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Masterlist | College Collab Masterlist
Pairing: Prof! Bucky Barnes x Student F!Reader
Warning/Tags: Smut, barely any plot, Fluff, Age Gap, College AU, Student x Professor Trope, College inaccuracies, Kind of Power Imbalance situation, Kind of Lactation kink, Kind of Breeding kink.
Word count: ~3.6k
Summary: You learn you're pregnant after having something not that casual with your professor, and he then shows you how ready he is to take care of you and your baby.
Author's Note: This is my first entry to the College AU collab I'm part of with my babies @herejustforbuckybarnes and @w1nter-fairy (go ahead and check their works too!) Betaread by my babies and my love @kileyking
You knew it was wrong. You knew it since the first time you rode his broad body. And yet, you didn’t really care.
You knew that screwing your professor was the worst decision you could’ve taken—but from the first time you saw him, you wanted to ride that beautiful face that was bedecked with a salt-and-pepper beard.
And the first time you finally got to be bent over his desk, you knew you were in trouble.
Professor Barnes was everything you could ever wish for.
His rough hands embraced your hips carefully while he plunged his thick cock between your wet folds, and as he moved his metal arm, shoving your face between all your classmates’ papers.
It was after classes. Not even one soul was around. It had been three weeks of you two pinning on each other with the thirst of a man in the desert. He was tired of having you in short dresses or skirts, deep cleavages that showed him enough skin that he could have reported you for misconduct.
But doing so would have deprived him of the opportunity of seeing that glistening skin of yours.
And oh, if he loved the skirts that rode on your thighs when you sat next to him in his office. How they would ride enough to show that clothed mound between your thighs when you bent yourself on the desk to reach for something.
He knew you were doing it on purpose. He knew you were provoking him, but he needed to be the responsible one there. He needed to take care of his reputation… but your parted legs with no more than a few centimeters of fabric covering them were inviting him to rail you from behind.
And he did.
That night, he got enough and shoved you down to make you take him in the mouth.
He didn’t even pull down his pants; he just unzipped himself and took that big pinkish, angry, and delicious shaft out of his pants and made you suck it as if your life depended on it. You took it ravenously, didn’t even complain, even when he thrusted a bit harder, making you gag on his cock.
“You can take it, sweetheart,” He mumbled in your ear while he groped your breast, purchasing some stead from the thrust he was inflicting.
“Yes, I can. Don’t stop, please, professor.” You whined, pushing your head back on his shoulder. He chuckled.
“Calling me ‘Professor’ when I’m balls deep in you, it’s interesting.”
You clenched at his voice and felt your legs get weaker.
“That’s good, sweetheart. You know I got you.”
When he finally let himself go, and his engorged dick spilled ropes of cum in your cunt you reached your peak—rolling your eyes back and with his flesh hand covering your mouth not to make any sound that could give you away.
Since then, everything changed. That desk in his office had seen you naked more times than your own bed. He loved to have you all naked in his office when he was still completely dressed. ‘Practical strategies’, he would say.
And you hated that he was right.
He was kneeling in front of you, your legs spread open with his head between them, his beard damp on your arousal, while your hand pulled him closer. Tongue delving between folds, while his hands stopped you from closing them. And then, a knock on his door.
“Bucky, are you busy?” Dr. Banner called from the other side of the door.
Dear lord. It had been years since he left university, and that nickname still haunted him even in his professional environment.
He grunted and stopped his ravishing moves, pulling you down under his desk, all your discarded clothing lying there next to you.
You always thought those old wooden desks in the classrooms must have been incredibly hot, with those three sides covering the entire desk.
And fuck, if you were right.
He stood up, wiping his face with a tissue while he walked to the door. Once he made sure you were well hidden and none of your personal belongings were visible, he opened his office door.
Your knees burned under the desk as Dr. Banner asked him about a paper he had done in the past.
When Dr. Banner finally left, you crawled out from under the desk and sat on his chair, caressing your aching knees.
“I think it’s time for us to go home.” You nodded.
He was reckless enough to fuck you in his office, but not dumb enough to know that this wouldn’t be the last visit he would be receiving in the night, and he wouldn’t risk being caught in something like this.
The first weeks of your rendezvous were more casual, late-night sex, blowing a steam. And then, they turned into something more. Something deeper, something you two longed for.
It didn’t really have a title. He always made sure to remind you that you two couldn’t have anything that could be named.
But when the test in front of you was showing a
“Pregnant: 3 — 4 weeks.”
You knew you were fucked up.
How were you supposed to do this?
This was supposed to be casual, no strings attached. This was supposed to be secret. Something that didn’t put all his hard work, earned title, and reputation in the University.
Not even your best friend, Yelena, knew about this.
He made you swear this would be like this.
But how could you keep it casual when he asked you to stay at his house for the night, when he told you the story behind his metal arm—how he had lost it serving the country as a sergeant.
And that’s how he ended up being a retired sergeant at the young age of twenty-seven, and was able to keep studying to become who he was then.
How to keep it casual when he had fucked you brainless with his dog tags bouncing between the mounds of your breasts?
You sat on the cold tiled floor of your bathroom, looking at the piece of plastic that was screaming at you how irresponsible you two had been. Letting him fuck you raw. Letting his breeding kinks speak instead of that voice behind your head that told you not to do it.
“Can I see you tonight at your house?”
“Picking you as soon as I finish my last lecture, sweetie.”
Always the gentleman he was. Never letting you knock on his door. Never letting you arrive on your own at his house.
When the clock struck 8:35, you heard that ding on your phone that told you he was waiting for you at the parking lot of your dorm.
The black car with tinted windows didn’t let you see that salt and pepper beard that drove you crazy. He opened the door from inside, and you sat immediately, fastening your belt, not saying much.
His woodsy scent brought you back to the present.
He was wearing that black shirt that, even when it was loose, let you see his broad body under it.
“You look tired tonight, sweetie.” He said, caressing your cheek.
“Haven’t slept well.” You admitted.
“Don’t you worry, we will sleep well today.” He placed his hand on your thigh and started driving his way home.
You sighed and nodded. The plastic buried in the depths of your purse weighed twice its size at that moment.
The ride back home was torture for you. Your mind couldn’t stop racing from the first moment you suspected to the last hour when you couldn’t stop watching the pregnancy test.
"When you finally got home, he was already bringing you flush to his body as soon as the door closed—for the first time in months, you felt claustrophobic. The enormous house he had felt like a shoe box at that moment.
“James— Can we—” you tilted your head, trying to ease your mind, “I just need to talk with you before we do anything else.”
His hands were already under your blouse, aiming to find their favorite spot. Your breasts.
He pecked the crook of your neck warily, like he needed to make up for all the minutes he spent busy in other endeavours.
“Sorry, sweetie. I’ve been missing you like crazy.” You bit your lip, and a tear started to well up in the corner of your eye.
He felt it as soon as it left your face and landed on his face. He furrowed as soon as he felt the wetness.
“Wow, let’s take a step back.” He turned you around and looked at you intently, “What the hell is going on that got you like this?”
He picked you up and made you straddle his waist while he walked with you in his arms until he found his couch.
He sat down with you still in his lap and made you look at him.
“What’s going on?”
You couldn’t stop crying, and a small hiccup left your throat as soon as you started to think again about explaining yourself. In his eyes, genuine worry could be seen—and even there, you couldn’t find the exact words.
“Do you need a minute?”
A nod was the only thing that you could do.
“Is this about school?” You shook your head.
“Got it… It’s about us?”
You sighed and nodded. Your answer took him aback.
“I… Did I do something wrong?”
“No…”
“Honey, I know you’re probably feeling a lot right now, but I need you to help me here. I can’t do anything if you don’t speak.”
You sighed and finally started searching for the thing that had gotten you like that—you took out the white-and-pink test and placed it on his hand.
He took what seemed like an eternity to comprehend what was in front of him.
“When… What…”
“I’ve been feeling weird the last few weeks, and I took the test just today…”
He sighed. He knew he couldn’t get mad at you. This was a conscious decision you both had taken one too many times, but the implications behind that test were almost a penance.
What would the board say if they knew that he was having illicit affairs with a student? How could this affect your credibility in front of other professors?
“Please… Say something…”
His hands grasped your hips carelessly.
“Honey… this…” He pursed his lips, “Are you sure about this?”
“Are you not?”
He furrowed—and then your world started to fall apart.
You knew that face.
It was the same face he made every time something was making him anxious.
“It’s not that I’m not sure, but this is gonna affect your life. Honey, I’m old enough to be your father, being a father at my age is even considered late… but you? You are halfway through your degree… You’re only twenty-two.”
“I know… but…” His hand stroked your hair; he was trying to find some hesitation in your eyes. “We never wore anything… I thought it was something you wanted…”
“I want it! I really do… I just don’t want to ruin your plans…”
“You won’t… This is great… We could work it out…”
But you noticed his furrow didn’t go away.
“What?” Your voice cracked in the middle.
“Yes, we can work this out… but I want you to finish your degree—I want you to be someone…” You nodded, “And for that, it would be easier for me to find a different school than you for leaving…”
Your mouth fell to the floor. You knew what he meant.
“No. No… Everyone loves you, they are gonna understand… I’m… I can’t…” He shook his head.
“Understanding’s not the same as accepting—and people are gonna judge us very hard if we ever decide to make it public.”
“So?”
“Before the year ends, I’m gonna ask for a transfer… You’re gonna work triple hard not to stay behind when you eventually have to leave…” His eyes were calculating; you could see how his mind raced through all the possibilities.
“Now I’m the one who doesn’t want to ruin your entire career.” You mumbled—your teary eyes gave him an aching pain in his chest.
“You’re not ruining everything. Look at me. I’m one of the most solicited Professors. I know I’m gonna find something close and we will make it work. I promise.”
“This is gonna be problematic…” You grunted.
"It has been problematic since the day I kissed you in my office. It has been problematic since I succumbed to your short skirts…”
“Do you miss them?” You giggled.
“I love to see them here. I hated every time you wore them to school and all your idiotic classmates saw your long legs and drooled over you.”
You rolled your eyes, “Those skirts were only for you to lift them.”
“Well, sad for me, they are never going to know that I was the only one able to lift, rip, pull them down… And now I’m the one who’s honored to be the one who you’re gonna call husband…”
You scoffed a laugh, but his serious tone made you stop mid-laugh.
“Why do you think I’m joking? You’re not gonna be a single mother… I’m gonna marry you as soon as possible, you will take my last name, and you’re gonna be the prettiest pregnant bride.”
“Are you being serious now?”
He nodded, “I already messed this up, I’m gonna do the right thing now.”
“And what would be that exactly?”
"As I said, marrying you, making you finish school—giving you as many children as you want, working my ass off to give you the life you deserve. God, you’re gonna make me the happiest man in the world.” He sighed, tilting his head, “You’re gonna look so precious with that belly swollen with my babies…”
“Oh, you wanna keep me pregnant?” You teased.
“Of course I do. Seeing you full of me. That every single man that sees you notices you’re carrying my babies.”
“And where’s this coming from?”
“I always kept it hidden. Didn’t want to scare you. An old man like me asking a young girl like you to have my children?” He cocked his eyebrow.
“Well, now I’m sure I want it.” You looked down. Your barely showing belly between you two made him smile. He caressed it.
You giggled and nodded, but deep down, you noticed a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“A penny for your thoughts?” You cupped his cheeks.
“Are you sure you want this?” He mumbled, “Look at you. You’re young, beautiful, a young promise… and I’m just a… veteran… with PTSD…. nothing you should have to deal with…”
A small scoff let your mouth, “James… We’ve slept together for… what? Almost a year? I’ve slept next to you… I’ve heard your worst nightmares, I don’t think that can scare me at this point.”
“Don’t you find it weird…” He looked at his metal arm.
“What? Your arm? God’s sake. Most of the time I don’t even remember it’s different…” You confessed.
“Don’t lie to me…”
“I’ll never lie about that…” You caressed both his shoulders, and then your hand traveled down his metal arm. "I just don’t care… If you don’t want to make it a big deal, it’s not a big deal…”
He twitched a smile. His hand traced paths on your cheek.
“And what are your parents gonna say?”
“Hey, you might have more common things with them than you think.” You smiled mischievously.
His mouth fell open in offense.
“Too soon?” You mumbled, and he shook his head.
“I deserve it.”
His hands were still roaming through your belly when his fingers traced down their path to the hem of your skirt.
“I just told you I’m pregnant and you’re already thinking ‘bout this?” He smiled, still looking down.
“Can you blame me? You’re my dream come true.”
His hands left your belly and traveled to your thighs, just below your ass cheeks, lifting you and straddling himself with your legs.
“Can I?” He mumbled in your ear, and you nodded slowly.
He took you to his room and put you down on his bed—he knelt in front of you and lifted your skirt. His hands kept your legs open in front of him. His thumbs traced paths on your inner thighs. You hated how delicious he looked in his suit, his salt and pepper beard bedecking his face, making him even hotter. He leaned over your slit and above your underwear, and he stroked a line with his tongue. Your eyes rolled back, and you bit your inner lip.
“Look at that mess…” He moved your underwear to the side and slid two fingers in your cunt, “Fuck… Look at it…”
“James…” You whimpered. “I’m too sensitive…”
“Is that so?” He kissed your bud and smiled, “I’m being careful…”
He distanced himself from your cunt, stood up, and knelt now in the bed. He was working his belt, looking at you, your legs were still hanging to his sides. He set free his cock and stroked himself in front of you.
“Imma be careful with you now… I don’t want to hurt you…” He slipped down your panties and towered over you. You could feel his tip kissing your entrance, drowning your feelings, making you whimper.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” You cried out.
He stroked your slit with his tip, his metal hand found your breast, and he started groping it. The cold feeling made you whimper.
“You’re gonna look so pretty with these tits full of milk—leaking, swollen—Are you gonna let me help you if you feel uncomfortable?”
“Yes, yes.” The voice in your lips was barely audible. Your thoughts were a complete mess. You could barely pay attention to his words while he teased your core with his dick.
You were feeling dizzy, and you didn’t even understand how you ended up there. With him spreading you open, working his cock on you, your legs cramping, and before you could even form a coherent thought, he sank into you—filling you up. Cock sliding slowly, his finger roaming under your bra, pinching your nipple, his eyes fixed on your face—pure lust showing on them.
“Are you gonna marry me?” He hoarsed. “Are you gonna be my perfect little wife?”
You nodded, without being able to form a sentence.
“I can’t tell what you’re saying, sweetheart.” He thrusted harder, “Are you gonna marry me?”
“I wanna marry you, James… I wanna marry you.”
“Good girl.” He husked. “You’re my good girl. You’re doing great…”
He thrusted, pulling down your bra, leaning over your exposed breasts, sucking on your nipple, lapping on it. The sound of skin on skin made the moment completely perfect.
“Come for me, babe. Come for me, make a mess on my cock. Remind me how perfect you’re to me.”
His finger circled your clit, making you come undone. Your voice trembled, and you giggled as the orgasm washed over you. His cock was twitching inside you, and his finger kept circling your already damped nipple. The difference in feeling between the cold and hot of both limbs got you all worked out.
“You didn’t even let me ride you before I came…” You panted out.
“I haven’t come yet.” He teased, “Do you wanna ride my cock, baby?”
You nodded, he slid out from you and lay down on the bed, you crawled up to him. Your legs on his sides, your damp core feeling all his clothes, leaving a wet spot on his fabric.
“Enjoy your last ride. ‘Cause after today I’m gonna put you down every day—you’re not gonna be riding my cock anymore, you’re not gonna get tired getting me off.” He scolded, and you pouted. “Don’t pout at me. I’m telling you I’m gonna make you a… how do y’all call it? A pillow princess…”
You snorted a laugh. “Don’t say that!”
“What?!” He seemed preoccupied, “Am I using it wrong?”
“No,” you chuckled, “You’re not… but… I don’t know how I feel listening to my professor telling me to be a ‘Pillow Princess’.” You frowned.
“Oh, but you don’t feel weird having your professor’s dick fucking you? And you don’t feel weird carrying your professor’s baby?” He lifted you and teased your slit again with his tip.
“Shut up!” You worriedly answer.
“Just ride me, sweetheart.” He scoffed a laugh, “Let me look at you like this for the last time.”
You nodded and sank on his cock, feeling the throbbing cock—you felt every vein on it, the tip bullying your cervix as you bounced on him. His hands held you steady by your hips, jerking you on his shaft. He noticed how your movements were becoming relentless, and he chuckled.
“Are you getting tired?” You nodded, “C’mere.” He tucked you on his chest, heaving his hips, pounding on you—fucking you, reaching your second orgasm.
His thrust became faster until he grunted, releasing his warm ropes of cum into you. You were boneless on top of him. “And that’s why we are in this situation, James.”
“You can’t get any more pregnant.” He mumbled in your ear, almost dozing off, “Have some sleep, honey. We’ve got a lot of things to do after tonight.”
“James…” You said almost falling asleep. He hummed in response. “I love you…”
He smiled and kissed your forehead, “I love you too, honey. You’re gonna be the greatest mom ever.”
Summary: After Steve and Bucky save your weekend, you simply have to find some way to thank them.
Warnings: none
A/N: This is based on a writing prompt I found (and from a list of prompts I've collected. The prompt: "But I will never forget!"
Stucky Masterlist | Character Masterlist
"But I will never forget," you gasped as you stared at the two men across from. "Why would I want to forget all you've done to save my weekend? Seriously, you two stepped up and helped me out so much. There's gotta be some way I can repay you both."
Your gaze bounced between Steve and Bucky, hoping they'd enlighten you on what would make them the most happy. If not happy, at least something that would make them smile, especially for saving your behind like they did.
"Doll, we really didn't do that much," Bucky started, clearly not comfortable with asking you for anything.
Steve, too, nodded alongside Bucky and added, "You're our friend, and you were in a bind. We don't need you to repay us for that."
"But I can't not do something for you two," you practically whined.
Your mind spun through the various options you had, ultimately landing on one idea. It may not be the best, and it would involve a little bending of the truth. But, it might just work.
"Actually, how would you two like to be my official taste testers? As repayment and as another favor? I found a new recipe I've really been wanting to try, but it's supposed to make more food than I could eat before it spoils. Would you maybe like to come over, say, tonight and try it out with me?"
You did your best to keep your voice steady, even as excitement bubbled through you. It warred with hope, an emotion you never failed to have whenever in their company. Hope they liked you. Hope they noticed you. Hope they cared about you as you cared for them.
Steve and Bucky stared at you for a moment before turning toward one another.
It'd been clear they'd been about to argue with you before your offer of food. Their sense of honor and duty had made it easy enough for them to offer you help. They really wouldn't have expected anything in return. They'd definitely done plenty without any type of gratitude in return. Hell, they'd done plenty where they'd been spurned and ridiculed for helping. Yet, it never stopped them from reaching out again and again. With friends. With strangers.
A homemade dinner felt like small pittance compared to all they've done. For you and for others. But it was a start. At least in your eyes.
"Come on," you pleaded, putting on your best puppy dog eyes, "pretty please."
Another shared look passed between them before they turned back to you. Small grins spread across their features.
"Sure, doll, we'll be your taste testers," Bucky started while Steve finished, "as long as we aren't putting you out."
You beamed at them. "You could never put me out."
Leaning up, you pressed a kiss on each of their cheeks, earning you a cute dusting of color painted across them.
"What was that for?" Steve asked.
"Just because," you said with a grin, "but if you'll excuse me, I've got some grocery shopping to do. I'll see you both tonight. Make sure you bring empty stomachs, okay?"
"Oh, we will, doll. We're always hungry."
Your grin turned coy. "Well, maybe I should pick up something for dessert, too, then?"
Warmth spread through you at their mirroring smirks and appreciative glances.
There was an excited skip in your step, so ready to see what dinner with these would bring.
but how does Bucky argue with reader? Just how angsty can things get
You know something’s wrong the second Bucky goes quiet.
It’s not the comfortable kind of silence—the kind you’ve grown to love, where his presence alone feels like warmth curling around your ribs. No, this one is tense. It stretches too thin between you, like a wire pulled to the point of snapping.
He doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t raise his voice. Bucky Barnes doesn’t fight like that.
He withdraws.
And somehow, that hurts more.
“You’re not even going to say anything?” you ask, your voice echoing slightly in the apartment. The city hums outside, indifferent, while you stand in the middle of your living room feeling like everything is tilting.
Bucky stands near the window, his back to you. His broad shoulders are stiff, muscles drawn tight beneath his shirt. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it filling the silence where his voice should be.
“I don’t have anything nice to say right now,” he mutters.
The words land harder than if he’d shouted.
You blink, taken aback. “Since when do you care about that? Just—just say it.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to bleed the anger out of himself before it can touch you. That’s the thing about Bucky, he’s always trying to protect you. Even from himself.
But tonight, it feels like he’s protecting himself from you.
“That’s the problem,” he says quietly. “If I say it, I can’t take it back.”
You swallow. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room. “So instead you just shut me out?”
His jaw ticks. You see it in the reflection of the window before he turns around, and when he does, his eyes are dark, stormy in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“I’m not shutting you out,” he says, a little sharper now. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“Well, congratulations,” you snap, the frustration finally spilling over. “You’re doing a great job anyway.”
That does it.
You see it the second it happens, the way something cracks in his expression, something raw and unguarded slipping through the careful control he clings to.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he asks, his voice low but suddenly rough. “You think I don’t hear myself every time I pull away like this?”
“Then don’t,” you say, your voice softer now, almost pleading. “Bucky, I can’t fix something if you won’t even tell me what’s wrong.”
His gaze drops to the floor, and for a moment, he looks smaller. Physicaclly he isn't, he’s still overwhelming in every way, but there’s something in the way he folds in on himself, like he’s carrying a weight you can’t see.
“It’s not something you can fix,” he says.
“That’s not your call to make.”
“It is when II’m the one who’s broken.”
The words hit you like a slap.
“Don’t do that,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Don’t turn this into—into that. This isn’t about your past, or Hydra, or anything like that. This is about us.”
“It’s always about that,” he shoots back, the frustration finally breaking through. His voice raises to an octave you haven't heard from him. “You think it just… stops? That I can flip a switch and be the guy you deserve?”
“I don’t want anyone else,” you say firmly. “I want you. All of you.”
He laughs then, but there’s no humor in it. It’s hollow. Bitter.
“Yeah?” he says. “Even the parts that push you away? The parts that think maybe you’d be better off without me?”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not your decision to make, Bucky.”
“Maybe it should be.”
Silence crashes down between you.
That’s the closest he’s ever come to saying it outright. To putting words to the fear that’s always been lurking under the surface—that one day, he’ll decide he’s too much for you and walk away before you can leave him first.
Your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort. “Do you have any idea how unfair that is?”
His expression shifts the second he hears the crack in your voice, the hurt he’s been trying so hard to avoid causing.
“I know,” he says immediately, stepping forward. “I know, I’m—”
“No,” you cut him off, backing up a step. “You don’t get to do that either. You don’t get to shut down and then come back like nothing happened.”
His face falls, guilt flooding his features. “I’m not trying to—”
“You are,” you insist, tears stinging your eyes now. “You push me away, Bucky. Every time things get hard, you just disappear. And I’m left standing here trying to figure out what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quickly, almost desperately. “This isn’t on you.”
“Then stop making it feel like it is.”
That lands.
You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him all at once. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts before finally stopping in front of you.
“I don’t know how to fight like this,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “Where I don’t lose control. Where I don’t say something I regret.”
You take a shaky breath. “Then learn. With me.”
His eyes flick up to yours, uncertain.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” you continue, softer now. “I’m asking for honest. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts a little. Just don’t leave me in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Then, slowly, he nods.
“I was scared,” he says, the words rough, like they’re being dragged out of him. “When you said you might take that job. The one across the country.”
Your breath catches. “Bucky—”
“I know you haven’t decided yet,” he rushes on, “but all I could think about was you leaving. And me not being enough to make you stay.”
Your heart aches.
“That’s what this is about?” you ask gently.
He nods once, his gaze dropping again. “I didn’t want to say it out loud. Made it too real.”
You step closer this time, closing the distance he created earlier. “You don’t get to decide what I choose,” you say softly. “But you do get to be part of the conversation.”
His eyes lift to yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.
You reach for his hands and squeeze. “Then stop pushing me away when you’re scared.”
He exhales, tension finally easing out of him as his grip tightens around yours.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“I know,” you whisper. “Just… try with me. Not against me.”
This time, when the silence settles between you, it isn’t sharp.
It’s heavy, yes, but softer. Something you can both carry.
(part of the Mr. Barnes Goes to Washington series)
Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is a war hero, a national icon, and a man quietly drowning in the chaos of Capitol Hill.
Enter Darcy Lewis - astrophysicist, former assistant to Jane Foster, and professional disaster magnet.
“As opposed to the guy who kisses her in an elevator and lets her think it’s because she was having a panic attack,” Sam said, throwing Bucky a side-long look.
“First of all,” Bucky replied. “I told you that in confidence. Secondly-”
“So,” Sam said, cutting across him, not interested in weak excuses he’d already heard five times. “If I was having a panic attack, you’d kiss me?”
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Sam looked at Bucky. In the evening glow the porch light made Bucky's eyes shine.
The smile came effortless across his face.
What surprised Sam was how simple it seemed to be for Bucky to return that smile.
This was a man who'd been through hell. The only things that came easy to him anymore were guilt and self loathing and anger. But he smiled at Sam like it was the easiest thing in the world.
As the fleeting sunlight danced across the water and reflected in the blue of Bucky’s eyes Sam felt a flutter in his chest.
Shit.
~~~~~~~~
Day 16 of @monthlywritingchallenges Firefly July: dancing lights
Summary: When ruthless mafia don Bucky Barnes hears the enchanting voice of a beautiful lounge singer and rescues her from brutal abuse, his dangerous obsession turns into fierce protection and all-consuming love, pulling her from the shadows into his opulent, violent world until she willingly becomes his forever.
Paring: (Mafia) Bucky x Reader
word count: 8000+
warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Injury, Mentions of past Abuse
A/N : Chapter 8 is here! I hope you enjoy!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Chapter 8 - What She Hides
The black Escalade cut through Midtown traffic like a shark through water, windows tinted to absolute black, engine a low, predatory growl. Bucky sat in the back, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone balanced on his thigh as he scrolled through encrypted messages from his lieutenants. A shipment of untraceable firearms had cleared customs at the port. A rival crew in Queens was getting too comfortable moving product on his turf. A politician in Albany needed a reminder about the envelope left on his desk last month. Routine. Bloodless on paper. Necessary.
But his mind wasn’t on any of it.
His thoughts kept circling back to you—curled in his bed that morning, lashes dark against bruised cheeks, breathing slow and trusting. The dossier Sam had compiled lay open on his laptop earlier; he’d read it twice before deleting the file from his personal drive. Not because he wanted to forget. Because he didn’t need the words anymore. He had the truth carved into his memory now:
Your father’s drinking. The gambling debts that ballooned after your mother died. The way you’d paid every cent yourself—quietly, relentlessly—while working nights in places that should have never seen someone like you. The reason you’d stayed at the Velvet Room. The reason you’d flinched when Billy raised his voice. The reason you’d given away most of the cash he’d pressed into your palm.
And the address.
A crumbling walk-up in East New York—Section 8 housing, crime stats that made even his men uneasy, windows boarded on the lower floors, graffiti tags layered so thick they looked like abstract art.
He’d stared at the pin on the map for a long minute before closing the laptop.
“Change of plans,” he said now, voice flat.
Steve glanced back from the passenger seat. “Boss?”
“Take us to East New York. 472 Dumont Avenue.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Her place?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
The Escalade turned east, leaving the gleaming towers of Manhattan behind. The city changed block by block—glass and steel giving way to brick and chain-link, luxury high-rises shrinking into low-rise tenements, manicured sidewalks turning into cracked concrete littered with broken bottles and fast-food wrappers. The neighborhood smelled of diesel, fried plantains, and old garbage even through the closed windows.
They pulled up across the street from 472 Dumont. The building was worse than the photos—four stories of faded yellow brick, fire escapes rusted into permanent brown, windows patched with cardboard and duct tape. A group of teenagers loitering near the stoop scattered the second they saw the black SUVs roll to a stop. Two more Escalades flanked them now—silent backup.
Bucky stared at the address plaque hanging crooked above the door.
Triple-checked.
“Stay sharp,” he told the men. “I’m going in alone. You two with me. Rest of you watch the street.”
Steve and one of the newer guys—Peter—fell in behind him. They crossed the road in formation, shoulders loose but hands near holsters. The front door was propped open with a broken cinder block. The hallway inside smelled of mildew, stale cigarette smoke, and something faintly sour. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one flickering like it was on its last breath.
Bucky took the stairs—elevator looked like a death trap. Third floor. Apartment 3C.
The door was thin particleboard, paint peeling in long curls, a brass 3C nailed on crooked. A small, hand-lettered sign taped above the peephole read “Please knock softly—night shift worker sleeping” in neat, looping handwriting. Your handwriting.
He didn’t knock.
Peter produced a slim tool; the lock clicked open in seconds.
Inside, the apartment was tiny—one room with a galley kitchenette, a bathroom the size of a closet, and a single window overlooking an air shaft. The walls were painted a hopeful pale blue years ago; now they were water-stained and cracking. A futon couch took up most of the living area, neatly made with a hand crocheted blanket. A small folding table held a single potted orchid—ghost-white, the same kind he’d been sending you for weeks. Next to it, a stack of your performance notes, sheet music, a half-finished grocery list in that same careful handwriting.
Everything was clean. Painfully clean.
She’d tried. God, she’d tried.
A thrift-store lamp with a crooked shade. A tiny bookshelf crammed with secondhand jazz biographies and poetry collections. A single framed photo on the windowsill—your mother, younger, smiling, arm around a much smaller version of you. No other pictures. No family. No friends.
Bucky walked the perimeter slowly, boots silent on the worn linoleum. The kitchen sink had one working burner; the fridge hummed like it was dying. The bathroom mirror was cracked in the corner. The closet—barely a nook—held a few dresses (the ones you performed in), a handful of everyday clothes, and a winter coat that looked too thin for New York winters.
He stood in the center of the room and felt something dark and furious coil in his gut.
This was where you came home to. After singing for drunks and predators. After Billy took his cut. After paying debts that weren’t even yours. After hiding bruises under long gloves and stage makeup.
His woman.
Living like this.
He could picture it too clearly: you coming home at three a.m., feet aching in heels, counting crumpled bills to see if you could afford groceries or just ramen again. Locking the door with shaking hands. Curling up on that futon and trying to sleep through sirens and shouting from the hallway.
He’d asked to take you home that first night. You’d refused—eyes flickering with something he hadn’t understood then.
Embarrassment.
Shame.
You hadn’t wanted him to see this.
The realization hit like a blade between the ribs.
Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides. He could end this right now. Call in a crew. Have every item in this apartment boxed and moved to the mansion by morning. Tell you later it was for your safety. Lock the doors. Keep you where no one could ever hurt you again.
He could do it.
He wanted to.
But he pictured your face—the soft, trusting way you’d looked at him when he wiped your makeup away, the shy smile when he kissed your knuckles. The way you thanked him for every small kindness like it was a gift.
If he took the choice from you now—if he forced you—he’d lose that light in your eyes. The one that cracked his chest open every time you smiled.
He exhaled slowly.
No.
Not yet.
He would be patient.
He would earn it.
He would make you want to stay.
He turned to Peter. “We’re leaving. Nothing gets touched.”
Peter raised an eyebrow but nodded.
They left the apartment exactly as they’d found it—door locked, orchid still blooming on the table.
Bucky didn’t speak the entire drive back to Manhattan.
When he stepped back into the penthouse, the late-afternoon sun was slanting golden across the living room. You were standing near the windows, dressed in the soft loungewear he’d had delivered—pale blue joggers and a matching hoodie that still swallowed you. Your hair was pulled into a messy bun, bruises still vivid but less swollen.
You turned when you heard the elevator chime.
“Bucky,” you said softly, surprise flickering across your face. “You’re back early.”
He crossed the room in measured steps. “Heading out already, baby girl?”
You gave a small, apologetic smile. “I think… I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. You’ve been so kind, but I should get back to my place. I have things to take care of.”
His jaw tightened for half a second before he smoothed it away.
“You can stay as long as you want,” he said quietly. “As long as you need. There’s no clock on this.”
Your eyes softened. “I know. And I can’t thank you enough. Really. But I’ve already taken up so much of your time, your space…”
He stepped closer—close enough to smell the faint vanilla of the shampoo he’d left in the guest bathroom.
“I want you here,” he said, voice low. “I want you safe.”
You looked down at your bare feet. “I’ll be okay. I always am.”
He studied you for a long moment, reading every flicker of hesitation, every shadow of embarrassment you tried to hide.
“Let me drive you home, then.”
Your expression went carefully neutral for a heartbeat—unreadable. Then you smiled again, small and polite.
“That’s okay. I’ll call a cab. It’s no trouble.”
He knew why.
He’d stood in that apartment less than two hours ago.
He knew exactly why you didn’t want him anywhere near Dumont Avenue.
He didn’t push.
Instead he pulled his phone from his pocket, opened his contacts, and held it out to you.
“Put your number in.”
You hesitated—then took the phone with careful fingers. Typed your number. Handed it back.
He immediately sent you a text—a single word.
Safe.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, read the message, and looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes.
“If you ever need anything,” he said, “anything at all—you call me. Day or night. I will always answer.”
You nodded. “I will. Thank you, Bucky. For everything.”
He walked you to the elevator. Down through the private lobby. Out to the curb where a black Town Car was already waiting—driver in place, engine idling.
Not just any driver.
One of his men. Discreet. Trusted.
You didn’t notice the subtle nod Bucky gave the man as you climbed into the back seat.
“Thank you again,” you said through the open window, voice soft. “For all of it.”
He leaned down, forearms resting on the sill.
“Anytime, baby girl.”
The window rolled up. The car pulled away smoothly into traffic.
Bucky stood on the sidewalk and watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
Then he turned, slid into his own waiting Escalade, and gave Steve a single order.
“Follow them. Make sure she gets inside safe. Then stay on the building. No one goes near her door unless I say so.”
Steve nodded once.
The SUV merged into traffic, keeping a careful distance.
Bucky leaned back against the leather seat, eyes fixed on the city blurring past.
You were going back to that apartment tonight.
But not for long.
He would wait.
He would be patient.
And when the time came—when you were ready—he would bring you home.
To the mansion.
To the life you deserved.
To him.
Where you belonged.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Tag List: @vicmc624 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @secretdream2 @mrsnikstan @athenniene @youko-sakura @lilac-fishie @wickedfun9
Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.
Wordcount: 11.3k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff
Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.
A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.
I want to thank you all a lot for the engagement with this story. It means a lot to me.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next
The next morning in New York, Bucky didn’t go straight to your apartment.
He couldn’t.
Not with Steve’s words still ringing in his head. Do it right. Don’t leave her in limbo. Not with the sour taste of cowardice still sitting on his tongue, the knowledge that every day he waited was another day he was letting someone else pay the price for his inability to face what he’d done.
So he went to Natasha.
Her building was the kind of place that tried to look casual about money – clean lobby, polished brass, a doorman who pretended not to notice who came and went. Bucky’s hands were cold by the time the elevator reached her floor. He had rehearsed the first sentence in his head a dozen times and none of them sounded like something a decent person would say.
He knocked anyway.
Natasha opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair still damp, mug of coffee in hand. For half a second, her face softened with the familiar sight of him – automatic affection, the assumption of normal.
Then she saw him properly.
The exhaustion. The way he stood like he didn’t know where to put his body.
Her expression sharpened immediately.
“What happened?” she asked, voice already guarded. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Can I come in?”
Natasha hesitated, then stepped aside.
Her apartment smelled like clean laundry and eucalyptus cleaner, like a life that ran on routines and sharp edges. Everything had a place. Everything made sense. That used to comfort him.
Today it felt like an accusation.
Natasha closed the door behind him. “Okay,” she said, setting her mug down on the counter with deliberate care. “Talk.”
Bucky stared at the floor for a moment, then forced himself to lift his eyes.
“I need to end this,” he said.
The words landed like a slap.
Natasha blinked once. Twice. “What?”
Bucky’s throat tightened. “I can’t– I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to you.”
Her face went still in that dangerous way – too calm, too controlled. “You’re breaking up with me,” she said flatly, as if naming it would make it less ridiculous.
“Yes.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Natasha’s expression fractured – anger and hurt flashing through in equal measure, her composure cracking at the edges.
“You don’t get to just walk in here and say that,” she snapped, voice rising. “Not after two years. Not after everything we’ve–”
“I know,” Bucky said, too quickly, too raw. “I know.”
Natasha let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. “You know?” Her eyes were already wet, but the tears didn’t soften her. They sharpened her. “Do you? Because you’ve been distant for weeks, and now you show up with a bruise on your face and decide you’re done?”
Bucky flinched. “It’s not–”
“Oh, it’s not what?” Natasha cut in, stepping closer, hands curling into fists at her sides. “Not sudden? Not cruel? Not exactly the thing you always do when you can’t handle your own feelings– pull away, shut down, pretend it’s about ‘fairness’ so you don’t have to admit you’re leaving because there’s someone else?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned.
Natasha saw it.
And because she was Natasha – because she was terrifyingly perceptive even when she didn’t want to be – she followed the thread.
“Is it her?” she demanded.
Bucky didn’t answer fast enough.
Natasha’s face twisted, like the confirmation physically hurt. “Of course,” she breathed, and the tears finally spilled. “Of course it’s her.”
“It’s not like that,” Bucky insisted, voice breaking. “I didn’t– I didn’t cheat on you.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Natasha shot back, stepping even closer now. Her voice cracked on the next words. “I asked if it’s her.”
Bucky swallowed hard, shame heavy in his chest like a stone.
“Yes,” he admitted, barely audible. “It’s… it’s always been her.”
The air between them went tight, electric.
Natasha’s eyes widened, hurt turning instantly into rage. She slapped him.
“You asshole,” she whispered, and then the whisper broke into a shout. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Two years– two years of me trying to build something with you while you were– what? Practicing? Pretending?”
“I wasn’t pretending,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “I cared about you. I do care about you.”
Natasha let out a sob that sounded like a laugh. “Caring is not love, Barnes.”
Bucky’s hands flexed helplessly. “I tried. I tried to make it– normal. I tried to want the right things.”
Natasha’s mouth trembled, and for a moment her anger faltered, revealing the devastation underneath. “And I was the right thing,” she said softly, like she couldn’t quite believe she was saying it. “I was the safe choice you could hold without getting burned.”
Bucky couldn’t look at her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Natasha wiped her cheeks violently, furious at her own tears. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t say you’re sorry like it fixes anything.”
Bucky took a shaky breath. “I know it doesn’t.”
Natasha stared at him, chest heaving, eyes bright and red. For a moment, it looked like she might hit him again.
Then she did something worse.
She stepped back as if he’d become untouchable.
“Get out,” she said, voice low and shaking. “Get out of my apartment.”
Bucky didn’t move immediately. Not because he wanted to argue – because leaving felt like adding another cruelty on top of the ones he’d already done.
Natasha’s voice rose again, raw now. “Get out!”
Bucky nodded once, throat tight. He reached for the door, fingers clumsy.
As he opened it, Natasha threw the words after him like knives.
“I hope she never comes back,” she cried, voice breaking. “I hope you live with what you did.”
Bucky froze in the doorway for half a second.
Then he left.
He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t have the energy for drama.
But when the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoed in his chest like a verdict.
When Bucky met Steve outside your building later, Steve took one look at him and exhaled through his nose.
“Thought I told you not to make a habit of getting hit,” Steve said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. His cheek was red again – different side this time, faint swelling at the edge of his jaw.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Steve’s brows lifted. “Natasha?”
Bucky swallowed. “I broke up with her.”
Steve didn’t react immediately. He just stared, like he needed to make sure Bucky wasn’t lying, wasn’t postponing the truth again.
Then he stepped aside toward the entrance.
A silence stretched between them as they went up the stairs – thick, heavy, but not hostile. Steve didn’t fill it. Steve knew when words would only make things worse.
At your door, Steve unlocked it with the key Bucky had given him, pushing it open slowly.
Bucky hesitated on the threshold.
The apartment smelled stale – closed up, unoccupied. Not dirty, exactly, but like a space that hadn’t been lived in for too long. The air had that faint, trapped quality, as if it had been holding its breath since the moment you left.
Bucky stepped in, eyes scanning automatically, instinctively looking for signs of you – your shoes by the door, your bag on the chair, a sweater thrown over the armrest.
Nothing.
And then he saw it.
In the entryway, on the wooden console table, the frame that should have been hanging on the wall was lying flat – placed with deliberate care.
Face-down.
The photograph of you and him pressed against the wood as if it had been too painful to look at, but too meaningful to throw away.
Bucky stopped so abruptly Steve nearly bumped into him.
His throat tightened, hard and immediate, like someone had reached inside him and wrapped a fist around his windpipe.
He stared at the frame, unable to move.
Because the message was clear in the simplest, cruelest way.
You hadn’t destroyed it.
You hadn’t smashed it in anger.
You had just… turned it away.
As if you couldn’t bear the sight of him anymore.
Steve opened his mouth like he was going to say something – something gentle, something careful, the kind of words he’d been rehearsing in his head for weeks. His hand even lifted slightly, as if he might reach for Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky stopped him with a small shake of his head.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just… final.
“No,” he rasped, staring at the frame on the console table as if it might suddenly turn itself back over. “Don’t.”
Steve’s hand fell back to his side.
For a second, they just stood there in the entryway, the apartment quiet around them. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful – it felt like it was listening. Like every wall had absorbed the echo of your footsteps leaving and was waiting to see if you’d ever come back.
Bucky swallowed hard and forced his body to move.
He stepped past the entryway without touching anything. Without even looking at the frame again. Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d keep breathing.
“Let’s just… do it,” he said, voice low.
Steve nodded once, understanding without asking what it meant. Because they both knew. Cleaning wasn’t about dust. It wasn’t even really about you finding the place neat when you returned.
It was about giving their hands something to do so their minds didn’t destroy them.
They fell into a rhythm almost immediately.
Steve went for the kitchen first, sleeves rolled up, moving with the familiar efficiency of someone who’d spent years making small spaces livable. He opened the trash can, tied the bag, and set it by the door without comment. He gathered stray cups and plates and moved them toward the sink. The clink of ceramic against stainless steel sounded too loud in the quiet apartment.
Bucky grabbed the vacuum.
He didn’t wonder where you kept it. He already knew. He hated that he knew.
The cord slid out with a soft hiss as he pulled it, the plastic wheels bumping lightly against the hardwood as he dragged it into the living room. He pressed the button.
The sudden roar of the motor filled the space, blessedly drowning out the silence.
He started with the rug, pushing the vacuum in slow, deliberate lines like the pattern mattered. Like if he did it neatly enough, if he did it properly enough, he could erase the imprint of that night. The path from the couch to the door. The invisible trail of your pain.
Steve moved through the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking expiration dates. He didn’t ask first. He didn’t need to. He knew you’d hate wasted food, hate mess, hate the idea that something in your life might rot quietly in the background while you were gone.
He pulled out containers from the fridge one by one. Leftovers gone too long. Milk that had soured. A tub of hummus that had turned into something unrecognizable.
He held each item for a moment, reading the dates like they mattered, then tossed them in the trash with a grim, steady motion.
The smell hit him when he opened the produce drawer – faint, sweet rot. He grimaced and muttered something under his breath, then cleaned it out quickly, wiping down the plastic with paper towels and disinfectant from under the sink.
Bucky stayed out of the kitchen entirely.
Not because he didn’t want to help.
Because it felt too intimate. Because the kitchen was where you used to lean against the counter and talk while he pretended he wasn’t watching you. Because it was where you’d sat at your little table with Pietro and Wanda and Steve, laughing softly, alive.
He focused on the floors. The corners. The baseboards.
He moved to the hallway, vacuuming carefully along the edges, picking up little bits of lint and hair and the evidence of life.
He did not go into your bedroom.
He didn’t even let his gaze drift toward the door.
The bedroom was a line he couldn’t cross.
Not today.
Steve noticed.
Of course he did.
Steve didn’t say anything about it. He just finished wiping down the kitchen counters, rinsed the dishes that had been sitting in the sink, loaded them into your dishwasher with quiet efficiency. He ran water over a sponge, scrubbed a stubborn ring out of a mug, then set it carefully in the drying rack.
Then he walked down the hall and paused in front of your bedroom door.
He looked back once, checking Bucky’s position – still in the living room now, vacuuming the same strip of carpet for the second time like he needed the repetition.
Steve pushed the bedroom door open.
The room smelled like you. Or at least it had. Now it smelled like closed air, like fabric that hadn’t moved in weeks. The bed was made, but not tightly. The sheets had a faint crease where you must have sat before leaving. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a narrow band of daylight that cut across the comforter.
Steve swallowed hard and forced himself to focus.
He stripped the bed quickly, gathering the sheets and pillowcases, folding them into a neat bundle the way you would have. He didn’t linger over the small things – the indentation of your head in the pillow, the way your side of the bed seemed… untouched.
He carried the linens to the laundry hamper, replaced them with clean sheets from your closet, and remade the bed with crisp precision.
Tight corners.
Smooth surface.
A bed that looked ready for someone to come home.
When Steve stepped back into the hallway, he pulled the door closed quietly behind him.
Bucky was still vacuuming.
The sound of the motor filled the apartment, but it couldn’t fill the hole you’d left.
After an hour, maybe two, they were done.
Trash bags by the door. Counters wiped clean. Floors vacuumed. The fridge cleared of anything expired. The apartment didn’t feel lived-in anymore – it felt paused. Like a set waiting for its lead actor to return.
Steve turned off the last light in the living room and stood near the entryway, hands on his hips, surveying the space like he was checking for mistakes.
Bucky unplugged the vacuum and wound the cord around its hooks with meticulous care.
Then he stood there, staring at the hallway.
At the closed bedroom door.
At the frame still lying face-down on the entry table.
His chest tightened again, that familiar constriction.
He couldn’t stay.
Even clean, even orderly, the apartment felt wrong without you. Like a body without a heartbeat. Like a place that had been designed for your presence and was now haunted by the shape of it.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
Steve looked at him. “Yeah,” he answered, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “I know.”
Bucky grabbed his jacket, hands shaking slightly as he shoved his arms into the sleeves. He didn’t look around again. Didn’t let himself take in any details that might anchor him here.
He headed for the door like it was a lifeline.
Because staying would have meant facing the absence head-on.
And right now, he could barely survive it from the edge.
Bucky asked Steve to keep your spare key.
He did it right outside your apartment door, fingers still smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and dust, eyes fixed on the lock as if he could will it to open for you instead of for them.
“Keep it,” he said, voice low.
Steve held the keyring up between two fingers, brows knitting slightly. “Bucky–”
“Please,” Bucky cut in, the word rawer than he meant it to be. He swallowed, jaw flexing. “Just… keep it. So I don’t do something stupid.”
Steve looked at him for a long moment, understanding settling in. The key wasn’t about access. It was about restraint. About boundaries Bucky didn’t trust himself to hold if panic hit again.
“Okay,” Steve said finally, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ve got it.”
Bucky nodded once – gratitude without the softness.
Neither of them spoke about the frame in the entryway. About the face-down photograph. About the way the apartment had felt like a held breath.
They just left.
In the hallway, their footsteps echoed quietly. In the street, the city swallowed them whole like it always did.
And then they split, each heading back to their own place with the same heaviness sitting in their chests in different shapes.
Steve’s apartment was dim when he got home.
He hung his jacket on the same hook he always used, kicked off his shoes by the door, and stood there for a moment too long – still hearing the hum of the vacuum in his head, still seeing the too-clean counters in your kitchen, the bed remade tight and crisp like you might walk in at any second.
He sat on the couch without turning on the lights.
The room around him was quiet, familiar, and yet his mind kept drifting back to you. To the way you used to sit on that same couch, knees tucked under you, mug in hand, teasing him for his terrible taste in late-night documentaries. To the way you’d always pretended you were fine – even when he could tell you weren’t.
His phone was on the coffee table.
Steve stared at it for a few seconds, thumb hovering. He didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to be another missed call, another pressure, another voice demanding something from you.
But he also couldn’t do nothing.
So he picked it up and typed.
Not a speech. Not a plea. Just the truth, in the simplest words he could manage.
Hey.
We went to your apartment today. We didn’t go through anything personal. We just cleaned – dust, trash, kitchen, that kind of stuff. I changed your sheets.
I’m holding onto your spare key so Bucky doesn't have it around.
I miss you.
I hope you’re okay. I hope you found what you were looking for.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then, before he could overthink it, he hit send.
The message disappeared into the void of silence you’d created, and Steve set the phone down like it might burn him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the quiet settle around him again.
It didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like waiting.
Bucky went home and immediately regretted it.
Not because his apartment was unpleasant, but because it was his – because it held him too well, because it was full of reminders he couldn’t outrun. The bowl of green apples by the window. The candle stub still on the table. The faint lingering smell of garlic that had never truly left since that night, as if the place itself refused to forget.
He didn’t turn on the TV.
He didn’t eat.
He went into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. His face still ached – Natasha’s nails had caught his jaw during the breakup, the fight turning ugly and loud and raw. His mother’s slap still burned in memory more than skin.
But none of it hurt like the thought of you.
The thought of you on that bridge.
The thought of you alone in a hotel room for days, sleeping like your body was shutting down to survive.
The thought of you believing – because of him – that you were unwanted.
Bucky picked up his phone and unlocked it.
He opened your contact and stared at your name until his eyes blurred.
He didn’t call.
He didn’t have the right to call.
So he wrote.
At first, it was just one sentence.
Then another.
Then the words started coming out like blood finally finding air.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I need you to hear it anyway.
He paused, swallowed hard, and kept going.
I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t believe it. Not then, not ever.
I was hurt and angry and scared and I lashed out in the worst way. I said the cruelest thing I could think of because it felt easier than admitting what I was actually feeling.
His thumbs shook. He had to stop and wipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand, breathing through the tightness in his throat.
I know I can’t take those words back. I know saying sorry doesn’t erase them.
I just need you to know that I hate myself for it. I hate that I put that poison in your head.
You are not empty. You are not unlovable. You never were.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, chest heaving, then forced himself to write the next part.
Because you deserved the truth – even if you never spoke to him again.
I ended things with Natasha today.
I’m not telling you that because I expect anything from you. I’m not telling you so you’ll come back or forgive me or… anything.
I’m telling you because you deserve honesty from me, for once.
He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.
I love you.
I don’t know when it started. I think it’s been there longer than I’ve been willing to admit. Maybe always.
I told Mom and Dad. I told them the truth about how I feel.
The words looked too big on the screen. Too naked.
He kept going anyway.
Steve and I cleaned your apartment today. We didn’t go through your stuff. We just… cleaned.
Your picture…
I saw it.
I understand. I do.
His breath hitched painfully.
I’m glad you found your dad. I’m glad he accepted you. I’m glad you got an answer that isn’t pain.
I’m glad I was wrong.
And then, after everything else, after the apologies and confessions and truths he should have said years ago, he typed the simplest line.
The one that had been sitting in his chest like a bruise for weeks.
I miss you.
Bucky stared at the message until the letters blurred.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
He didn’t know if you’d ever read it. Didn’t know if it would land like comfort or like another intrusion. But the words were already written, already real. Keeping them locked inside him felt like another form of cowardice.
So he closed his eyes and pressed send.
The message whooshed away.
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in the dim light of his phone screen, staring at nothing, breathing through the ache of missing you – knowing that loving you didn’t mean he was owed anything in return.
Only that you deserved the truth.
Finally.
After a full day of work – real work, the kind that made your brain ache in a satisfying way – you finally closed your laptop and leaned back in the hotel chair, rolling your shoulders until something in your neck popped.
Pietro was sprawled on the other bed with his own phone and calendar open, rescheduling patients with the kind of apologetic efficiency only a psychologist could manage. His voice had been gentle all afternoon, low and steady as he moved appointments and reassured people that yes, he was fine, yes, it was temporary, yes, he’d call them back.
When he hung up the last call, he exhaled long and dramatic and threw his phone onto the pillow like it had personally offended him.
“I hate being responsible,” he announced.
You snorted softly, rubbing your eyes. “Liar.”
He sat up, stretched, then glanced at you with a faint smile that softened almost immediately into something more thoughtful.
“Let’s get out,” he said. “You’ve been staring at your thesis like it’s going to confess something if you glare hard enough.”
You hesitated for half a second – habit, instinct – but then you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Outside, Miami was still warm even as evening fell. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen that refused to leave people’s skin, like restaurants and street food and humid pavement cooling down. You and Pietro walked without a real destination, letting the city carry you the way New York used to, except this time there was space around you. Less noise. Different energy.
Pietro walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, eyes moving constantly the way they always did – reading, assessing, cataloguing.
After a few blocks, he muttered, “Everything feels weird.”
You glanced at him. “Weird how?”
He gestured vaguely at… everything. The palm trees. The open sky. The way the light hit buildings. The fact that people didn’t look like they were always rushing toward the next thing with their teeth clenched.
“Like the city is on vacation,” he said. “Like it doesn’t know what urgency is.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It’s just not New York.”
Pietro’s eyes flicked to you. “Yeah.”
You kept walking, your steps matching his. “It’s different,” you added softly.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just different enough that your body didn’t keep waiting for the next hit.
Later, back at the hotel, you stared at the new phone on the nightstand for a few seconds before finally picking it up.
Your thumb hovered over Tony’s contact.
The fear wasn’t the same as before – not the fear of rejection – but something else. The fear of accepting. Of letting something good exist without immediately bracing for it to be taken away.
Pietro didn’t pressure you. He just watched you quietly from the edge of his bed, expression calm and encouraging.
You hit call.
Tony answered on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said immediately, like he’d been hoping it would be you. “You okay?”
You felt your throat tighten a little. “Yeah. I’m… yeah. I wanted to ask something.”
“Anything.”
You exhaled slowly. “My best friend is here.”
A beat. “Okay.”
“He flew down,” you added, as if you needed to justify it. “He’s… he’s my person.”
Tony’s tone warmed instantly. “Then I definitely want to meet him.”
You blinked. “Really? I mean– I know you’re busy.”
“I’m not too busy for you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was a fact of physics. “When do you want to do it?”
There was a pause on your end, and then you admitted, quietly, “Tonight? If that’s not insane.”
Tony chuckled. “It’s only insane if you don’t like dinner.”
Pietro raised his brows at you when you lowered the phone, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.
You shrugged, a little helpless. “He just… makes space.”
“Hmm,” Pietro hummed, as if filing that away for future judgment. “We’ll see.”
Tony’s house – because of course it was a house and not just an apartment – wasn’t ostentatious the way you’d expected it might be. It was elegant, modern, warm in that curated way that still felt lived-in. Lights glowed softly through large windows. The air smelled like something rich and comforting – garlic and herbs and roasting meat.
Maria greeted you both at the door as if she’d been waiting with her whole heart.
She kissed your cheek, then turned to Pietro with a polite smile that immediately became something more once she looked him in the eye – recognition of importance.
“You must be Pietro,” she said.
Pietro straightened slightly, the way he always did when he met someone he respected. “Yes, ma’am.”
Maria’s smile widened. “Oh, I like you already.”
Pietro flashed his most charming grin. “Most people do.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was unmistakable.
Tony appeared behind his mother with two glasses of wine in hand, scanning Pietro with open curiosity. His gaze flicked from Pietro to you and back again, clearly trying to map the dynamic.
“You’re… Pietro,” Tony said, offering his hand.
Pietro shook it firmly. “That’s me.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly in amused confusion. “I was expecting…” He stopped himself, then laughed at his own assumption. “Okay, so– my bad. I don’t know why my brain decided best friend meant woman before hearing masculine pronouns.”
Pietro deadpanned. “It’s the hair.”
Tony barked a laugh, genuinely entertained. “Fair.”
Dinner was… surprisingly normal.
Not normal in the sense that this wasn’t your billionaire genius father’s dining room with your grandmother and your best friend, because that was objectively insane. But normal in the sense that the conversation flowed easily. Maria asked Pietro about his work. Pietro explained psychology in a way that made Maria ask more questions, genuinely engaged. Tony kept throwing little comments in, snark and warmth braided together, as if he couldn’t help testing the edges of the room to make sure everyone was comfortable.
You found yourself sitting beside Maria, talking with her as if you’d known her longer than a few days.
She asked about your thesis again – more specifically this time, because she remembered what you’d said at lunch. She asked about your childhood in Brooklyn, about the museum you’d loved as a kid, about whether you still liked the same kinds of books.
It felt like being gently examined – not for flaws, but for familiarity. Like she was trying to place you into her life without forcing you to fit.
At some point, Tony pushed his chair back and nodded at Pietro. “Come on. Drink?”
Pietro stood, shooting you a brief glance – You okay? – and you nodded.
They moved a few steps away, toward a sideboard with whiskey bottles lined up like trophies. You stayed with Maria, but you couldn’t help watching them from the corner of your eye.
Tony poured. Pietro declined at first, then accepted a small amount with a shrug. They stood facing each other, two very different kinds of dangerous – one sharp with intellect, one sharp with instinct.
Pietro didn’t waste time.
He took one sip, then looked Tony straight in the eye and said, casually, like he was asking about the weather, “If you hurt her, I will ruin you.”
Tony blinked.
Then, instead of scoffing, he laughed once – soft and surprised. “Okay.”
Pietro didn’t smile. He held Tony’s gaze, unwavering.
“I’m serious,” Pietro added, voice low. “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you can buy. If she ends up destroyed again, I’ll make it my life’s work to make sure you regret waking up every morning.”
There was a beat of silence.
Tony’s laughter faded, not into anger, but into something attentive. He studied Pietro like he was recognizing something – something familiar and deeply important.
Then Tony nodded slowly.
“Good,” Tony said, and there was no sarcasm in it. “Good. She needs someone like that.”
Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that answer.
Tony took another sip of his drink, then set the glass down with deliberate care.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “But I appreciate you telling me what the stakes are.”
Pietro’s posture eased by a fraction. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t take the stakes seriously.”
Tony’s mouth twisted. “I take them seriously.”
He glanced over Pietro’s shoulder toward you for half a second, expression softening in a way that looked almost painful.
“She’s my kid,” Tony said simply. “That makes her my priority. Not my accessory.”
Pietro watched him for a long moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod – approval, not trust earned yet, but trust possible.
“Alright,” Pietro said. “We’ll see.”
Tony snorted. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
They returned to the table a minute later, both of them wearing faces that were a little too neutral, a little too composed.
Maria glanced between them with knowing eyes.
You raised a brow at Pietro silently.
Pietro didn’t answer out loud.
He just reached for his fork and said, far too casually, “Dinner’s great.”
Tony sipped his wine and added, equally casual, “Glad you think so.”
And you sat there between Maria’s warmth and Pietro’s presence and Tony’s steady, determined attention, realizing – slowly – that this wasn’t just a moment of comfort.
It was the beginning of something that might actually hold.
By the time dessert arrived, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to sit at a table without bracing.
Not completely – your body didn’t forget that easily – but enough that you found yourself answering Maria’s questions without rehearsing every sentence three times in your head. Enough that you tasted the food instead of swallowing around a knot. Enough that when Tony refilled your water without asking, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… care.
The dessert was set down in front of you with a quiet clink of porcelain. Something warm and sweet – chocolate, maybe – paired with fruit and a little too much elegance to be casual about it. Maria murmured an approving sound. Pietro immediately went for his fork like he hadn’t eaten on the plane at all.
Tony didn’t touch his yet.
He watched you for a moment, expression thoughtful in a way that made you sit up straighter without meaning to.
“So,” he said, carefully casual, like he was trying not to spook you. “What was your childhood like?”
The room didn’t go silent, exactly, but the air shifted. The question was ordinary on the surface – the kind of thing people asked when they wanted to know you – but here, in this context, it felt like stepping onto a floor you weren’t sure would hold your weight.
You had mentioned your adoptive mom already. You’d talked about Brooklyn, about school, about skipping grades, about your thesis and the way you’d built your life like a scaffold around stability.
But he knew you hadn’t grown up with the woman he’d loved.
He knew there was a gap there.
And he was asking gently, without forcing, what filled it.
Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.
Your instinct – the reflex honed into you since you were four – was to offer the safe version. The polished version. The one where you said It was fine and smiled and redirected the conversation to something easier.
You glanced at Pietro.
He didn’t speak.
He just lifted his brows once and gave you a small, almost invisible nod.
A quiet encouragement.
Tell the truth. Not the softened one. Not the one you invented to make people comfortable.
Your fingers tightened around your fork for a second. Then you set it down carefully, because your hand had started to shake.
“I…” You inhaled slowly. “I grew up in an orphanage until I was four.”
Tony’s expression changed instantly – surprise first, then something else, sharper. His brows rose, and Maria’s hand paused midair above her plate.
You heard the faintest intake of breath from Maria, controlled but real.
“That’s…” Tony started, then stopped himself, as if he’d realized anything he said too quickly might push you back into silence. “Okay.”
You swallowed. The words were lodged in your throat like stones.
“It wasn’t…” You searched for the language, because you had spent most of your life not giving it any. “It wasn’t a good place.”
Maria’s face tightened in a way that made her look suddenly older. “What do you mean, not a good place?” she asked, voice quiet and edged with restraint.
Under the table, Pietro’s hand found yours.
He didn’t squeeze hard. Just enough to remind you you weren’t alone in this moment. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles – steady, grounding.
You stared at your plate.
Then you made yourself look up, because part of telling the truth was not hiding from it.
“It was a religious orphanage,” you said slowly. “Very strict. They believed… they believed obedience was the same thing as virtue.”
Tony’s jaw clenched, barely perceptible.
Maria’s eyes didn’t leave your face.
You took another breath, and the next words came out more easily once the first ones were spoken.
“If you disobeyed,” you continued, voice flat, almost clinical, as if describing someone else, “you got punished. Not… not like time-out.”
Pietro’s grip tightened slightly.
You forced yourself to keep going before you lost momentum.
“They used… corporal punishment,” you said. “On our backs. Sometimes on our legs. Sometimes just… wherever they could reach.” Your throat burned. “And it wasn’t always for big things. It could be for talking during mass. Or laughing. Or holding someone’s hand.”
Maria’s hand rose to her mouth, fingers pressing briefly against her lips like she was holding back a sound.
Tony’s face had gone very still. The kind of stillness that looked like restraint. Like rage being contained by sheer force of will.
You felt oddly detached as you spoke, like you were watching yourself from above. Like the words were leaving your mouth but not fully touching you yet.
“There were good days,” you added automatically, instinctively trying to balance it, to make it less awful. “But the bad days were…”
You shook your head, unable to finish.
Maria’s voice was soft but firm. “Did they do this to you?”
You hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that felt like the room itself didn’t know what to do with the truth.
Pietro squeezed your hand under the table, steady and present.
You blinked quickly, fighting the sting in your eyes.
You didn’t say saved me, because you weren’t sure you believed in that kind of simple narrative. But the word hovered in the space anyway.
“She was… good,” you said, voice softer. “She was kind. She didn’t have to be. She chose me.” You swallowed hard. “But I was four. And I was–” You laughed faintly, but there was no humor. “I was smart enough to understand that it could be taken away.”
Tony frowned. “Taken away?”
You nodded, gaze dropping again.
“I thought…” Your fingers curled tighter around Pietro’s hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “I thought that if I asked for too much, she’d change her mind.”
Maria’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t let fall. “Oh, sweetheart…”
You shook your head quickly, because you didn’t want pity. You wanted them to understand.
“So I didn’t,” you said. “I didn’t ask. Not for attention. Not for time. Not for reassurance.” Your voice thinned. “I was terrified of being… inconvenient.”
Tony’s eyes flicked over your face, like he could see the child version of you behind your adult one. Like he was mentally putting pieces together – your control, your politeness, your habit of being “okay.”
“I learned really fast,” you said quietly, “that if you’re easy to have around, people keep you.”
The sentence landed like a bruise.
Maria reached across the table then, slowly, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, she covered your free hand with hers – warm, trembling slightly.
“You were a child,” she whispered. “You should never have had to earn love.”
Tony’s voice was low, careful, but there was a tremor of anger underneath. “Does your mother know? Your adoptive mother?”
You hesitated.
“She knows I was there,” you said. “She knows it was strict.” A pause. “But I never… I never told her the details.”
Tony’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”
You could have lied. You could have given a neat answer.
Instead, you told the truth.
“Because I thought,” you said softly, “that if she knew I had been punished, it meant I had done something wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And I was scared she’d send me back.”
Maria’s grip tightened, and her eyes finally overflowed – one tear slipping down her cheek as she shook her head slowly, devastated.
Tony’s gaze stayed locked on you, something fierce and protective building behind his eyes.
“You were four,” he said again, like he needed to repeat it until the world understood. “You were four.”
Your throat tightened. You nodded once, unable to speak for a second.
Pietro’s thumb stroked your knuckles under the table, steadying you through the worst of it.
And somehow, even as the story hung in the air – ugly, painful, undeniable – you didn’t feel the old shame swallow you whole.
Because this time, the people listening weren’t recoiling.
They weren’t looking "through" you.
They were staying.
They were seeing you.
And for the first time, telling the truth didn’t feel like asking to be sent away.
For a few seconds after you finished speaking, the room didn’t move.
Even the small sounds – the clink of a fork against porcelain, the soft hum of the air conditioning – felt muted, as if the house itself had decided to hold its breath with you.
Tony’s face was tight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder like he was trying to see the child you’d been. Maria’s hand still covered yours, warm and steady. Pietro’s fingers were laced with yours under the table, his thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like a metronome.
Then Tony pushed his chair back.
The scrape of wood against the floor sounded too loud.
He stood, breathing through his nose, shoulders tense. He took one step as if he meant to leave the room – then stopped. Hesitated. You saw the conflict in him as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud: the fear of doing the wrong thing, of overwhelming you, of touching a wound that wasn’t his to handle.
His hands flexed at his sides.
He looked at you again.
And then he walked around the table.
He stopped behind your chair, hovering for a heartbeat.
“Can I–” he started, voice rough.
You didn’t answer fast enough, not because you didn’t want it, but because your body always needed a second when something unexpected approached. You felt your shoulders draw in, instinctive. You held your breath without meaning to.
Tony swallowed, and his arms came around you anyway – careful at first, as if he’d be ready to pull back the second you stiffened too much.
You did stiffen.
For a few seconds, your spine went rigid, hands frozen on the edge of the table, the old reflex firing: don’t react wrong, don’t take up space, don’t make it worse.
Then Pietro’s hand squeezed yours under the table, firm and steady.
Maria’s palm pressed gently against your knuckles on the table, reassuring.
And slowly, the tension in your shoulders eased.
You lifted your arms and returned the embrace, tentative at first, then more fully – your cheek resting against Tony’s chest, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin.
Tony exhaled, the sound shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “I’m so sorry.”
You blinked hard, the sting in your eyes back again.
“I would’ve stopped it,” he said, and there was grief there – real, raw grief for something he hadn’t known he’d lost. “If I’d known… I would’ve–” He swallowed. “I wish that never happened to you. I wish none of it had.”
Your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded once, small, against him.
He held you a moment longer, then eased back, keeping his hands on your shoulders as if he wasn’t ready to let you slip out of reach completely. His eyes were bright, but he didn’t let the tears fall. His jaw was clenched hard enough you could see it.
Maria wiped her cheek quietly, then gave you a look that was both soft and fierce.
Pietro didn’t move his eyes from yours.
You drew in a breath and did what you always did when emotions threatened to drag you under: you reached for narrative. For structure. For the next piece of the story that made sense.
“I… um,” you started, voice hoarse. “After the orphanage, my mom got married.”
Tony’s gaze sharpened, listening.
“There was… her husband,” you said carefully, “and his son.”
You didn’t say his name.
You kept your tone neutral, brisk, like you were describing a fact on a timeline. You didn’t linger on how that boy had become the safest part of your childhood. You didn’t say how his presence had been a kind of shelter you hadn’t known how to ask for anywhere else.
“It was… complicated,” you added softly, then moved on before the word could open a door you weren’t ready to walk through.
“I skipped two grades,” you said, more firmly, returning to safer territory. “I was always ahead in school, and they didn’t know what to do with me, so they just… pushed me forward.”
Tony blinked once, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “You skipped two grades?”
You gave a small shrug. “I didn’t have a lot else going on.”
Pietro made a low sound of agreement, as if to say understatement of the century.
“And that’s how I met Steve,” you continued. “He was our neighbor. He lived close by. We… we got close pretty early.”
Tony’s eyes flicked briefly to Pietro, as if silently asking Steve is…? and Pietro responded with a subtle nod – important, safe, not the problem.
“I’ve told you about Wanda,” you added, nodding toward Pietro. “And Pietro. They’ve been in my life for a long time.”
Maria smiled gently at Pietro. “I can see that.”
Pietro’s mouth quirked. “She’s stuck with me.”
You huffed a small laugh, grateful for the tiny release of tension.
Then you went on, because once you started, it felt easier to keep moving than to stop.
“High school happened,” you said. “Steve and I… we dated.”
Tony stilled, then carefully kept his expression open.
“It was my only relationship,” you admitted, a little embarrassed by how simple that sounded on paper.
Maria’s eyes softened. Pietro squeezed your hand again under the table.
“It was… real,” you said, choosing your words. “But it didn’t last. We ended it because…” You paused, then shook your head lightly. “It wasn’t because of him. Not really. And it wasn’t just because of me either.”
Tony watched you closely, as if trying to read between the lines without pushing.
“We’re still friends,” you said. “We love each other. Just not… like that anymore.”
There was quiet understanding in the room. No judgment. No awkwardness. Just acceptance.
You exhaled slowly.
You didn’t talk about the night after Steve.
You didn’t talk about how comfort had turned into something you’d never dared name, and how shame had followed like a shadow.
You didn’t talk about waking up the next day and feeling like you’d stepped over a line that could never be redrawn.
You didn’t talk about the silence that had felt like a guillotine dropping.
You didn’t talk about the weeks Pietro had spent putting you back together in small, patient pieces.
You couldn’t.
Not yet.
So you pivoted again, letting the future be a place you could safely stand.
“I chose archaeology,” you said, and this time the words carried a spark of genuine excitement. “I know it sounds… random, compared to everything else, but it made sense to me. Digging. Understanding what’s been buried. Piecing things together.”
Tony’s expression shifted into something softer, proud almost without meaning to be.
“I want to go to Europe when I’m done,” you added. “After my doctorate. I want to–” You smiled faintly. “I want to see the places I’ve been reading about for years. Touch the stones. Walk the sites. Be… somewhere else.”
Maria nodded slowly, eyes shining. “You will.”
“And at university,” you continued, “I lived with Wanda and Pietro at first. We had this tiny apartment in New York. It was awful and perfect.” You glanced at Pietro, remembering. “We could hear the upstairs neighbor sneeze.”
Pietro grinned. “And he sneezed like he was trying to start a war.”
You smiled properly this time – small, but real.
“It was the first time I felt… normal,” you admitted quietly. “Like I belonged somewhere without having to earn it every day.”
Tony’s gaze held yours, steady, intent.
“I want you to have that,” he said softly. “From now on.”
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic.
It was something warmer.
Something frightening in a different way.
Because it felt like hope.
Later that evening, when the dishes had been cleared and Maria had excused herself with a knowing smile and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Tony asked if you would walk with him for a bit.
Not talk – walk.
You appreciated the distinction immediately.
The house was quieter now, lights dimmed in the living spaces you weren’t in, the air outside warm and heavy with night-blooming flowers. You followed him out onto the terrace, where the city sounds were distant enough to feel unreal. Tony leaned his forearms against the railing, looking out for a few seconds before speaking, as if choosing where to start.
“She was… brilliant,” he said finally.
You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t rush him. You had learned – painfully well – that some truths needed space to arrive.
“Your mother,” he went on. “She worked in restoration. Ancient materials, old texts, fragments most people would’ve written off as unsalvageable.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She loved impossible things.”
Your chest tightened in a way that felt familiar and strange all at once.
“She was stubborn,” Tony added, fond and exasperated in equal measure. “Uncompromising. Strong in a way that didn’t bend just because someone louder was in the room.”
He glanced at you then, really looked at you, and his expression softened.
“You have her eyes,” he said again, quieter this time. “But it’s not just that. It’s the way you listen. The way you think before you speak. The way you don’t back down once you’ve decided something matters.”
You swallowed. “You make her sound like you.”
He huffed a short laugh. “That was the problem.”
You waited.
“She and I…” He shook his head slowly. “We were too similar. Two immovable objects convinced the other one should yield. The arguments were frequent. Intense. Not about small things either – about values, about priorities, about what kind of life mattered.”
Your fingers curled lightly against the cool stone of the railing.
“And the last one?” you asked, voice careful. “The one after which she left.”
Tony closed his eyes for a moment.
“I said things,” he admitted. “Things meant to wound. Things meant to win instead of understand.” His jaw tightened. “I assumed she’d come back once we cooled off. She always did.”
He opened his eyes again, and there was something raw there.
“She didn’t,” he said simply. “And when she didn’t answer my calls, when the weeks turned into months…” He exhaled slowly. “I told myself she’d chosen to disappear.”
You hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting heavy in your chest since the moment you’d learned his name.
“Do you think that’s why she left me?” you asked softly. “Because of you?”
Tony didn’t dodge it.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
The word landed with weight, but not cruelty.
“I don’t think she abandoned you because she didn’t want you,” he continued immediately. “I think she was hurt. Ashamed. Afraid. I think she believed that cutting everything clean was the only way to survive what we’d done to each other.”
He looked at you then, eyes fierce with certainty.
“And that was her mistake,” he said. “Not you.”
You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm you hadn’t known you were craving.
You worked on your thesis during the day, hours slipping by as you lost yourself in texts and annotations and arguments that felt solid and solvable. You worked at the dining table sometimes, sometimes by the pool when the heat was too tempting to ignore.
Tony didn’t hover.
Maria didn’t pry.
They simply… existed around you.
Lunches turned into dinners. Sometimes all three of you. Sometimes just one of them. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes filled with conversation that drifted from history to science to the most mundane things – favorite foods, terrible movies, places you wanted to see.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, your shoulders stopped living permanently hunched near your ears.
When Pietro finally told you – gently, reluctantly – that he needed to return to New York, you felt the familiar flare of fear spark in your chest.
He noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he said, sitting across from you at the kitchen counter one morning. “I’m not disappearing.”
You huffed. “You better not.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re… different now. Calmer. Still tired, but not… hollow.” His gaze softened. “I can go back knowing you’re okay.”
You nodded, trusting him because you always had.
Tony listened to the conversation quietly, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.
When Pietro left later that day – hugging you hard, whispering that he’d call every day whether you liked it or not – you watched his taxi disappear down the drive with a mix of gratitude and grief.
The house felt larger without him.
That evening, Tony found you standing in the kitchen, staring absently at your laptop screen without actually seeing it.
“You don’t have to rush back,” he said, not unkindly.
You looked up. “I know.”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“Why don’t you stay?” he said. “Here.”
You blinked. “You mean–”
“I mean here,” he clarified. “The villa’s big enough that we won’t be in each other’s way. You’d have space. Privacy. And…” He shrugged, trying for casual and missing slightly. “I’d like it.”
You considered it.
Not just the logistics, but the feeling.
The way you no longer flinched when he entered a room. The way Maria treated you like you’d always belonged at the table. The way this place, improbably, felt safe.
“I think I’d like that,” you said finally.
Tony smiled – not the flashy kind, not the performative one. Just quiet. Relieved.
“Good,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”
And for the first time in a very long while, settling didn’t feel like giving something up.
It felt like arriving.
Pietro had barely had time to drop his bag in the hallway before his apartment started feeling too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak in the building sound like an accusation. The kind that reminded him – too sharply – that you weren’t on the other side of the wall, that Wanda wasn’t in the kitchen humming while she made tea, that he wasn’t about to hear your voice from the bedroom asking him to read a paragraph of your thesis “just to make sure it made sense.”
He told himself it was fine.
You were in Miami. You were safe. He’d seen you. He’d held you. He’d watched you sit in the sun and breathe like your lungs weren’t fighting you anymore. He’d watched your hands steady on your keyboard, watched the color slowly return to your face.
He’d done what he came to do.
And still, stepping back into New York felt like stepping into a room where the air had been trapped too long.
He kicked his shoes off by the door and dragged his duffel to the bedroom without bothering to unpack. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it in three gulps like his body needed to prove it was still functioning, then dropped onto his couch and stared at his phone.
Wanda had answered his text immediately when he told her he was boarding: a line of hearts, a promise she wouldn’t tell anyone anything you hadn’t permitted.
He’d known – because he knew Wanda – that she would still worry.
He’d known – because he knew Steve – that Steve wouldn’t just sit with worry when he could turn it into action.
He didn’t expect action this fast, though.
Exactly an hour after he closed his apartment door behind him, there was a knock.
Pietro froze for half a second, then groaned out loud as if the universe had personally inconvenienced him.
“Of course,” he muttered, pushing himself off the couch.
He didn’t even bother looking through the peephole. He already knew. His whole body knew.
He yanked the door open.
Wanda stood there, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes red around the edges like she’d been crying at least a little. Beside her was Steve, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture rigid in that way it always got when he was trying very hard not to look like he was panicking.
Pietro leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a beat, then looked back at them with a long-suffering expression.
“You two,” he said flatly.
Wanda opened her mouth.
Pietro lifted a hand immediately. “Don’t. Don’t start with the ‘we were in the neighborhood’ thing. You were not.”
Steve’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Wanda rolled her eyes, but her shoulders loosened a fraction.
Pietro stepped aside, gesturing them in with an exaggerated flourish. “Come in. Invade my privacy. Make yourselves at home.”
Wanda brushed past him first, immediately scanning the living room like she expected to find you sitting there on the couch. When she didn’t, something in her expression tightened again. Steve followed, gaze sweeping the space with the same restless, searching energy.
Pietro shut the door behind them and turned.
He didn’t give them time to ask.
He knew why they were here. He knew the questions stuck in their throats. He knew the fear, the hope, the unbearable need for certainty.
So he started talking – fast, blunt, relentless – like if he got it all out in one breath, maybe he could stop them from trying to dig for more.
“She’s fine,” he said.
Wanda’s eyes widened. Steve’s jaw clenched as if the words physically hit him.
Pietro lifted a finger. “She’s not just ‘fine’ as in alive. She’s fine as in – she eats. She sleeps. She’s not wandering the streets at night like a ghost anymore. She’s not crying all the time.”
Wanda exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging.
Pietro kept going, because he’d learned a long time ago that if he stopped, they’d interrupt with a dozen questions and he’d end up reliving everything anyway.
“She works her ass off on her thesis,” he continued. “Like, full academic feral mode. She’s basically been using archaeology as a coping mechanism, which honestly? Good for her. Better than the alternatives.”
Steve’s gaze stayed locked on him, unblinking.
“Her father is…” Pietro paused, as if begrudgingly admitting something surprising. “He’s good. He’s actually good. Sympathetic. He doesn’t push. He listens. He makes time whenever she contacts him. Same with her grandmother. Maria is–” Pietro shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Maria is adorable. Protective in this quiet, terrifying way.”
Wanda’s hand rose to cover her mouth, eyes shining again.
“They made her their priority,” Pietro said, firm. “Like immediately. No hesitation. No weirdness. No ‘prove you belong.’ Just–” He snapped his fingers. “You’re here, we’ve got you.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Is she… staying there?”
“She’s still at the hotel,” Pietro said, then added quickly, “but I think she’s finally going to accept moving into his place. She’s more comfortable now. She doesn’t flinch when he walks into the room. She doesn’t look like she’s waiting to be kicked out.”
Wanda pressed a hand to her chest like that sentence physically hurt.
Pietro’s gaze softened for a second, because he wasn’t made of stone even if he pretended to be.
Then he hardened again, because there was one question he knew they were carrying like dynamite.
“No,” he said before they could ask it. “She doesn’t talk about Bucky. She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t even come close.”
Steve’s eyes flickered down, then back up. Wanda’s face tightened, anger and sadness warring across her features.
Pietro didn’t let them linger there.
“She did talk about her past,” he said. “Not all of it, not every detail, but enough. With her dad. And he handled it the way he should’ve. Open. Gentle. Paternal. No judgment. No pushing. Just…” He spread his hands, searching for the right word. “Present.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened slightly at that, like the idea of you being met with the right kind of care made something in him unclench.
Pietro finally stopped talking and looked at them both.
He tilted his head, eyes bright with a challenge that wasn’t cruel – just tired.
“Questions?” he asked. “Or did I cover pretty much everything you showed up to pry out of me?”
Wanda blinked.
Steve opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a long breath through his nose.
Wanda’s voice came out small. “She’s really okay?”
Pietro’s expression softened despite himself.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s really okay.”
Steve nodded once, sharp. “Does she–” He stopped, jaw tightening. He tried again. “Does she want… space from us?”
Pietro studied him for a moment.
“She didn’t say she never wants to see you again,” he said carefully. “She just… can’t hold all of it right now. Not you, not Wanda, not her mom, not–” He didn’t say Bucky’s name. He didn’t need to. “She’s holding the pieces she can manage. That’s all.”
Wanda wiped at her cheek quickly, frustrated with her own tears. “Did she say anything about… coming back?”
Pietro’s mouth tightened. He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual.
“She didn’t talk about timelines,” he admitted. “But she’s planning. Europe after the doctorate. She’s thinking about the future again.” His gaze sharpened. “That’s a good sign.”
Steve’s eyes closed briefly, relief crossing his face like a wave he didn’t want them to see. When he opened them again, he looked at Pietro with a kind of quiet gratitude that made Pietro uncomfortable.
Pietro cleared his throat, immediately defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do anything heroic. I just showed up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You did.”
Wanda stepped forward suddenly and hugged Pietro, surprising him.
He stiffened for half a second – pure reflex – then wrapped his arms around her with a quiet sigh.
When she pulled back, she looked at him with wet eyes and tried to smile. “Thank you.”
Pietro rolled his eyes again, because if he didn’t, he might actually start feeling things. “You’re welcome. Now stop stalking me.”
Steve huffed a faint laugh – small, real – and it was the first time Pietro had heard that sound from him in weeks.
They stood there for a moment longer, the tension in the room shifting from panic to something heavier but more manageable: waiting, hope, the dull ache of missing you.
And Pietro – still holding the boundary you’d asked for – made it clear with his posture, with the set of his shoulders and the sharpness of his gaze, that this was all they were getting for now.
Because for once, the priority wasn’t their need to know. It was you.
Steve’s question came after a lull – after Wanda had stopped wiping at her eyes, after Pietro had made them sit down instead of pacing like anxious ghosts in his living room.
Steve was perched on the edge of the armchair like he didn’t quite trust himself to relax. Wanda sat beside him on the couch, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were pale. Pietro remained standing for a moment, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, the posture of someone who was very deliberately holding the line.
Steve cleared his throat.
“So… her father,” he said carefully, like he was stepping onto thin ice. “What does he do?”
Pietro’s gaze sharpened immediately. Not defensive exactly – strategic. You had asked him not to tell. Not where you were, not why, not the details that would make anyone else insert themselves into your life before you were ready.
He chose his words with the precision of someone who lived in them.
“He runs his own company,” Pietro said. “Tech.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Tech?”
Pietro nodded. “Yeah. Big enough that he has people handling most of the day-to-day. But he’s… involved. He’s the kind of guy who’s in charge because he actually built the thing.”
Steve absorbed that in silence. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes did – understanding, maybe, of what that implied. Power. Reach. Resources. The kind of stability you’d never had to lean on before.
“Okay,” Steve said quietly, and nodded once.
Wanda’s gaze flicked between them, sensing there was more there – something Pietro wasn’t saying. She didn’t push. She knew better.
Pietro exhaled slowly, then added, “He talked to her about her biological mother.”
Steve’s head tilted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Pietro confirmed, and his voice went a shade more serious. “He told her who she was. What she did. What she was like.” A beat. “He didn’t sugarcoat it. Their story wasn’t… easy.”
Wanda’s lips parted slightly. “Is she–”
“She’s gone,” Pietro said, cutting the question off before it could fully form. Not harshly. Just… firmly. “Not in the picture. And from what he said… she probably won’t ever be.”
The room went quiet again, that particular silence where people rearranged their expectations in their heads – where grief shifted shape.
Steve stared at the floor for a few seconds, jaw tight, then looked back up.
“Bucky broke up with Natasha,” he said.
Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look surprised – more like he was checking whether Steve was telling the truth or just hoping it was true.
“When?” Pietro asked.
“Yesterday,” Steve replied. “He went to her place first thing in the morning. It was… bad.” His voice softened for a moment, then steadied again. “But it was the right thing to do.”
Pietro held Steve’s gaze for a long second, then nodded once – approval, but not forgiveness, not yet.
“And we cleaned her apartment,” Steve added, almost like a confession. “Me and him. We didn’t touch her stuff. We just… cleaned. Took out expired food. Changed the sheets. Made it… livable again.”
Pietro’s expression tightened at the mention of the apartment, as if he could picture it too clearly – the place you’d left behind with a door click and a silence like a blade.
“She’d hate coming back to it dirty,” Wanda murmured, voice small.
“Exactly,” Steve said, nodding.
Pietro didn’t comment on the coming back part. He didn’t discourage it either. He simply let it sit in the air like something they all needed.
Then he lifted his chin slightly, eyes moving from Wanda to Steve.
“And before you ask,” Pietro said, tone clipped but not cruel, “she’s still keeping her phone off most of the time.”
Wanda’s face fell. Steve’s shoulders stiffened.
“She hasn’t read any messages,” Pietro continued. “Hasn’t listened to any voicemails. Nothing.”
Steve swallowed. “So she hasn’t–”
“No,” Pietro said simply. “She hasn’t seen what you sent. Or what he sent.”
Wanda let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together in her lap. “But she called her mom.”
Steve nodded once. “Bucky told me.”
Pietro’s gaze stayed steady. “Yeah. That happened. That’s… something.”
His tone made it clear what he meant: it wasn’t a door flung open, but it was proof you weren’t cutting every tether. Proof you were choosing contact in the places that felt safest. Proof you were still there.
Steve leaned back slightly, as if the information was both relief and heartbreak in equal measure.
“So we just…” Steve started, then trailed off.
Pietro’s expression didn’t soften, but it wasn’t unkind.
“You wait,” he said. “You live your lives. You stop spiraling. And you let her decide when she’s ready.”
Wanda blinked hard, tears threatening again.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “And Bucky?”
Pietro’s eyes flickered – brief, sharp.
“Bucky can wait too,” he said flatly. “He doesn’t get to rush the healing just because he finally decided to be honest.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he couldn’t argue with that even if it hurt.
The three of them sat in the thick quiet of Pietro’s apartment, the city noise muffled outside the windows, each of them holding the same fragile truth in different hands:
Thinking about ghost's baby who always wants a bite of other peoples food.
Without fail, whenever anyone decides to eat around baby regardless of what the food actually is, tiny hands are waving in the air asking for some. Without fail, ghost has to gently try and redirect baby in a way that won't induce tears because
Because baby cries over clouds going away and random rocks...this always leads to fat tears and ghost glaring at the perpetrators.
He's about ready to bite you when you, in the middle of chatting with him in the porch, pull out your lunchbox. Sure, you always eat lunch with him on the porch, but baby's had a rough day and you know how baby gets.
Various fruits, some granola, a sandwich. Nothing special, but baby uncurls from his chest to blink curiously at the meal.
"...ahhh. ahb. Ahhh." Baby huffs, tiny fingers spread out and making grabby-hands, nearly toppling out of ghosts arms when he leans further.
"Aw, want a bite?" You ask baby, already pulling out a second container from you lunch, "here, have some. Yeah?"
Baby squeals in delight when you give him a slice of banana, round cheeks red and eyes squinted at his victory.
You...you packed food, just in case baby wanted some.
From there it's like a game. Making a big show of grabbing something "random" from your plate for baby to eat. Every single time baby loves it.
No once does baby cry when you eat around him, always armed with a smaller baby-safe version.
...yet the guys wonder why you're the only one with babysitting privileges.
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When Brendon usually wakes you up in the middle of the night it’s for sex, but since you pushed out a tiny being six weeks ago. When Brendon wakes you up it’s because said tiny being is crying.
“Hey, baby, wake up” He nudges softly, making you groan and roll over, “she’s hungry, my nipples are no use to her”
You stir, pushing yourself up, “give her”
Brendon passes her over once you’ve unbuttoned your shirt, cooing softly as she suckles against your breast, “you look so pretty”
You raise an eyebrow, a sleepy groan as you stare at him staring at you. Yawing as you rub your eyes, sleep pulling you back into sleep, “m so tired, I don’t know when I showered last” you murmur. Still rocking her slightly as she pulls off your nipple. Baby Edith opening her arms to her father as he sits back up to burp her.
It’s usually how the nights go, waking up at twelve to feed her. Letting Brendon burp and change her while you collapse again from exhaustion.
You move in patterns, coffee, breakfast, cuddling the baby as she sits in your lap. She moves in patterns, sleeping, eating, pooping, “she has your face when she sleeps” Brendon murmurs from the couch, her nose is scrunched, eyebrows wiggling softly as Brendon traces over her face with his thumb, “she’s beautiful”
You look up from the couch, a sight you want to remember forever. Your baby girl, tucked in her dad’s arms, sound asleep. Nose scrunched. Cooing softly, “she’s a happy baby”
Edith is a happy baby, she likes to go on walks, but only if Brendon carries her, and you like to shower with her. Not in the weird sense, you just like having her wrapped around you while you shower. Skin to skin, although mostly it’s just you standing in warm water as you wash her.
You’re deep in the newborn trenches, paternity leave over for Brendon. Caring for yourself and a newborn, in a house that’s barely moved into. Dana shows up at your door, you know her. Briefly during some hospital events with Brendon, “Dana! I’m so sorry- the house is a disaster”
She smiles, carrying bags of food and made meals, “oh honey I know! I’m here to bring you something to eat, be your little helper. Let you rest and snuggle that baby”
Your shoulders drop as you let her in, “really?” You think you’re hallucinating, that she’s a dream. A dream in jeans and a cardigan.
“Really, I know you and Shark just moved. But I got. Lasagna, chicken, enchiladas. Stuff to eat now, freeze” She sets things down on the marble counters, slowly unpacking and placing things into the empty fridge, “how are you doing?”
“I’m tired. I don’t know the last time I showered” You admit, “and my boobs are sore”
Dana laughs softly, “you poor thing, here. You wanna put her down for a nap? I can watch her. You go shower and sleep. Or I can set you up on the couch to pump change the sheets”
Your lip quivers, “she sleeps at.. one thirty usually, there’s breast milk in the fridge. Are you sure you can watch her?”
Dana nods, “I’ve raised three of em myself, if it’s okay with you”
You bring her in for a brief hug, apologizing when you realize how bad you smell.
You shower, wash your hair. Even contemplate a face mask, you indulge. You feel like a new woman when you step out, detangling your hair, moisturizing your legs and arms. When you come out, the bed is made with new sheets; and you can hear the washer running.
Edith is asleep in her downstairs crib, Dana is pulling something out of the oven, “hey honey, good shower?”
You nod, wordless at the state of your house. Clean, partially unpacked now fully unpacked, “yeah. You. Unpacked?”
Dana nods, “I kinda winged it, ‘m sorry I overstepped the boxes were just gettin to me. Is everything in the right place?”
You rifle through, and you can’t complain. Because it’s unpacked. And the baby is asleep, and dishes are washed. And something wonderful is cooking in the oven, “it’s. Dana thank you”
“Don’t mention it honey. I have chicken parm in the oven. I can make some pasta to go with it. Some greens. How’s your stomach?”
You nod, “greens would be great. If that’s not to much”
She prepares a salad, “I wish I had all of this after my first. Benji was great but. Having someone cook and clean and let you feel like a human again”
You nod, “I know we aren’t super close- I appreciate it.. I don’t. I have friends” you clarify, “they just.. live in North Carolina”
She nods, “I understand.” The timer dings and she pulls the chicken parm out. Sliding a cutlet onto your plate; with some salad. And when you hum she smiles in satisfaction, “good?”
“Heavenly, I’m serious Dana. Brendon can cook but this is. Phenomenal” You grin into a second bite, eyes closing in satisfaction.
Dana wipes the counter down before she leaves, and Brendon is surprised to see dinner when he comes home, you showered. Looking refreshed in a soft yellow sweatset, “you got busy” he comments, picking up Edith from your arms as he takes his shoes off
“I didn’t. Dana did” you grin, “she came over, I showered, did a face mask. And she made like a ton of food and we have enough leftovers to last us until she goes into college” You continue, “she even changed the sheets. And folded the laundry”
You’re beaming as Brendon rubs Edith’s back, “that sounds awesome honey, did you eat dinner yet?”
“No, do you wanna shower? I’ll warm something up?”
Brendon nods, “perfect,” he kisses your cheek before heading upstairs:
Hihihi! I asked the last time you opened your requests but got caught in the great purge haha, so I was wondering if I could swoop in again with the same req if that's not too much trouble... I wasn't able to find the post but it was the one about virgin Steve begging to be fucked and Bucky refusing and teasing, claiming he was keeping him pure, his hole untouched or whatever just to be a teasing asshole... An expansion on that would be so awesome please and thank you so much!!
either related to Virgin Big Sub Steve or Virgin Pussy Steve, but I'm more inclined to think you mean the second one:
"Hi, S! Could I humbly request Virgin pussy Steve who's so desperate just to get fucked but Bucky, the tease, keeps refusing to put his dick in him because he doesn't want to ruin his pure little hole ;) thank you!!"
Saying it like that makes it sound biblical, like, The Great Flood 💀💀
Anyway, yes! I can definitely do that 😘
Tears just fucking rain down his face. They have been—how long has it been? It doesn't matter. They always have been. He's been crying and crying, and he should've run out of water and salt so goddamn long ago. Steve can't fucking stop, though—
Tears are rushing down his cheeks; his mouth and lungs both stutter with his every staccato breath that tries to leave him. He can't.
Can't do anything.
Can't get comfortable.
Can't stop aching for it.
Gah.
He wants it so fucking bad.
He needs it.
With his legs split so goddamn wide he feels it in his hips, Steve is straddling Bucky. Uselessly, though, he's not sitting on his cock like he outta be. He should be.
What else is he for?
What else has he wetly dreamed about for what feels like more of his life than not?
He needs it.
Good fucking god.
He needs it so much.
Not allowed to sit on his cock, he's just a puppy pulling with all his might at his leash, but he just can't manage to outstubborn his master. He's too small and weak, and he can't get anything out anymore but puppy-ish panting and helpless squirms. Ngh. He's a puppy. Helpless, vulnerable, and dumb. He doesn't know anything.
And, fuck, puppy's drooling not from his mouth but from his swollen, pink, pink pussy, too.
Leaking from everywhere—crying, drooling, sweating, dripping—messy and slutty without ever having gotten the chance to be a real slut.
He'd take any chance. He wants it so fucking much. Steve never had the chance before the war, during the war, and he didn't want to after, not until Bucky came back to him, but now that he's here and he's steady, ohgod, it's the only thing. It's all that's been circling Steve's empty head.
He's been trying to get Bucky to just fuck him for months. It feels like decades.
He doesn't want to waaaait! He wants it now.
And his body shows that; again and again, his hips are jerking and jack-knifing, jolting uncontrollably every time Bucky smugly sllllips the blunt, fat head of his dick between his swollen pussy lips, dragging it across the sticky entrance of his vagina but not in.
“Hhhaaaahh-!” Steve gasps, so high in his register that nothing really comes out but air. His eyes cross.
Holy shit.
He needs.
Thick, erotic drips of wetness connect Steve's quivering, aching cunt and Bucky's dully throbbing cock—drooling, spit-like drips that only break when Steve gasps and jerks his hips up against thin air even more sharply, severely, adding too much space between their feverish bodies. Bucking against nothing, cold air assaults Steve's hot, soaked pussy. Static appears in his vision; he is beyond needing it. It's the only thing that'll permit him to keep surviving. If he doesn't get fucked, he's going to die. He's certain of it more than he's ever been certain of anything in his goddamn life.
Fuckin—
C'mon!
Jagged whines rip out of him, unable to stand the length of Bucky's cock dragging across his pussy, but not plunging deep inside it, going where only Steve's desirous, inexperienced fingers have gone. Steve needs Bucky to be the first person to defile him. It's all he wants. All he needs.
Suddenly, drowning in wetness, the head of Bucky's cock rubs especially across the underside of his clit, throbbing, out from its hood, hard, and Steve just might—
Yeah.
His eyes don't just cross but roll with his entire body shuddering blindly, convulsing almost.
“Oh!” He shrieks, jolting and grinding down as much as he can, poised on that single point that feelssofuckinggood he isn't sure he can take it. “AH!” He cries brokenly.
Ohgod, yeah! There! Right there!
He definitely fucking cums a little from that. Just that. The little death. An explosive match violently stuck and lit deep inside him, flaring—bursting into flames.
Burning.
Smoldering.
It isn't enough, though. It might be a match, hell, even an explosion, but he needs more. A flamethrower. A forest fire.
More. Please. Ih—ihh—ignite me, he wants to scream. Fuck me!
‘Cause, still, Bucky's just sliding against him; he isn't plunging in. Steve needs him in. He wants—he—Bucky is playing with him. Shuddering with his whole wrecked, practically untouched body, he sobs.
He isn't a fucking guitar, Bucky's hand sliding down his neck, he's, if anything, he's a goddamn trombone. If anything. It isn't sexual, it's just true. No matter how out of his fucking head he is. In and out, in and out, brass—fucking. Steve wants that. Not this. Sliding down his neck, making a smooth sound. No. Distinct notes. Steve wants more.
“Fffuck me,” he whimpers. At this point he's uselessly drooling from both ends if Bucky isn't going to use either end. Not even his mouth?
Steve breaks apart, shivering and sobbing brokenly. His cries chopped up into pathetic, bite-sized sounds.
Guh.
He has nothing left. Ravaged without being fucked. How is that even possible? Bucky is merciless.
Merciless!
‘Cause while he slips and slides between his legs, gliding through his pouring wetness, Bucky's hands, flesh and metal, bite into Steve's tight waist, keeping him from sinking down on it like he wants to. Pinning him. Keeping him mindless and drooling.
He craves it so badly. Cock.
It's all he can think about. Bucky's cock.
Bucky's fat cock, splitting me wide open, filling me until I swear I'm gonna burst, and tears are coming out, not in denial but because I have no more room for them inside. No room to keep in the tears, moans, or screams. Nothing but cock. Fucked so completely.
Please.
Still, Bucky coos in a faux-innocent voice, saying, “oh, baby—” He pouts, too! Theatrically making fun of this precarious, constructed situation he's created. An agonizing purgatory for his lover that he's getting off hard to “—but are you suuure?” He cocks his head to the side, a particularly sadistic cat with a mouse that he knows stands no chance. “Are you, like, really sure? You don't wanna wait a little longer? I know it's a big deal to you.” He lies through his fucking teeth. There is nothing more that Steve wants to do than get it over with. Now. He wanted to do it yesterday. “It's okay if you wanna wait, I won't get mad. I promise, honey.”
“Noo!” Steve howls, his body irrationally squirming and jerking against his hold. He can't get away. He can't really move. A fresh tsunami of tears pours down his face. He needs to be fucked.
“No? You don't wanna wait?” He stares up at him, eyes desperately hungry despite his reservations about actually fucking fucking him. “You think you're really ready?”
“YES!” He shouts, voice cracking because. of. course.
He can't wait.
“Mmm, I dunno—” Bucky starts.
He. can't. wait.
“Please, please, pleasepleasepl—” Steve begins to beg with abandon only for Bucky to muffle his cries.
The other man slaps his organic hand over his stupid, blubbering mouth. Meanwhile, his other metal hand shifts to curl around his waist, securely, unfairly pinning him with just one hand.
“‘Please’ isn't a reason, silly.” He says, smiling. “If I'm gonna ruin your tight little hole forever, you gotta have a good reason.”
When he talks like that—
Guh.
Steve's eyes roll so far back he can feel whatever muscles or fucking tendons around his eye sockets pull. It hurts. His whole body fucking hurts.
He can't imagine rubbing together two brain cells to get a thought—not even half a thought.
Bucky, though, traitorously, has plenty of thoughts: “I'm gonna let go a'you,” he purrs, “and you're gonna give me one good reason why I should fuck you.”
Nooo.
Steve just…
He drools, quivering from the inside out. Pussy shaking, body clattering, bones and muscles and frazzled nerves. Words are too hard. He—
“Pluh-pluz?” He whimpers pathetically, lips trembling. “C'ck! Wann’ it in me! Need! Need it!”
“That's still not a reason, honey.” Bucky taps his cheek, mock-slapping him.
Steve burns, unsure whether he's humiliated by the treatment or not; he's so fucking turned on, it's impossible to tell.
Bucky—
Bucky, though. God, Steve chokes as he dares to turn away, huffing, almost like he's bored with him—bored of the hours and hours he's spent fucking everything about Steve up but his pussy. Fucking his head, absolutely. For sure.
Goddammit.
Bucky hums, “though, I don't know why I thought you'd have a good reason.” He drums his fingers across his hip, thinking and yet impatient. “What would a virgin like you know anyhow?”
Steve whines so sharply it twinges something in his throat. He is painted in tears, thickly crying; he's coated in sweat, vulgar and disgusting as he's so unable to hold himself together; he's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. He clenches around nothing. Tight. So tight. It aches. It hurts. He's so needy right there. He wants cock. He needs it.
He needs nothing else.
He just needs to be full. Fucked full. He wants to feel it. He needs. He has to. Please. Please. His liquified mind swirls around in his skull like swirled wine, going in circles. Going nowhere. His brain is no better aerated, swirled like that, he just keeps thinking it with more and more desperation: please. He has no legs to stand on—he isn't wine.
He's nothing.
Jesus Christ.
What else does he have? He's defenseless. All he has is his big, blue, watery eyes and soft, red mouth, begging PLEASE.
Stretch me out.
Ruin me.
I want it.
He wants to be splayed back against the bed, drooling and soaking into the sheets, far beyond clinging to the vaguest sense of coherence while Bucky holds him like a rag doll and fucks into his soaked pussy like it's just a fleshlight. Just a toy. Meant to be used.
Defiled.
Stretched.
His cock is so big, he can feel it, torturously, between his puffy, wet lips, against his clenching entrance, dragged thickly over his swollen clit. He wants to be destroyed. Fuck him loose. He needs it. He's been waiting for so, so long. He needs it now, with his spine arched painfully, head thrown so far back it hurts, blushing to high heaven, blonde hair slicked back, sweat-saturated, teeth gritted as he sobs that much harder.
He needs.
Bucky does not understand.
He needs.
If only his desecrated lips, teeth, and tongue could articulate that. If only he wasn't so gone. If only—
“I think you're just too tight,” Bucky hushes, sounding overly regretful, pushing a hand through his soaked-through hair and following the bowed line of his softened spine down to his ass. He gropes his backside, grabbing and kneading hard enough to pull his fat asscheeks apart, causing his pussy lips to wetly separate.
Shlick.
The sound, let alone the feeling, is obscene.
“HAAAAH!” Steve squeals, Bucky's cock slllliding between his legs across his oversensitive clit, his tight, needy entrance, his perineum, and his asshole. He's wet front to back. It's pornographic. He is a faucet, no, a sink. The whole fucking sink. The faucet is on, gushing, and the basin is filling faster than it can drain. He's overflowing, spilling down the cabinets and onto the floor. He can smell himself. His sweat, his slick, his—
“BUCK-Y!” His desperate, shrill voice breaks halfway through, frying out into nothing.
Bucky picks up the silence, though, filling it by slapping his ass, slapping his cock against his aching pussy, slapping him across the face verbally, too—
“Oh, babydoll, what if you gotta stay a virgin forever ‘cause I just can't fit it in there, darlin’?” He slips a hand between his legs, sticking just the tip of his finger inside his throbbing cunt.
Steve swears he can feel how swollen and pent-up his g-spot is inside his vagina without his lover even having to touch it. But, ohhh, if he did. Nngh. If Bucky would just go up, just a little more, and curl his finger, press against it, be mean in the right way—
Oh, god, Steve's whole body convulses.
—he would squirt.
Everywhere.
It'd be soo messy.
“Can't even fit my fingers in this tight fuckin’ pussy, Stevie…” He draws his fingertip in and out, in and out, in and out, teasing his flushed, needy entrance, tugging on it. “What'm I gonna do with my dick?”
“Fuck m’! Stick it in me! Pleeease! F'ck me!” He's lost his fucking mind.
“I can't, honey.” He has the audacity to sound apologetic. Fuck. FUCK! “You're not that kinda girl, Rogers. No, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue at him, “don't make that face.”
“Nonononono,” as he wails, Steve can feel himself slide right out of his body. Vacating it. Watching himself from above, seeing the way he's become liquid, moving like water, squirming, flowing, pouring over his asshole-ish lover, dripping puddles onto him. “‘Ll die,” his tongue threatens, and Steve believes it with everything he is. This is hell. Not just purgatory, out of his body, this is hell.
“They say it's better when you wait, though. Don't you want it to be better?” Bucky chuckles, giving up the game just a little. Cracks in the surface.
Fuuck.
Steve sobs, collapsing on top of him, weakly landing a curled hand, not even an actual fist, against Bucky's chest, trying to punch him with all he has left as he surrenders to this cruel fate. He's so weak.
“Tell you what… maybe next time,” Bucky whispers in his ear, petting his sweaty hair back from his forehead. Like he's doing him a favor. Motherfucker. “If you can give me a good enough reason. How's that sound, champ?” He coos. “My little wanna-be whore.” He says it and slaps his pussy with his hand the same way he'd slap him on the back, athletic, macho, and congratulatory.
It's all Steve's ruined, still not-ruined body can do to clench and gasp and cum.
Again.
Another unsatisfied, tortured orgasm that only drives his hunger. His starvation. Bucky is going to kill him. The moment Bucky decides he's ready… Steve isn't even going to cum with two thrusts; he's going to be so sensitive and worked up that he'll cum when he's still trying to put the head in. And it will be the best, most humiliating orgasm of his stupid fucking life.
Pairing: Eventual Bucky/Reader
Word count: 1,173
Summary: Bucky sends you food, visits your second job, and you and Hux talk about you having a stalker.
Part 2 of His Angel
That concert had been…an experience. Him, Sam, and Steve stuck out like sore thumbs. The venue was mostly teenage girls, their mothers, women in their twenties, and a few dads here and there. He’d caught a few glimpses of you here and there as you sang your heart out. You were a breath of fresh air wrapped in pink. It left him wondering what perfume you used. Was it candy? Was it baked goods? Was it something from nature? One day he would find out. And make sure you had every variation you could ever want.
The three of them left before the end of the concert, having other work to do. Bucky owned a club he needed to check in on, for one. He’d check in on you again soon.
It had been a few weeks since that box arrived, and you had no idea that your mystery man had been watching you. Just like the day the box arrived, you had to work both shifts that day. So when you were about to leave your first job and head to your second, you were surprised to have a delivery. At your job. “Y/N? There’s a delivery guy here for you. Whatever he has smells amazing.” Your coworker told you as you grabbed your purse from the break room.
“I’ll be right there. Thanks.” Did Kat order you lunch again? There had been a couple times over the past couple years where she had a really good tipper and surprised you with lunch. “Hi, you have a delivery for me?”
The delivery man smiled at you. “Here you go.” He handed you the drink and bag of food, stopping you when he saw you reach for your purse. “No tip needed, it’s been taken care of. Enjoy.” Judging by his tone it had been a very good tip. No delivery person was that happy in New York.
Sipping your drink, you headed out the front door. You’d eat on the way. Once you were at the bus stop you were able to pull out the half sub from the bag, and spotted fries, as well. The food did smell amazing. And when you unwrapped the sub you knew it had been pricy. It looked like it cost more than what you would be able to pay for a single food item. Your stomach grumbled as you took that first bite. If you hadn’t been given this you wouldn’t have eaten until you got home that night.
Bucky was at your second job when you walked in. He watched as you smiled at another waitress, wiggling your fingers in a wave. He wasn’t in your section, having already been served, but this was a good way to be able to watch you. Moments later you disappeared into the back to change. He wondered if you liked your sub. Finding out your favorite foods wasn’t an easy task. You rarely posted food on social media, so he couldn’t go off that. It was slightly frustrating. He did enjoy seeing your life that way, however. You had a few friends it seemed, and your smile was bright in every picture you posted that you were in. From your Instagram he gathered that you had a very big personality.
Maybe 10 minutes later you were back out and getting to work. He could tell you were tired but you didn’t let that affect your work. At least he had stopped you from trying to work more. Getting another job would send you straight into burnout.
When you got home that evening, you saw Kat and Hux cuddled up on the couch. “Your mystery man struck again.” She told you, eyes never leaving the television. “There’s pizza on the counter and a box on your bed.”
Hux looked at you. “You aren’t creeped out?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Because most women would hate things like this. It’s creepy.”
You shrugged. “There’s nothing I can really do about it.” You pointed out. “What, should I go to the cops and tell them some guy is sending me food and gifts?” In what universe would that lead to anything happening? They’d likely laugh you right out of the station. And then they would likely randomly joke about the woman who had been worried about receiving money, food, and gifts. You did have to admit, that wallet was super cute.
He nodded with a look on his face that said he didn’t like it. “True. Well, let me know if you ever need help. I have some uncles that my mother pretends don’t exist who would be happy to help.”
That made you pause, eyebrows shooting up. “Uh, thanks?” You chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You agreed. “And you guys are more than welcome to help me eat this pizza. I won’t eat the whole thing.” Having them benefit from this worked out. They were your friends and you wanted them to be treated nicely, too.
“Thanks!” They both said at the same time as you opened the pizza box, making you laugh.
Pizza in hand you made your way to your bedroom. You were beyond curious to see what he had sent this time. That thought made you pause. You assumed it was a ‘he’ based on that handwriting, but you could be way off. What if it was a woman who simply had rough handwriting? There was no rule that women needed neat handwriting. There were so many questions just simply piling up and no way to get answers.
Sitting on the side of your bed, you noted it was a smaller box. With no postage or even your address. Just your name. That told you that it was hand delivered. Why did that feel more off putting than having it mailed? “Let’s do this.” You muttered around a bite of pizza. Licking your lips you ripped open the box to find a credit card with your name on it, a note, and a new cellphone.
Cut back the hours on one of your jobs and use this. It’s covered. Also, my number is already in the new phone. Anything you need…text me.
-B
Your eyes darted to the phone just in time to see it light up with a text message. It was a much nicer phone than you could have ever bought yourself, that was for damn sure. Lifting it from the box you unlocked it and read the text.
Sleep well.
The contact name was simply ‘B’. “Who are you?” Your voice was just above a whisper. While you could just call him, you had a feeling that he wouldn’t pick up.
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard as you tried to figure out what the hell to write back. Finally, you quickly wrote out Uh, thanks? But who are you and why are you doing all this? Now you had to hope he would even answer you. Until you had proof otherwise, you would be referring to this person as ‘he’.
Synopsis: James continues to act weird, and you finally confront him correctly about it. The plot thickens, as you accidentally got yourself into something you can’t control.
Triggers: anxiety, unhealthy relationship dynamics, car accident, kindapping
Blank blogs and minors DNI.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
MASTERLIST
As you stood in the kitchen in each other’s arms, his grip got tighter and tighter, as you noticed something increasingly frantic in his eyes.
“James-what is it?” you asked, trying to mask the discomfort you felt from his cold hands digging into your skin.
He blinked a few times before his expression returned to neutral, a small smile lingering on his lips. His grip eased, and he brought one of his hands up to your face, gently caressing it.
His artificial skin was still cold against your cheek, but you couldn’t help but nuzzle into it.
“Nothing at all,” he whispered, as he leaned in to kiss you, almost reverently, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to.
He always kissed you like this.
So much so that it nearly made you forget that he’s probably lying again, or just not telling you something. James wasn’t exactly the master of masking.
Just before your lips touched, you whispered against his.
“Don’t lie to me James, please,” your voice trembled slightly. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but I am worried,” you pulled back a bit, hands on his chest.
“You can tell me, alright? I won’t judge you for it,” you tried again, reaching for his face, but he flinched away, letting you go completely.
“N-no, I can’t…you can’t know, it’s…” he was stumbling over his own words, backing away from you, face turned to the side.
His behavior was making your heart rate pick up. You didn’t want him to spiral again, and potentially damage himself or you.
“James, I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it right now,” you tried de-escalating the situation, like always, letting him off the hook. But you knew you needed to be firm with him, because whatever was worrying him was also messing with his code, and you can’t have him spiral again. You were sure he was going to snap worse this time.
And you didn’t want to find out what that entailed.
He stopped at your words, looking at you from under his lashes as he seemingly held his breath.
That gave you enough room to speak again.
“But I need you to know that this can’t go on like this. I need you to be open with me, I can see whatever’s worrying you is also bringing you down, and I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,”
He whimpered as he took one step forward, making you tense involuntarily. He noticed this, but chose not to react.
“If I tell you…can you promise not to leave?” he asked meekly, like a child about to confess the horrible crime of having stolen from the cookie jar.
“I promise,” you said, trying to will your lips into a reassuring smile.
He took a deep breath to ready himself before he spoke.
“I had…I had a nightmare,” he began, “of something bad that I did,”
“What have you done, James?” you asked him, even as you probably knew the answer. You just didn’t want it to be true.
“I killed someone,”
That made your blood run cold.
You dreaded that this phrase was going to be among the things he’ll tell you if you ask him.
Clenching your hands into fists, you willed your voice not to shake when you spoke again.
“Who did you kill, James?”
A beat of silence passes as he slowly raises his head and looks you dead in the eyes.
His steel blues are empty.
“154 targets in total. I was…ordered,” he muttered, a far-away look in his eyes.
Like he’s blanked out into a machine again, his voice turning monotone as well.
You took a step back, slightly shaking, an action which made him spring into action. He reached out with desperation in his body language, but kept his distance.
He was about to lose it again, so you had to de-escalate again.
“So…companion robots do dream of electric sheep, right?” you tried, a crooked smile making its way onto your face.
This made him pause for a second too, body easing up immediately. The speed of him switching up was…disturbing.
“You’re…not mad?” he asked, desperate.
You were at a loss for words.
“I…I am…not,” you began, “but I am…scared. Worried, I-”
He interrupts you immediately, beginning to ramble again.
“I swear I didn’t do it on purpose! They made me! I would never hurt you, alright? You know that, right? They made me, Y/N, it wasn’t my decision, I-” what you were fearing just happened.
He began spiraling, inching closer to you, hands shaking.
“James! I’m not mad at you, I know you didn’t want that-” his behavior greatly disturbed and worried you. Seeing that backtracking and reassuring him won’t work this time, you risked stepping close to him to grab him by his forearms.
That did the trick, as he freezed on contact, and for a second, you feared you might’ve messed up.
Anticipating another string of apologies, maybe words of gratitude, you awaited his answer, that didn’t come.
Taking your chance to speak, you tried your best to sound firm, firmer than you had in the past, at least.
This couldn’t go on like this, James losing it over every small thing.
“James, I need you to be honest with me,” you began, voice low as you stared into his eyes.
“I need you to tell me what’s wrong, and how I can help you. Even if I myself can’t help, you still need to at least say something so we can think of a solution. I can see whatever’s bothering you is taking its toll. You can’t tell me being like this is comfortable for you in any way, and I know it isn’t for me,”
You took a breath, hands still clutching onto his cold arms. His gaze lowered, away from yours, and you leaned down to seek it out again.
“James please. This can’t go on like this, let me help you work out a solution,” your tone turned desperate.
Even knowing he killed people, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him. You knew it wasn’t his fault, but then again, he’s a machine…did he ever truly have free will?
Even with you, he doesn’t exactly seem to be comfortable. He’s constantly on edge, skittish, even as he tries his best to remain calm, you saw how it slipped through the cracks of this mask he wore.
You can’t just bring him to a specialist, so you need to figure it out on your own.
After a long moment, he finally looked into your eyes, gaze almost fearful.
“If…I tell you the whole truth, can you promise…not to leave?” he asked meekly.
“I promise,” you breathed, even as you knew that this was probably a point of no return.
He led you to the couch and sat you down. He knelt on the floor in front of you, holding your hands.
“As you’ve…already found out, I am…a special military robot. Created to blend in with humans, to extract information and…assassinate them…among other things,”
You gave him a small nod to encourage him to keep going.
“I wasn’t the only one. There were many of us, until the public found out and we were ordered to flee, to blend in until we received further instructions. I was…defective, so I was going to be…terminated anyway…I was supposed to go to a facility, but the server collapsed before I could do so. We were separated and…one of the handlers found me, and integrated me into this…companion…thing. To deal with my instability until he could fix me. That’s how I ended up at Empathix,”
You sat there stunned as he kept going.
“That one handler…didn’t really want me to go. He saw the potential, and I loved him, so I did as he said. Separating from him was…one of the hardest, most difficult things I’ve done. Then I was…rented over and over again, getting thrown out…”
His voice began to quiver, and you laid a hesitant hand on his cheek. He leaned into your touch, letting out a small breath. His own hand came up to cover yours and hold it closer to his cheek like you were his anchor in a deep sea.
“But recently I’ve…started experiencing things I only did when I was still with the army. We had a central server that distributed intel and orders at all times and I…I think it’s back online…” he hesitantly looked up at you.
“It’s…telling me to go somewhere. And I fear…I fear I won’t make it out if I do. I can’t go back. Something’s off. I can’t leave you. Please don’t make me go back…” he pleaded, as his grip tightened.
Your heart threatened to jump out of your ribcage as you listened to him.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
Brain overwhelmed with the information, you didn’t have energy to be terrified. You also couldn’t reject James, so you gave in once again.
“No James, I won’t make you go back,” you whispered tenderly, as you pulled him into your arms, cradling his head close to your shoulder, as he clung to you for dear life.
This has gotten out of your control. You need to take action as soon as possible.
But what can you do?
…
You remembered one of your college classmates, a person who knew just a bit too much about the shady things ordinary people usually overlook.
Like illegal military robots.
You remembered him talking about how these companion robots are definitely for mass surveillance back when they first came out. While you did agree with him, you thought he was paranoid.
Now you understood his fear.
On your way to your friend’s house, you got into a traffic jam. You sighed in irritation as James tensed up. You looked over to see what made him freeze, and you saw a figure standing on the side of the road, ominously staring at you both.
It was a man, face covered by his long, unruly hair and a black mask.
He almost looked like…
In the blink of an eye, he was gone, yet James kept staring at the spot the shadow used to be.
“Who was that?” you asked him, unease making your voice tremble.
“It’s…no one,” he answered curtly.
You sighed.
“James, we talked about this, I need you to be-”
“Just- drop it, okay?” he interrupted, turning to you, his eyes blown wide. “Everything’s gonna be okay, alright?” he said, his tone betraying his tense expression.
As if he’s seen a ghost.
“So you’re just…not gonna be honest with me. Got it…” you grumbled, the traffic jam and his secrecy both annoying you.
You might as well be very much fucked, and James, once again, despite having talked about this a million times, chose not to say anything.
Again.
You decided to just drop it, despite your gut telling you not to.
Having finally got out of the traffic jam, you were waiting under a stoplight, when James tensed up from his relatively slouched position. He looked as if he was computing heavily in his head, his eyes twitching from time to time.
“You good?” you asked, briefly looking over to see him frozen, gaze vacant and far away. He didn’t answer. The red light cast him in a menacing way, like a weapon trained on its target.
Mumbling an okay, you continued on your way, death grip on the steering wheel.
As you got further into the city, you noticed a car following you wherever you went, and James got tenser by the minute.
“We’re being followed,” he murmured.
“I know…” you whispered, as you looked into the rear view mirror, seeing the same car behind yours once again. “Is it the guy from before?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer.
“What do we do?” you whispered again, urging James to answer. When he didn’t, your tone turned a bit more panicked.
You felt like a deer in headlights.
“Do we just…go to the police station and hope it leaves us alone?” your grip on the steering wheel tightened as you took a turn on a busy street, hoping to lose it among the other cars.
“No, it’s…it’s them…” James whispered.
“What?! How do you-” you didn’t have time to finish your sentence when a loud bang echoed through the city, and your car suddenly flew forward, flipping onto its back, crashing into a lamp post.
The screams of startled civilians and the wailing of car alarms were drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears.
You were sluggish, head spinning as you attempted to look to the side, only to see James gone.
You attempted to call his name, but no sound came out.
The last thing you saw was a figure rip the car’s door straight off its hinges and reach for you.
…
Consciousness returned slowly and painfully.
Your head was throbbing and your neck was aching, head hung in an awkward position. Any attempt at moving was greeted by a piercing sensation in your brain, the world spinning even as you just sat there, probably tied to a chair. You could vaguely feel something sharp bite into your wrists and ankles.
Someone moved in front of you.
Attempting to open your eyes, everything was blurry and hard to make out. The shape of the man in front of your chair was dark, all you could gather from it is that it was definitely a man.
He towered over your chair for a few more seconds before leaving, the echo of a creaky door all he left behind.
…
James stood frozen in front of a man he didn’t know at all.
He couldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. It was akin to banging on an impenetrable glass wall that separated him from the rest of the world.
The soldier currently poised behind the man attacked him when your car flipped over. As much as he wanted to spend all his energy ensuring your safety, he couldn’t, when the soldier was walking towards you both, and wasted no time in aiming his gun at you.
James sprung into action, fighting the other with everything he got, fighting coming to him almost as a ghost of an old friend. Unfortunately it was faster and jammed something into his ear.
The moment it did, his entire body locked up and convulsed before he involuntarily rose to an unnaturally still and… ready position.
He couldn’t help but obey when it told him to sit in the car that followed yours.
He had to watch the soldier he remembered all too well drag your unconscious body out of the wreckage of your vehicle and carelessly toss you onto the back seats.
It killed him to be unable to do anything.
He hadn’t felt this helpless in so long.
Alarms and conflicting orders blared in his head as he had to watch in torment as the green window in his field of vision kept progressing, downloading whatever malware was on the drive jammed into his ear.
The download was nearly complete, when the man in front of him sighed and pulled out a red book.
He recited the words.
Words he believed were forgotten, wiped from his drives, never to be used again.
The Winter Soldier protocol.
A failsave of sorts when ordinary bonding wasn’t enough.
The man kept trying to establish a connection with him, even tried the reset button, but James refused to budge. He deliberately disabled the button. He was so sure the trigger words were gone.
Until they rang in his ears with crystal clarity.
Longing.
Rusted.
Seventeen.
Daybreak.
Furnace.
Nine.
Benign.
Homecoming.
One.
Freight car.
RESET COMPLETE.
HAIL HYDRA.
. . .
You've spent the last who knows how much time stewing in your primal panic, the fight having drained out of you.
Your wrists were raw and probably bleeding from how much you’ve struggled against the restraints. Dry tears covered your face, their traces shiny cracks on your skin.
You were panting and squirming, when the door to the small basement room opened.
The man from before stepped in, flicking the light on.
This time, you’re able to make out his silhouette a lot better, vision no longer swimming.
Your mouth hung open at the sight that greeted you.
Before you stood…James.
A very cold, dead and straight up terrifying version of him.
This James had long, unruly hair that hung into his, or its face, casting a dark shadow over those cold blue eyes. Its face was dirty, a sort of paint covering the skin in a mask-like manner.
It wore a heavy looking leather jacket, the left sleeve torn, revealing a shiny arm.
The artificial skin was missing from the arm, showing the intricate steel plates underneath. A red star was messily painted onto the shoulder.
So that’s why James always felt so…tough and hard.
You supposed other companion robots weren’t this sophisticated, and were probably equipped with more padding to mimic the softness of flesh.
The soldier before you looked ready for war, various holsters on its body holding various weapons.
It looked nothing like your James, yet their faces were nearly identical. This James was cold, probably just a machine with no feelings.
You cowered back into your seat as it approached, shrieking out.
“D-Don’t come near me! Stay back!” you squealed, hoping it would make it stop.
It didn’t.
NEXT CHAPTER
VERY Short author's note: YAY I'M FINALLY BACK!!! Sorry this one is a bit shorter. I'll try to make the upcoming chapters longer. I will have to, as I have quite a bit of drama planned.
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D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
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❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
Summary: In the aftermath of Tony Stark’s sacrifice, the world mourns Iron Man, but you mourn your brother. As the people he loved gather to say goodbye, you’re left to face a painful truth: sometimes the hardest part of losing someone isn’t letting them go, but learning to live in all the places their love remains.
Author's note: Among Thieves is written in second-person POV, but the protagonist is an OC named Allison Stark, Tony Stark’s younger sister, and Steve Rogers ' fiancée. While the story follows the events of the MCU, some canon events, timelines, and character relationships have been altered to fit Allison’s story and her slow-burn relationship with Bucky Barnes. I hope you enjoy 🤍
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter
Tony Stark cheated at Mario Kart. He was one of the smartest people on the planet. Yet, he insisted he didn't. Even when there was video evidence. Especially when there was video evidence.
"That race doesn't count," he'd argued once, pointing dramatically at the television while you laughed so hard soda nearly came out of your nose. "Your controller disconnected."
"Tony."
"Mine disconnected."
"You drove into a banana."
"Strategically."
"You drove into three bananas."
"They were aggressively placed."
You'd laughed until your stomach hurt. He'd demanded a rematch. You'd beaten him again. Somehow he'd still walked away convinced he'd won.
Funny. The memories that survived grief weren't the important ones. They weren't the battles. They weren't the speeches. They weren't the moments that changed the world.
They were bananas in Mario Kart. Burnt pancakes on Saturday mornings. Tony singing the wrong lyrics on purpose just to annoy Pepper. Morgan taking one of his vintage ACDC shirts because she thought it made the best cape in the world.
They were ordinary. Wonderfully, painfully, ordinary. Those were the memories your mind refused to let go of. Because they were proof that even when he became Iron Man, Tony Stark had simply always been your brother.
Since the day your brother decided to prove, once again, that he was the most selfless idiot on the planet, the world had refused to make sense.
People kept asking if you were okay. You hated that question.
As if there were an answer that could somehow make any of this easier. As if "okay" was something a person could still be after watching their brother die to save half the universe.
Sleep became something other people did. You simply closed your eyes. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for an hour. Never long enough to dream. Because dreaming meant seeing him again. And waking up meant losing him twice.
So eventually, you stopped trying.
Instead, you drifted in and out of memories. Tony smiling. Tony arguing. Tony laughing so hard he snorted whenever you managed to beat him in any videogame.
Then your mind always found its way back to the battlefield. "Hey, Pep." The crack in her voice. "We're going to be okay." The light leaving his eyes.
You stopped sleeping after that.
Stopped eating, too, unless Pepper quietly set a plate in front of you and looked at you with those exhausted eyes that silently pleaded, Please. Morgan needs one of us to function.
So you ate. Not because you were hungry. Because Morgan deserved at least one adult who wasn't falling apart.
Morgan had started asking strange questions. Questions only four-year-olds could ask. "Does Heaven have cheeseburgers?" "Can Daddy call us if he misses us?" "If I draw him a picture...how does it get there?"
Pepper always answered. Somehow.
You never could. So instead, you colored beside her. Because sometimes loving a child meant admitting you didn't have answers either
She was too young to understand why Daddy wasn't coming home. Too young to understand why every room in the lake house suddenly felt impossibly quiet. Too young to know that losing a parent wasn't supposed to happen this early.
You knew. You'd lived it once already. You refused to let her live it alone. Pepper was surviving the only way she knew how, by keeping her hands busy. There were papers to sign. Calls to return. Arrangements to make.
Tony had somehow managed to leave behind an entire empire, and even after saving the universe, people still expected the Stark name to keep the world turning.
You helped where you could. You answered questions. Sorted files. Smiled politely through meetings you barely remembered attending.
Anything to keep Pepper from drowning beneath responsibilities that had suddenly become hers.
Steve never told you everything would be okay. He knew better. There wasn't a version of the universe where Tony came home. There wasn't a speech capable of stitching a hole that large back together.
So, he stopped trying.
Instead, he made coffee. Terrible coffee. Because apparently ninety years of life hadn't taught Steve Rogers how measurements worked.
He quietly folded laundry. Sat beside Morgan during cartoons. Fixed a cabinet Tony had promised to fix six months ago. Held your hand whenever your thoughts became louder than the room.
Sometimes, love looked remarkably ordinary.
The living room was quiet enough to hear Morgan's uneven breathing.
She sat curled between you and Pepper, tiny fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of your sweater while Happy occupied the seat beside you. His hand rested over yours, his grip firm enough to remind you that someone was still there.
Rhodey stood near the fireplace. He hadn't sat down once. Steve lingered in the doorway. Bruce kept taking his glasses off. Cleaning lenses that weren't dirty. Happy's coffee had gone cold nearly an hour ago. Thor stared out the window as though expecting someone to walk back through the front door.
No one spoke. Tony always filled rooms with noise. Without him... Silence felt wrong.
The only person unaware something was missing was Morgan.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Bruce carefully set the damaged Iron Man helmet on the table. A soft blue glow flickered to life. Then your brother appeared.
"Everybody wants a happy ending, right?"
Your breath caught.
Morgan's entire face lit up. "Daddy!"
She smiled so instinctively that, for one impossible second, your own heart forgot he was gone. You smiled before you realized you were smiling. Your body still hadn't learned he was gone.
Then reality came crashing back. This wasn't Tony. It was the closest the universe would ever let any of you come again.
"...I'm hoping if you play this back, it's in celebration."
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference.
Tony looked exactly like Tony. Comfortably slouched. Hair a mess. Talking with his hands as though he couldn't physically tell a story without them.
"If there ever was such a thing."
God… He knew. Not exactly. But somehow… He knew. Every joke. Every pause. Every smile. It felt less like a goodbye and more like he'd stepped into another room.
Beside you, Morgan giggled at something only she understood. Your chest tightened. She wasn't old enough to recognize what this recording really was.
To her, Daddy was talking. Daddy was smiling. Daddy was coming back.
You wished, more than anything, you could believe that too.
"So I thought I'd probably better record a little greeting..." Tony continued, his voice impossibly familiar. "In the case of an untimely death on my part."
You rolled your eyes through fresh tears. Of course. Even his own farewell had to begin with sarcasm.
"Death at any time isn't untimely..."
The room laughed. A broken, fragile sound. The kind people made when they desperately needed permission to smile.
Love didn't leave all at once. It lingered. In coffee cups no one wanted to wash. In half-finished conversations. In Morgan's laugh. In Pepper's wedding ring. In Steve's hand wrapped around yours.
In every room Tony Stark had ever entered. You hadn't realized it yet, but grief wasn't learning to live without someone. It was learning all the new places they continued to exist.
Pepper was the first to step outside.
She carried the wreath with both hands, holding it carefully, almost reverently, as though setting it down too quickly might somehow make this goodbye permanent. Morgan stayed glued to her side, one small hand wrapped around Pepper's fingers while the other clung tightly to yours. You squeezed her hand before she could squeeze yours. She smiled up at you. Your heart shattered all over again. Children weren't supposed to know grief this young.
Neither of you spoke as you followed Pepper toward the lake.
The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The water stretched before you, impossibly still, reflecting a pale gray sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain.
Maybe it already had. It was difficult to tell where the drizzle ended and your tears began.
The others were already waiting. Not in neat rows. Not like soldiers. Like family. People who had once crowded around conference tables arguing over impossible plans...who had celebrated birthdays...shared takeout at three in the morning after missions...laughed until Tony threatened to ban Thor from touching another piece of expensive technology.
Now they stood together because none of them knew how to say goodbye. Peter stared at the ground, shoulders shaking despite every effort to stand tall. Rhodey leaned heavily on his feet, looking older than you had ever seen him. Bruce folded his arms tightly across his chest, as though holding himself together. Thor didn't bother hiding the tears running freely down his face. Sam stood quietly beside Bucky.
And Bucky… Bucky stood a little farther back than everyone else. Like he still wasn't convinced he belonged among them.
Your eyes found Steve almost immediately. His cheeks were damp. His eyes were bloodshot. He offered you the smallest nod. Not encouragement. Not reassurance. Just a silent I'm here. It was enough.
Pepper knelt carefully at the water's edge.
For a long moment, she simply looked at the wreath resting in her hands. Nestled among the flowers sat the first arc reactor Tony had ever built, the one she'd rescued years ago and framed beneath a simple message:
Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart.
Back then it had been a joke. A reminder that beneath all the sarcasm, arrogance, and impossible genius was a man capable of loving with everything he had.
Now... It had become his epitaph.
Pepper lowered the wreath onto the surface of the lake. It floated effortlessly. The water accepted it without resistance, carrying it farther and farther away with the gentle current.
No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the quiet lapping of water against the shore. You watched until the flowers blurred into patches of color. Until the arc reactor became nothing more than a faint circle of blue. Until there was nothing left to watch.
People lingered long after the ceremony should have ended. No one seemed ready to leave. Maybe because walking away meant admitting Tony really was gone.
Conversations happened in hushed voices. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Hands found hands. People cried openly now. There was no reason not to.
You watched Clint cross the lawn toward Wanda. Neither of them spoke. He simply opened his arms. She collapsed into them.
They had both lost the person who understood them most. There weren't any words big enough for that kind of grief.
One by one, the gathering slowly began to thin. Bruce left with Sam. Thor embraced Rocket before disappearing toward the Benatar. Peter stood with May for a long time before Happy quietly rested a hand against his shoulder and led them toward the cars.
Eventually… It was just you.
You hadn't realized your feet had carried you back to the edge of the lake. The wreath had long since disappeared downstream. You wondered if that was what grief looked like.
Not vanishing. Just drifting farther away until you could no longer see it, even though you knew it was still there.
Footsteps crunched softly across the grass behind you. You didn't turn around. You already knew who it was. Steve stopped beside you. Neither of you spoke. There wasn't anything left to say.
His fingers brushed yours before gently intertwining with your hand. You let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Then he pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Strong. Familiar. Safe.
For the first time since Tony had died, you let yourself stop pretending to be okay. Steve didn't tell you everything would be alright. He didn't offer false hope or empty promises. He simply held you. And somehow… That was enough. For now.
