Castle All Her Own

It happens on a Tuesday.

You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.

You home.

No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:

Eventually. Why?

There’s a longer pause this time, then,

Found something.

You grin at your screen.

If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.

Three dots disappear, then reappear.

Not an appliance.

You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.

By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.

You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.

White.

And glaring at you.

You blink.

“…Is that… a cat?”

The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.

“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.

“She followed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Home?”

He nods once.

“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”

“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”

On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.

“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.

Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.

“She’s so small.”

He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”

“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.

“She’s not—”

“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.

Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”

“He probably deserved it.”

“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.

“He existed near her.”

“That’s not a crime.”

You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.

“You brought her here.”

“She wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”

He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.

“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”

She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.

“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.

He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”

You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”

“She needed one.”

You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.

She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.

Bucky goes very still at the sound.

“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.

“She likes me.”

“She tolerates you.”

“She loves me.”

“She met you ten seconds ago.”

“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.

Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.

You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”

His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”

“She absolutely is.”

He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.

“You know… we’re not—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”

But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.

Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.

Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”

You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.

“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.

“She deserves it.”

He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”

“She was defending her territory.”

“She weighs less than the pigeon.”

“She has spirit.”

He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.

“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”

“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s judging you right now.”

You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.

“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.

He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.

Click. He looks up at the sound.

“You take too many pictures.”

You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”

“I’m building a cat tree.”

“Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.

He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”

“She’s fragile.”

“She scratched a grown man.”

“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.

You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.

You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.

And now, your cat.

One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.

The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.

Chosen.

Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.

Bucky stirs.

“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.

“Claiming me.”

He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”

“She gets it from you.”

He cracks one eye open to look at you.

“I’m not territorial.”

“You absolutely are.”

He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.

Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.

When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.

New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.

You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.

At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.

The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.

It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.

He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.

Click.

He doesn’t look up.

The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.

Like he always does here.

You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.

There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.

“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Click.

He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”

“Maybe.”

“Why.”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”

“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.

You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.

She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.

“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.

“She always judges me.”

“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.

“I am not weak.”

“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Click.

The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.

Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.

He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.

The subway platform becomes another favorite location.

You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.

He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

You lift the camera.

Click.

He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.

The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.

You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.

He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.

The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.

Click.

He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.

“Do what.”

“That.”

He frowns faintly.

Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”

“Like what?”

You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.

It becomes your favorite.

Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.

“Who is he to you?”

You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”

The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.

Your boss smiles faintly.

“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.

Lucky.

You think about that word the whole way home.

You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.

You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”

He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.

“Hey.”

You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.

“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”

The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.

He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”

His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”

“What?” You blink.

He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.

“Buck.”

He exhales slowly.

“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.

Your chest aches.

“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.

His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.

You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.

Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.

Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.

You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.

It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.

You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.

“What's wrong,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.

It slips into something quieter one night.

You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.

“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.

“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”

“Yeah. People who know how.”

You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”

“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”

“I’m not losing—”

You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.

Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.

Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.

You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.

“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”

“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.

His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.

He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.

It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.

So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.

You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.

He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.

Your chest tightens.

“Buck,” you murmur softly.

He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.

You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.

The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.

It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.

“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”

You huff quietly. “I can tell.”

Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.

By morning, you’re tangled.

Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.

You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.

He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.

You are.

You both are.

And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.

You don’t notice it at first.

That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.

You’re tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.

It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.

You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.

You don’t move.

And then they close again.

It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .

“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.

Too late.

The train lurches forward again.

The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.

You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.

The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.

“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”

You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.

So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.

You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.

And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.

You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.

Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.

Keep walking.

Don’t react. Don't—

They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.

There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.

He answers on the first ring.

“What broke?”

Any other time it would make you laugh.

Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”

It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.

“Where are you.”

You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.

“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”

“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.

“Stay on the phone.”

Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”

“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.

Your breathing stutters.

“Buck—”

“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”

Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.

You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.

The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.

You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”

You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.

The drive is quiet.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.

Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.

You’ve seen that look before.

Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.

Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.

“I know,” he says.

But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.

He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.

Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.

You shake your head. “No, I—”

His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.

“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.

The kiss isn’t careful.

It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.

It’s desperate.

Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.

“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.

The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath stutters.

There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.

His voice drops, quieter but steadier.

“Be mine.”

The words land heavier than anything else tonight.

“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”

You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.

“I am,” you say.

There’s no hesitation in it.

“I've always been yours, Buck.”

His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.

“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”

He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”

Your answer comes easily.

“Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.

His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.

The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.

You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"

"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."

The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."

A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.

You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."

"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.

His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.

His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.

"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."

"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."

A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.

"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."

You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, 8ikplease—"

His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."

And god, does he take his time.

His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.

"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.

"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."

You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.

"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."

His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"

"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.

His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.

"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.

He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.

"Good?" he rasps.

"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."

He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.

"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.

You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.

He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.

His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.

Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.

You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.

Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."

A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.

"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."

You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.

He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.

The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.

Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.

The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.

Everything feels warm.

Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.

You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.

You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.

Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”

His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.

“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.

Your stomach tightens immediately.

“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

No answer.

You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.

Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.

“There you are,” you breathe.

His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.

“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”

You stop yourself.

Thought what?

That he left?

That this disappeared overnight somehow?

The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.

“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.

There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.

“C’mere.”

You let him.

He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”

A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.

“There she is.”

The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.

“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.

The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.

You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Like he’s still convincing himself.

He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.

Where you want to be.

You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.

“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.

Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.

“You're so sweet,” he chimes in mockery, “Ed’ll be here after his shift at the mechanic shop. I left money in the drawer.”

“Shocking news, I have a job. I pay half the rent for this place and I can pay for my own take.” You complain despite being happy that he’d left you some cash to waste.

“Yeah… but my job pays better,” he says as he picks his bag up.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever loser.”

“Wish me luck!” he calls out from the front door.

Your brows pinch in confusion, “Good luck?” 

The door shuts and you’re left with your thoughts. You don’t know what your brother needed luck for. He was going on the same trip he’d been on the last three years with his girlfriend. That gets swept from your mind to focus on the fact that Eddie was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.

It wasn’t the first time. He was always your “babysitter” when Jack went out of town. Of course, you always thought it was because Jack didn’t think you were competent enough to live alone. That and Eddie said the AC and heater were much better than his place. 

It didn’t usually bother you, the lived-in mess of the apartment but now, because of your friends, because of your brother, you worried about it. It wasn’t a pig-stye and Eddie had stayed over plenty of times with it just like this, but for some reason, you wanted to impress, so you picked up a little, reorganized in a few areas. Then you waited and waited and waited. 

Finally you stand and pull the phone off the hook and press it to your ear. You spin to the first four numbers for the garage before you hang the phone back up. What was wrong with you? You didn't need to call him. 

You glance at the drawer in the kitchen where you know your brother put the money. You pull the phone off and dial up the whole number for the garage.

“Dean’s repair shop, how can I help you?” Annie, the receptionist's voice filters through.

You pull your nerves together, “Hi, can I talk to Eddie?”

“One moment,” a quiet pop beat fills the line and you tap your foot as you wait.

There’s static for  a moment and then, “This is Eddie.”

For a moment, you're distracted by his voice on the line. You don't know that you’ve ever been on the phone with Eddie, or perhaps you just hadn’t paid attention to it before, like many things. He had a nice voice. Rough from yelling in the loud garage. Even at work, he had that lilt in his voice like he was going to say something funny.

“Hello?” he says when you don't answer.

“What kind of pizza do you want?” you finally ask.

There’s another moment of static, “What?”

You sigh, like he’s the problem, “Jack left some money for the weekend and I’m eager to spend it. What kind of pizza do you want?”

More static and then his voice comes out more teasing than before, “Princess?”

You close your eyes at the sound, tipping your head to press your forehead to the wall. You manage to keep your voice neutral, “Eddie.”

“Calling me at work about pizza,” you swear he lowered his voice with the way it smooths over you like honey, “is that really why you called?”

You shake your head, “I just figured you’d want something warm when you get off work.”

“Really?” His voice is different, smothered in surprise which is understandable. You usually scoff at his teasing. You from two weeks ago would have hung up the moment he started in. You from two weeks ago would've never called in the first place.

“If you don’t give me an answer, I'm putting pineapple on it,” you tell him, trying to distract from your own actions, even as your finger swirls the cord of the phone. He can't see you, so that part didn't matter.

“Do NOT get pineapple, you freak.”

You don't contain your laughter, “look who's talking. Tell me what you want, Munson.”

There's a quiet hum across the line before he answers you, softer again, “Meatlovers, princess. Is that fair enough trade?” 

His tone stirs that new confusion in your mind again. Has he spoken to you like that before? Had you really been so caught up in being annoyed that you missed that?

“Yeah, Eddie," you murmur a little lost in your thoughts, “meatlovers is fine.”

You listen a moment to his breath, static as it may be, “hey, are you okay? Worried about your brother?”

“Why would I be-”

“Ah shit, listen, princess, let's talk at dinner about it. Something just broke and- Yeah! I'm coming!”

“Eddie, why would I be worried-”

“An hour. Pizza. Dinner. I’ve gotta go.”

The line goes dead. You stand there a moment confused. Your mind had been swirling with worry about Eddie spending the night but now you were worried about Jack. He seemed fine when he left. No stranger than normal. Maybe you had missed something?

--------

Masterlist

@danysdaughter

I Thought We Were Already Dating: you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it). Come Home to Me: during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows. but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire. Part 2. Still Yours: Bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost. Sweet On The Job: When newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.

@ilovolderman

Friday Night: You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.

@peterparkive

come back to me: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

@mcrdvcks

Sparks fly: You were Bucky's neighbor while he was a congressman and staying in New York. When Valentina announces them as the New Avengers, Bucky and the team go with him to pack up his apartment. But then you show up, calling him "James."

@54nboo

Sugar tits: chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her. ‘Incoming.’: bucky’s gone MIA. you think you’ve lost him until he shows up on your tv as one of the new faces of the new avengers. Part 2.

@aquaticmercy

Don't Fear The Reaper: Bucky looks out for you while you’re grieving the death of your best friend.

@orellazalonia

Soft Shopping Spree: Bucky notices you never spend his money or let yourself want anything, so he plans a full day of spoiling you determined to show you what you deserve. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader) Always There, Never Seen: You're the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. Not by Bucky, not by the rest of the Avengers, not even by your own coworkers. You sit on the edges of conversations, offer silent support, and watch others be chosen and loved while you remain in the background. Despite being essential, you're basically invisible and it hurts more than anyone realizes.

@bcksgirl

Always Been You: you’re fresh out of a break up, and your brother is determined not to let you dwell on your shitty ex. he thinks your annual summer trip with your shared group of friends should do the trick. you think a summer spent staring at his hot best friend will at least lift your spirits a little.

@metal-armed-muse

wilted roses: when Bucky Barnes got drafted, you didn’t realise that will be the last time you ever see him. but he did leave behind something for you. this is a story about the grief that follows death, and the love that blooms out of it anyway.

@myladybelle

Slow burn: bucky’s still finding his footing in the new avengers—getting into a relationship is the last thing he has time for. it’s a good thing that you’re alright with a slow burn. my heart went oops!: you think you’re friends who occasionally kiss, but bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someone’s missed a memo.

@artficlly

hide & seek: a simple game of hide and seek for bragging rights turns heated when you and bucky cram into the same hiding spot. Slow burn: bucky’s still finding his footing in the new avengers—getting into a relationship is the last thing he has time for. it’s a good thing that you’re alright with a slow burn. letters of devotion: you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

@mindoverbarnes

It's A Heartache: You have a crush on Bucky, it's that simple until it isn't. When your flirting isn't reciprocated, you soon find out why.

@mandoalorian

a soft place to land: bucky stays the night for the first time, and it reveals something hidden about his past.

@knowledgeableknitter

A Possessive Gentleman: Bucky steps in on a harmless conversation in a bar. He stakes his claim. Like a gentleman.

@sleepypanda27

Friendly Fire: Sam exposes Bucky’s obvious crush on you.

@cassiemaebarnes

Darling: You join the Avengers right before they're torn apart by the Sokovia Accords. You join Cap's team, and end up stuck in a safe house with Bucky, slowly earning his trust.

@iamthatonefangirl

rewind - nsfw bucky barnes x reader. Part 2.

@yikesdrama

you’re the jazz to my blues: bucky’s first date in decades comes with its fair share of nerves, teasing friends, and unexpected moments—but maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what he needed.

@buckyseternaldoll

eighteen hours.: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

@firelilyfox

language of a heart: After a traumatic experience you stopped talking to everyone. Except Bucky. He gets you in a way like nobody else does. give me a sign: You went through something traumatic and won’t speak to anyone. But Bucky has an idea how to comfort you without words.

@blowingbarnes

Out of My Mind (Bucky Barnes): Bucky is too old, too weathered, too scarred, and she’s soft, and happy, and deadly, and the way her mouth- yeah he really should stop thinking about her like that.

@cece693

THE WORST TIMING, THE BEST PERSON: You never meant to fall in love with your ex-boyfriend's best friend, but Bucky Barnes was making it really, really difficult to avoid.

@cryogeniccrush

Show Me: You and Bucky have been circling something unspoken for weeks—late nights, lingering glances, near-confessions. But he never crossed the line. Not until someone else did. Now, with your heart on the line and the rain pouring down, everything comes to the surface. And this time, neither of you walks away.

@cosmicsstar

In Your Arms: After a restless night, you run into Bucky. He brings you to the couch to cuddle and calm your racing mind. You fall asleep in his arms—and in the morning, the team find you both snuggled up, leading to teasing and a few surprised looks.

@drabblesandsnippets

Making Waves: During a heat wave, you take advantage of one of your favorite perks of working for the Avengers - access to their private pool - and spend some quality time with Bucky.

@castielscaplan

Cold Without You: Bucky wakes up when you slip out of bed in the middle of the night.

@ellemj

blurred lines: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.

@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

The staff - part 1: You're just his assistant - until longing, heartbreak, and slow-burning trust turn your careful distance into something undeniable behind closed political doors. Part 2

@jobean12-blog

Hunk of Burning Love: You and Bucky are friends and after a bad date and some donuts everything changes.

@barnesonly

forwards beckon rebound: You finally found love. Found your place in the world, as your brother’s best friend fell for you with a kind of devotion that made life feel safe for once. But everything changed when he got drafted to war and you refused to be left behind.

@crybabycabin

attrition | b.b. (1): six months. that’s how long it takes for you to realize love isn’t enough. six months of bucky sleeping on the couch, of missed anniversaries and empty drawers where his things should be. six months of being loved by someone who treats you like you’re already a ghost. contrition | b.b. (2)

@sunsetmade

Grumpy?: Bucky Barnes— who is cold and curt with everyone— always lingers by the front desk smiling and flirting with the receptionist. Matching Pieces: Bucky decides to give her one of his dog tags. The Weight of a Smile: What about a shy!reader with Bucky?

@rosesaints

reckless fever, lover girl!: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. Now.

@buckysleftbicep

winning streak: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you. little black dress: you and bucky have always danced the line between desire and something more. but he never made his move, so you showed him exactly what it looked like when john does. right this time: after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like. who did this to you?: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

@ramp-it-up

Slow Burn: First he saved your life. Then he refused to leave. And there is the problem of the history between you. Nothing between you is simple anymore.

@marvelwitchergilmore

Winter's Child: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and your daughter live across the hall from Bucky. However, one night when your daughter won't settle, you turn to him for help. Compromised Positions: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky find yourself in one too many compromised positions, not that he's complaining.

@fawniswriting

The quiet side of thunder: When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky becomes determined to take care of you.

@sleepdeprivedfrfr

Don't wake daddy dad!bucky x mom!reader: you've never been able to surprise your husband considering he's an ex trained assassin, but he'll make an exception for you and your daughter on fathers day.

@sluterainterluder

My Baby (Got Nothing At All): you and bucky have been broken up for almost a year. neither of you have moved on. now, he’s sitting next to you at your friend’s wedding.

@stardustrider

Sweet on you: Decorating cupcakes for Mel's bridal shower should’ve been a simple task until Bucky Barnes offers to help. One frosting fight, a kitchen full of chaos, and a few stolen kisses later, it’s clear the tension between you isn’t just in your imagination.

@hellfirebarnes