ones, harmless ones completely unrelated to work. Favorite movie. Favorite book. Whether you ever travel anywhere for fun. Each time, you brush them aside gently, deflect, redirect and return to logistics.

Because talking about yourself feels strangely difficult now. As if those pieces of you belong to someone else. Someone far from the person you are now. Someone who still believed she'd become the person she planned to be. Eventually the others begin arriving for the briefing, voices echo down the hallway. Laughter and arguments, Alexei loudly demanding breakfast. The moment breaks and you straighten automatically. Professional again, clipboard in hand, schedules organized, walls rebuilt.

But as Bucky stands to leave, he pauses beside your chair just briefly. Long enough to say quietly,

"I still think it's important."

You glance up. "What is?"

"The stuff before this."

For a second, something in your chest tightens. Then the hallway fills with noise as the team arrives ready to get the start of this tour. And before you can think too hard about the look in his eyes, you're already moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.

The tour starts in New York beneath camera flashes and manufactured optimism.

Valentina brands it NEW AVENGERS TAKE ON AMERICA in massive red-white-and-blue lettering splashed across buses, billboards, and every social media platform imaginable. There are matching jackets, coordinated appearances, sponsorships and press packets thicker than small novels. And at the center of all of it you're running everything behind the scenes, the magic behind the curtain. You’re the first one awake every morning and the last one asleep every night. Coordinating flights and confirming hotel security. Rewriting interview questions at two in the morning because a senator decided “government-sanctioned enhanced individuals” sounded too threatening. You memorize everyone’s schedules better than your own. Alexei hates early flights. Yelena gets carsick if she reads in moving vehicles. Walker refuses sparkling water on principle. Bob forgets meals when he’s nervous. Ava disappears physically and emotionally when overwhelmed. And Bucky quietly starts watching you unravel without you even realizing.

Florida comes first.

Warm ocean air and blinding sunlight. Endless beachside photo ops where reporters practically trip over themselves trying to re-brand the Thunderbolts as approachable. You stand off-camera the entire time holding three phones and an emergency schedule binder while makeup artists swarm the team beneath umbrellas. When a reporter corners Walker with a question about civilian casualties, you intercept the conversation before it can spiral. When Alexei drunkenly wanders toward a jet ski rental booth, you redirect him with the ease of long practice. When Bob panics before a televised interview, you crouch beside him backstage speaking so softly Bucky can’t hear the words from across the room—but he sees Bob visibly steady afterward.

Nobody thanks you, not really. Because by now everyone just expects you to catch disasters before they happen.

Louisiana is worse.

The BBQ festival turns into an overnight public event after attendance doubles unexpectedly. There’s live music, politicians, influencers, too many cameras and too much noise. You spend nearly fourteen straight hours on your feet rerouting security because protestors gather outside the venue. Bucky catches you sitting alone behind the catering tents around midnight afterward eating cold cornbread straight from the tray while typing one-handed on your laptop.

“You know they got tables inside, right?” he says quietly.

You don’t even look up. “Tables inside have senators.”

Fair enough.

Texas somehow becomes the breaking point.

Because apparently somebody thought it would be patriotic to put the New Avengers on a ranch. There are horses, lasso demonstrations and an event coordinator who says “yeehaw initiative” with complete sincerity. You haven’t slept more than four hours in three days. Bucky realizes this because you stop blinking normally sometime around Dallas.

You’re standing near the arena floor fixing Walker’s tie before a press appearance when your knees nearly buckle outright. Not dramatically but just enough, a tiny dangerous sway. Bucky catches it immediately from across the room and nobody else, because nobody else is paying attention to you. Why would they.

“You alright?” he asks later when he corners you briefly beside the equipment trailers.

You’re typing an email while transcribing a call simultaneously. “Mhm.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost fell over.”

“I’ve done worse.” You say it casually like it’s normal, like exhaustion is just another logistical inconvenience. And something in Bucky’s chest twists unpleasantly.

Vegas comes next.

Bright lights and champagne, galas filled with rich people pretending they’ve always trusted the team. You spend the entire evening moving through the casino ballroom like a ghost in heels, fixing problems before they fully form. Someone spills wine on Ava’s dress—you replace it. A reporter leaks the wrong attendance numbers—you correct it before publication. Valentina changes an entire speech thirty minutes before showtime and hands you handwritten notes expecting a miracle, and you deliver one anyway.

At one point Bucky finds you standing alone in an empty hallway outside the ballroom just standing there with your eyes closed. Like you forgot where you were for a second.

“You should sit down.”

Your eyes open immediately. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I sit down I think I might actually stay there.”

The honesty of it lingers between you, just like that night in your office. And there's that familiar twist in Bucky's chest. Then your phone rings again and you leave before he can answer.

North and South California blur together after that.

Interviews, photoshoots, crowds and handshakes. You become smaller somehow as the trip stretches on, not physically but emotionally. Like pieces of yourself are being traded away for efficiency. Bucky notices you stop laughing entirely around San Francisco, not that you laughed much before, but now even your smiles look scheduled.

Washington is the final stop.

A massive gala followed by a national press conference closing out the tour. Everyone’s exhausted at this point. Everyone except Valentina, who somehow feeds off chaos like a cryptid sustained entirely by public relations. The gala goes perfectly because you made sure it would. Bucky watches you from across the ballroom while senators shake his hand and cameras flash endlessly around him. You stand near the back wall beside the press table, headset crooked slightly over your hair, eyes fixed on three different problems at once. You haven’t touched the champagne in your hand all night, you haven’t sat down once, Bucky's not even sure if you've taken a breath longer than a second. And suddenly Bucky realizes something that settles heavy in his chest, you’re carrying this team in ways nobody notices because if you do your job correctly, nobody ever sees the weight of it.

Including him. Especially him.

That realization follows him all the way back to New York.

Three nights later, your office light is still on at eleven forty-three. Naturally.

Rain taps softly against the tower windows while the city glows gold below Manhattan. Your office smells like paper and coffee and exhaustion again because some things just never change. You’re halfway through next quarter’s budget reports when the office door opens without warning.

You don’t look up immediately.

“If this is another scheduling conflict I’m going to fake my death.”

“I'm sure we could work something out.”

You blink and finally look up. Bucky stands in the doorway wearing a dark suit, not mission tactical gear or his usual jacket and henley. A proper suit. Dark navy, slightly loosened tie, sleeves pushed back just enough to expose metal at his wrist. Hair slicked and styled back.

He looks unfairly good.

Which is irritating because your brain is too tired to handle that information responsibly.

You stare at him blankly. “…What's all this?”

“Come with me.”

You frown slowly.

"What? Where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda does.” You turn back toward your laptop with a tired sigh. “Listen, I have a lot I need to get done so whatever it is you need just write it down or have Valentina text me.”

Bucky doesn’t move from the doorway. Instead, he leans against it with casual air.

“I’m cashing in your reward.”

Your fingers pause over the keyboard. "My what?”

“Your reward from the carnival.” His mouth twitches slightly. “You won a free night out with the winning booth. That’s me. I’m cashing it in.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes quietly. “I don’t think that’s how it was supposed to work, Mr. Barnes.”

“It is now.”

You shake your head immediately. “No, absolutely not.”

“Get your stuff and meet me at the elevators.”

“But I—”

“I can also just shut off the WiFi to the building.”

You stare at him flatly. “You’re bluffing.”

Bucky lifts one shoulder casually.

“Wanna find out?”

Honestly? You’re not entirely sure he is bluffing, which is deeply concerning. You eye him suspiciously for a long moment while rain patters softly against the windows behind him. Then you look back at your screen. Thirty-two unread emails, three unfinished reports, tomorrows itinerary half-completed. Your entire body aches and somewhere beneath all that exhaustion something quieter stirs unexpectedly, something warm and curious. Because Bucky Barnes is standing in your office at midnight trying to drag you away from work like this matters to him for some incomprehensible reason. You don’t understand it and you’re not sure you want to. But after weeks of airports and crowds and fluorescent conference rooms you realize you can’t remember the last time someone asked you to leave work for something that wasn’t another obligation.

You exhale slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”

Victory flashes briefly across his face before disappearing almost immediately.

“You got ten minutes.”

“You know you’re very bossy for someone kidnapping me.”

“You’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath while shutting your laptop and reaching for your coat.

The elevator ride down is painfully quiet, not awkward exactly, just strange. You can't remember the last time you've left your office before midnight. You stand beside Bucky clutching your coat and purse while fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls—tired eyes, wrinkled work clothes, tension still living stubbornly between your shoulders.

Bucky glances over once, then again.

“You look exhausted.”

You deadpan immediately. “Gee, thanks.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It sounded like one.”

“It was concern.”

The word lands oddly between you as you meet his eyes. Concern, like he’s allowed to have that for you, like that's something that matters to him. You look away first.

The elevator dings softly when it reaches the underground garage. Bucky gestures toward a black town car waiting near the far wall.

Your brows pull together instantly. "Why is there a car?”

“So we can drive places.”

“You’re being weirdly mysterious.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I literally work in intelligence-adjacent public relations. Questions are my whole thing.”

Bucky opens the back door for you anyway and inside, neatly folded across the leather seat, is a dress box.

You stop and slowly look at him. “What is that.”

“Your outfit.”

“…My what?”

“You can’t wear office clothes where we’re going.”

Suspicion floods you instantly.

“Where are we going?”

“Get in the car.”

“Mr. Barnes—”

“Bucky.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kidnappers have to earn their first-name privileges.”

Something dangerously close to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Get in the car.”

You should say no. Probably. Normal people would definitely say no to mysterious late-night kidnappings involving unidentified dresses and annoyingly handsome super soldiers. Instead, exhaustion apparently kills survival instincts because you climb into the car anyway. The dress box sits in your lap accusingly as Bucky stands at the door, the divider rises immediately once Bucky gives him the go ahead.

Your suspicion deepens.

“You’re not gonna answer a single question, are you?”

“Nope.”

“This feels illegal.”

“You’ll survive that too.”

You glare at him while opening the box.

Then immediately forget how to breathe for a second. The dress inside is beautiful. Dark satin the color of midnight with soft draping fabric and delicate straps, elegant without being overly formal. Simple in the kind of expensive way that makes your stomach tighten immediately.

You touch the fabric carefully. “…Mr. Barnes.”

“No questions.”

“How did you even—”

“No questions.”

You look up at him slowly as realization hits all at once.

“The tour.”

His silence answers for him. And suddenly you remember all those weeks of fittings and event prep. Designers taking measurements backstage before galas while you balanced schedules against your chest. You hadn’t realized anyone else paid attention.

Your throat feels strangely tight.

“There’s a privacy screen,” he says quietly, nodding toward the divider window. “You can change if you want.”

“If I want?”

“Or I can tell the driver to head home for the night.”

The thing is, you know he means it, that’s what gets you. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just an offer.

You look down at the dress again then at your reflection faintly mirrored in the tinted window beside you. You can’t remember the last time you dressed for something that wasn’t work. Can’t remember the last time someone planned an evening for you instead of handing you another responsibility to carry.

“…Fine,” you murmur quietly.

Bucky nods and shuts the door almost immediately after that, giving you privacy without making a show of it. Your chest aches unexpectedly.

The dress fits perfectly, of course. The satin settles smoothly against your skin, cool and soft as water. You let your hair down and try to ruffle some life into it. When you finally sit back down, carefully smoothing the fabric over your knees, you knock on the door and Bucky opens it.

And visibly stills.

The reaction is brief, barely there but you catch it anyway. His eyes flick over you once before settling carefully back on your face and something warm and unreadable flashes there.

“…Okay,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Okay what?”

“You look nice.”

The compliment lands embarrassingly hard after months of being perceived exclusively as overworked office furniture.

You glance down awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Then you notice the roses that somehow magically appeared in his hands, deep red roses tied together with black ribbon.

You stare at them. “Where did you get those?”

He stays quiet, holding the bouquet in his arms.

"Right. No questions."

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. And for the first time since you're not sure when, Bucky smiles fully, small but warm. Beautiful enough to briefly ruin your ability to think coherently. He slides into the seat next to you and the driver pulls away from the tower.

The jazz lounge sits tucked into the lower streets of Manhattan beneath soft golden lights and old brick. The moment you step inside, warmth wraps around you. Low music hums through the room beneath the soft cry of a trumpet, dim amber lamps glow against polished wood tables. The air smells faintly like whiskey and candle wax and expensive food.

It feels far away from your life somehow, like stepping briefly into somebody else’s memory. Bucky keeps one hand lightly against the small of your back guiding you through the crowded room, the touch burns straight through the thin satin of your dress. You try very hard not to think about it.

Dinner is easy in a way you don’t expect.

That’s the dangerous part. You spend so much time around Bucky professionally that you forgot he can actually be funny when he’s relaxed, that quick but witty dry humor and quiet observations muttered beneath his breath. Stories from the forties so ridiculous you genuinely can’t tell when he’s lying anymore. At one point you laugh hard enough to snort into your drink, it should've been mortifying. Bucky nearly chokes laughing himself afterward.

“You absolutely cannot judge me,” you whisper harshly across the table.

“I’m not judging,” he grins. “I’m enjoying myself.”

And somehow that feels worse.

Hours pass without you noticing, and that alone feels miraculous. After dinner he takes you walking along the boardwalk downtown, city wind curling cold around both of you while music and traffic hum softly below Manhattan lights. You end up at a tiny old photobooth tucked near an arcade.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.

Bucky’s already pulling the curtain open.

“You survived the carnival. You can survive this.”

“That carnival psychologically damaged me.”

“C’mon.” You let him drag you inside anyway because apparently this evening has become one long series of terrible decisions.

The booth is tiny, painfully tiny. Your knees bump his immediately once the curtain slides shut, thighs pressed against his as you sit shoulder to shoulder. The flash startles you during the first photo, breaking that first wind of embarrassment as the two of you adjust to being so close. Bucky makes a joke about the booth taking compartmentalizing a step to far as the second flash clicks, the photo catching both of you laughing, a curled wide smile on your face that you haven't felt in years. By the third, the laughing has died down and you’re turned toward each other too closely, breathing the same recycled air, the city noise muffled outside the booth curtain. Bucky’s gaze flicks downward briefly and your stomach flips violently. Then there’s this horrible suspended second where your eyes drop down too and you think, maybe if you lean in just a bit more—

But then the camera flashes again and both of you pull back slightly too fast.

The tension afterward feels thick enough to touch, so naturally you get ice cream. Because apparently that’s how you handle almost kissing your coworker. You sit beside him on a bench outside a tiny twenty-four-hour shop while melting vanilla drips slowly down your hand.

“This is the nicest night I’ve had in years,” you admit quietly before thinking better of it.

Bucky looks over at you softly beneath the city lights. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” You nod once.

Something shifts in his expression then, into something gentler, almost relieved.

The drive to your apartment passes too quickly for your liking afterward but you don’t want to acknowledge that realization. Bucky walks you all the way to your building door despite your insistence that he doesn’t need to. The city is quiet this late, streetlights painting everything gold.

You turn toward him at the steps and for a second neither of you speaks.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You smile softly. “I really did have a good time.”

“Bucky.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Bucky. If I've earned it, of course.”

The words settle warm somewhere beneath your ribs. You look down briefly, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“Oh.” You fully ignore the blush crossing your face, because if you don't acknowledge it then it's not real, right? “Well… thank you, Bucky.”

The smile he gives you afterward feels dangerously intimate. You escape before your brain can fully process it, keys fumbling slightly as you balance them between the flowers, heart beating embarrassingly fast as you step inside your apartment and shut the door carefully behind you.

The second there's a safe enough barrier between you and him you lose it. A ridiculous giggle slips out your lips as you immediately lean against the door with burning cheeks.

Oh no. Oh, this is bad. Because you’re smiling. You touch your face like maybe you can physically stop it. You can’t smile like this. Smiling means thinking and thinking means feeling and feelings… well that just can't be. You try to stifle as much of those feelings as you possibly can, but every time your eyes catch the roses on your table it all bubbles back over the surface again.

And unbeknownst to you outside your apartment door, Bucky hasn’t left yet. He stands there quietly for another moment listening to your footsteps move softly through the apartment beyond the wall. Listening to drawers open, shoes kicked off, the muffled sound of you laughing once under your breath at seemingly nothing.

Then finally the lights click off and only then does he leave.

The ride back to the tower feels strangely quiet afterward, not uncomfortable, just full. Like something settled into place inside his chest without permission.

Bucky stares out the car window at sleeping Manhattan while your bashful smile and blushing cheeks replays endlessly in his head, and somewhere deep down beneath years of grief and exhaustion and carefully guarded distance—something reluctantly warm begins to bloom.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ bonus june note ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ── fun fact! parts of this story are inspired by this kdrama i watched called king the land, and the mmc gu won is SOO bucky coded i actually love it i was watching his grumpy traumatized ass like.... i know where ive seen this before LOL

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tag list ➜ comment/inbox to be added!

You: HAHA

You: well at least we’ll get a chocolate basket from him x

WS: I don’t like chocolate.

You: sighing so loud

You: give it to me then x

WS: Okay.

You: YAY

April 12th

12:34pm

You: your playlist is very interesting 

WS: ?

You: so much Sinatra and Nat king cole 

WS: If you’re about to say anything bad about Frank you and I are going to need a lot more team building time.

You: LOL NO

You: he’s good I’m just surprised

You: not one single modern artist?

WS: You stalking me now?

You: no.

WS: I’m flattered really.

You: well I wanted to workout but SOMEONE was already in there and SOMEONE was blaring their music loud enough for me to hear outside the door

WS: What are you waiting outside for?

WS: Just come train with me.

You: it’s okay

WS: Afraid you can’t keep up?

You: well I never said THAT

WS: Come prove me wrong then.

You: only if I can change that playlist 

You: I’m about to introduce you to the wonders of Steve Lacy 

April 13th

9:07am

You: u are not human

WS: Yes I am.

You: how do u do that workout consistently

You: my limbs feel like they’re about to fall off 

You: my body is weak my head is hurting

WS: Weak.

You: shut it 

April 15th

5:43pm

WS: We did good today.

You: you’re right we did

You: especially me x

WS: And so humble too. 

You: yk our team building thing is nearly over 

You: it’s been three longgg weeks

You: how are u gonna mange without me 💔

WS: I’ll mange just fine.

You: shut it

WS: We still have a week anyhow. 

You: a dreaded week before I can finally have my freedom… 😍

WS: Ouch.

April 17th

6:38pm 

You: I’m borooooorreeedddddd

WS: Is this a thing now?

WS: You texting me when you’re bored?

You: well why else would I text you 

WS: Okay.

You: you text like an old old man you know

WS: Yeah funny you mention that. 

You: LOL

April 18th

4:39pm

WS: Y/N. I need help.

You: are u okay??

WS: Somethings wrong with my phone.

WS: I think somebody hacked it.

You: why??

WS: There’s a woman speaking to me but I’m not on the phone?

You: what the hell is going on.

WS: She says that her name is ‘Siri’.

You: …

WS: What?

You: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

April 19th

7:06 pm

You: are u ready for the party 😝

WS: I guess. 

You: aww lighten up Barnes this will be fun!!!

WS: Parties are not my thing.

WS: Especially Tony’s ones.

You: yeah… he tends to overdo things but everyone’s gonna be there!! 

You: even ur bff Steve

WS: My bff?

You: best friend forever

WS: I guess he is my bff.

You: and the best part is after the party I can eat mine AND your chocolate basket

WS: Who said you could have my basket?

You: *image attachment* 

You: remember this message?!?

WS: You have me in your phone as ‘WS’?

You: oops 

You: I saved u as that because I didn’t like you 

WS: Wow.

WS: Has your opinion changed yet?

You: nah x

Bucky: You wound me.

You: I’ll see u tonight bucky 

Bucky: Looking forward to it.

April 19th

12:29 pm

You: ARE YOU HAVJNG DUN

Bucky: What?

You: THIS PATTY IS FUN RIGHT

Bucky: Y/N are you okay?

You: IM deunk 

You: u havejt been drunk in ages

Bucky: Oh yeah?

You: mhmmmmmmm

You: ru havifn fun?

Bucky: It’s fun watching you stumble around the room.

You: ur watgxung me??

Bucky: No.

You: come take a shot with me

Bucky: I think you need to maybe stop drinking.

You: come stop me then

April 19th

1:02am

Bucky: I know you’re asleep right now so you can read this when you wake up.

Bucky: But I’d like you to know I tried to get you into your own bed and you refused.

April 20th

10:39am

You: uhm 

You: why am I in ur room??

Bucky: See above message.

You: oh

You: fucking hell I drank too much last night

Bucky: Yeah I know that.

Bucky: The whole party knows that.

You: SHUT UP

You: hey ur bed is really comfy

Bucky: I’m glad you’re enjoying it.

Bucky: When can I have it back?

You: gimme ten x

April 20th

10:45am

You: so. how bad was I 

Nat: just terrible babe

You: 😭😭

Nat: idk what possessed you to drink so much 

You: I WNATED TO LET LOOSE

You: it’s been so long since I had fun at a party

You: did I embarrass myself?

Nat: nah not really

Nat: it was pretty entertaining when Bucky carried you out 

You: what????

Nat: well you were super drunk and falling over and he just like

Nat: appeared out of nowhere and whisked u away

You: oh. My God.

Nat: it was a great way to end the night 

You: I’m gonna kms

Nat: not before u see the video I took 🩷

You: NAT

April 20th

5:45pm

You: hey soi  just wanna say thank u for getting me out the party yesterday 

You: and letting me sleep in ur room

Bucky: It’s no problem.

You: it was kind of you

Bucky: I’m a stand up guy.

You: with a really comfy bed

Bucky: Credit to Tony.

Bucky: I can’t believe we all just live in this tower together.

You: it’s kinda fun.. like one massive sleepover

Bucky: Unless someone steals your bed and almost throws up all over you.

You: I ALST THREW UP????

Bucky: It’s okay, it was endearing. 

You: well thank u 

You: I think your the first person to ever call me nearly throwing up endearing 

Bucky: There’s a first time for everything.

You: there really is

i loveeeeeee jame buchanan barnes it is actually insnane

also ive started posting on tt and its so hard like plz people view my posts

Bucky's eye snap into a glare. His muscles tick as he offers nothing but a grumble of displeasure.

Steve playfully swats the back of Sam's head, "Don't be a jerk, Sam."

Sam raises his arms, his drink sloshing in his hand as he feigns innocence, "I'm just trying to think of creative ways to get us drunk. Come on, we'd be on the ground already."

"Shut the hell up, Sam," Bucky grunts, his mouth twisting in displeasure.

"I'm just saying, Buck. She's not calling you anytime soon."

"They just landed," Steve meagerly offers. "Debrief might just be taking a little long."

"Or she's not calling you,” Sam blithely suggests like each word isn't knocking the wind out of Bucky.

"Sam!" Steve scolds.

Sam raises both his hands, feigning an innocence that might be more believable without the glass of scotch sloshing in hand. "It's true! I'm worried about the poor bastard."

Bucky grimaces, downing his whiskey in one go. He roughly wipes the corner of his mouth, the burn of the liquor making his voice sound harsher than he intends, "No one asked you to worry about me."

"This is not good for you," Sam continues on, ignoring the knives Bucky is mentally throwing at him. "You are being used."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are!"

Bucky rakes a heavy hand through his hair, doing his very best to ignore that tiny little voice echoing in the recesses of his mind that tell him Sam’s more right than he’ll ever care to admit. "Why am I even defending myself to you?"

"Haven't you ever noticed that she only ever calls you after a mission? In the middle of the night?"

"So what?"

“You’re an idiot,” Sam shoots back it. “That’s what!”

“Sam!” Steve hisses.

“No, no, he needs to hear this! She only ever calls you when she’s high!”

The anger melts to something much more incredulous, “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“Not high high, but, you know… when she needs a release," Sam explains. "When she’s back from a mission all hopped up on adrenaline. That’s when she calls you. That’s the only time she calls you.”

Bucky hates that it’s at that very moment that his phone pings. He looks down at the screen. It’s you. The text is simple and to the point. It always is.

Are you still up? I want to see you.

Sam quirks an eyebrow, triumphantly crossing his arms over his chest. “Told you so.”

Bucky snatches his jacket from the back of the couch and tosses it over his shoulder, “Go to hell, Sam.”

“Fine!” Sam calls down the hall as Bucky storms away. “Don’t listen to me, but don’t come crying to me when she breaks your heart.”

As he walks to your room, there’s a big part of him, a part much too big to dismiss, the part that knew exactly how this would end, cursed himself. Cursed the Bucky from all those months ago. The Bucky that didn’t care how this would end. The greedy part of him that couldn’t just settle for a taste of you in life.

You were friends before, and he cursed the greedy bastard in him that wanted more.

This was his penance.

This was the price to pay.

He paid it every time he knocked on your door. Every time he snuck out first thing in every morning,

And most importantly, he knew the answer.

He knew it without even having to ask you. Without having to see you. To feel how the tension in the room would swell the moment the question left his lips.

The hopeful fool in him hoped for different, for a better, happier outcome.

It didn’t change what he knew. What he knows.

The knock on your door is slow, hesitant. Almost like his hand moves in slow motion until the moment he sees your lips again.

And just like that, time lurches forward and he’s twisted in your sheets again. You hum against his lips, “I missed this.”

You missed this. Not him. This.

Fuck, he hated this. He hated psychoanalyzing every single thing you say and do. This wasn’t him.

But even now, holding you in his arms, he can’t think of a single time there was anything more than this. Not since you first started hooking up. It’s only been this. Late nights. Secret meetups.

It’s a release.

And he can’t help but wonder if it’s always just been a release to you.

"Why'd you only call me when you're high?"

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