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Summary: Steve has been circling something for three days, and when he finally works up the nerve to ask for it in the dark, he braces for you to flinch. You don't. What follows is the two of you learning something new together — slowly, carefully, with a lot of patience and one very over-researched online order — and Steve discovering that the bravest thing he's ever done is let himself be taken care of.
Wordcount: 15.2k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader
Warnings: MDNI, pegging, bottom! Steve Rogers, strap-ons, sex toys, vibrators, prostate massage, fingering (m receiving), soft! Steve Rogers, service top reader, dom/sub undertones, switching, established relationship, smut, fluff, vulnerability, communication, consent is sexy, aftercare
A/N: I loved writing this fic. I think people see Steve and immediately think he's a BIG BAD MAN when, let's be honest, he's a marshmallow. Hence, have a soft Steve.
Masterlist
You knew the shape of Steve Rogers when he was sitting on something. You'd learned it the way you learned all of him, by living close enough to feel the weather change.
The thing about Steve was that he was not, as a rule, a man who let things sit. It was one of the first things you'd loved about him and one of the things that had taken you longest to believe.
He was the one who looked you in the eye and told you the hard thing first – who'd figured out somewhere along the way, probably the hard way, that the truths you swallowed only got heavier with keeping. He'd told you he loved you before he had any guarantee you'd say it back.
He'd told you, once, on a bad night with the lamp off and his voice somehow level the whole way through, the single worst thing he'd ever done in the war.
The man did not hoard.
Whatever was in him came out, sooner rather than later, plainly, with his jaw set and his eyes steady.
So when he started hoarding something, you noticed. You couldn't have not noticed. It was like watching a river you knew well start running strange.
It began on a Tuesday.
You were at the counter with your coffee, half-awake, and Steve came in from his run flushed and bright-eyed and kissed the top of your head, and then he stood there a beat too long. You felt it – the held quality of him, the way he took a breath like the front edge of a sentence.
“Hey,” he said. “I've been–”
And then nothing. He went to the fridge instead. Got the eggs out. Asked you, with his back to you, whether you wanted any, in a voice that was a half-step too casual to be the voice of a man who'd just abandoned a sentence about something he'd been.
You watched the long line of his shoulders for a second.
You could have said been what, Rogers.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world. But you'd lived with him long enough to know that Steve was a man you didn't get by chasing – that the surest way to make him plant his feet was to push him toward an edge before he'd decided to step off it himself.
So you said yes to the eggs and you let it go, and you told yourself it was nothing, a thought he'd lost track of.
By Wednesday you no longer thought it was nothing.
Because he did it again.
And again.
All day he kept finding reasons to be wherever you were – drifting into the kitchen when you were in the kitchen, settling onto the other end of the couch when you sat down to read, appearing at your shoulder with a cup of tea you hadn't asked for and didn't especially want but drank anyway because he'd made it for you and there was something in his face when he handed it over.
He hovered.
Steve, who normally moved through a space like he owned the deed to it, hovered around you like a man working up his nerve at the edge of a dance floor.
And twice more you caught the front edge of the sentence.
Once in the late afternoon – “Can I ask you–” and then he'd looked at you, and something had closed, and he'd finished it with a question about whether you'd seen where he'd put his keys.
The keys were in his hand.
You'd both looked at the keys in his hand. He'd gone a little pink and laughed and left the room, and you'd sat there with your tea going cold thinking, what on earth.
And once at night, in bed, with the lamp already off – a breath, the gather of him, the specific stillness that meant words were coming.
You'd waited in the dark, heart picking up a little in answer to his.
And then he'd kissed your hair and said goodnight, sweetheart, and rolled to face the window, and you'd lain there wide awake and faintly crazed, staring at the ceiling, running through every possibility your tired brain could generate.
None of them were good.
Most of them, in the way of three-in-the-morning thoughts, were catastrophic.
That was the thing nobody warned you about, loving a man who normally told you everything: when he stopped, your imagination did all the work he wasn't doing.
You knew, in the daylight reasonable part of you, that it almost certainly wasn't anything terrible.
Steve wasn't cruel and he wasn't a coward and whatever was sitting in him, he wasn't going to use it to blow up your life – you knew that. But the not-knowing still itched. It sat under your skin all of Wednesday and into Thursday like a splinter you couldn't find to pull.
You were not, by nature, a patient person.
You'd have liked to be.
You admired patience the way you admired any virtue you have to work for.
But the truth was you'd rather have the bad news now than the good news later if later meant days of this, days of half-sentences and hovering and that careful too-bright voice. You wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake it out of him. You wanted to say whatever it is, just say it, you're killing me.
You didn't.
You held the line, because you loved him, and because the holding was a kind of love too – the kind that didn't make a person earn their own bravery before they were ready.
But by Thursday afternoon you could feel the holding starting to fray at the edges, could feel the want-to-shake-him rising up your throat every time he opened his mouth and then didn't.
It came to a head, in the end, over nothing.
You were in the kitchen again – it was always the kitchen, the room had become a stage – and you were doing something ordinary, drying a dish, and he was leaning in the doorway watching you with that look, the gathered look, the front-edge-of-a-sentence look, for what had to be the sixth or seventh time in three days. And you felt the fray finally give.
You set the dish down. You turned around.
And then you didn't say any of the impatient things, because when you turned and actually looked at him – really looked, instead of feeling the weather of him out of the corner of your eye – you saw it wasn't reluctance on his face.
It was fear.
Small and quiet and badly hidden under the casual lean.
The fear of a man standing in a doorway holding something he was sure would change the way you saw him, and not knowing how to set it down.
And the impatience just – went out of you. All at once. The way it does when you finally see the real thing under the thing that was annoying you.
So instead of shaking it out of him, you crossed the kitchen, and you took his face in your hands the way you did when you wanted his whole attention, and you said it gently.
“I can see it, you know,” you told him. “That there's something you want to ask me.”
You felt him go still. Felt the breath catch in him, felt the doorway-lean stop being a pose.
“I've seen it for three days,” you went on. “And I'm not going to ask you what it is, because clearly it's a big one, and you'll get there when you get there. I just want you to hear me say one thing.”
You held his gaze so there'd be no missing it.
“Whenever you're ready. I'll be right here. There's no version of this where I'm not.”
For a moment he didn't move at all.
His eyes searched yours – back and forth, fast, the way they did when he was checking something against everything he knew of you, looking for the catch, the flinch, the door starting to close.
He didn't find one. There wasn't one to find.
“Okay,” he said, finally. Barely above a breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
And then he kissed your forehead, and held you against him for a long moment in the doorway with his face down in your hair, his heart going faster than the moment seemed to warrant, and he still didn't say it.
But something in him had changed.
You could feel it.
The frantic circling quality was gone. Whatever he'd been bracing against, you'd just told him he didn't have to brace against you, and you could feel the relief of that move through him even as the fear stayed.
You let it be. You'd given him the room. The rest was his.
It was his that night.
You were already most of the way into sleep – your cheek on his chest, the lamp long out, his heartbeat the slow steady tide it always was, that warm dissolving place where the whole day finally lets go of you – when you felt it.
The breath. The gather. The specific stillness.
This time he didn't roll away from it.
“You meant that,” he said into the dark. “This afternoon. That you'd be here whenever I was ready.”
“I meant it.”
“And you're sure you want to know.”
Not quite a question.
“Because once I say it I can't un-say it, and I keep–” His chest rose under your cheek, fell. “I keep getting right up to the edge of it and looking down and losing my nerve. You probably noticed.”
“I noticed you tried to ask me where your keys were while you were holding your keys.”
You felt the huff of his laugh, and under it the racing of his heart – fast, far too fast for a man lying still in the dark with nothing chasing him. Super-soldier serum, enhanced everything, a heart that could carry him up a mountain without complaint, and here it was hammering away under your ear like he was sixteen and asking somebody to dance.
You came the rest of the way out of sleep, gentle about it. You rolled, propped yourself up on one arm, found his jaw in the dark with your fingertips so he'd know he had all of you.
“Hey,” you said. “There's nothing you could say in this bed that's going to send me out of it. You know that, right? I'm not made of glass and I'm not going anywhere because you said a sentence. So. Say the sentence.”
For a long moment he didn't.
You felt him gather – that particular held breath he got, the one you knew from the few times you'd watched him work, the stillness before he stepped off a ramp, before the drop.
And then you felt him decide, the way he decided all the hard things: by refusing, flatly, to let himself flinch.
“There's something I've wanted to try,” he said.
Low.
The words set down one at a time, like a man crossing a creek on stones.
“In bed. With you. And it's– it's not the kind of thing a guy from when I'm from is supposed to want.”
You waited. You'd learned, with him, the value of the waited beat – the silence you didn't rush to fill.
“I want you to–” He stopped.
Started again, quieter, and you understood he'd decided to just say it, plainly, the only way he knew how to say a hard thing.
“I've read about it. About a woman doing it to a man. There's a– you wear a harness, and there's an attachment, and you–” The words ran out.
His hand had found your hip in the dark and was holding on.
“And I've thought about it for a lot longer than three days,” he admitted, even quieter, “and I haven't been able to make myself ask, because some stupid part of me is sure that wanting it makes me–”
He didn't finish it. He didn't have to. You could hear the shape of the word he wouldn't say, some old cruel word from some old cruel schoolyard ninety years gone, a word from a world with very narrow ideas about what a man was allowed to be.
“Pegging,” you said. Gently. Just to give the thing its real name, and to give it without a flinch.
You felt the word land. Felt his whole body go still under your hand, braced, waiting for the recoil he'd spent three days certain was coming.
“Yeah,” he said, so quiet it was almost nothing. “That.”
And you understood, then, the full size of what it had cost him.
Not because it was strange – it wasn't, not to you, not even slightly – but because of who he was.
Because he'd grown up small and sick and overlooked in a world that had told him exactly one story about men, and then he'd been handed a body that was the loudest possible argument for that story, and somewhere in the long fall between the boy and the icon he'd lost the right to ever look soft, to ever be the one taken care of, to ever lie down and let himself simply be given to.
Captain America did not get to want this.
Steve – maybe Steve could.
But only if you let him.
You did not flinch.
You smiled instead.
He couldn't see it in the dark, but you made absolutely sure he could hear it – made your whole voice warm with it, easy, without a hairline crack of hesitation in it anywhere.
“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I'd love to do that for you.”
The breath that left him then was enormous.
It was a thing held for three days and, you suspected, for a great deal longer than three days – let go all at once, half a laugh and half something rawer, some shaky exhale that left his whole big frame looser in its wake.
His arm came around you and dragged you in hard against his side, his mouth finding your forehead and staying there, and he held you like he needed the contact to believe it was real.
“You're not–” he started, and couldn't find the end of it.
“I'm not anything,” you said, into the warm skin over his heart.
“Except maybe a little honored that you trusted me with it. Do you have any idea how long you've been circling that kitchen?”
“...Three days,” he said, and you felt the embarrassment and the relief tangle in his voice, and you laughed softly against his chest.
“Three days. You walked into HYDRA bases with less hesitation.”
“HYDRA bases weren't going to look at me different in the morning,” he said.
It was a joke, mostly.
You heard the part of it that wasn't, and you pressed a kiss over his heart, which had finally – finally – begun to slow under your ear.
“I'm going to look at you exactly the same in the morning,” you told him. “Except maybe a little more like the luckiest person alive. And maybe a little more like I want to start figuring out how to do this right.”
He breathed out one more time, long and unwound, and in the dark you felt him smile – you could always feel it, the way it changed the whole air of him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Yeah.”
And you settled back down against him, your cheek over the slowing tide of his heart, and you lay there a while in the warm dark feeling the last of the three days' tension leave the room. You'd told him you'd be there whenever he was ready. He'd taken you at your word.
It was, you thought, drifting back toward the sleep you'd surfaced from, possibly the bravest thing you'd ever watched him do – and the night had only just handed him the easy part.
It turned out the wanting had been the easy part.
The doing-it-right – that was where Steve Rogers really came into his element.
Because if there was one thing the man understood down in his marrow, it was preparation.
You'd handed him a thing to learn, and learning was a place he knew exactly how to stand.
The terror of the asking had drained out of him almost the instant you'd said yes, and in its place had come something you recognized and loved: that focused, faintly ridiculous seriousness he brought to anything he'd decided mattered.
So a few nights later found the two of you arranged on the couch with your laptop balanced across both your knees, the lamp turned low, two mugs of tea going slowly cold on the table that you both already knew neither of you was going to drink.
Steve had his chin hooked over your shoulder and one big hand spread flat and warm on your thigh – an anchor, his thumb moving in a slow idle arc against the denim – and the pair of you were reading through it all with the grave, studious concentration of a couple cramming for an exam neither could afford to fail.
You started with the part that mattered most, which surprised neither of you: the talking.
You read about communication – about how the whole thing lived or died on it, about checking in, about the difference between keep going and give me a second and stop, about agreeing on those words in advance so that nobody in a vulnerable moment had to go hunting for them.
You felt Steve nod slowly against your shoulder, taking it in.
This part he understood instinctively; it was the same thing he'd say about any operation that mattered, that the plan was only as good as the comms.
He liked that the experts agreed with him. You could feel it settle him.
“We should pick the words now,” he said. “So we're not– figuring it out in the moment.”
“Look at you. Already thinking like a professional.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know you are. That's why it's adorable.”
You tipped your head back against his.
“Okay. Green for good, yellow for slow down, red for stop. And– and we add one. More.” You felt his small huff of breath. “Because I have a feeling you're going to be too polite to ask for what you want, and I want a word that means give me more, so you don't have to find a whole sentence for it when your brain's gone offline.”
He went quiet a second. Then, low, a little rough, “Yeah. Okay. That one too.”
You read about going slow.
About how the body had to be coaxed, not commanded – how the whole thing wanted patience the way bread wanted time, that you couldn't rush it without it going wrong.
Slower than you think you need to, one source insisted, and you felt Steve go very still against your back, filing it away with the particular stillness that meant he was committing something to memory.
“You don't have to take notes, Rogers,” you said.
“I'm not taking notes.”
“You've got the brief-face on. I can feel the brief-face through the back of my head.”
“It's not the brief-face.” A beat, very dignified. “I'm retaining.”
You laughed so hard you nearly tipped the laptop off your knees, and he caught it against your thigh with the casual reflexes of a man who'd caught far heavier things falling far faster, and the absurdity of it – Captain America saving a laptop from a pegging tutorial – set you both off, helpless, leaning into each other until you had to wipe your eyes.
When you'd recovered, you got to the technical part.
The part Steve had clearly been a little braced for, because you felt him brace.
The hygiene, mostly. The practical reality of it.
You read about it plainly – about cleaning up beforehand, about how to make sure things were comfortable and clean so nobody had to spend the moment in their own head worrying – and you felt the faint heat of Steve's embarrassment radiating off him at your shoulder, the tips of his ears going warm against your hair.
So you headed it off, easy, matter-of-fact, before it could grow into anything.
“This part's not a big deal,” you told him. “It sounds like a lot when you read it. It isn't. You take a little time in the shower beforehand, you do the cleanup, and then it's just– done, and we don't think about it again. People do this all the time, Steve. It's plumbing. I am not going to love you one ounce less because the human body has a digestive tract.”
That got a startled laugh out of him, which was what you'd wanted – broke the heat of it right open.
“I just don't want anything to be–” He searched for it. “Unpleasant. For you. You're doing this for me. The least I can do is make sure it's nice to do.”
“It's going to be nice to do,” you said. “And you're not the only one allowed to be thorough. Leave the worrying about my experience to me. You've got enough to think about.”
You read about lubrication, and then you read about lubrication some more, because it turned out there was a genuinely staggering amount to know about lubrication.
The right kind – thicker than the stuff in your bedside drawer, the kind that didn't dry out and quit on you halfway.
More than you think you need, and then more again, every single source agreed, with an emphasis that bordered on stern.
You could reapply. You should reapply.
There was, it seemed, no such thing as too much.
“Noted,” Steve said gravely. “Buy a lot of lube.”
“Buy an unreasonable amount of lube,” you corrected. “Buy lube like you're stocking a bunker.”
“Retaining.”
And then you got to the part you'd been most curious about, which was the pleasure – for both of you.
Because you'd known, going in, the rough shape of what was in it for him: you'd read enough now to understand the geography of it, the place inside a man that the right angle was meant to find, the particular ruined-undone pleasure it could unlock in someone who'd never let himself reach for it.
You read about that with Steve's hand tightening slightly on your thigh, the two of you very quiet, both of you imagining it.
You filed away the practical things – the angle, the pillow under the hips, go for it after he's already worked up, not before – and you felt the air between you change a little, grow warmer, grow heavier.
But you'd genuinely wondered about your own side of it, and you were glad to find the answer, because the answer was: more than you'd expected.
“Huh,” you said, reading. “Okay– I didn't even know they made them like this.”
“Like what?” Steve had gone alert at your shoulder.
“There's a kind with no harness at all. It's all one piece. There's a– a part that I wear inside me, that holds it in place, so it's not strapped on, it's just–” You felt yourself warm. “It's connected. To both of us. So it's not only a thing I'm doing to you. When I move, I'm getting something out of it too– and so are you, from the same motion, at the same time. We'd be–”
You exhaled.
“We'd be sort of joined up the whole way through it.”
You scrolled, and your eyebrows went up.
“And some of them do a lot more than that. There's one here that's– okay, we'll come back to that one.”
“Come back to what one,” Steve said, far too quickly.
“Later,” you said, biting down on a grin. “When we're actually picking. Trust me– you're going to want to give that one your full attention, and you do not have your full attention right now.”
You felt Steve go very still, and then you felt him understand something, and then you felt him like understanding it. His mouth found the side of your neck.
“You're telling me,” he said, low, against your skin, “that the thing I've been terrified to want for days is also going to feel good for you.”
“That's what I'm telling you, Rogers.”
His breath went out slow and warm against your throat.
“That's–” he started, and didn't finish, and you understood that some last small knot in him had just come loose.
Because of course it had.
Of course the thing that finally undid the last of his guilt about wanting this wasn't being told it was fine – it was being told it would feel good for you.
That was the only currency the man fully trusted.
Your pleasure, folded automatically in alongside his own, the way it was folded into everything he did. He could want a thing once he knew it gave you something too.
And that was the moment the reading stopped being reading.
You'd both gotten worked up.
You could feel it in him and you could feel it in yourself – and it was a strange double thing, because part of it was impatience, plain and simple, the let's stop studying and just do this that had been building under all the careful diligence.
But part of it was just heat.
Plain ordinary want, lit by an hour of lying tangled together reading about the slow and deliberate undoing of each other's bodies.
His thumb had stopped its idle arc on your thigh some while ago and gone still and deliberate. His mouth was still at your neck. The screen had gone forgotten in front of you both, its careful diagrams glowing at nothing.
“You're not retaining anymore,” you observed, a little unsteadily.
“No,” Steve agreed, against your throat. “No, I think I've retained enough for one night.”
And then he was kissing you.
It wasn't a careful kiss. It had the whole hour in it – all that talk of slowness and warm-up and the patient undoing of a body, all of it pressing up at once against the simple fact that you were warm and close and his and he'd been thinking about your hands on him for longer than three days now.
He turned you toward him, one hand sliding up from your thigh to your waist, the other coming to cradle the back of your skull, and the laptop slid.
You both felt it go – that lurch of the screen tipping off the slope of your knees toward the floor – and for one absurd suspended second you both broke apart and lunged for it, and Steve got two fingers on the edge and saved it, again, lowering it to the rug with the exaggerated care of a man defusing ordnance.
“Twice,” you said, breathless, half-laughing. “You've now saved that thing's life twice.”
“It knows too much,” he said, deadpan, and then his mouth was back on yours and there was nothing in the way.
This time when his hand found your waist there was no machine to mind, nothing balanced, nothing to catch.
There was just his weight bearing you slowly back into the cushions, his mouth leaving yours to travel along your jaw to the soft place under your ear that he'd learned by heart, and the low sound he made against your throat when you got your fingers into his hair and pulled.
And then he drew back just far enough to look at you, and there was something in his face – something decided, something tender and a little fierce.
“Let me do something,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”
“Steve–”
“You said yes to me,” he said, low, his forehead dropping to yours.
“You said yes to a thing I've been carrying around like it made me– and you didn't even blink. You spent an hour tonight making sure I felt okay about my own digestive tract.”
A breath of a laugh, gone serious again just as fast.
“Let me say thank you the only way I'm any good at. Let me make you feel good. I want to. You know I–”
His thumb traced your cheekbone.
“You know there's nothing I like more than this part. Than getting to be the one who–”
He didn't finish it. He didn't have to.
You knew exactly what he was.
The man who'd circle a kitchen for three days terrified to ask for one thing for himself, and then turn around and want, more than anything, to spend an evening giving. Even now. Especially now.
So you let him.
You let him undress you slow, there on the couch in the low lamplight, his hands moving over you like he was relearning a thing he already knew by heart, pausing to look the way he always paused to look – like the sight of you was something he'd never quite gotten used to and hoped he never would.
He pressed his mouth to your collarbone, the center of your chest, the curve of each breast, taking his time, until you were arching up into him and your breath had gone short.
And then he settled himself down between your thighs, broad shoulders fitting under your knees, his big hands curving up over your hips to hold you steady against him, and he looked up the length of your body once – checking, the way he checked everything, making sure you were with him – and then he set his mouth to you.
He took his time with that too.
All that earnest thoroughness, all that retaining, turned now entirely toward you – his mouth and his tongue working you with a focus that bordered on devotion, learning you the way he learned everything, by patient attention to every small response.
He found the rhythm that made your hips lift and stayed with it.
He slid one thick finger into you and then a second, curling, while his mouth kept its slow relentless work, and you felt the pleasure start to gather low and hot and inevitable, building in long waves, your fingers fisting in his hair, your back coming up off the cushions.
He didn't rush it.
He never rushed this.
He drew it out, took you right up to the edge and eased you back and took you up again, until you were saying his name in a voice that didn't sound like talking anymore, until you were pulling at his hair and not entirely sure if it was to stop him or keep him – and then he hummed low against you, pleased, and held your hips steady, and tipped you over.
You came apart with his mouth on you and his hands holding you down and his name breaking in your throat, and you felt rather than heard the low satisfied sound he made into you, the pure uncomplicated pleasure he took in it – because it was true, what he'd said, that there was nothing he liked more than this, than being the one who undid you.
He worked you all the way through it, gentling, not letting up until you'd shuddered down to stillness and tugged weakly at his hair, too much, come up here.
He came up. He kissed you so you could taste yourself on him, and he settled his weight over you, and the look on his face was so openly, simply happy – happy the way only this seemed to make him, the giving of it – that it caught you somewhere under the ribs.
“Thank you,” he murmured against your mouth.
“I think that's my line,” you said, a little wrecked. “I'm fairly sure you've got the gratitude backwards, Steve.”
“No,” he said, and there was something underneath the lightness of it, something that reached all the way down to the thing he'd asked you for in the dark three nights ago. “No, I don't think I do.”
And later – much later, the two of you tangled and spent and warm, the forgotten laptop still glowing quietly on the rug where he'd set it down – you lay with your cheek on his chest and felt the slow tide of his heart and thought: he gives so easily. It came to him like breathing. It was the receiving he had to be taught.
That was the whole project, really. You just hadn't understood yet how much of it would be that.
You'd made him wait for it, and Steve Rogers was not, it turned out, very good at waiting for the thing you'd promised to come back to.
He'd brought it up twice in the days since – once over breakfast, casual as anything, so when were we going to actually look at the, uh, trailing off into his coffee, and once at the very edge of sleep, you never showed me the one you wouldn't show me, in a voice so transparently curious that you'd laughed into the dark and told him patience was a virtue and he'd said, with great dignity, that he'd had quite enough of being told that lately.
So when you finally sat down to it properly – a quiet evening, the curtains drawn, the laptop open between you on the bed instead of balanced precariously on your knees this time, because you'd learned – he was already settled against the headboard, sleeves shoved up his forearms, wearing the expression he wore for mission briefings.
That was the thing that nearly undid you before you'd even started.
The brief-face.
He brought it to everything he'd decided mattered – jaw set, brow faintly furrowed, that total unselfconscious gravity – and watching the most dangerous man you knew apply it to online shopping for a sex toy did something to you that you loved with an intensity you had never once confessed and never would.
Captain America, super-soldier, the peak of human everything, squaring up to a product page like it was a beachhead.
You'd have walked into traffic for him over less.
“Okay,” he said, pulling the laptop toward him, all business. “Show me what we're working with.”
So you showed him.
You went through the field of them together, scrolling slowly, you narrating and Steve listening with the focused gravity of a man being briefed.
There were a lot of them.
More than he'd expected – you watched his eyebrows climb steadily toward his hairline as the scope of the thing revealed itself, model after model, and you bit your lip not to laugh at the look of a man realizing he'd wandered into a much larger country than he'd known existed.
And then you got to the prices, and Steve Rogers became, instantly and completely, a child of the Great Depression.
“That's–” He stopped. Looked at the number. Looked at you. “That's a lot of money. For that.”
“It's mid-range, actually.”
“It's a lot of money for the mid-range?” He pulled the laptop closer, frowning at it the way he frowned at a budget. “We don't need to spend a fortune on this. There's got to be something that does the job for a third of that. Look– this one's–”
“That one's going to feel like it's made of garbage, because it is.”
“It's got good reviews.”
“It's got paid reviews.”
You took his wrist gently and steered the cursor away from the bargain bin.
“Steve. Listen to me. This is one of the very few categories of object where it is genuinely worth buying quality, and I will die on this hill. The cheap ones are uncomfortable. They're made of materials you do not want anywhere near the inside of either of us. They're hard in the wrong way, they're the wrong shape, they don't last. You'd be saving forty dollars to have a worse time. For both of us.”
You held his eyes.
“You want this to be good. You told me you wanted to get it right. This is getting it right. The getting-it-right starts here, at the part where we don't cheap out on the one thing the whole night actually depends on.”
He was quiet a second, jaw working, clearly torn between everything you'd just said – which he knew was correct – and ninety years of muscle memory that screamed at him to find the cheaper option on principle.
So you went for the thing under the thing. Gently.
“And I'll tell you the other reason,” you said. “You're sitting there doing the math like this is a one-time expense. Like we try it once and then it goes in a drawer.”
You let that sit.
“Steve. I know you. I have watched your face for three weeks now every time this comes up. The odds that we do this once and never again are basically zero. We are going to like this. You're going to like it so much you'll be circling the kitchen again inside a month, working up the nerve to ask for it a second time.”
You watched that land – watched the small flush climb the back of his neck – and you softened.
“So we're not buying a one-night thing. We're buying a thing we're going to keep. That changes the math. You buy the good version of the thing you're going to keep.”
He didn't say anything for a moment.
And you understood, watching him, that the money had never quite been about the money – that some stubborn old part of him simply balked at spending real money on his own pleasure, on a thing he wanted purely for himself, the way it would never in a thousand years balk at spending it on you or on anyone else. He could be talked into quality.
He could not, easily, be talked into deserving quality.
That was the harder sell, and you'd just made it without naming it, and you watched him hear it anyway.
“Okay,” he said, finally, a little gruff with it. “Okay. You're right. Good one.”
“Good one,” you agreed. “Now– about the one I wouldn't show you.”
You found it again. You'd bookmarked it. And you turned the laptop a little more toward him and watched his face as he actually read what it did.
It was strapless, like the others you'd been looking at – one piece, no harness, the curved bulb that you'd wear inside yourself to hold it in place, so that the two of you would be connected the whole way through.
But this one did considerably more than sit there.
You watched Steve's eyes move down the description, watched his lips move slightly as he retained it, and watched the precise moment he understood.
It vibrated.
In three places, independently, each one its own little motor.
The shaft – the part that would be inside him. The bulb – the part that would be inside you. And the base, angled and shaped very deliberately, designed to sit flush against you, against your clit, with every motion you made.
And it was controlled by remote.
“Wait,” Steve said. He read it again.
You could see him assembling the geometry of it in his head, the way he assembled everything, methodical, and you could see the exact instant the full picture clicked into place.
“Wait. So this– the part that's in me, and the part that's in you, and–” His eyes flicked up to yours. “It's all going at once. For both of us. The whole time.”
“That's the idea.”
“And the base sits–”
He stopped.
Color was rising in his face, but it wasn't the embarrassed kind anymore. It was something hungrier and far more focused.
“It's against you. So while you're– the whole time you'd be–”
He set the laptop down. He looked at you with an expression you knew very well.
“This isn't going to feel good for you. This is going to feel incredible for you.”
“Probably,” you admitted, and your own voice had gone a little unsteady. “Yeah.”
And just like that, the man who'd balked at the mid-range was gone, replaced entirely by the man you'd known he'd become the second this turned into a question of your pleasure.
The frugality evaporated.
He picked the laptop back up. He was reading the specifications now with the keen, ravenous attention of a man planning a campaign.
“We're getting this one,” he said.
“Steve, it's twice the price of the one we just–”
“We're getting this one.”
He glanced at you, and there was a glint in his eyes now, the dangerous boyish one you saw far too rarely.
“You just spent ten minutes telling me to buy the good version of the thing we're going to keep. I'm buying the good version. This is me, retaining.”
You laughed, helpless, and he grinned, pleased with himself, and pulled it up to order. And then he paused – his thumb hovering, his eyes catching on one more line of the description that you'd been waiting for him to reach.
“It comes with the remote,” he said slowly. “So one of us controls it. From a distance.”
“One of us does.”
You watched him think about that. Watched him think about all the things that meant – that the person holding the remote held the other one's pleasure in their hand, dialed up or down or off at will, even while the other one thought they had the upper hand. Watched him think about which of you might be holding it, and when, and the look on his face went very still and very warm.
“Huh,” Steve said, faintly. “Yeah. Okay. We're definitely getting this one.”
He placed the order. And then he sat there for a second looking at the confirmation screen, the thank you for your purchase, the little estimated delivery date, and the campaign-planning intensity drained off him all at once and left something quieter and more uncertain in its place.
“What?” you said.
“Nothing.” Then, “It's just real now. That's all.”
He set the laptop aside.
“Three weeks ago I couldn't make myself say one sentence to you in the dark. Now there's a– there's a delivery date.”
You leaned over and kissed his shoulder.
“We can still not, you know. Any point. Up to and including the moment the box shows up. There's no schedule. Nobody's grading this.”
“No,” he said quickly, and took your hand, and laced your fingers through his.
“No, I want to. I just keep waiting to feel embarrassed about it, and– I don't. When it's you, I don't.”
He brought your knuckles to his mouth.
“That's the part that's still new. I keep checking for the embarrassment like a sore tooth and it's just not there.”
The waiting, as it turned out, was its own particular torture.
You'd thought, naively, that the hard part was behind you – the asking, the deciding, the ordering. You had not accounted for what several days of anticipation would do to the two of you, now that the thing was named and chosen and rushing toward you somewhere in the back of a truck.
Steve checked the tracking. He would have denied it under oath, but you caught him at it – more than once – the man who memorized mission briefs now refreshing a shipping page with the exact same gravity, frowning at in transit, at out for delivery, at the little map.
You teased him about it mercilessly and he took it with good grace and went right on checking.
And the air between you had changed. It was charged now, low and constant, a current that ran under every ordinary moment.
You'd catch him watching you across a room with that focused dark look and know exactly what he was thinking about.
He'd come up behind you while you were doing nothing in particular and wrap his arms around you and just hold you, his mouth at the back of your neck, breathing you in, until you both forgot what you'd been doing.
One night neither of you made it past the hallway. The anticipation had a flavor all its own – sweeter and sharper than plain wanting, because it was wanting with a date on it, wanting that knew it was going to be answered.
“This is unbearable,” you informed him, the third evening, draped half over him on the couch.
“You made me wait,” he pointed out, infuriatingly reasonable, his hand stroking slow up and down your back. “For the one you wouldn't show me. I think a little suffering builds character.”
“I hate it when you use my own crimes against me.”
“Retaining,” Steve said, smug, and you bit him, gently, on the shoulder, and he laughed, and pulled you closer, and you lay there in the charged warm dark of it and thought you might genuinely combust before the truck arrived.
It arrived on a Thursday, and Steve was the one who heard the knock.
You came out of the other room to find him standing in the entryway holding a plain brown box in both hands – this enormous man, all six-foot-something of super-soldier, holding an unmarked parcel like it might be live ordnance, like it might go off if he set it down wrong.
He had the strangest look on his face.
Somewhere between the campaign-planning hunger and the old quiet shyness, anticipation and uncertainty wrestling it out across his features, the boy from Brooklyn surfacing one more time through the body of the icon.
“It's just a box, baby,” you said.
“I know.”
He set it down on the counter very carefully, both hands, like he was lowering something fragile. Looked at it. Looked at you.
“I know it is.”
You crossed to him and slid your arms around his waist and put your cheek against his chest, and felt the heart under it going faster than the moment seemed to call for – fast, but nothing like nervous-bad, racing for the better reason.
“You okay?” you asked.
“Yeah.” His arms came around you. “Yeah. I just– I keep thinking about how much I wanted this, and how scared I was to say it, and now it's just–”
He laughed, low, the laugh going slightly unsteady at the edge.
“It's sitting on our kitchen counter in a box. The scariest thing I've wanted in eighty years. In a box. From the mail.”
“The mail demystifies everything,” you agreed solemnly, and felt him laugh for real this time, the last of the tension breaking up and floating off.
He drew back just enough to look at you, his hands settling at your waist, that warmth back in his eyes – and underneath the warmth, the thing that was always there now when this came up, the quiet astonished gratitude of a man who kept waiting to be ashamed of himself and kept finding, instead, only you.
“Thank you,” he said. “For making me get the good one.”
“I make excellent decisions on your behalf.”
“You really do.” He glanced down at the box between you, and back up, and the boyish glint came creeping back into the corner of his mouth. “You want to–”
“Open the terrifying box?”
“Open the terrifying box.”
So you did.
Together, your hands and his, the cardboard giving way, and inside the plain brown box was a plainer white one, and inside that, nestled in its packaging with the small remote tucked into its own neat compartment beside it, was the thing itself – the thing you'd argued him into, the thing he'd flipped and insisted on the moment it became about you, the thing that was going to take this man apart and put him back together changed.
It was, in the end, just an object. Smooth and well-made and quiet in its box.
But Steve picked it up and turned it over in his big careful hands, and looked at it for a long moment, and then he looked at you – and the look on his face was not afraid at all anymore.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. So how soon can we figure out how to use it?”
The answer, it turned out, was not as soon as either of you wanted, because the thing came with a manual.
Of course it came with a manual.
You'd have laughed if you weren't both so keyed up – Steve sat on the edge of the bed with the little folded booklet held out at arm's length, brow furrowed, frowning at it with the exact gravity he'd give a set of mission orders, and you leaned into his side to read along over his arm.
Charging instructions.
Cleaning instructions.
A diagram of the three little motors and which button on the remote did what, which he studied with an attention that under any other circumstances you'd have found unbearably endearing and right now found unbearably slow.
“Steve.”
“I'm reading the safety section.”
“There's a safety section?”
“There's always a safety section.”
He turned the page.
And then his whole posture changed – went still, then slumped, the particular slump of a man receiving disappointing intelligence.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
He held the booklet up so you could see the line he was pointing at.
Charge fully before first use.
And below it, the helpful specifics: the unit itself needed thirty minutes on the charger, and the remote another thirty, and there was a single cable, which meant you did them one after the other, which meant…
“An hour,” Steve said, flat with betrayal. “We have to wait an hour.”
You looked at his face – Captain America, who had stormed beaches, who had jumped out of more aircraft than you could count, who had three weeks ago worked up the courage to ask you for the most vulnerable thing he'd ever wanted, sitting on the edge of your bed absolutely scandalized that a sex toy had the audacity to need charging – and you lost it.
You laughed until you had to hold his arm to stay upright, and after a second he started laughing too, helpless and rueful, the tension of the whole loaded evening cracking open and spilling out into something warm.
“An hour,” you agreed, wiping your eyes. “The universe really does want you to learn patience, doesn't it. It will not let this go.”
“I'm starting to take it personally.”
“Good.”
You plucked the unit out of his hands, found the cable, plugged it in to charge. The little light came on, a small patient amber heartbeat on the nightstand.
“Because we are going to use that hour, Rogers, and you are going to be very glad we had it.”
He went still in a different way then. Looked at you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You stood, and held out your hand.
“Go shower. Take your time. Do what you need to do – the cleanup, all of it, the stuff we read about. Don't rush it and don't get in your head about it. I'll be doing the same. And when we're both clean and ready, we are going to take this slow, the way the whole internet told us to, and I am going to enjoy the hell out of an hour where there's nothing left to figure out and nothing left to wait for except each other.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Okay?”
He brought your knuckles to his mouth, the way he did.
“Okay.”
You took your own shower after his, in the warm quiet, and you took your time with it the way you'd told him to.
And when you were done – skin warm, pulse already running a little quick with anticipation – you did a thing you hadn't entirely planned and didn't entirely examine: you went to the drawer, and you put on the good set.
The one you saved.
Dark and fine and barely there, the one you knew sat on you in a way that did things to him.
You didn't need to. That was the truth of it, and you knew it even as you did it.
Steve had never once needed convincing where you were concerned; he looked at you in an old t-shirt and three-day-unwashed hair like you'd personally hung the moon, and he meant it every time, and you'd long ago stopped doubting it.
You didn't put it on because you thought you had to earn his wanting.
You put it on because tonight was a night he'd been afraid of, a night that asked a lot of him, and you wanted – fiercely, simply – to give him something easy and good to land on the second he saw you.
You wanted his first feeling, walking into this, to be want, clean and uncomplicated, before any of the harder feelings could get a word in.
You wanted to make the beginning of it beautiful for him.
So you did.
When you came out, he was sitting on the made bed in a clean shirt and soft pants, freshly showered, his hair damp and pushed back, and he looked up – and you watched it work exactly the way you'd hoped.
You watched the breath go out of him. Watched his eyes move down you and back up, slow, and watched whatever careful nervous thing he'd been holding in his shoulders just – dissolve, displaced entirely by the plain helpless heat of looking at you.
He didn't say anything clever.
He didn't say anything at all for a second.
He just looked at you like you were the only fact in the room.
“You didn't have to do that,” he said finally, low, rough at the edges.
“I know.” You crossed to him slow. “I wanted the first thing you felt tonight to be that. Whatever your face is doing right now.”
“My face is–” He shook his head, a little dazed, reaching for you, his big hands settling at your waist and drawing you in to stand between his knees. He pressed his face to your sternum, breathed you in, and you felt the warmth of his exhale against your skin. “You have no idea what you do to me. You really don't. After all this time. I see you in that and I forget I was ever nervous about anything in my life.”
“That was the plan,” you admitted, and threaded your fingers into his damp hair, and tipped his face up, and kissed him.
You took the slow road on purpose.
You'd both spent weeks aimed at this night like an arrow, and you knew – you'd read it, but you also just knew – that the worst thing you could do now was rush it, treat it like a procedure with steps to complete.
So you didn't.
You climbed into his lap and you kissed him like you had all the time in the world, because you did, because there was an amber light counting patiently down on the nightstand and absolutely nothing required of either of you until it finished.
You kissed him until kissing became its own warm country.
Until his hands stopped being careful and started roaming, sliding up your bare back, splaying broad and hot against your skin, mapping you through and around the fine dark fabric like he couldn't decide whether he wanted it on you or off.
You felt the want build in him in the way you knew so well – the careful control fraying at the edges, the low sound against your mouth when you rolled your hips down into his and felt how much he already wanted you.
And when he made to lay you back – when his hands moved to turn this toward you, the way they always did, the way they'd done a hundred times – you let him.
Because that, too, was part of it.
He laid you out on the bed and took his time getting there, the way he always took his time. He peeled the fine fabric off you slow, pausing to look, pressing his mouth to each new stretch of skin he uncovered – your throat, your collarbone, the swell of each breast, the soft plane of your stomach – until you were arching up under him and your breath had gone short and unsteady.
He knew your body the way he knew few things in this world, by heart, by long devoted study, and he used all of it.
“Let me get you ready,” he murmured against your hip, and there was something in his voice – you heard it – the quiet pleasure of a man who'd been handed, even tonight, especially tonight, the thing he loved most: a way to take care of you first.
“We read about this part too. You need to be– you need to come first, so it's easy. So it doesn't hurt when you put it in.” He looked up the length of you, dark-eyed and serious and wanting. “Let me. I want to be the one who gets you there.”
“I'm not going to argue with that, Steve,” you managed, and felt his answering smile against your skin.
He settled himself between your thighs and looked up the length of you for a moment before he touched you – checking, the way he checked everything, making sure you were with him. Then he lowered his head, and you felt the warm flat of his tongue, and your hips lifted off the bed on their own.
This time there was a purpose under the devotion, and you could feel it in him – he wasn't only chasing your pleasure, he was opening you, easing you toward the thing the night needed, and somehow knowing that made it hotter, not less.
He licked into you in long unhurried strokes, then closed his mouth around your clit and worked it soft and relentless, and when he pressed a single slick finger into you it went easy, welcome, your body already loosening for him. He added a second and curled them, slow, watching what it did to you, learning the angle that made your spine arch.
“Relax for me,” he murmured against your inner thigh, and you felt the words more than heard them. “I want you so loose and easy that the rest of tonight is nothing but good. Let me get you there.”
So you let him. You let the tension run out of you under his hands and his mouth, let him stretch and coax and ready you while the pleasure climbed in slow deep coils, and you didn't try to hold it back. You wound one hand into his hair. You said his name. You felt him hum, low and satisfied, at the sound of yourself coming apart at the seams – and then he sealed his mouth to you and pressed his fingers deep and held there, and the coil snapped.
It rolled through you long and warm, your body clenching around his fingers, your hips lifting into his mouth while he worked you through every wave of it and didn't stop until you were trembling and overfull and tugging at his hair. When he finally lifted his head his mouth was slick and his eyes were dark and the look on his face was pure unguarded satisfaction – the particular happiness that only this ever put there, the giving of it, the being trusted with it.
“There,” he said softly. “Now you're ready.”
The amber light on the nightstand had gone steady and green.
You both noticed it at the same time. You felt the laugh move through you, breathless and a little wrecked. “Perfect timing,” you said. “It's charged.”
“Course it is.” He reached over and brought it to you – the unit, the curved bulb that was your end of it, warm-toned and smooth and quiet in his hand, and the little bottle beside it, the absurd quantity of good thick lubricant you'd bought like you were stocking a bunker.
He looked at it, and then at you, lying loose and flushed and open beneath him, and something moved across his face – a kind of awe at the strangeness and the intimacy of where you'd arrived together.
“You do it,” you said softly. “I want it to be your hands. Make it part of what you're already doing to me.”
Something flickered warm across his face at that – at being handed one more way to give, one more piece of taking care of you, before the night turned and made him the one who received.
He nodded, and he set himself to it the way he set himself to everything that mattered: careful, attentive, watching your face the whole time.
He slicked the bulb generously – more than you needed, then more again, the way every single source had insisted – and then he brought it to you, his free hand spread warm and steady on your thigh, and eased it into you himself, slow, by degrees.
You felt the stretch of it as his hands guided it home, your breath catching, and Steve's eyes flicked up to yours, reading you. Okay? his whole face asked. Yeah, you breathed, and meant it – relaxed and ready and warmed-open from the orgasm exactly as the reading had promised, so that it slid home easy under his careful hands, seating snug and full inside you, the shaft of it standing out from your body now, yours to use.
You both went still for a second, looking at it. At the new strange shape of you. At what the two of you had become in the last hour – the loaded, tender, impossible fact of it.
Steve's eyes came up to yours, dark and warm and entirely unafraid now, and his voice when he found it had gone low and rough.
“Okay,” he said. “Your turn to take care of me.”
He lay back for you.
That was the part you knew you'd remember – not anything that came after, but this, the simple fact of it: Steve Rogers, on his back in the lamplight, knees falling open, making himself wide and bare and undefended in front of you because you'd asked him to and because he trusted you with it.
A man whose entire life was built on being the one who stood between other people and harm, the one in front, the one who held the line – laying all of that down and opening himself, on purpose, to be taken care of.
You knelt between his spread thighs and just looked at him for a second. He was already half-hard, flushed and beautiful and a little nervous, his hands restless at his sides like they didn't know what to do without a job, his eyes on you with that open trusting heat.
The unit stood out from your own body where you knelt, the bulb seated full and snug inside you, your end of it, a strange new weight you were getting used to – but you didn't reach for that yet. That was a long way off.
First there was him, and the patience the whole internet had promised, and your hands.
“Hey,” you said softly, and ran your palms up the insides of his thighs, slow, soothing, just touch. “We've got all the time in the world. Green, yellow, red. And more if you want more and can't find the words. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice had already dropped. “Green.”
You reached for the lube – the absurd bunker-stocking quantity of it – and slicked your index finger thoroughly, warming it a moment between your fingers so it wouldn't be a cold shock, and then you brought it down to him and began, gently, to circle.
Just that, at first.
Just the lightest slick caress against the entrance of him, no pressure, no pushing, getting him used to the touch, to the strangeness of being touched there.
He tensed.
You felt it run through him – the involuntary clench, the way his whole body drew tight, his breath catching. Not pain; there was nothing to hurt yet. Just the instinct of it, the body's old reflex to guard a place it had never let anyone near, the nerves singing new, new, unknown.
His jaw had gone tight.
So you didn't push.
You'd read about this, and more than that you knew him, and you knew that the way through was never force. You brought your other hand up and wrapped it around his cock instead – warm and certain, the way he liked, the way you'd done a hundred times – and you stroked him, slow and sure, while your first finger just kept up its patient gentle circling, no pressure, only presence. You cupped his balls, rolled them gently in your palm, came back to stroke him again, easy and unhurried, giving his body something good and familiar to sink into.
And it worked. You watched it work. You watched the tension bleed out of him by degrees as the pleasure of your hand pulled his attention away from his nerves – watched his jaw loosen, his breath go long, his hips ease back down into the mattress.
The clench softened.
The guarding let go.
His eyes had slipped half-shut, his head tipping back, and the sound he made was low and unguarded as your fist worked him slow.
That was the moment. You felt it – the moment his body stopped bracing and went open and easy under your hands.
So you pressed.
Just the first knuckle.
Just the very tip of your finger, easing past the soft give of him, slow, watching his face the whole time.
Steve's eyes flew open and he swore – low, sharp, a word you'd rarely heard him use, punched out of him on a breath.
But you were watching, and you knew the difference, and it wasn't pain that put it there.
It was surprise, and underneath the surprise, fast and unmistakable, was want. His whole body had gone still and electric, his cock twitching in your hand, his eyes wide and dark and faintly stunned, like he'd braced for something to endure and found something else entirely.
“Okay?” you asked, holding perfectly still, your finger just barely in him.
“Yeah,” he breathed. It came out wrecked. “Yeah, that's– God, I didn't think it'd–”
He couldn't finish. His hips had gone tense again, but not away from you now.
Toward.
“Green. Very green. Keep– keep going.”
So you did.
You kept stroking him with your other hand, that steady reassuring rhythm, and you let your finger sink deeper by slow degrees, in time with it, pleasure and intrusion braided together so the one carried the other.
You went slow. You let his body learn it an inch at a time, pausing whenever you felt the slightest catch, never giving him anything to fight.
And his body kept opening, kept softening, kept welcoming you in – until your finger was seated fully inside him, all the way, and Steve was breathing hard and open-mouthed and had completely forgotten to be anything but undone.
And then his hips moved.
Small. Involuntary. A slow, helpless little roll, his body chasing the sensation of your finger and your fist both, asking for more without any words at all – and you saw the precise instant he realized he'd done it, saw the flush climb his throat, saw him almost catch himself and pull the control back in out of old habit.
“Don't,” you said softly, before he could. “Don't stop doing that. There's no points for holding still, remember? I want you to move. I want to see you like it.”
He made a sound – half a laugh, half something far more broken – and let himself do it again, that slow rolling chase of his hips, and the look on his face was so naked, so open, so far from the man who measured every word, that it caught you hard somewhere under the ribs.
He was letting you see it.
He was letting himself have it.
The man who gave and gave and gave, taking, finally, and learning that taking didn't cost him anything he couldn't bear to lose.
You worked him like that for a while, your finger moving slow inside him in time with the slow pull of your fist, until he'd gone loose and pliant and greedy, until the small sounds he made had stopped being polite, until you judged him ready for more.
You eased your finger out of him.
The sound he made was so plaintive it nearly undid you – a low wounded whine, his hips lifting after your hand, chasing the loss of it, his brow furrowing like you'd taken something that was his by right. Captain America, whining for your fingers.
You would carry that sound to your grave.
“Easy,” you soothed, half-laughing, leaning to press a kiss to the inside of his knee. “I'm right here. I'm coming right back. More, not less – I promise.”
You slicked your finger again, generously, and this time your middle finger with it, both of them, more lube than you could possibly need and then more on top of that.
And you brought them back to him and pressed them in together, slow, so slow, watching his face for the stretch of it – and there it was, the catch of his breath at the fuller pressure, his brow drawing tight, not pain but the strangeness of more, of being opened wider.
“Breathe,” you murmured. “Let me in. I've got you.”
You felt him do the deliberate work of it – felt him breathe, felt him choose to soften, felt his body unclench and open around the both of them.
“There. There you go. Look at you.”
Both fingers sank into him to the knuckle.
He was breathing in long shaking pulls now, flushed all down his chest, his hands fisted in the sheets, utterly past the point of bracing for anything. And once you were sure he'd taken them easy, once the stretch had settled into something he was riding rather than enduring, you began, gently, to curl them.
That slow beckoning motion.
Searching.
You'd read about exactly this, the angle, the place – you knew roughly where, and you went looking for it carefully, your fingertips stroking forward along the front wall of him, patient, attentive, watching his face like it was a map that would tell you the instant you…
There.
You knew the second you found it, because his whole body answered at once. His back arched clean off the mattress, his cock jumped untouched against his stomach, and the sound that tore out of him was nothing he decided to make – a broken, astonished oh, high and helpless, the sound of a man discovering a country inside himself he'd never once been allowed to visit.
“There it is,” you breathed, your own voice gone unsteady with it. You pressed again, just that spot, slow and deliberate, and watched him come apart a little more. “You feel that?”
“I–” His voice cracked clean in half.
His hand flew to your wrist and gripped, not to stop you – never to stop you – just to hold onto something as the floor went out from under him. His eyes found yours, wide and wet and stunned and shining.
“Yeah. Yeah, I feel– oh my God, what is– do that again.”
And the word he'd been too polite to ask for came out of him at last, ragged, unguarded, everything he was finally giving way to it, “More.”
You stayed there a while, two fingers curled deep and stroking that newfound place inside him in slow patient passes, your other hand keeping its steady rhythm on his cock – and Steve came apart by inches, his whole body strung tighter and tighter, his hips rolling helplessly into both your hands, the sounds spilling out of him gone shameless and unguarded in a way you'd never once heard from him.
And then his hand closed over your wrist – the one working him – and stilled it.
“Stop,” he gasped. “Stop, stop– not that, not the–” He swallowed, breathing hard, flushed all the way down his chest. “If you keep doing both I'm going to– I'm not going to last, and I don't want to finish before we've even–” His eyes found yours, wrecked and pleading and bright with want. “I want the real thing. Please. I'm too close. Just– let go of that part.”
“Okay.”
You eased your hand off his cock at once, gentle, and he shuddered at the loss and the relief both. You slowed your fingers inside him too, easing back, letting him hang there on the edge without tipping.
“Okay. We'll get you the real thing. Breathe.”
He breathed.
You watched him claw his way back down from the brink, watched the desperate tension ebb just enough, and when he'd steadied you slid your fingers out of him slow – and there it was again, that low plaintive sound, his body following the loss of you, before he caught himself and laughed, breathless and rueful, at his own greed.
“I know,” you murmured, smiling, leaning to kiss his trembling thigh. “I know. More, not less. We're getting there.”
You reached for the bottle again.
The two of you readied the part that would go into him – the shaft of the unit standing out from your body, slick and waiting – and Steve took the lube and warmed it in his hands first, mindful, thorough, and smoothed it down the length of it for you.
And the moment his hands closed around it and stroked, you felt it — not where his hands were, but deep inside you, the motion of his strokes traveling down the length of it and tugging at the bulb seated within you, each pass shifting it just enough — and a small startled sigh slipped out of you before you could catch it.
Steve went still. His eyes came up to yours, dark and suddenly fascinated.
“That– when I touch it, you feel that.”
“Not where you're touching,” you admitted, your voice gone a little unsteady. “But it's all one piece. You stroke it there, and it moves the part inside me. So yeah– I feel it. Just somewhere further down than your hands.”
Something shifted in his face at that – some new understanding of what you'd built together here, that this wasn't a thing happening to him in isolation but a thing happening between you, the two of you joined through it, neither able to move it without it moving you.
He stroked it once more, slow and deliberate, watching your face do exactly what it did at the far end of all that – and the heat in his expression deepened into something close to wonder.
“Pillow,” you managed. “Lift up for me.”
He did, planting his feet and raising his hips, and you tucked the pillow beneath him, angling him up the way the reading had promised would make it easy – make it good.
And then you knelt up between his spread thighs and lined yourself up against him, the slick head of it just resting at his entrance, not pushing, only there, and you stopped.
“Whenever you're ready,” you told him softly. The same words you'd given him three weeks ago in the dark, when this was only a thing he was afraid to want. “I'm not moving until you tell me. Your call. The whole way.”
He looked up at you.
And for a moment he didn't say anything – just looked, taking you in, the strange astonishing sight of you poised over him like this, of where the two of you had arrived together.
You watched the last of something leave his face.
The bracing. The old loud voice. Gone.
“Green,” he said. Quiet and certain. “Go ahead. I want you to.”
So you pressed in.
Slow.
So slow it was barely a motion at all, watching his face the entire time, reading every flicker of it.
You felt him breach – felt the give of him, the slick easy welcome you'd spent so long earning – and his breath went out of him sharp and shaking, his hands flying to your forearms and gripping.
You stopped at once. Held perfectly still, just the head of it inside him.
“Breathe,” you told him, the way he'd told you earlier, the way you'd traded back and forth all night. “Don't push against it. Just let go and let me in. I've got you. We've got all the time in the world.”
He breathed.
You watched him do the deliberate work of it – watched the tension bleed out of his jaw, watched him choose to soften, to trust, to let his own body open and take you.
And then he nodded, the smallest motion, and you eased forward another fraction, and another, pausing at each one, until – slowly, slowly, after a small patient eternity – you were seated fully inside him, the two of you joined in this new impossible way, your hips flush against him, his body taking all of you.
And you stopped there. You stayed. You gave him the time.
You braced your hands on either side of his head and lowered yourself down over him so your bodies pressed together all along their length, your foreheads nearly touching, and you waited – let him adjust, let him grow used to the fullness, let the strangeness keep softening into something else.
His chest heaved against yours.
His hands had come up to your back and were holding on.
And it struck you, hanging there over him, the whole picture of it: the reversal of every position you'd ever been in together. You above him now, him beneath you, taking you, looking up at you with his whole heart in his face. Your breath and his breath mixing in the small warm space between your mouths.
“Hi,” you whispered, idiotically, and he laughed – a wet, undone little laugh, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head.
“Hi,” he said. “This is– I can't believe we–”
He couldn't finish. He didn't need to. His eyes said it.
“You okay?”
“I'm so okay.” A breath. “Don't move yet. Just– let me feel it. Let me feel you there.”
So you held still, and let him feel it, the two of you breathing each other's air, until you felt the last of the tension go out of him and something hungrier take its place – felt his hips give the smallest involuntary lift, asking.
You'd left the remote within reach.
You took it now.
The little thing that held both your pleasures in the palm of one hand – and you'd decided, in the planning of all this, that you'd be the one to hold it first, that you'd be the one steering, the one in control, at least to start. You closed your fingers around it.
But before you touched a single button, you rolled your hips.
Just once.
An experimental motion, slow and shallow, the shaft moving inside him and the bulb moving inside you both at once, the whole connected length of it sliding through both your bodies in a single shared stroke.
Steve moaned. Low and broken, his head tipping back, his fingers flexing against your spine.
“That okay?” you asked, holding the remote, holding still again.
“Yes,” he breathed. “God yes.”
So you pressed the first button.
The lowest mode – continuous, gentle, a soft steady thrum – and you set it going inside him first, the motor in the shaft coming to life where it was seated deep in his body, against the place you'd found, and Steve's whole frame jolted, a strangled sound tearing out of him, his eyes going wide.
And then you turned on your own.
The bulb first, that low patient vibration blooming deep inside you where you held him – and you weren't ready for it, not really, and a moan slipped out of you, helpless and warm, your own hips stuttering against him.
Steve stared up at you.
Stunned. A little awed.
Like he'd never fully understood until this second that you were in this with him – that it wasn't a thing you were performing for his sake but a thing happening to you too, real and undeniable, written all over your face.
“You feel it too,” he said, wondering, his hands tightening on you. “Right now. You're–”
“Right now,” you confirmed, breathless, and rolled your hips again, and watched his eyes flutter, and felt the vibration sing through you both as you moved.
After that there were no more words for a while.
You found a rhythm, slow and deep and shared, and you kept your attention on him – that was the whole point of it, that was the gift you'd come here to give, and you watched his face the way you'd watched it all night, learning him, finding what undid him most.
The angle that made him gasp. The slow grind that made his hands fist in the sheets. The vibration thrumming steady against his prostate with every stroke, a thing you knew he had no defense against, building in him relentless and inescapable.
You leaned down and kissed him as you moved, swallowed his sounds, gave him your mouth and your weight and the steady devastating rhythm of your hips all at once.
And you watched him let go.
That was the thing – the real thing, the thing the whole long road had been for.
You watched the last of the control leave Steve Rogers entirely.
Watched the man who measured every word stop measuring. Watched the man who carried everyone, who stood in front, who'd spent ninety years certain that wanting this made him less – lie back beneath you and simply, finally, be carried. Be moved. Be taken. Be given to, fully, without a single thing held back.
His head went back against the pillow. His hands roamed your body like he couldn't get enough of touching you. The sounds he made were broken open and unashamed and yours alone, things no one else in the world had ever heard or ever would, and his eyes – when they found yours – were wet and bright and stunned wide open, ninety years of weight just gone out of his face.
“I've got you,” you told him, low, against his mouth, your hips never stopping. “I've got you. You don't have to hold anything. Just let me. Let me take care of you.”
“I can't–” His voice broke clean in half.
He was close, you could feel it, his whole body winding toward it, the vibration and the rhythm and the depth of you all conspiring.
“I can't last, I'm– it's too much, it's so much, I'm gonna–”
“Then come,” you breathed. “That's the whole point of tonight. Let go. I'm right here. Come for me, Steve.”
You thumbed the remote up one mode inside him – stronger, deeper – and pressed in to the hilt and ground against that place, and held there, and that was all it took.
It tore through him like nothing you'd ever watched move through a body.
His back arched clean off the bed, his cry breaking apart in the middle, and he came – untouched, just from this, just from you and the vibration and the place inside him he'd never been allowed to reach – spilling hot between your bodies in long helpless pulses while you held him through every one of them, your hips stilling, your mouth at his temple, murmuring him through it. There you are. There you are. I've got you. I've got you.
It went on and on, longer than you'd ever felt it take him, like everything he'd held back for ninety years was finally, all at once, allowed.
And then he was still. Boneless. Wrecked and shaking and gone soft beneath you, his chest heaving, tears tracking openly down into his hair, a dazed and disbelieving smile spreading slow across his ruined face.
You eased the vibration off inside him and drew yourself out of him with all the care you'd used to arrive – slow, gentle, watching for any wince.
There was none.
Just a shiver, a small lost sound at the loss of you, his hand reaching to keep you close.
“Hey,” you whispered, gathering him up, your own body still humming where the bulb thrummed quietly inside you – you'd left your own going, low, half-forgotten in the wake of watching him fall apart.
“Hey. You with me?”
He nodded against your throat. He couldn't speak yet. He just held onto you, his whole big frame trembling in the aftermath, his face buried in your neck, and you ran your fingers through his damp hair and held the full weight of him and let him come back to himself.
And then – before he could even properly catch his breath, before the shaking had fully stopped – you felt his hand move. Felt him reach, fumbling, blind, across the sheets.
For the remote.
“Steve–” you started, half-laughing. “You don't have to–”
“Yeah I do.” His voice was a wreck, hoarse and thick with everything, but underneath it was that old familiar steel, the thing in him that had never once in his life been able to take without giving back. He found the remote. Closed his fingers around it. Lifted his head from your neck and looked at you with eyes still wet and bright and now, suddenly, focused – a man with a mission.
“You think I forgot? You think I'm gonna lie here wrecked and let you just– no. Your turn. I've got you now.”
And he rolled you.
It took you by surprise, the strength of it even spent like he was – the easy way he turned the two of you, laid you back into the pillows, settled his weight half over you exactly the way he'd done a thousand times, the way he was made for, the way he loved. The man who'd just been taken apart, reassembling himself instantly into the thing he was happiest being: the one taking care of you.
“Lie back,” he said, low, against your ear. “Let me.”
He thumbed the remote, and the bulb came alive inside you – stronger now, that deep steady thrum blooming through you where it was seated, and you gasped, your hips lifting off the bed. And then he found the base of it, the part angled to sit against you, and pressed it flush to your clit with his big warm hand, and turned that one on too – the third motor, the one you'd barely let yourself think about while you were busy with him – and the dual sensation crashed through you, inside and out at once, and you cried out.
“There it is,” he murmured, echoing your own words back to you, pleasure and tenderness braided through the wreck of his voice.
He had the remote in one hand and the other was everywhere – your breast, your throat, holding the base against you just right, his mouth at your ear, your jaw, your neck.
“There it is. You took such good care of me. Let me. Let me give it back. I want to watch you, sweetheart, I want to see you go.”
And he worked you with it – the bulb thrumming deep, the base buzzing relentless against your clit, his hand and his mouth and his whole devoted attention bent entirely on your undoing.
He thumbed the vibration higher when he felt you climbing, read your body the way he read everything, by patient hungry attention to every gasp and lift and clench.
You were already wound so tight – you'd been on the edge for ages, half-forgotten, while you poured everything into him – and now there was nothing to do but feel it, nothing required of you at all but to let go, to let him.
“Steve–” you managed, your hips bucking, your hand fisting in the sheets. “Steve, I'm–”
“I know,” he breathed, fierce and tender, pressing the base harder against you, thumbing it up one more notch. “I know. I've got you. Let go for me. I'm right here. Come on, baby. Let me see it.”
And you broke.
It rolled through you in deep crashing waves, inside and out, the vibration drawing it out longer than you'd ever felt, your whole body drawn taut and shaking and then coming undone all at once while Steve held you through every second of it, his mouth at your temple now the way yours had been at his, murmuring you through it.
There you are. There you are. I've got you. I've got you.
Giving you your own words back, your own care back, the whole night folding closed into a perfect circle.
He eased everything off as you came down – the vibration dying away gentle, his hand gentling against you, his weight settling warm and solid alongside you as you shuddered through the last of it and went boneless into the sheets.
And then for a long while neither of you said anything at all.
You lay tangled in the wreck of the bed, his arm heavy and certain around you, your cheek on his chest, the slow tide of his heart steadying under your ear.
The toy lay quiet and forgotten somewhere in the sheets, the remote slipped from his loosened fingers.
Both your bodies hummed with the long warm aftershock of it.
“That,” Steve said finally, his voice still hoarse, still dazed, “was–”
He stopped.
You felt him searching for it, and not finding it, and you tipped your head up to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and shining and impossibly young, the youngest you'd ever seen them, and his smile was helpless and wide and a little disbelieving.
“I don't have the word,” he admitted.
“You don't need it,” you said, and reached up to brush the damp hair back off his forehead. “I was there. I know.”
He caught your hand and pressed a kiss into your palm, and held it there against his mouth, his eyes closing.
“I keep thinking about three weeks ago,” he murmured. “Circling that kitchen. Sure that if I asked you, you'd look at me different. And instead you–”
His voice thickened. He opened his eyes.
“You took such good care of me. And then you just let me take care of you right back, like it was nothing, like I wasn't lying there in pieces. You let me put it down and you let me pick it back up. Both. You let me have both.”
“That's the whole deal, Steve,” you said softly. “You get to put it down whenever you want. With me you always get to put it down. And you'll always get to pick it back up too, because giving's what you love, and I'm never going to take that from you.”
You pressed your forehead to his.
“Both. As often as you want. For as long as we've got.”
He breathed out, long and unwound, the very last of something he'd been carrying for ninety years finally, fully set down – and in the warm dark you felt him smile against your skin, the way you always could, the way it changed the whole air of him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Yeah.”
And he pulled you in against his chest, back to the way you'd started, his heartbeat slow and steady and unafraid beneath your ear – and the two of you lay there in the lamplight, spent and joined and changed, in some new place you'd found together, that neither of you would ever have to leave.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
WC: ~300
Warnings: Fluff | Super hot super soldier alert | Bucky exercising | Bucky seducing reader | Soft!dom Bucky vibes | Allusions to smutty times | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything!
A/N: My submission for June Jukebox Scribbles | Prompt: "I can't control myself" Song: Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace | @societynsoelsscribbles | Here ya go!✨🥹💞
Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist
Indulge Away!
Grunt.
You ignored it.
Grunt.
Ugh! It was taking everything in you to focus on the screen rather than those huffs and grunts. But to your dismay, it grew louder.
Grunt.
This time it was less of a grunt and more of a moan.
"BUCKY, CUT IT OUT," you snapped, spinning around in your chair.
He didn't stop. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow as he continued with his set, showing off the muscles rippling under his sweat-slicked skin.
"What am I doing?" he rumbled, his voice hitting the pulse in your pussy.
"That's it". You abandoned the work and strode toward him, eyes fixed on his chest. He looked practically lickable.
"Stop it. I'm trying to work," you whined, failing to mask the tremor in your voice.
Bucky set the weights down with a dull thud and stood to his full height, a smug, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I'm working out too, beautiful," he murmured, stepping into your space and leaning down until his breath hitched against your lips.
Your eyes narrowed, trying to summon a shred of resistance. "You could lift that entire couch single-handedly without breaking a sweat," you countered, poking a defiant finger into his chest. "You don't need to exert yourself this much."
Bucky caught your wrist, and before you could protest, his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "What's your point?"
You gasped, your resolve shattering. Every instinct urged you to pull away, but you were paralyzed by the scent of him.
"You're such a little shit, Buck," you groaned, your fingers finally giving in and tangling into his hair. "You know exactly what you're doing to me."
"Oh, I haven't done a thing to you yet, my love" he growled.
Before you could say another word, his mouth crashed onto yours. In one fluid move, he hoisted you up, forcing your legs to wrap around his torso as he claimed you completely.
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: You are tired, which is the norm for you nowadays, and share a sweet moment with Bucky.
Word Count: Over 1.8k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), stretch marks (they are beautiful), mention of serum, tiredness, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Lovelies, I have been exhausted for some time now and this popped into my head for Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You stretched out on the bed with a small sigh, ready to put the day to rest. It was peaceful in your room with no appointments or demands to take up your time. Bucky would join you once he shut everything off and double checked the locks. It was such a small domestic and protective thing and it brought a soft smile to your face.
This was your life. Your home. Your family.
You were already half asleep when Bucky settled behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You were surprised you weren’t out the moment your head hit the pillow. His arm slid around your waist automatically, his palm resting on your stomach protectively. He exhaled against your neck, his chest solid and warm against your back.
Everything felt right when he held you like that, his presence wrapping around you as naturally as the blanket keeping you warm.
“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his thumb brushing the curve of your belly like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. “Hmm. Just fine.”
The room felt more calm and quiet, like the world and time itself slowed down for the two of you.
Well, three of you.
“Not hungry?”
“You made sure we ate plenty,” you answered.
“Good.” Bucky nuzzled your skin, drawing a small laugh from you when his stubble tickled you. “And now you need rest.”
“That’s why I’m already in bed,” you teased.
“Good,” he said again.
The last few weeks had been chaotic. Not bad, thankfully, but busy in a relentless way. Appointments and every day life stacked on top of you until you felt stretched thin. Your energy seemed to go just as quickly as it came. Some days you felt like you were chasing the clock, always a step behind when your body was working overtime to accomplish everything. You just couldn’t seem to keep up.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, he did.
It was in the way his brows pinched when he looked at you, cataloguing every yawn and when your shoulders slumped. His voice softened whenever he said your name, the sound soothing when exhaustion seeped in. He began to carry you around without you asking, leaving no room for argument. He tried to take things off your plate, too, even when he had his own things to do.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this level, sweetheart.”
“Bucky, I’m pregnant. Being tired comes with the territory. That’s just how it is.”
You said that because you believed it. Because you had to be strong and prove you could handle it. Life wasn’t about to give you a pass because you two decided to have a baby.
But Bucky saw through that.
“I’m your husband and the father of our child. You can lean on me instead of trying to do it all by yourself. Just like I lean on you some days.”
The words carved their way into your heart and didn’t leave.
Because he was right. Some days when the world felt too heavy, he looked to you for support. You were there for him without question. And he was there for you, too.
It wasn’t out of obligation to give and take nor was it the kind of thing where you kept score. It was out of love and devotion, something that made you both stronger. Neither of you had to carry anything alone anymore.
The truth of that eased something in your chest you hadn't realized was there until you exhaled.
“Guess what?” he asked, his voice light and breaking through your thoughts.
“I thought I was supposed to be resting, not talking,” you replied, giggling again when his teeth nipped your skin. “Okay, okay. What?”
“We should be getting the pictures tomorrow.”
You smiled happily. “Really? That’s great!” you replied, your baby moving around as if they felt how excited you were.
A bright light within the business was the recent maternity photoshoot. The weather had been perfect, you wore a beautiful dress, and Bucky smiled so much in and out of the photos you were certain his cheeks ached. He already picked out the space on the wall where he wanted them hung up and there was an empty frame on his desk waiting for the right picture. He was so happy.
You both were.
“I know they’re going to be perfect,” he said quietly, chuckling under his breath. “And Sprout’s been busy today. Kicking like they’ve got somewhere to be.”
Your smile widened and you shifted just enough to press back against him. “I think they get that from you.”
Your baby must’ve picked up his old dancing skills because they did a fantastic number on your bladder earlier in the day.
At least you made it to the bathroom in time.
He huffed under his breath. “Hey. I was a perfectly calm kid.”
You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to give him a look over your shoulder. He smiled and your heart beat faster. His blue eyes softened when his fingers traced your belly again, touching one of your stretch marks through your shirt. He traced it like it was something sacred.
You both bore life-changing marks on your skin, your bodies telling stories that only the two of you would ever fully read.
“You keep touching them,” you whispered, not accusingly. More like awe.
“I do,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck and shifting your body so you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. “I know you don’t think they’re pretty, but they’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
You blinked, only semi-surprised. “Really?”
Bucky always found a way to make you feel beautiful and desired. Whether it was through his actions or words, he never wanted you to doubt yourself or how much he craved you. You were certain he would do that for the rest of your lives. But since you got pregnant, he took it to another level of worship.
Not that you would ever complain about having his attention and focus.
“I mean it. Your body is changing because our baby is growing and it’s so beautiful. We made this. You and me.” His fingers moved again, tracing each mark with intention. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Stuff I wish I could forget. But this?” He let out a shaky breath, his hand pausing to cradle your stomach tenderly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”
Your throat tightened. Your eyes watered. Damn hormones kept making you emotional. Except it wasn’t the hormones at all. It was just you in love with this man.
A man who loved you and your baby with his entire being.
“How are you so perfect?” you asked.
His nose scrunched when he laughed, the sound making your heart feel full. “Sweetheart, I’m so fucking far from perfect.”
You took his face in your hands, refusing to let him think of himself as anything less . “Bucky Barnes, listen to me.”
“I always listen,” he swore, solely focused on you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
It took you a second to speak since having his full attention was overwhelming in the best way. “You are the best husband and provider. And not just because you fix the sink and bring me ice cream and validate my feelings when I’m insecure. You love, take care of, and respect me. You remind me that I don’t have to go it alone,” you said, your gaze affectionate when he leaned into your touch. “And I know you’ll be the perfect father.”
“You think so?” he asked after a moment, his voice thick.
“I know so,” you said.
He quickly closed the small gap between you, kissing you so deeply that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Thank you.”
Your heart beat wildly. “You have nothing to thank me for,” you said, your face twisting at the particularly hard kick in your stomach and making Bucky frown slightly. “Our baby really is a mover.”
Along with his dancing skills, you guessed your baby would have his agility and strength. You were thankful they hadn’t kicked through your stomach. Your husband may have gone off on someone who suggested it could be a possibility thanks to the serum. They hadn’t looked you in the eye since, much to your better half’s satisfaction.
No one would ever look out for you more than him.
“Hey, Sprout. Your Mama’s been working extra hard lately. Growing you takes a lot out of her.” The fondness in his voice was enough to make a tear fall. “She’s magical and stronger than I’ll ever be, but we need to make sure she gets enough rest for both of you. Maybe we can start with gentler kicks? Can you do that?”
The kick under his palm was much softer, like they understood.
His eyes lit up and your chin wobbled. He looked so happy. You knew some days he still couldn’t believe he got to have this, but no one deserved it more.
“They really can understand me,” he said in awe.
“Of course, they do.”
They loved the sound of his voice.
“Thank you, Sprout,” he whispered, sliding down the bed enough to kiss your stomach. “You get some rest, okay? We love you.”
You sniffled when he moved back up to hold you again, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. “And did you, a super soldier, seriously call me strong? And magical?” you asked so you wouldn’t ugly sob from how sweet he was being.
“You are strong and magical. Sprout agrees,” he said gently but firmly before he kissed your tear away. “But even the strong and magical need rest.”
You stifled a yawn, your eyes slipping shut. You did need the rest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He nuzzled your neck again and kept you close. “I love you both so much.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “We love you, too.”
“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this,” he admitted quietly. “You. Sprout. All of it.”
Your hand covered his and your baby rolled beneath his palm, both of you leaning into him and seeking to comfort him before his thoughts spiraled. “You already have,” you assured him. “Trust us.”
You and Bucky built a life and home together, one that he more than deserved. You were partners in life and love. That love extended to your baby and would only continue to grow.
Tonight you didn’t have to think of anything beyond the walls of your bedroom. You could simply rest in his arms and let everything else be. And he’d watch over you while you slept like the hero he was.
And a man in love.
I hope you lovelies all have enough spoons, get the rest you need, and have someone to lean on. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
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Warnings: Bucky Barnes (yup!), established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex (be safe, lovelies!), oral sex, mention: breeding kink, anal, cockwarming and other kinks, neediness, fluff if you squint really hard (hard like Bucky’s cock)
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Horny!Bucky who has needs but isn’t interested in random flings. He’s content to use his hand to get off.
Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you.
Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.
Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.
Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.
Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.
Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.
Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.
Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.
Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.
Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you.
Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you.
Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.
Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.
Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again.
Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him
Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful
Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.
Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.
Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.
Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.
Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you.
Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.
Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated.
Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?
Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return.
Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.
Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.
Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same.
Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically.
Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.
Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his.
Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will.
Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.
Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason.
Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.
Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.
Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.
Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️
Pairing: Janitor!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky reflects in the quiet of his home and debates if he should text you or not.
Word Count: Over 2k
Warnings: Insecurities, longing, loneliness, overanalyzing, implied PTSD, service dog, term of endearment (sweetheart), Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
Previous Part of Beneath the Surface: After the Bell
A/N: More Beneath the Surface with our soft-spoken janitor! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was quiet when Bucky got home, the kind he was used to and normally looked forward to. But tonight felt too quiet. There was no laughter, no one there to greet him since he lived alone. His chest tightened as the silence surrounded him. It was nights like this when he remembered how lonely he was.
Then he thought of your smile and the knot in his chest loosened.
He set his keys in the bowl as Bear padded in behind him, his nails clicking gently along the floor. He shrugged out of his coat a little slower than usual, almost like he was lost in thought. Maybe he was since your phone number was in his pocket and he still couldn’t believe you had given it to him.
“I’m really glad you stopped by my classroom tonight.”
Bucky smiled to himself. He was used to most of the teachers and staff not paying much attention to him since he began working at the school. They weren’t rude by any means. They just… overlooked him.
He didn’t mind it most days. It didn’t stop him from taking his job seriously and doing it well. The kids were nice to him and they adored his gentle giant of a dog. It made the days a little easier. Not perfect, but not bad either.
Then you showed up with your warm smile, making a point to acknowledge him. He was certain he stared at you like an idiot because he hadn’t known how to respond to your kindness. It didn’t fade after that initial meeting. You kept smiling and always greeted him, making him feel a little less invisible. It made him believe he was something special in your eyes.
But why would he be?
A weary sigh escaped before he could stop it. He wouldn’t say he had a low opinion of himself. He was conventionally attractive by some standards and didn’t have a bad personality. But he didn’t have the same charm he possessed when he was younger.
Things happened.
He changed.
Everything changed.
He wondered what you would’ve thought of him if you knew him then.
Bear brushed against his leg when he stood there longer than necessary, making him blink. “Sorry,” he muttered.
He bent down, his hands moving on autopilot to remove his boots and give Bear an extra pet. He was a steady and patient companion, always staying close. He really was great with the kids, a calm presence in the chaos. It shouldn’t have come to a surprise to him that his dog liked you, too.
Bucky moved to the couch and sat down, his eyes sweeping across the room. His place was functional and comfortable, but without bursts of color or brightness. Even the blanket draped over the cushion beside him was dark.
His home felt bigger at night. Emptier. He shook the thought away, reminding himself that he had a lot to be thankful for, like his health. Regular exercise kept him in shape. He had a roof over his head and food in his stomach, which was more than a lot of people had. He had good friends in his life and Bear. And now he had you.
At least, he hoped he did.
He took the post-it note out of his pocket slowly, like it might disintegrate if he wasn’t careful. He traced the curve of one of the numbers with his thumb. Your phone number. You really gave it to him.
And you wrote it down with one of the pens he left for you.
He almost didn’t stop by your classroom today. Not because he didn’t want to see you, but because he didn’t want to intrude. Not only did you welcome him into your space, you seemed to enjoy him being there. Your company both soothed and excited him.
Bear climbed on the couch and stared at Bucky.
“She said I could call,” he said, tracing the number again. “Didn’t say I should tonight.”
Bear tilted his head.
“It’s too soon,” he whispered. “I don’t wanna look desperate.”
His dog huffed softly.
“Don’t huff at me like that. I haven’t done this in a while, and I don’t wanna mess it up.” He swallowed hard. “Not with her.”
He hadn’t let himself want anything in so long. It was easier that way. It was less of a risk of being too much or not enough for someone. He really didn’t want to ruin something good before it even started.
His eyes shut. You deserved someone uncomplicated. Not a man who woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat with his heart pounding. Not someone who needed a dog to remind him to breathe when he was triggered.
But he wanted to try.
Bear shifted close and rested his head on Bucky’s knee, whining as if he sensed the inner struggle.
“She smiled when she gave me her number and she looks forward to me stopping by,” he said quietly, sinking his fingers into the dog’s fur. “So, maybe a text tonight wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
His heart skipped a beat at the thought of you checking your phone, waiting to hear from him.
He could already imagine reactions from Steve and Sam if they knew he was mentally stressing over sending a text message. Steve, his best friend since childhood, would encourage him with a gentle smile to reach out. Sam, a friend he made later in life through Steve, would bust his balls in the “friendliest” of manners until he sent the text. Both of them want him to be happy.
He wanted the same for his best friends.
Bucky exhaled and reached for his phone, the device feeling heavier than normal in his hand. His thumb hovered over the screen until Bear nudged his hand. “Okay, okay,” he muttered.
He typed in your phone number and checked it twice to make sure he entered it correctly. He swallowed, carefully typing a short message. It was just a text. There was no reason to feel so nervous.
“Hey. It’s Bucky.”
He stared at the message. It was direct. It would let you know it was him. But it felt a little bland.
He deleted it and started over.
“Hi. It’s Bucky. Just wanted to say hi. Did you get home okay?”
That was better. Considerate. But asking a question implied that you’d have to answer, which might seem a little overbearing and he didn’t want you to feel obligated to reply. And he said “hi” twice.
He deleted that message, too.
“Hey. It’s Bucky. Thanks for letting me hang out with you after school.”
His face scrunched up. Hang out after school? It made it sound like you were kids instead of adults.
“Why is this so difficult?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
There was nothing wrong with any of his texts. He needed to stop overanalyzing and just send something. Anything.
“Hey. It’s Bucky. Thanks for today. Talking with me and letting me walk you to your car. I hope you made it home safely. And I’m really glad I stopped by.”
His heart raced as he read the message to Bear. “Is that too much?”
His tail thumped, which he took as his cue that it was just fine.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’m hitting send.”
The sound of the message being sent sounded loud in the quiet space.
Bucky immediately tossed the phone on the coffee table. “That’s it,” he said, his knee bobbing. “I’m not looking at it.”
He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, his knee continuing to bob impatiently. He did that for about five seconds before he grabbed his phone again. Disappointment filled him when the screen stayed dark before he scoffed.
“Idiot. It’s been five seconds,” he mumbled.
He once went through hell that many didn’t know about, but waiting for a text response was a special kind of torture.
Jesus, if Steve and Sam could only see him right now, gripping his phone like a lifeline.
“She has a life,” he reminded himself when the screen continued not to light up. “She could be making dinner or grading more papers…”
He sat up straighter, remembering the snow globes on your desk while you graded papers. His attention had been on you when you shook one, your smile making his heart flutter. It was so beautiful. Everything about you was.
He tapped the screen, not to check for a text this time. He opened a browser and typed in “gift shops near me”. Supporting local businesses was important to him, and you did say it was okay if he gave you a snow globe. Maybe he could take a look over the weekend.
“What am I doing? I haven’t even asked her on a date yet,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth lifting when his dog nudged his thigh. “I don’t want to get her something she already has.”
He couldn’t get you just any snow globe. It had to be something special. Something… well, like you.
Just the thought of you smiling at something he chose for you, your eyes soft and warm and-
The phone buzzed in his hand.
He almost dropped it, his heart leaping to his throat when he saw your number pop up. You messaged him. You messaged him back.
Bear lifted his head and stared at it, too, understanding that it was important.
“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, heart continuing to race when he opened the message, eagerly reading every word.
“Hey, Bucky! I was hoping to hear from you. Yes, I made it home safely. Thanks again for today, too. I hope your night’s going well so far!”
He was still absorbing your words when another message popped up.
“I still have a little bit more work to do, but texting you is more fun.”
A slow, disbelieving smile crossed his face before he softly chuckled. You hoped to hear from him. You wanted to text him. It helped melt his nerves away.
“She wanted to hear from me,” he told Bear, who nudged his hand in response.
He felt much lighter as he replied.
“Night’s not too bad so far. Quiet. I hope the rest of your work goes by fast. Always happy to text or provide a distraction.”
He snapped a quick photo of Bear and sent it.
“He’s happy to distract you, too.”
Bucky chuckled again. Steve and Sam would be proud of him for using his dog to flirt a little. Hell, he was proud of himself for taking a step to put himself out there.
He barely set the phone down when it buzzed again. It surprised him how quickly you messaged him, but he saw it as a good sign. Maybe you were like him, looking at the phone and waiting.
“Oh, my goodness! Hi, Bear! What a wonderful distraction. Please, give him a pet for me.”
He pet the dog’s head and ran his fingers through his fur. “This pet is from her. You’re a wonderful distraction.”
His tail thumped hard enough to shake the cushion.
“Bear appreciates the pet and praise.” He hesitated before adding another line. “I’ll let you get back to work, but I’m here if you need anything, sweetheart.”
Bucky’s heart sank when he hit send. He didn’t want to take up your time if you had other things to do. Maybe he shouldn’t have added “sweetheart” to that. He still couldn’t believe he said that earlier. It was too much.
“I appreciate that, Bucky. I’m here if you need anything, too.”
He reread the message three times, a kind of warmth settling over him that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He leaned back against the cushion. He’d have to get up eventually to feed himself and Bear, but he was taking in the quiet again. It didn’t feel lonely anymore. It felt hopeful.
You did that.
And he was going to find you the perfect snow globe.
to anyone who has read baby-girl-69 (even those who haven’t, at this point I need as many opinions as I can gather) can you please tell me if you enjoyed the daddy kink? because I’m not enthusiastic about it in general.
for those who don’t know what this is about, it’s a silverfox!bucky x cam girl!reader mini series, and he’s very insecure and pretty shy about the whole cam girl thing. he wants to take care of his lover yes, but now that I’m rewriting it, he just doesn’t strike me anymore as someone who enjoys being called daddy. even if he is the one throwing money and gifts at her, and gently ordering reader around.
I know some don’t want/like to comment, so I’ll leave a poll, but I am also curious about eventual options. I don’t like sir, nor master. maybe sergeant? since he was in the army? I don’t know, daddy seems like the safest, most logical option, but I’m just not 100% sure.
Pairing: Janitor!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Female Reader
Summary: The school janitor stops by your classroom after the final bell of the day and you are smitten.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Light flirting, fluff, sweetness, longing, attraction, service dog, term of endearment (sweetheart), cold weather, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: In contrast to our Diamond in the Rough trailer park neighbor, let me introduce you to our Beneath the Surface soft-spoken janitor! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The final bell of the day rang, gently echoing in your classroom and the hallway. Your students jumped up with the kind of energy that only children seemed to possess. Chairs scraped the floor, kids scrambled for their backpacks, and their cheerful voices overlapped as they made their way to the door. It was a wonderful kind of chaos.
And you?
You just smiled.
Being new to the area and school, you worried about how the kids would take to you, but they were great and most of the parents were patient and understanding. You were lucky, as it made the transition much smoother than you anticipated.
You moved through the room like a calm center of gravity, making sure everyone had what they needed before they left for the day. “Have a good evening. And don’t forget your projects for tomorrow!”
Moving to the doorway, you stood and watched as they filed out into the hall. It was your little ritual of care, making sure to give them smiles and little waves before they disappeared around the corner. You exhaled a warm, soft sigh once the last child was out of sight and leaned against the doorway. It wasn’t out of annoyance or feeling overwhelmed, but a happy kind of tiredness that came from doing something you loved.
You walked back to your desk and settled into your chair, another sigh escaping. The room was peaceful and quiet now, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the blinds. You pulled the small stack of papers toward you, hoping to get some grading done before you went home. But just as you grabbed your pen, there was a gentle knock on the doorframe.
And you lost your breath when you saw who was standing there.
“Everything good in here?” Bucky asked, his voice warm and low.
Bucky Barnes, the quiet janitor with the intense steel eyes that seemed to see everything. He stood there in his usual work shirt and pants that always stretched across his broad chest, shoulders, and thighs. His size and stare should’ve intimidated you, but it didn’t since he was polite to you from the start.
“You ever need anything, just let me know.”
You smiled softly. You made it a point to always say hi when you passed by or saw him. He looked blindsided the first time you acknowledged him, like he was used to people ignoring him. But you noticed him. You heard him hum old tunes to himself when he mopped the floors at night and took note of how he fixed things, like light fixtures, before anyone needed to ask. And you had a feeling it was him that left a pack of your favorite pens on your desk after you lost one.
And while he didn’t say much to you in the hallways outside of the polite “hello” in return or offering a soft smile, he always stopped by your classroom to check in. You appreciated that. He was a good man.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied.
He leaned slightly against the frame, his toolbelt and key ring hung low on his hips, and tucked his hair behind his ear in an unhurried motion. His gaze drifted over the classroom, the warm colors and decorations, and then back to you, softer than before. You stared back because you couldn’t help yourself. The beefy man with the soft smile made your heart skip a beat.
“Long day?” he asked, tilting his head and studying you like he already knew the answer.
“A good day,” you answered with a small smile. “A little tiring, but still good.”
You weren’t used to people noticing when you were tired.
He smiled faintly in return, like he understood days like that. “Saw your class rush down the hall like a mini stampede,” he said, nodding to the stack of papers. “They giving you a run for your money?” he asked gently.
Your eyebrows shot up, the small talk surprising you. What was nice was the genuine tone and the look in his eyes. He wasn’t just asking for the sake of asking. “They are chaos and balls of energy in tiny shoes, but they’re great.”
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
He huffed a small laugh. “That they are,” he agreed, shifting his weight. “They adore you, you know.”
Warmth spread across your cheeks. “I don’t know about that, but thanks.”
It meant a lot to hear that.
“It’s the truth,” he said, scratching the light stubble on his chin when a comfortable silence stretched. “You sure you don’t need anything? I could… help carry stuff to your car.”
Your gaze flickered to your bag. It wasn’t heavy in the slightest. “I think I can manage,” you said out of habit, used to doing things on your own.
Bucky’s eyes flickered with disappointment, but he masked it quickly. It lasted only for a second, but your heart broke anyway because you caught it. You weren’t trying to brush him off when he was only looking for a reason to linger. It was sweet. Flattering.
“But,” you continued, his head lifting in what you guessed was anticipation. “If you wouldn’t mind walking me to my car when I’m finished grading these papers, I’d really appreciate it.” You gestured to the clock. “Unless you’re busy or have to go. I understand.”
You didn’t want to intrude on his time.
He locked eyes with you and you caught his shock before his gaze softened. The faint tension in his jaw eased and he stood taller. It was the slow, warm smile that had your heart skipping a beat because you hadn’t once seen him smile at anyone else in the building like that. It was a small gift with no wrapping or bow.
“Yeah,” he said barely above a whisper. “I can do that.”
He stepped a little further into the room slow enough, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed and to give you the chance to tell him to go. His worn boots quietly padded across the floor when you didn’t ask him to leave. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close enough that you felt his steady presence and could smell the subtle clean aroma. It was nice.
The keys clinked when he hooked a thumb into one of the belt loops and you forced your eyes up. You refused to look at his thighs or hands, and you definitely didn’t pay attention to the way the belt tugged at his hips. You were a teacher. You needed to maintain some professionalism.
But you were also a woman attracted to a very handsome man.
“You sure you don’t mind me being here?” he asked.
“I don’t mind at all,” you promised, nodding to one of the bigger chairs. “And you can sit if you want. You don’t have to stand guard.”
He quietly took a seat near your desk, still close without hovering, and you felt his eyes on you as you graded. You snuck a couple of glances at him, your cheeks hot when you noticed he hadn’t looked away. Your grip tightened on your pen, but his observant stare didn’t make you feel uneasy. His attention had butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
“You, uh…” He trailed off when you lifted your head, but his gaze wasn’t on you anymore. It was on the corner of your desk instead where a few snow globes sat. “You collect those?” he asked eventually, his voice soft like he was afraid the question might be invasive. Too personal.
“I have a few.” You picked one up with a smile and showed him. “One of my best friends got me this one before I moved here.”
You gently shook it, the glitter inside swirling around the iridescent snowflake. Snow globes were always beautiful to you. They were mini worlds filled with magical stories, sometimes nostalgic, and always full of wonder.
His expression gentled more. “Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on you again.
You set it down carefully, your face warm. He said it so quietly you wondered if he meant the snow globe or you. “Do you like snow globes?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light and not give away how fast your heart raced.
You wondered who Bucky was outside of his job. Did he have hobbies or collect anything? Did he listen to music in his home or did he prefer the quiet?
The very curious part of you wondered what his love life was like. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone special in his life. Your heart sank at the thought. If he did have someone special though, would he look at you the way he did? Or were you building something up in your mind for no reason at all?
He shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in the chair that still looked a bit too small for him. “Never had one, but I like them. They’re peaceful.”
“Peaceful. That’s a good way to put it,” you echoed gently, running a finger along the base of another snow globe. “They make me happy, too.”
He hummed low. “It’s nice that you have things that make you happy,” he said, his tenderness almost disarming you. “You deserve that.”
Your breath caught, the stack of unfinished papers forgotten. His sincerity framed itself in a way that felt intimate. “Thank you,” you whispered, your stomach flipping.
His lips curled in a small smile before his brows pinched. “Can I…” He absentmindedly ran a thumb along his belt. “I mean, if I ever saw a snow globe that reminded me of you…” He rubbed the back of his neck next. “Would it be okay if I got it for you?”
Your heart stuttered. “You… You’d do that?”
The soft-spoken man who cleaned up and fixed things without making a show of it wanted to get you something?
He nodded after a moment and shifted again. “Yeah. If you’d want that,” he answered, his tone casual while his body language said otherwise. It was endearing.
You made sure he was looking in your eyes when you said, “I’d love that.”
The room seemed brighter, warmer, and he slowly exhaled as he relaxed in his seat. Seeing the relief in his frame tugged at something deep in your chest. You wondered if he realized he had just given you a small piece of his heart.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll keep an eye out then.”
You smiled and picked your pen up again. Neither of you said anything for a few minutes, the only sound being the quiet hum of the classroom lights and your pen moving across the papers. It was a comfortable kind of stillness.
“You really don’t… mind me being here?” he asked quietly when you got to the last sheet. It felt like he was asking about being in your presence versus your classroom.
“I really don’t mind,” you promised, tucking the stack into your folder. “Do you think I would?”
You hoped you didn’t give that sort of impression.
He shook his head quickly before he lowered it. “No, it’s just…” His fingers curled on his thigh. “I’m just a janitor.”
If your heart could’ve physically broken, it would’ve then and there. “You’re not just anything,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “But-”
You held up a hand to stop him and leaned forward on your desk. “Bucky, I know we haven’t known each other for too long, but you help everyone around here. You fix things before they break. You check on people even when no one notices. You’re kind. You pay attention.” Your voice dropped to almost a whisper. “And you treat me with more gentleness than most people I’ve known.”
Color rose to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to be nice to me.”
Whatever was left of your heart shattered into tiny pieces. “I’m not nice out of pity,” you said, shaking your head. “I like when you stop by. I look forward to it.”
He went still. “You do?” he asked, his voice rough.
You gave him a small smile. “I do.”
His breath hitched a fraction, and it was enough for you to notice. When he looked at you again, it wasn’t guarded or unsure. The softness was still visible, of course, but it was more open and a little overwhelmed. It was the kind of look that made your heart skip a beat.
“Thank you,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “Means more than you know.”
“And I know it was you who left me that pack of pens, so thank you.”
He chuckled, his cheeks deepening in color. “I, uh… Yeah, I did.”
You giggled, standing up to grab your coat and bag. “It’s my favorite brand. It was a nice surprise seeing them there.”
He got to his feet and carefully put the chair back where it was. “Yeah, I…” He looked anywhere but at you. “I may have heard you muttering under your breath that you couldn’t believe you lost it. Figured a new pack might help.”
You bit your lip. He really did pay attention. “It really did help,” you promised.
It made you whole day.
“It was nothing.” He watched attentively as you slipped your coat on. “Still want me to walk you to your car?”
“If you’re still willing.”
His lips twitched before a lopsided grin appeared on his face. “I am. Just need to grab my coat.” He hesitated in the doorway when he got there. “Would you mind if I brought Bear? I don’t like leaving him in the building when I'm not inside.”
You nodded. “Of course, you can.”
You had seen the gentle giant of a service dog from time-to-time. The kids loved him. You weren’t sure of the exact reasons Bucky had him, but it wasn’t your business.
He nodded back in thanks and left while you locked up. You weren’t even halfway down the hall when he came back in a worn coat with Bear beside him, and a giddy feeling filled you at the thought of him rushing back to see you. He scratched behind the dog's ear and your heart melted.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, softer than he spoke even with you. “We’re gonna walk her out, okay?”
Bear’s tail thumped once when he looked at you, a wag that felt like a welcome. You carefully crouched down to greet him. “Am I allowed to pet him?” you asked, knowing better than to assume.
“Sure.”
You held your hand out so Bear could sniff it, letting him decide if he wanted you to pet him or not. He nudged it, allowing you to touch his thick fur. “Hey. You’re a good boy,” you whispered. He gave off calm energy. No wonder Bucky trusted him.
He glanced between you two, a mix of tenderness and shock. “He likes you,” he said. “He’s really gentle with kids, but he doesn’t always warm up to adults right away.”
You smiled up at him. “Well, I consider it an honor then. He’s very sweet.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes lingering on you.
Bear nudged his hand, a subtle check-in. His fingers slid through his fur like second nature, and you saw the tiniest bit of tension leave his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked when you stood up. He held his hand out and it took you a moment to realize he was wordlessly asking to carry your bag.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Your fingers touched when you handed it over and you inhaled, wondering if he felt the jolt, too.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice as comforting as the coat surrounding you.
You fell in step beside Bucky with Bear on his other side, your footsteps echoing gently on the polished floor. Bucky’s keys jingled every few steps, a small sound you’d come to associate with him. He walked with you instead of in front of or behind you, his pace matching you. He was close enough that you could hear the shift in his coat when he adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“You know, most people can’t wait to get out of here at the end of the day, but you don’t seem to mind staying a bit later,” he commented, sneaking a glance at you.
“The quiet gives me a chance to decompress just a little before I head home,” you said, where there was more quiet since you lived alone. “You don’t seem to mind either.”
“Kinda like you, I guess. Building’s quieter and it makes it easier to process my thoughts.” He pet Bear again and added after a beat, “I like the quiet.”
“I do, too,” you said, smiling. “It balances out the wonderful chaos of the day.”
Before you could reach for the side door, Bucky stepped in front of you to open it. You smiled to yourself at the gesture. The crisp, cold air hit you immediately once you stepped outside and you took a moment to admire the soft blue sky. You shivered and felt guilty that he offered to walk you out in the cold, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
“I’m right over here.” You pointed to a small car, one of the only ones left in the parking lot.
His boots crunched on some of the leftover salt and he put an arm at your lower back. “Just making sure you don’t fall,” he said almost to himself instead of you.
“I appreciate that.”
He cleared his throat and gently pulled Bear along when he sniffed the ground. “I meant to ask before, but what made you want to be a teacher?”
“Oh.” He sounded genuinely curious. “My answer might be cliche.”
“Try me,” he teased.
You got quiet, thinking back to your childhood. “I’ve always loved learning growing up. I constantly had a book in my hand and I always asked questions about subjects that excited me.”
“And your teachers encouraged you, didn’t they?” he guessed.
“They did. They helped keep that passion of learning alive.” It meant a lot to you when you were a kid. “And I realized I wanted to do the same thing. I want kids to grow, learn, and thrive, even when my parents said there was no ‘real money’ in teaching.”
He gazed at you in awe. “That’s really admirable,” he whispered.
“Thanks,” you whispered back, tilting your head. “How did you become a janitor?”
He smiled wistfully. “I’ll tell you when you aren’t shivering,” he promised, lowering his arm once you got to your car and Bear taking a seat beside him. “I’ll tell you about how I got him, too.”
You nodded and took your bag back, wishing you had an excuse to stick around. You wanted to hear his story if he was really willing to tell you. “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, giving his dog a smile. “Both of you.”
His nose nudged your hand again and Bucky smiled. “I’m glad you let us,” he said, shifting a bit on his feet like he didn’t want you to go just yet either.
You fiddled with your keys to steel your nerves. “Bucky?”
He looked at you expectantly. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, feeling much warmer despite the chill in the air. “I’m really glad you stopped by my classroom tonight.”
“I’m glad I did, too,” he murmured.
You bit your lip and dug into your bag until you found a pen and a post-it note, using your car as a flat surface to quickly jot down your number. “Here. Just in case you ever want to chat or anything outside of school hours.”
You blamed the cold for your shaky hand when you handed it over. There was nothing in the rules that staff couldn’t date, but you didn’t want to put any pressure on him or make him uncomfortable. You already felt like you were prying by asking about his profession.
His mouth fell open when he read it, staring at it like it wasn’t real. Did you make a mistake? Should you take it back?
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately. “You don’t have to call or anything. You could be seeing someone and I-”
“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” he cleared up right away. You sighed in relief, thankful that you didn’t shoot your shot at a taken man. “I’m just… Shit, I’m surprised you want me to have your number.”
“Well, I do.” Just like you wouldn’t be nice to him just because, you wouldn’t hand your number out either. “And I’m not seeing anyone either,” you added, answering before he could ask.
He swallowed hard and carefully tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll call you.”
“Great.” Your smile lit up your face, and Bear looked between you two like a happy guardian. You were looking forward to it. “And if you stopped by again tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind.”
He nodded, tucking his hair back with a smile of his own. “I will.”
Bear whined quietly. “You’re allowed to stop by, too, Bear,” you assured him, giggling when his tail wagged.
“He really does like you,” Bucky whispered. It seemed to mean a lot to him, and it meant a lot to you, too.
Your heart fluttered when he stepped back enough to let you open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Bucky.”
“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered, the endearment surprising you both. It sounded so natural coming from him. “Sorry. That…”
“No, I… I like it,” you promised, putting your hand on his arm. You felt that jolt again and the hitch in his breath told you he felt it, too. “Good night, Bucky.”
He didn’t walk away when you started the car, staying rooted to the spot with Bear faithfully beside him as you pulled away. He lifted a hand to wave, and you waved back, giggling softly to yourself. It was an unexpected turn of events, which thrilled you.
Because Bucky Barnes was going to change your life for the better.
I know, I know. Another Bucky. But isn't he the sweetest? How long before he calls? What's his story?
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Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader (Husband!Steve)
Word Count: 770
Summary: A moment of domestic bliss turns into something more when you spend some time admiring Steve's perfect little tummy.
Author's Note: This is for day 20 of Navy an Roo's @the-slumberparty Candy Hearts Challenge and the heart: angel and the prompt: when they're so perfect there must be something wrong with them. I went more with the whole angel thing- because of course everything about Steve is in fact perfect- including that little tummy we got a glimpse of! Thank you ladies for hosting and thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️
Warnings: it's super soft and sweet but the tension builds and then we get some smutty fun, fingering, it's implied more is happening after- Steve's tummy is the star though and starts it all
Steve Harrington Masterlist
This perfection below is NOT mine and is a big thanks to @onlyharrington
It’s just another Saturday morning. You’re standing in the kitchen, the newly risen sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains, dancing off the plastic magnets scattered across your refrigerator and the smell of toast filling the air.
Steve’s leaning against the counter, talking about today’s upcoming baseball game, smiling, hands articulating each word, and his hair in its signature tussled style. His fitted camo shirt hugs him just enough to show the gentle curve of his stomach when he relaxes and your gaze lingers.
Your eyes finally lift when you notice he’s stopped talking, his own eyes zeroing in on where yours were just focused. He wipes at an imaginary stain then looks back up with drawn in brows.
“Something on my shirt baby?” he asks.
You step closer, clear of judgement but full of unmistakable affection and rest your head against his chest, your hand settling on his midsection. The fabric of his shirt is soft and warm, and beneath that his tummy is the same, rising slightly with each breath.
He laughs, a little-self conscious at first, but you hold him tighter and he rests his hand over yours, habitually rubbing the pad of his thumb over the dainty gold band on your left ring finger.
“Nope,” you say sweetly. “I just love you in this shirt.”
Your fingers splay and you smooth your palm along his stomach, slipping your hand under the fabric to tease your fingertips through the soft trail of hair below his belly button. He tenses under your ticklish touch, his playful growl making you giggle.
With your hands still teasing at his middle, the energy between you quietly shifts. It’s unspoken and when he catches your wrists gently, it’s not to stop you, but to guide you up onto the countertop, his body now resting between your spread legs.
His hands slide beneath the hem of your nightgown, exploring with an unhurried tenderness that makes your breath hitch and goosebumps trail his fingers. The dip of his head has his lips pressing softly to yours, slow and lingering, but as it deepens your hands slide down his chest, tugging at the bottom of his shirt until it’s laying at his feet.
Your hands roam openly now, tracing his chest, loving the feel of every strand of hair that lines it, and then lower, to your favorite spot where your thumbs brush in slow circles, their touch drawing a low and satisfied hum from the back of his throat.
The tension coils tighter with every brush of his lips and every pass of your hands. His kiss grows hungrier and the space between you vanishes as he nudges your nightgown higher with slow intent, exposing the wetness between your legs to the cool air.
He pulls away, his eyes on yours, steady and warm, the deliberate movement of his fingers making you ache with anticipation.
“Steve,” you whisper, digging your nails into the soft skin at his sides.
His eyes close for the briefest moment as his finger slides through your arousal, coating your sensitive skin. Before he pushes it inside you, he opens them again, lips parted, his nose brushing yours and eyes focused as he watches the way your body reacts; back arching slightly, your chest rising and falling with your little gasps for air and your lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
Your hands smooth up the softness of his stomach to his shoulders, then the back of his neck, where you nails scratch lightly as your fingers glide through his hair. He groans against your lips and pushes a second finger inside you.
When his thumb circles your clit you cry out his name, dropping your head to the crook of his neck, clinging to him as your legs begin to shake and your orgasm rushes through you.
His fingers continue to move, drawing out your pleasure until your thighs try to squeeze shut against his hand. When he finally pulls his fingers free, he lifts them between your bodies, his skin glistening as he presses them to his lips.
He licks them clean, groaning at the taste of you on his tongue.
The sunlight glows brighter now, catching on his shoulders and the edges of his hair, turning him into a silhouette of glowing gold.
“I think you’re an actual angel Steve Harrington.”
The words are a gentle caress against his lips, and you feel his smile press to yours.
“Takes one to know one,” he whispers back, his words catching when you slip your hand into his sweatpants and wrap your fingers around the hard length of him.
Summary: Steve loves to look at you no matter what you're doing.
Author's Note: For Day 16 of @the-slumberparty Candy Heart Challenge and the prompt: 'I can't speak so I'll just stare.' 😍😍😍 Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thanks Daisy! 🥰
Warnings: sweet and soft fluff
Steve Harrington Masterlist
“Babe?”
Steve shrugs off his jacket and waits to hear your greeting but when he doesn’t he immediately panics and with one shoe off and the other still on flies down the hallway toward your bedroom.
“BABE?”
As he gets closer he hears the radio as well as your off key singing and sighs, sagging with relief.
You’re in the bathroom, robe tied around your body, Madonna style headband on, and several jars of things are scattered on the small space by the sink. You’re just lathering something between your hands when you notice him staring from his spot as he leans along the doorframe, arms crossed and a sweet smile on his face.
You let out a little yelp of surprise and he opens his arms, making grabby hands. You rush into them, careful not to get cream all over his shirt and press your face into his chest.
“Hi baby,” you say, the endearment muffled.
He kisses the top of your head. “Hi beautiful. Having fun?”
You nod and look up. He immediately kisses your lips.
“I’m almost done,” you murmur.
He reluctantly lets you go and resumes his relaxed position in the doorway, watching contentedly as you finish up your self-care routine.
“That smells nice,” he says when you open the jar of body cream.
You proceed to explain everything you’re using and why as you go through the rest of your routine. He appears to be listening, letting you happily ramble on until you’re done.
When you finally realize he hasn’t said anything for the last ten minutes you turn his way with a clean and fresh face.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” you ask, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“Hmm?” he replies, staring with veneration.
“I was educating you…”
He still doesn’t reply, his eyes fixed on you and your every move.
“Steve.”
Still staring.
You stare back, raising a brow in question.
“Did I bore you to sleep?”
He shakes his head no and you roll your eyes, but he grabs your wrist and gently tugs you against his chest.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he finally says, the words pressed softly against your lips.
You smile and kiss him. “Thanks! Now you should let me pamper you!”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug, and you immediately take your headband off and push it onto his head, causing his hair to fan out high and then flop over.
“Oh my god, you’re so cute,” you giggle. “This is going to be so fun!”
summary: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door. he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience, but everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you are definitely into it.
warnings: non-canon; set in summer; second person (she/her pronouns for reader); age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky (I was inspired by logan howlett's personality); loner!bucky; size difference (he's beefy and has a soft tummy); they're both pervert tbh; protective behavior; possessiveness & jealousy; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; brief oral (f receiving); brief spanking (blink and you'll miss it); fingering; sexual acts in public; pussy pronouns; a few use of 'slut' & he calls himself 'old' quite a lot; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough sex; creampie.
word count: 13.5k
a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy 🍓
Bucky Barnes has chosen this life.
That is the part people never seem to understand.
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns; a place where people wave too much and chat way too long. Bucky doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates. That is as far as it goes.
He is in his late forties, and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, strong, built by labor rather than vanity: thick arms, powerful shoulders, hands rough with grease and scars. There is a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort rather than neglect.
And this only makes him more noticeable.
Women are aware of him, of course. He is an attractive, single man. The combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl works in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. The lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper end up in the first trashcan he sees— invitations and phone numbers he never glance at twice.
Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by myself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is something other people project onto him; he simply calls it peace. He has built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers, and he intends to guard it fiercely.
The neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned not to bother him, and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
And Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
He calls the cops when the rich couple two doors down throw backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol car’s lights flash briefly against his living room wall, jaw set, arms crossed, and goes back to his book the second the noise dies down. He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to get off his property without even opening the screen door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.” Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street. He has never decorated out of spite after that. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn not to park in front of his driveway, and not to ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed door— solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.
And it works. Until now.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud, too long. He watches from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone— a friend, maybe— reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.
Bucky's frowns deepens.
You’re younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfair— soft, bright, effortless. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… Happy, comfortable. Like you fit already.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple— fresh off their last noise complaint— wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman shows up with lemonade to cool off, the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling "correctly".
He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts and finds him standing stiff in front of his door, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
“Hi!” You call warmly, voice hopeful.
Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes back inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself it’s nothing.
You’re just another neighbor, another disruption… Another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence on this street.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.
“Oh, hi!”
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… Noise.
“I’m your new neighbor.” You say anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name, but he just nods once, eyes already dropping back to the envelopes in his hand.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment… Anything.
However, you are brutally plunged in an awkward silence.
“Okay.” You drawl softly, then recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”
You wait another second, yet his gaze doesn’t acknowledge you. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes on his back, curious rather than offended. That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself it’s bad timing.
He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like it’s reflexive.
“Morning.”
He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride.
Another time, he’s unloading groceries from his truck when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement makes your skirt ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching as you balance on the balls of your feet. Bucky looks away too late, heart giving an uncomfortable thud in his chest. Heat creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening as he forces the fleeting image of your soft skin out of his mind.
Bucky hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.
“Thank you.” You say breathless, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else.
You don’t stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day, it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.
“Hey.” You greet him softly one morning, like you’re testing the word.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much.” You add, not accusatory.
He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”
He’s already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake enough to tolerate existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. “Oh! Hi— sorry, I think this thing hates me.”
You laugh quietly, embarrassed, trying to close it. He watches for a second too long, the way your brow furrows in concentration, and you bite your lip when the bag rips more.
With a sigh, he steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciate that.”
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
“Have a nice day!” You call after him.
He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple brags— loudly— about how you offered to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you baked delicious cookies, and Mrs. Johnson praised you after you volunteered to help clean up at end of the last neighborhood meeting.
And Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.
“She’s exactly what this street needed.”
Bucky clenches his jaw.
He doesn’t understand it. How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these people just take, take and take? You are always so open, so willing to be involved, and God– your smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn… Real.
And worst of all, you still treat him the same. Still polite, still warm. You greet him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.
It irritates him in a way he can’t quite name.
Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness… It doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.
And he doesn’t like not knowing what to do with you.
On a late summer afternoon, when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.
He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.
“Hi.”
He freezes.
You’re standing at the edge of his driveway, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly and wipes his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
“What do you want?” He asks flatly.
You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.
“I just—” you hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is open, genuine, brows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just… I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t do anything.” He simply mutters.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like pressure on his chest.
“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I try to respect that, I really do. I just thought… Maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”
“It was.” He replies roughly, too quickly.
You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.
“Oh,” You nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You then add quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That word makes his stomach twist. Bucky watches you walk away, the space you leave behind feeling heavier than the conversation itself.
That night, he lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
Your words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his life intact. But for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to.
It’s later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy from the day. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze there is.
That’s when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop. Same height, same alignment. A clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the pale light of the screen illuminating your features. The lamp beside you casts a warm, golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in. You’re wearing pajama shorts that ride up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses, because he can clearly see your nipples poke through the fabric.
Something unfamiliar stirs in Bucky’s belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth.
He shouldn’t be watching.
The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.
Bucky turns away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the curtain angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesn’t reach him, but he knows it anyway. He’s heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine.
Something tightens in his chest.
He forces himself to step back, to pull his own curtain closed with more force than necessary. The room plunges into shadow, suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The next night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit, you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. You’re absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
It’s almost… Fascinating, being able to see the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
You look beautiful.
The thought comes uninvited, unwelcome.
He swallows, jaw flexing, eyes narrowing like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. He tells himself that he just happens to be here, that’s all. Still, he doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
After that, it becomes a problem.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. He wonders if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the straps of your tank top slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast on.
When he does catch you, you’re often on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. You also check your phone with a small smile, often.
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Bucky comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small routines without meaning to: you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like you’re completely alone in the world.
When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze unfocused. You also have a habit of circling your bed before lying down, straightening the sheets even when they don’t need it. Sometimes you sit on the edge for a moment, shoulders slumping as if the day finally catches up to you. When you laugh, you tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.
You like background noise. A TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You wander barefoot most nights, nudging things back into place with your toes, absently rubbing your foot against your calf when you stop. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself instinctively, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.
It’s summer, and you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
Inside your apartment, you wear clothes that cling dangerously to your luscious body: short shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show your beautiful curves when you move. Sometimes you kick your sandals off the moment you get inside and pad around barefoot, toes curling against the floor. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, you scroll on your phone, or lie on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air as you watch something on your computer. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand, something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices. These details carve themselves into his mind against his will, and they feel personal, earned, even though they aren’t. You aren’t performing, you’re just living. And it makes observing you so much worse.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him: you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
Bucky perks up like a dog at his owner's arrival when he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately appearing as a pair of headlights follows. You’re not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. His breath catches once he reaches his bedroom after spending ten minutes behind the curtains in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you and your possible companion from his kitchen. Because there's a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the man’s hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure.
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him.
His lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open. The sounds from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes eagerly devour the sight.
An itch burns deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.
Your moans and giggles resonate in his mind even after your room has gone dark and the only thing that can be heard outside are the crickets.
The worst part is Bucky doesn’t stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.
He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing: you leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you let the curtains stay apart. And the build-up eventually makes him cave, palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Bucky’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his sweats pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fists his cock.
His hand is rough and calloused, the complete opposite of what he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop as low as touching him like this. The thought of something this filthy happening only makes his hips jerk harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his temples and every muscle contracting with the urge to release. Your moans faintly slip through your open window, finding him in the darkness like a beacon.
Bucky pretends you know he’s there, that you want him to hear, to see. He imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slips over the slit, and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.
What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?
It’s unavoidable: as soon as he gets home after work, the first thing he checks for is the light in your window.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, the fact that you keep going on dates with random men is unbearable.
He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and seething jealousy pour in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.
They don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the little things on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They don’t know that when you get home from work, you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling for a while. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those ten quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.
Two months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently— shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there, of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He hates how these men get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and bare. Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
“Come on.” You mutter, huffing.
Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed— at the mower, at himself, at the way he’s been staring too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning fast. “Oh!”
You hadn’t seen him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.
“Ah.” You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”
He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a pause.
“You don’t have to—” You start.
“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. “If you want.”
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
“It’s fine.” He mutters, not looking at you.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely, weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of you, of the way the sun highlights the curve of your shoulder, the way you chew lightly at your bottom lip absently.
When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.
Your face lights up. “Thank you so much!”
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.
There’s an awkward beat.
“Um,” You say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”
His stomach drops.
“I mean,” You rush on. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”
“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink. “James.”
He nods, ears burning. “Most people call me Bucky. My friends.”
Your smile softens in a way that feels… Less polite. More personal.
“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”
There’s another pause.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds, voice low, almost shy. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern.
Your car won’t start one morning, hood popped open, you pacing your driveway while a guy from the night before stands there looking useless. Bucky watches from his window, jaw tightening. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
“Move.” He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
“Bucky, hi. You don’t have to—”
“Already here.” He mutters.
He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.
You linger.
“I really appreciated it.” You muse. “You keep saving me.”
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”
Sometimes it’s a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you can’t lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t watching from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much. Just grunts, nods, mumbles an occasional instruction.
But there are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that linger a second too long. When your eyes meet, he looks away, cheeks faintly pink, shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, you don’t push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it.
Bucky has come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out the most is Noah, a confident little shit.
The guy’s been around for days. He recognizes the car the moment it pulls up, parking a little too close to your driveway, staying a little later each time. Bucky has memorized the way he laughs too obnoxiously, the way he leans in like he already belongs at your side.
He’s also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. That’s what finally snaps something in Bucky.
It’s well past midnight when your front door closes behind you And Noah. Your lights go on, then the bedroom light. Bucky sits in the dark of his living room, unmoving, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ache.
He doesn’t sleep.
He reads with his eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he watches an old re-run of a dumb game show. But most of all, he waits.
Dawn comes slow and gray, bleeding into the street like a held breath finally released. Birds start chirping, and the world gradually wakes up, unaware.
Your front door opens, and predictably, Noah steps out, stretching, running a hand through his hair as if he’s had the best sleep of his life. Asshole.
Bucky is already outside, leaning against his porch railing with an air of insolence, observing like a predator eagerly waiting to bite on his prey’s jugular.
The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. “Uh… Morning.” He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.
Bucky doesn’t return it.
“You’ve been here a lot.” He grunts.
The man hesitates. “Yeah, well—”
“You staying?” Bucky asks directly.
There’s nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.
“No,” Noah replies quickly. “Just heading out.”
Bucky pushes off the railing and walks closer, stopping just short of the sidewalk. Close enough that the man has to tilt his head back to look at him.
“You got plans with her later?” Bucky asks, scowling.
The man frowns. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”
Bucky’s eyes harden, gritting his teeth. “It is.”
There’s a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.
The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. “Look man, she’s great,” he says, like that might help. “I just— I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”
Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. “Then don’t come back.”
The man bristles. “You threatening me, old man?”
Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. “No. I’m warning you. This old man sees you around here again and he’ll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?”
The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.
“Wasn’t worth anyway.” He sneers.
Bucky has to dig his nails into the skin of his arms to stop himself from beating this brat to a pulp.
Your date leaves in a hurry, car pulling away faster than necessary as the wheels screech on the asphalt.
He stays rooted on the sidewalk until the street settles again. His heart is pounding as if it’s trying to get out of his chest, but his hands have never been this steady.
The next ones are quicker. Less conversation, just a mere look, a question asked with an eerie calm. His presence alone does most of the work. Men who once returned now run away like criminals escaping a sentence.
Bucky watches them go with a sense of grim satisfaction curling in his chest. Because they never waited for you to wake up, and his girl deserves someone who stays. And each time one of them leaves and never comes back, it feels like he’s fixing something broken.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist, and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features; even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen again.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha, a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of a crowded bar wrapping around them. He listened more than talked, like always; nodded at the right moments; let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Bucky’s thigh, eyebrow lifting in silent question.
He stilled it for exactly ten seconds. Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, sharp-eyed, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”
He grunted. “No.”
It’s a lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it— no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might have lost his favorite part of the night.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark. “You sure you’re okay, man?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear— that sharp, ugly thing in his chest— hasn’t gone away. It’s just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car— had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Bucky’s jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know what they’ve got.
He parked, cut the engine, and didn't linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else is with you. Just you, alone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound leaving him slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in all evening. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his chest eases just a little. He can tell that you are about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he briefly turns away to look for the sweatpants and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas, but when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air sharply leaving his lungs in an instant.
Your phone lies forgotten on the mattress by your side, while your covers have been thrown back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your sheer tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, shorts nowhere in sight. From where Bucky is standing, he has a clear view of the way your panties stick to your pussy, a wet spot already in the center. Your head is thrown back, lips parted as Bucky strains his ears to catch one of your sweet sounds.
He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself. You pinch and tug your nipples, letting it harden through the fabric and alternating it with your palms squeezing the flesh of your breasts.
His pants grow tighter, breath stuttering as your eyelashes flutter and your brows furrow, chasing the pleasure stirring warm in your belly. Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides.
What prompted this? Were you reading something dirty and got too worked up? Were you watching something on your phone and needed the same release you seem to crave after every date?
Were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
He watches your chest heave as both of your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor. He wonders what would you do if he were there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work, leaving you whimpering as he plays and sucks on your nipples until you beg him to stop. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket at home, still smelling your slick on the delicate fabric. Bucky would bring them to the garage so he could lock himself in the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock, or better, suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him all day during his shift, keeping his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo.
You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. You’re completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters, harshly exhaling as he palms his painful erection. He groans at the brief relief, noticing the fabric already damp, precum leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling at the thought of having you on your knees, peering up at him with that same innocent glint you have in your eyes whenever you greet him.
Bucky watches enraptured as your fingers finally reach your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.
He’s never seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and licked and worshipped the way it deserves. Bucky could give you that: nurse on your clit, tongue at your entrance, encouraging you to grind against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and lose yourself over and over again in your own pleasure, squirting all over his face. He would be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever, wherever and however you want.
Your fingers shine as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Bucky can’t help it anymore as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans to wrap a warm hand around his hard cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He bites his bottom lip until it hurts to muffle a loud groan when he starts to lazily stroke his length.
He has to squeeze the base when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit. When they plunge inside, Bucky swears he can almost hear your gasp. He leans his forehead on the braced forearm against the wall, shoulders bowed. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable; he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his jeans, letting the fabric vulgarly hang around his thighs. He jerks his length as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin as his hands grope your hips.
At some point you pull your finger out, and Bucky has to tighten the grip around the base of his cock, toes curling into the carpet and teeth gritting against each other as his dark eyes follow the length of your body. You sit up, only to reach for your nightstand.
His eyes trail on the curve of your ass, until a strangled grunt almost makes him choke when he finally has a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when you lie back, a black dildo curved inwards with a separate add-on to press against your clit in your hand.
Bucky is dizzy. It's so pathetic that at his age he's been reduced to a lonely man spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks herself with a dangerously thick dildo.
He watches you drag the head of the toy between your folds, wetting the silicone with your slick. You must be so damn needy, because you immediately press the dildo in. Your muscles contract, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch as you push it all the way in. You toss your head back, your hand smacking against your mouth to probably muffle a deliciously loud moan before slipping down to harshly grab your breast, running your fingers along your hard nipple.
Would you squirm just as much as you are now if Bucky were to fuck you, hips fidgeting from how restless and cock-drunk you are? Or would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it?
Bucky’s hand matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically move the toy in and out, precum sticking to his fingers and he uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide of his palm smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you are edging yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock like his could give you.
Your slick wets the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, and Bucky licks his lips, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you all over. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he splits you open, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he firmly holds you down by your hips in a mating press, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making. They would burn every time water hits them, reminding him of the tightness of your pussy.
Suddenly, you fumble with the handler, pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back and your back perfectly arches up as you go back to fuck yourself with the lucky toy deeper so the unforgiving vibrations tease your clit. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, at the thought of how good you must feel right now with the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.
Bucky curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your body squirm, mouth forming a perfect circle and brows furrowing. He can tell you are close by the way your thighs shake, and your hips jerk up to meet the ruthless vibrations. He strokes his hard cock and squeezes on the tip at the same time you grind the toy into yourself, desperately circling your hips.
When you finally come, it’s entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so gorgeous. Your features scrunch up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening on a silent scream as your entire body stills besides the desperate stuttered rolls of your hips against the toy. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins stroking his rock-hard cock frantically. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his heavy breathing fill the otherwise silent room; that's when he lets his eyes squeeze shut.
Your pussy would clench around his cock so nicely, and your tits would bounce with each deep thrust as your hazy eyes would squeeze shut, so drunk from his fat cock you'd let the whole neighborhood hear how good Bucky fucks you. He imagines you begging for him to come inside you with that sweet, polite voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy pussy for days.
The pressure finally snaps and Bucky comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking, while hot spurts of cum coat his hand; it's so intense some spurts even end up soiling the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had; the full-body shiver when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has him almost fall on his knees.
When he finally opens his eyes as he’s still trying to catch his breath, his sight is a little foggy, yet he can spot the weak smile on your face. Your arm is thrown over your eyes as if relishing in the fuzzy after glow.
Every part of him vehemently yearning for you has been sated for now, but Bucky knows this will never be enough.
You wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly of a citrusy perfume that does not belong to you, and the unmistakable scent of sex. The sun has been up for a while, light spilling warm and bright through the window. For a moment, you just lie there, staring out of the window, replaying the night before in lazy fragments— laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours that’s still here.
Ben.
A small smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it, small and giddy and a little disbelieving. You turn your head just enough to see him asleep beside you, hair mussed, mouth slack in a way that’s oddly endearing.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, moving slowly to not wanting to wake him. The floor is cool under your feet as you head to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You take a quick shower, humming under your breath and thinking about making pancakes. When you’re done, you dry off and pull on one of your sundresses, the kind that makes you feel pretty without trying. You smooth it down, glance at yourself in the mirror and put on a little bit of gloss.
You picture him sitting up in bed when you come back. Maybe smiling, teasing you about taking too long. But when you open the bathroom door, the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled where he was, no sign of him anywhere else. No footsteps, no muffled voice, no note. As if he had never been here in the first place.
With a sigh, you pad toward the kitchen barefoot, sunlight warming the floor beneath your feet.
A week of no dates isn’t long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.
You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even showed as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You don’t understand it.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. And if you’re honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing– an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still… It stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, and attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all.
You’d started to wonder if the problem was you.
And then there’s Ben.
Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. He’s your friend’s cousin, in town for a short holiday, and she’d spent an entire week talking your ear off about how handsome he was, how sweet, how she just knew the two of you would get along. She wasn’t wrong, you’d clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadn’t felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. That’s why it hurts a little more this time. That’s why today the quiet feels heavier than usual.
Something in your peripheral vision makes you stop. You turn fully toward the window that gives on your front lawn, and freeze.
Right there in your driveway stands Bucky Barnes, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.
And in front of him— half in, half out of a car— is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Bucky’s shoulder like he’s expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.
Your neighbor’s mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like he’s pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.
You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need it to understand what’s happening.
Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driver’s seat like he’s in a hurry. The engine roars to life, and tires peel out of your driveway faster than necessary.
Gone.
You stand there, heart pounding, anger flooding your chest so fast it makes you dizzy.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
You don’t even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.
“James.”
He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like he’s already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your face— bare, furious, eyes blazing.
“What was that?” You demand.
He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. “Morning.”
“Don’t,” you snap, stalking closer. “Do not do that. What the hell was that?”
He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.
“You just scared him off,” you say incredulously. “Didn’t you?”
“I talked to him.”
“If looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket.” You retort.
Bucky simply shrugs. “He got the point.”
“What point?” You lash out, taking a deep breath after.
His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. “Listen, I was just making you a favor.”
You laugh, sharp and loud. “A favor!? Oh please! From where I’m standing, you’re a man who ignored me for months, barely acknowledged I existed, and now you suddenly think you get to interrogate the people I bring home?”
“I wasn’t interrogating.”
“It sure as hell looked like it.”
He steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
“Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”
His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that you’ve started. “Do you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you won’t even answer when I say hello, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like it’s your job—”
“I was helping.”
“—and now this?” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Barefoot on the concrete, eyes still rimmed with drowsiness, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
“I want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. “From what? Dating?”
“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”
You blink, incredulous. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“They take what you give them and then run,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction. “You’re not.”
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. “That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time to guys who don’t even have the decency to stay– who don’t see what they’re getting… It drives me fucking insane.”
Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
“I didn’t ask for... Whatever you are doing.” You mumble.
“I know.”
“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!”
Bucky steps closer without meaning to. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, sharp and bright, but there’s something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.
“Every time you bring someone home,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”
“And yet.” You mock ironically.
“And yet,” he admits, exhaling harshly. “I lose my fucking mind.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. “You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint not to touch you.
“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”
“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.
“To stay away from you.”
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea— your anger, his lewd actions, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But his body doesn’t listen.
All he can think about is how your warmth reaches him effortlessly even through the thin fabric of your dress; the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.
And now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last inch between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides to the point his knuckles turn white, like that would be enough to hold himself back. His pulse makes his ears ring, drowning out reason, pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything— or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.
He reaches for you like it’s instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire. You can feel him everywhere without him completely touch you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creep up your neck, and the way his blue eyes keep flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you have— that every step he’s taken toward you these last days has cost him something.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere, and see what happens when he finally lets go.
You stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for. Something akin to hunger quickly flashes in his eyes, before he finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you expected: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, crashing into yours with teeth and tongue, hands moving fast, sure, one still gripping your jaw and the other fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed immediately as he deepens it, tilting your head back, looming over you until you’re forced to take a step back or be crushed by him; still, his arm tightens around your torso with a low growl.
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching at his shirt, fingers digging in the fabric. You kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frantic pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, chest heaving and thumb brushing your cheeks like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Fuck.” He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.
A rough sound tears out of his chest between kisses. He pulls back again enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “You have any idea how hard it was watching that?”
You blink, breathless.
He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. “You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I couldn’t.”
Those words make you still.
You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. “Bucky. What do you mean?”
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours, that pink blush appearing high on his cheeks.
“I watched you.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to at first. It just… Happened. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and honest. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you weren’t.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.
He stills. “You— what?”
“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes you wobble slightly, his arms squeezing your waist until you're pressed firmly against his chest. His body is a wall, hot and solid, and you quickly melt into it.
“All this time I’ve been beating myself up for it.” He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. “An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.
“But you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.”
Your heart hammers in your chest as his other hand grips your jaw firmly, not enough to hurt, to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”
You’re hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.
“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S–Someone is going to see.” You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. “Better stay quiet then.” And he is pressing his hand against your core, his fingers sliding into the front of your panties to allow his middle digit to play with your slick. His large frames crowds you against the vehicle, his other hand palming your ass.
You feel so exposed yet so alive, your core throbbing as your fingers clutch at his shirt, and your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.
“Yeah? Feels good, doesn't it?”
You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision.
“How were they, hm sweetheart?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. Then, his palm comes down on your ass, heavy and sharp, making you whimper. “Answer me.”
“Not–not like you.” You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. “Oh fuck.”
“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That's why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those boys weren't satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol' neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.
“Don't be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking.
“Hm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing against your palm. Your eyes go wide; you aren't sure how long he’s been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.
Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped between your bodies, squeezing at his shaft as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.
“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear, and his fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.
“Quiet or that asshole Murray will come out.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”
You can’t find the words even if you want to scream that no, you only crave Bucky's attention, though the possibility to be caught with him fingering you against your car only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit.
“C'mon, baby.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.”
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I— Fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his shoulder.
“This what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs against the top of your head, cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling. He barely hides his smug smile, leisurely looking around for any nosy pair of eyes, while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn't just make you come in the middle of your driveway.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky's breath hitches at the sight of your glistening temples and hazy eyes. “Need more.”
His tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, before he makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts it in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. Bucky then pulls back just enough to let you both breathe.
“Lift your dress.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters, voice low and rough. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press of his fingers inside with a whine of protest. He promised he would let you touch it. “Don't whine. I have to make sure she's ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?”
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip as the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can't believe you're really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It'd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what's going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes' house– the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being– and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.
“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.” His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. “I knew you'd taste fucking delicious.”
“Careful, old man.” You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, aneurysms, cramps... Anything can— fuck!”
Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Ah, look at you going quiet.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”
You nod whimpering, giving over to his dominance. It's incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
He’s relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.
“Tight little pussy.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently as your slick wets your inner thigh. Quickly standing up, he fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip dark and swollen; he finds some relief by stroking it, while his other hand smooths down your back. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, the fat head of his cock gliding through your swollen folds, up and down, then teasing your entrance. “But you’re gonna let me do it, right baby?”
Your nod is just as eager, quite pathetic you'd add later. You rock back just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, and sparks shoot through your body.
His smile is borderline wolfish. “That’s right.” He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. “'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?”
Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. “Bucky I—I don’t think it'll fit.” You admit with wide eyes. He chuckles, a subtle noise of agreement.
“It’s fine.” His hands soothe you, trailing up and down your sides, eyes locked on your pussy as he pushes through your folds, coating his girth with your slick. “You can— shit— you can handle it.”
He eases into you slowly, each inch coaxed through your tight resistance until he’s fully inside, until you’re stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the heavy stretch.
“Look at that.” He grunts, a hint of complacent pride in his words as he draws back slightly, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your sides as he rocks forward. “See? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.” Your walls clench around him like it's terrified he might disappear if you don't hold tight enough, and he gradually builds a rhythm with each ragged exhale, using his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill, to bury himself deeper than you’ve ever felt.
The sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to block your scream is a sharp reminder of the unusual silent morning. You feel impossibly full and stretched. Each thrust makes your spine arch; Bucky fills every inch perfectly, pressing deep enough to make your vision blur.
“It'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock. Just like you deserve.”
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.
“They could be watching right now.” He taunts in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your chest, before lowering the front of your dress as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.
Your pussy clenches at his teasing, gaining a mocking laugh from him. “Yeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded hands tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from the one you're used to. Bucky's hands are weathered and callused from his job, he's always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
“She’s begging for it.” His voice is a low rasp, chest heaving as much as yours, even if he keeps up his cocky facade.
Your entire body locks in, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You're pretty sure the squelching sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonate loud and clear across his front lawn.
“Yes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!”
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
“Gonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so bad— fill me— shit!”
“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for days—”
“Yes yes yes, please!” You blabber, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips grinding back and your pussy milking him.
“Fuck fuck– that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
“Fuck, such a pretty slut.” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. “I’m coming, baby. Fucking–” One thrust. “Take it.” He groans, loud and broken, finally spilling thick and hot inside you, his cock pulsing deep until you're left full and shaking like a leaf.
You are grateful for his possessive and bruising hold on your hips since your legs are so weak you'd be barely able to keep yourself up. Meanwhile, Bucky is trying to catch his breath against your neck after his powerful orgasm, careful to not put all his weigh on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were right, he did get a cramp.
When he finally slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, making him chuckle with mirth as he helps you in an upright position, gently to not hurt you. Who knows how long you've been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge anything else. A sharp sting prickles your lower back, but you couldn't be more satisfied.
“Good girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own soreness. His lips press a soft kiss on your forehead, then on your lips, before he sighs content, eyes closed and lips brushing your temple. “Finally mine.”
The months of stolen glances and quiet, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it's just you, him, and no barriers between.
Still... Sometimes you meet him at your window, though this time you sit right in front of it, legs spread and eyes fixed on him. And Bucky takes it all in as he fists his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy; occasionally, it's some colorful toy inside you, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is still powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
You moan a little louder than necessary now, just for him. Your eyes lasciviously trace the broadness of his shoulders until they reach his strong arm, flexing as he strokes himself, pumping in time with the rhythm you set. His free hand grips the frame so hard he once cracked it to hold himself back from running to you, to keep up this little game you proposed as you started dating.
The anticipation builds slowly and sweetly each time. You drag it out for him, teasing your clit with languid circles, while you call his name so sweetly he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself down.
And when you finally come, his pace quickens, the fire in your belly wild and untamed at the sight of his impatience.
And although this little game of yours always ends with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, with his pants still unbuttoned... Well, it's not nearly as satisfying as the real thing.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
Summary: Your hero of a boyfriend saves the day when you have a particularly bad period
Author’s Note: just because I love him and this would totally make me feel better🥰thank you all so much for reading! Much love always!🩷🩷🩷Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰
Warnings: the fluffest fluff
“Where’s your girl, Harrington?”
Steve’s face softens at Robin’s question and he sighs. “She stayed home. She’s uh…in pain, uncomfortable…fragile…”
His words die off and he motions to his stomach area with a sad face. “Ya know,” he continues.
Robin just stares as her smile grows with Steve’s frustration.
“In her own words,” Steve adds, “she feels like absolute shit.”
Robin nods in commiseration. “Got her period huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve answers.
“Does she have everything she needs?” Robin asks.
Steve’s brows draw inward and he starts to look slightly panicked. “I mean she usually does…as far as I know…”
He runs his fingers through his hair then plants both hands on his hips. “Should I get things?”
Robin laughs and grabs Steve’s arm as she pushes him toward his car.
“Snacks. Lots of snacks. Does she have a heating pad…?”
As Robin fires off a list of things Steve tries to listen, mentally preparing a list in his head.
“Got it?” Robin asks as she holds him by the shoulders and shakes him lightly.
“Uh…I think so?” he answers.
Robin throws him a sideways smile and pushes him into the drivers seat.
“Ok good. Go save the day!,” Robin says as he waves goodbye, still looking slightly confused.
He quietly unlocks the door, careful not to rustle the grocery bags in his hands.
“Steve?” you whine from the couch.
“I’m home baby,” he says. “Be right there.”
He puts the bags down and throws his keys in the bowl by the door, then toes off his shoes and rounds the couch.
You’re curled up in a ball, blankets askew and socks hanging half off your feet.
“Aw baby,” he coos. “What happened?”
You don’t answer and instead hold out your arms for him, making grabby hands.
He smiles, “one sec,” then gently fixes your socks until they are properly on your feet. He takes the blankets and fixes them too.
“Steveeeeeeeeeeee,” you whine and he chuckles.
You manage to get a hold of the corner of his coaches jacket and tug him toward the cushions. He comes willingly, falling to the spot behind you.
“What about my jacket?” he asks as you immediately turn to face him and snuggle into his chest.
“No time,” you mumble.
He laughs again and wraps you in his arms, slowly running his palm along your back.
“What else can I do?” he asks before kissing your head.
You shrug and burrow deeper. “Never leave again?”
“Sounds like more of a win for me.”
You smile into his shirt and sigh contentedly when he throws his thigh over yours and his warmth and scent envelop you.
“I got us snacks,” he whispers. “In case you’re hungry.”
You perk up slightly at the mention of food. “Really?”
“Yeah! Thought you might want some stuff.”
“What did you get…?”
You don’t make a move and if anything curl closer.
“Ummm…” he starts. “Well of course I got Boppers…”
“Peanut butter?” you interrupt.
“Yep,” he answers happily, “and Dunkaroos, Fruit roll-ups, Pop rocks, Twinkies, Gushers, a couple of Gatorades, Twinkies and Doritos.”
You start to move, albeit slowly, until you’re sitting up and staring down at his sweet face.
“I also got a heating pad. I mean…I think I did. I wasn’t sure you had one so…”
“You got all that stuff?”
“Yeah,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, the hair hanging in front of his forehead bouncing with the motion. “I can make some tea if you want too…tea is good right? We have tea don’t we?”
You nod and your eyes start to get glassy. Steve panics and sits up, pressing his warm palm to your cheek and running the pad of his thumb across your trembling bottom lip.
“Aw no baby, what’s wrong?”
You sniffle. “It’s just…,” you start and sniffle again. “You’re… you’re so sweet Steve!”
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and you crawl into his lap, nuzzling your face into his neck. “Thank you.”
He tugs you closer, cradling you to his chest. “I can’t take all the credit. I kinda left Robin and ran off after the game…she may have mentioned snacks and other stuff.”
“Yeah…but you went to the store. And got all my favorites and even a heating pad. And came right home.”
His hands are soothing as they move softly over your thighs, his lips pressed to the top of your head when he whispers, “I love you baby.”
“Love you too Steve,” you mumble into his skin.
He squeezes you tighter.
“Can we have some snacks now?” you ask.
“Sure, but we have to get up.”
You pout and meet his eyes.
He smiles with a chuckle. “We can come right back once we have everything.”
“And never leave?”
With a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your lips, he whispers, “never.”
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You're similar to Bucky. It's why the two of you are good friends. You both appreciate dimly lit bars, prolonged silences, and violence being the answer to most problems. The sex isn't half-bad, either.
She's the complete opposite of you. Sunshine personified. She bakes, wears colorful dresses, and is never in a bad mood. But it seems like she might be exactly what Bucky wants, and needs.
Content Warning: FWB!Bucky x Avenger!F!Reader, mature themes, smut, angst, unrequited feelings, jealous!reader, insecurity, pining, nightmares, trauma, PTSD, i started writing this before watching thunderbolts so this is a good old-fashioned Avengers tower fic.
word count: 14k
"We head out in the morning," He tells you, his voice at a low hum. "Gonna be my longest mission in a while."
You turn your head to face him, raising a brow as your finger runs around the rim of your beer bottle. "Are you trying to bait me into saying I'm gonna miss you, Sergeant?" You ask him, pulling a smirk from his lips.
"I know better than that, gunner," He replies before taking a long sip of beer. "Just letting you know ahead of time, so you can prepare for the cold, lonely nights ahead."
"Steve's not going, is he?" You question coyly, holding back your laugh.
All you get in response is an eye roll.
You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.
"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."
"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"
"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.
"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"
Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."
"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."
Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.
His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.
And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.
"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.
"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.
"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.
You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.
"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.
The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.
"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."
With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.
"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"
"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?
His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.
Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.
You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.
It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.
Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.
Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."
While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.
Sergeant Barnes
Just landed in Croatia.
It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks
Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.
"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.
Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."
"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."
Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.
"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."
"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.
You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"
"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."
With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.
"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.
"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.
The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.
When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.
"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.
"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"
"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"
"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."
"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."
"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.
"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."
"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.
"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.
"Is she hot?" He asks.
You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."
"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.
"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."
"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.
"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.
"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.
"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."
"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.
"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."
"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."
As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.
"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."
"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.
"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.
"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.
You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."
"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"
"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.
"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."
"Sergeant Barnes!"
"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.
"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.
"Jealous, are we?"
There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.
"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."
"I don't even know what she looks-"
"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"
There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."
You sigh. "Yes, what?"
Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."
"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."
"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.
"Good night, you little shit."
Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.
While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.
"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.
"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.
Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.
"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."
With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?
Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?
"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"
Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.
When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.
"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."
"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.
"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.
"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.
"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.
"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"
"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.
"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"
While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.
"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."
"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.
"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."
"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.
Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"
"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.
Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."
"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.
"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.
A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"
"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.
"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."
"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.
"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.
"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."
He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.
Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.
You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?
You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.
This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?
"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."
You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.
"You're naked," You utter.
"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"
"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."
He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.
"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"
Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.
He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.
Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.
"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.
His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.
"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.
He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.
"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.
"It was alright," You answer with a grin.
"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"
"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."
"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."
"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"
Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.
"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"
"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."
He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"
You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.
As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.
"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.
You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."
He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.
Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.
"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.
"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.
Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.
One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).
"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."
You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.
He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.
"Bucky," You whimper.
"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.
"I'm- I'm gonna-"
All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.
The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.
"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."
You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.
"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.
"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."
"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.
"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."
"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.
"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."
She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."
"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."
Bucky hides his snort with a cough.
"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."
"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."
She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."
You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.
"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."
You say nothing, your fingers twitching.
"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"
"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.
A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.
"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"
A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."
"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"
"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."
"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.
"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."
Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."
"Will that be all?" You ask.
Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"
"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."
"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."
You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.
"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"
"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.
He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"
As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.
"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."
"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.
Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.
"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."
"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"
"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.
"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"
A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."
Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.
"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"
"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.
You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.
Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.
Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.
"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.
"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.
"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.
"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.
"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."
With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.
You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.
"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.
"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.
"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.
He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.
His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.
"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"
"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."
"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."
A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."
"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.
"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Yep."
"And is probably a great kisser."
"Mhm."
"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."
You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.
"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.
This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.
"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.
Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"
Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.
"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."
"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.
"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."
"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."
He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.
He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.
That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.
"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."
With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.
"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.
Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.
The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."
You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"
He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.
"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"
You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.
"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"
"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."
With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.
"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."
"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."
Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.
"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.
From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."
Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.
"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."
"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.
"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"
The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.
"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."
"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.
"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."
"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."
You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.
"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."
You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.
"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."
Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."
He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.
Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.
You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."
With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.
Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.
Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.
When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.
His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.
With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.
He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.
"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."
"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.
"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."
"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.
"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."
Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?
"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."
Pop? That bastard.
Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.
This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
So why aren't you waking up?
You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.
And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.
And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.
But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.
You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.
The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.
You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.
"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."
They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.
But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.
"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.
Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.
And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.
It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.
No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.
"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.
"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.
He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."
"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."
"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."
With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.
"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."
"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.
"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"
"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.
Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.
"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."
You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.
"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."
"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.
"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.
You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"
"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."
As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.
"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"
"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.
He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.
You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.
"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."
"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."
"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."
"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."
"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."
She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.
"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.
And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.
"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."
"Right," She utters.
"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.
"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.
"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"
She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."
Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.
She's the complete opposite of you.
Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.
Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.
And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.
She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-
"Hi."
Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.
"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.
You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.
So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.
It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.
She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?
"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.
You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.
"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.
"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.
"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."
"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" She pushes.
"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."
"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"
"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."
"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.
You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."
"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.
After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.
"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.
"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.
"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.
Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.
"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.
"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.
You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.
"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.
"I don't know," You answer dumbly.
"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"
A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.
"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.
"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."
A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.
Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.
Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.
"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.
"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.
"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.
"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.
Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.
With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.
His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.
"Neither do I," You return.
"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.
"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.
"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."
"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.
He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"
A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.
Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.
"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.
"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."
You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"
"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"
You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."
His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."
"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.
"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.
With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.
"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."
"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"
You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.
Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.
The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.
"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.
"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.
"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."
He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"
"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."
"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.
"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."
"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"
"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."
He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.
"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."
You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."
He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.
"All too well," You whisper.
"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."
"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."
"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."
You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"
"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."
You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."
A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."
You smile back at him.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."
"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."
Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."
"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."
"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.
You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.
"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"
You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."
a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3
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Summary: You hit the floor before you see it coming. Panic coils in your chest. Your lungs won’t open. Steve’s there. seeing too much. saying too little. You beg him not to look. He looks anyway. And then he says it:
“you’re not a burden. you’re mine.”
He doesn’t ask you to be okay. He just kisses you like you already are.
The final corridor is quiet.
Dust drifts in lazy motes through beams of flashlight and the flicker of dead emergency lighting. Your boots crunch over broken glass and scraps of paper, and you can feel your heartbeat in your teeth.
“You good?” Bucky asks from behind you. His voice is low, casual—but there’s something underneath. A check-in.
“Fine,” you answer. Too fast. Too automatic.
You open the last door—a storage room. Empty. You step inside anyway. Your flashlight skims rusted shelves, crates full of nothing, the echo of silence thick around you.
“Fine,” you repeat, softer this time. Just to yourself.
The mission’s over. No hostiles. No last-minute ambush. You should feel relief. But your chest is tight, your vest suddenly too snug. You tug at the collar, jaw set.
Behind you, Bucky clicks off his comm and leans against the doorway.
“You’ve been breathing weird since we hit sublevel two.”
You don’t turn around.
“It’s nothing.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches. You know that look—he’s not pushing. Not yet. Just waiting for the crack.
You move to the far end of the room, pretending to check a crate. You kneel, pop the lid, and stare at a tangle of old Hydra tech. Your hand shakes as you pull the scanner from your belt.
It nearly slips through your fingers.
You mutter a curse under your breath.
Bucky’s voice floats across the room—softer now.
“You sure you’re alright?”
The metal in your hand feels too cold, suddenly unbearable. You set the scanner down and stand too fast. Vision swims for a second, and you blink hard, willing it away.
“I’m fine, Buck,” you snap—not at him, not really. Just… too much.
He straightens, but doesn’t move.
“You’re not fine,” he says evenly. “You’re just not loud about it.”
You close your eyes.
The room shrinks. The air thickens—hot, stale, recycled. Tastes like sweat.
Your breathing shortens. Shallow. Quick. But you’ve practiced hiding it—hell, you’ve hidden it from yourself.
“Mission’s over,” you mutter. “Let’s just get back to the quinjet.”
You push past him before he can speak again, shoulder brushing his chest.
He doesn’t stop you.
The hallway back to the quinjet feels longer than it did coming in.
It’s mostly quiet—just the soft hum of emergency lights overhead and the hollow echo of your boots on concrete. Bucky’s footsteps trail behind you, steady and calm, but his attention burns hot against the back of your neck.
You keep your eyes forward. Keep moving.
The corridor forks. You take the left—too sharp, too fast.
“Hey,” Bucky calls. Not loud. Just firm.
You stop.
He doesn’t close the distance. Not right away. He’s giving you space—but not the kind you want. The kind you need.
When you turn, his expression is unreadable. Still. Careful.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
Your jaw tightens. “What thing.”
He tilts his head. Barely. “The thing where you pretend you’re fine until your body makes the decision for you.”
God. You hate that he’s right.
You hate that he knows.
You open your mouth—something sarcastic, something to bat it away—but your throat locks. Mid-breath. Like a cord’s tightening around it.
You blink. Hard.
Bucky steps forward. Slowly. Hands at his sides.
“Hey. Look at me.” His voice is low. Steady. “Just look.”
You do. Barely.
His face blurs around the edges, like condensation on glass.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
It sounds like a lie even to you.
“Your hands are shaking,” he says. “You’re not fine.”
You glance down. Your fingers twitch in uneven bursts—like static snapping under your skin.
It’s like your body hit a wall at full speed and your mind hasn’t caught up. The air feels thick. Hot. Pressed against your skin like too many layers.
Your vest feels like a vice.
You tug at the straps—fumbling, shaking.
“Too much,” you mumble. “It’s too much—I just need a second—”
Your knees hit the floor before you realize you’re going down. One hand against the wall. Cold concrete under your palm. Your breathing spikes—short, fast, useless.
“Okay, hey—hey,” Bucky’s right beside you now. Down on one knee. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”
You can’t look at him.
You hate this.
You hate him seeing this. Hate that it’s him and not—
No. You won’t finish that thought.
“Don’t,” you manage. “Don’t call him.”
Your voice cracks on the edges.
“Don’t call Steve.”
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s thinking. Calculating. His fingers flex where they rest on his knee.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, finally—click.
“I said don’t—”
The words rip out of your throat but disintegrate halfway.
Your hands are numb. Your ribs won’t expand. You’re not breathing—you’re gasping, each inhale shallow and useless. You’re crouched low, forehead nearly touching your knees, like if you make yourself small enough, it’ll stop.
But it doesn’t.
It only gets louder.
The pounding in your chest. The static in your ears. That sick-hot pressure building between your shoulder blades like something’s about to explode outward.
“I’ve got you,” Bucky says—and this time, he touches you. Just his fingertips on your wrist, feather-light. Grounding. “You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
You shake your head.
“No. No, you don’t—you can’t—”
Your voice fractures mid-sentence.
You’re spiraling, and part of you knows it. But the rest of you doesn’t care. You feel pathetic and broken and stupid. And the last thing you want—the very last—is for Steve to see you like this.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
“He can’t see me like this,” you whisper, the words barely audible.
Bucky shifts closer, his metal arm pressing lightly against yours, warm through the suit.
“You think he hasn’t been through this?” he murmurs. “You think he wouldn’t want to help you?”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“He already does everything,” you rasp. “He doesn’t need me falling apart on top of it.”
Bucky’s voice sharpens. Not loud—but unshakable.
“Yeah? Well, maybe he wants to.”
You open your mouth. Maybe to argue. Maybe to beg. But the panic tightens its grip. Your vision flares white for a breathless second. Your body sways.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate.
“Nope. That’s it.”
He raises his wrist to his mouth. Quiet. Fast.
“Cap. Med bay corridor. Now.”
“No—no, Bucky, I told you—”
“You didn’t leave me in the dirt,” he says, just above a whisper. “So I’m not leaving you now. And neither will he.”
You try to move—crawl backward, fold yourself into the wall—but your limbs won’t cooperate. Your chest heaves. Your breath catches. Vision goes glassy again.
“I can’t—” You choke on the words. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“Hey,” Bucky says, still holding your wrist, anchoring you. “You can. Just hold on, okay? He’s coming.”
And you want him to.
God, you hate that.
But you do.
You want Steve.
And then—
Boots.
Heavy. Running. Fast.
And his voice.
Right there.
You flinch at the sound. Curl tighter against the wall like you could fold yourself small enough to disappear.
Then the footsteps stop. “Bucky.” Steve’s voice. Breathless. Sharp. “What happened?”
“She’s having a panic attack,” Bucky murmurs. Quiet, steady. “I tried—she didn’t want me to call you.”
There’s a beat. Then Steve again—quieter now. Rough around the edges. “Jesus.”
You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But you feel him there. Standing still. Not uncertain—just… shocked. He’s never seen you like this.
You never let him.
“She’s been running herself into the ground for weeks,” Bucky adds, softer.
“Didn’t say a word.” Steve moves. Kneels.
“Hey,” he says, close now. So close. “Sweetheart. It’s me. I’m here.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears threatening—not because of the fear. Because it’s him. Because he wasn’t supposed to see this. Not you. Not like this.
“Don’t,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “Don’t look at me—”
“Hey—look at me,” he says, and his tone shifts—gentler now, but just as sure. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see it. I should’ve.”
His hand hovers near your shoulder. Waiting. When you don’t flinch, he sets it down—firm, warm, grounding.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “C’mon. In. Just try.”
You gasp. It’s not enough. Your chest seizes, misfiring like it forgot how to be a body. He leans in closer. Forehead nearly touching yours.
“Good girl,” he whispers, as soon as you manage one solid inhale. “That’s it. That’s it. You’re alright.”
Your hands find his suit—grip it hard, like it’s the only solid thing left.
His arms wrap around you without hesitation, drawing you into him. Cradling you.
“You’re alright,” he says again. But it’s softer now. Like he’s saying it to himself.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until his thumb brushes your cheek.
“I didn’t know,” he murmurs. “You never let me see you hurting.”
You try to respond. All that comes out is a broken, “Didn’t want to be—”
“A burden?” he finishes, voice cracking. “Jesus, baby. No.” He wraps you up tighter.
One hand against the back of your head, the other curling around your spine. Holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
You don’t know how long you stay curled against Steve—just breathing him in. Leather. Sweat. Something warm and clean underneath it all.
Bucky shifts behind you. You feel it before he speaks.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” he says, voice low.
You manage to lift your head. Just enough to meet his eyes.
He nods—soft, steady. No pity. Just that look that says I’ve got your back. Always.
Then he’s gone.
Steve doesn’t speak right away. Not until Bucky’s footsteps fade.
Then, slow and careful, he moves his hand from your back to your wrist. Two fingers press gently over your pulse.
“Still fast,” he murmurs. “But better.”
You nod. Barely.
He shifts back just far enough to see your face. You don’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t push.
“You think you can stand?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“That’s alright,” he says. “I’ll help you.”
He moves slowly. No rush. No urgency. Every motion full of intention.
He lifts you—not like you’re broken, but like you matter.
You lean into him as he stands. Your legs tremble under you, but his arm wraps around your waist—solid, steady, like it’s always been.
“Take your time,” he says. “We’re not in a hurry.”
You walk the corridor in slow, deliberate steps. No words. Just his body close to yours. Just his presence, holding everything together.
By the time you reach the quinjet, your breathing’s almost normal. Not perfect. But closer.
Steve opens the hatch with one hand, guides you gently inside.
You sit. Your head finds Bucky’s shoulder without thinking. His arm curls around you immediately. The metal resting against your knee.
Grounding. Familiar.
Your breath slows again.
Steve watches for a second.
“You okay here for a minute?”
You nod. Can’t trust your voice yet.
Steve rises. Gives Bucky a look—quiet, unspoken—and steps away toward the cockpit.
Before he goes, he brushes his hand against your cheek. Just for a moment.
He doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t have to.
You’re asleep within minutes.
When your breath evens out—when your hands stop trembling—Bucky waits just a beat longer. Then gently eases your head off his shoulder and onto his folded jacket.
He rises and heads for the cockpit.
Steve glances back as Bucky approaches. His eyes flick down to make sure you’re still out.
“She asleep?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Out cold.”
Steve’s hands tighten briefly on the controls.
Silence.
Then—
“How long has this been happening?”
Bucky doesn’t answer immediately.
Steve keeps his eyes forward, but his jaw locks. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Cracking.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Bucky sighs, drops into the co-pilot seat.
“Because you’re Steve Rogers,” he says simply. “She didn’t wanna put more on your shoulders.”
“I’m not—” Steve starts. Stops. Breathes. “I’m not mad. I just… I didn’t know. I should’ve.”
“She didn’t want you to.”
Steve looks over. “But you knew.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. Not defensive. Just… honest. “She didn’t have to pretend around me.”
Steve stares at his hands.
“She shouldn’t have to pretend around me either,” he says softly.
“Then tell her that.”
The cockpit falls quiet again.
Steve doesn’t say anything.
The engines hum beneath them. The sky outside shifts, clouds parting.
Bucky leans forward, arms resting on his knees.
“You remember what it was like when I was trying to piece it all together?”
Steve glances at him. Says nothing.
“I didn’t feel worth it,” Bucky says. “You kept fighting for me, and all I could think was—why?”
Steve’s jaw works. But he lets him speak.
“I saw what it cost you,” Bucky continues. “Tony. The Accords. Everything. And still, I couldn’t see what you saw in me.”
Steve’s voice is raw when it comes.
“You were never a burden.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t feel like one.”
That hangs in the air.
Bucky turns to face him fully.
“She feels the same.”
Steve lowers his gaze.
“She sees you out there holding everyone together, being the guy—Cap—and she doesn’t wanna be the one who pulls you under.”
“She’s not,” Steve says, fast. But his voice wavers.
“I know,” Bucky says. “You know. She doesn’t.”
Steve exhales, slow. Rubs a hand down his face.
“She should’ve told me.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “But you gotta remember—sometimes saying you love someone is the easy part.”
He pauses.
“Letting them see the parts you hate about yourself?”
He meets Steve’s eyes.
“That’s a whole other thing.”
Steve doesn’t reply.
It’s late when you wake up. Everything’s still.
The quinjet’s quiet. Landed. The low mechanical hum is gone, replaced by silence and soft interior light. You’re lying on your side—blanket draped over you, Bucky’s jacket folded under your head like a pillow.
The seat next to you is empty.
You sit up slowly, joints stiff, mind fogged.
But the second you do, you see him.
Steve.
He’s sitting across from you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been waiting the whole time. And maybe he has.
His eyes are tired. Worried. But when he sees you sit up, they soften.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod once. “Yeah. I think so.”
He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t fill the silence too fast. Just watches you—like he’s trying to read a language he doesn’t know yet but wants to.
You break first.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
His mouth pulls tight—more regret than frustration.
“Why not?”
You exhale, hands knotted in your lap.
“Because you’re already doing so much. You carry everyone. I didn’t want to be one more thing.”
His voice is barely a whisper. “You’re not a thing. You’re mine.”
That hits harder than it should.
“I’ve seen what you do for people,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want you to have to do it for me too.”
Steve leans forward, eyes bright but voice steady.
“Do you think I do it because I have to?”
You look down. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I don’t,” he says. “I do it because I care. And I would’ve been there sooner if you’d let me.”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I didn’t know how to ask,” you admit. “It’s like… something started unraveling and I couldn’t stop it. And the more I tried to hold it together, the worse it got.”
Steve nods slowly.
“I know the feeling.”
Your eyes lift.
“You do?”
He leans back, rubs the back of his neck.
“I get panic attacks too,” he says. “Not often. But when they hit, they’re brutal. I used to hide ’em. Didn’t want anyone thinking I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Steve—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “It’s stupid. But when everyone sees you as the shield…”
He trails off.
You don’t interrupt.
“Sometimes I forget I’m a person underneath it too.”
Silence follows. Full. Honest.
Then—
“I love you,” he says. “Not the version of you that’s bulletproof. Not the one who cracks jokes or never misses a shot. I love you. The whole thing. The mess. The quiet. The scared parts.”
Your breath catches.
He shifts to sit beside you, pulls your hand into his.
“I don’t need you to be okay all the time,” he says. “I just need you to let me in when you’re not.”
His head drops for a moment. His shoulders tremble once. Then he looks up, eyes raw.
“I’ve been shot. Blown up. Fought things I still don’t have names for.”
He meets your gaze.
“But nothing—nothing—scared me like seeing you like that did.”
You can’t speak.
So you reach for him.
He meets you halfway.
His arms wrap around you tight—like he needs you to feel it. Feel him. He doesn’t let go. You bury yourself in his chest, and he holds on like he almost lost you.
In that grip, you feel truth.
You are loved.
Not despite the mess.
But because of it.
“I don’t want to save you,” he says, voice low. “I want to stand beside you. Even when you fall apart. Especially then.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
His hand brushes your cheek. Thumb under your chin.
And when he leans in—it’s not urgent. It’s not dramatic.
