It’s actually White Witch…

You’re on an undercover mission with Bucky. The man who you despise. You tugged the bottom of your dress down and the top of your dress up to make sure that your ass and breasts are covered. That’s how short your dress is. On top of that, the heels you’re wearing are hurting your feet.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Bucky asks.

“I’m making sure I’m not exposing myself to anyone.” You say.

“Then why did you wear a dress that short?” He asks.

“I wanted to fit in.” You say.

The undercover mission consists of you and Bucky pretending to be a couple while overseeing the illegal activities of the nightclub you two are at.

“I can’t believe we got paired up to do this mission together.” Bucky grumbles as you and him walk through the club.

“You and me both.” You grumbled back.

You and Bucky wandered throughout the club, trying to fit in. Then you realized that you two are supposed to be acting like a couple. You grabbed ahold of his hand, but he yanked it away from you.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bucky asks.

“We’re supposed to be acting like a couple, dumbass.” You say.

“Oh yea.” He remembers.

Bucky wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, catching you off guard a bit.

“How’s this for acting like a fake couple, doll face?” He asks softly.

“Keep your hands away from my ass and we won’t have any problems.” You say.

Bucky moves his hand to the middle of your back as you two continued to walk through the club. You two saw the club owner on the other side of the club.

“There’s the club owner.” You softly say to Bucky.

You two watched the club owner go into a back hallway to his office. A little bit goes by when the club owner comes out of his office. To avoid getting caught by him, you and Bucky decided to sit down in a booth. Actually, Bucky sat down and you sat on his lap.

“What’re you doing?” Bucky asks.

“This is part of our job as a fake couple.” You say.

Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes. Then he tried not to moan when you adjusted yourself on his lap. He wraps his arm around you to get you to stop.

“Stop moving.” Bucky says.

“I’m not doing anything.” You say.

You kept your eyes on the office door that the club owner is in.

“Did he come out of the office?” Bucky asks.

“Not yet.” You say.

A few minutes go by when the club owner comes out of his office.

“He came out of the office.” You say.

You pushed Bucky’s arms off of you and stood up. Bucky follows behind you as you two made your way to the office. That’s when you and Bucky almost got caught by the club owner.

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath. “Kiss me.” You say to Bucky.

“What? No.” Bucky says.

“The club owner is about to catch us going into his office. Now shut up and kiss me.” You say.

To make it believable, Bucky kisses you with passion. He wraps his arms around your waist and held you against him and backed you up against the wall. You grasped onto his jacket and put one of your legs on his hip. One of Bucky’s hands found its place on your thigh, giving it a squeeze. You two continued making out against the wall until the club owner was on the other side of the club.

“The coast is clear.” You say.

“Good.” Bucky says.

You and Bucky made your way inside of the office. You put the flash drive in the club owner’s laptop while Bucky stood guard at the door. Then you gave the flash drive to Bucky and he put it in his pocket. You opened the office door and poked your head out, making sure the coast was clear, which it is. Or so you two thought. As soon as Bucky closed the office door, the club owner saw you two and walked over to you guys.

“What were you guys doing in my office?” The club owner asks.

“Nothing important. Have a great night.” You say.

The club owner grabs your wrist with a tight grip as you tried to walk away from him. That’s set Bucky off. He grabs the back of the club owner’s neck and slams him against the wall.

“Let go of my girl.” Bucky demands.

The club owner let’s go of your wrist. Your wrist is beginning to turn red now. Your hand rubs your wrist from how tight he was holding it.

“If you ever put a hand on my girl again, I won’t hesitate to break every bone in your body. Got it?” Bucky says, almost growling.

“Got it.” The club owner says.

Bucky let’s go of the club owner, shoving him, which caused him to bump into a table. Then you two left the club and gave the flash drive to Sam. After that, all of you went home. Realization hit you and Bucky as soon as both of you got home. You two couldn’t stop thinking about each other. Could this be you and him falling in love with each other? There’s only one way to find out. Even though, it’s late at night, you went straight to Bucky’s apartment, in your pajamas you might add. You knocked on the door to his apartment till he opened it. You and Bucky stared at each other without saying a word. Then you guys kissed. Bucky guides you inside of his apartment and closes the door, pinning you against it.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” You say against his lips.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either.” Bucky says.

Bucky picks you up and carries you to the living room, sitting down on the couch with you on his lap. You straddled him, your legs on either side of him. You gasped softly against his lips when you felt his bulge pressing against your clothed pussy.

“You’re so hard.” You point out.

“You sitting on my lap earlier did that to me.” Bucky says.

Your hips began to move against him on their own accord. Bucky’s hands found their place on your hips, helping you rub yourself against him. You two were moaning into each other’s mouths as you two made out.

“That’s it, babydoll. Keep doing that.” Bucky praises.

Bucky’s hands occasionally gave your hips a squeeze as you rubbed yourself against him. Your hands found their way to his hair and gave it a tug. A deep moan falls from Bucky’s lips. His hands press you more against him as you kept grinding against him.

“Oh my god!” You moaned, tilting your head back.

“Yea, you feel that, doll face? You caused that earlier when you sat on my lap.” He says gruffly.

“Oops.” You say innocently.

Bucky lifts your head up so you were looking him in his eyes. His blue eyes are now darkened with lust.

“Don’t “oops” me. You’re gonna help me out with it.” He says.

“Oh yea? How do you propose that I help you out with it?” You asked, your voice still sounding innocent.

“Don’t play innocent with me, doll face. You and I both know you’re not innocent after that little stunt you pulled down the mission.” He says, his voice sounding a bit deeper than it was a few seconds ago.

You giggled and bite your bottom lip. Your giggle quickly turned into a gasp when Bucky smacked your ass.

“What? That smart mouth doesn’t have anything else to say now?” Bucky asks.

You opened your mouth to answer him, but a moan came out instead. Bucky smirks to himself and stops you from grinding on him. You two stared deeply into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before standing up. Bucky picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder and smacking your ass with his free hand. He took you to his bedroom and laid you down on his bed. He hovers over you, staring deeply into your eyes again.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Bucky asks softly like a gentleman.

“I’m sure.” You answered. “Are you sure this is what you want?” You asked too.

“Yes.” He answers. “When we start, I can’t guarantee you that I’m going to stop.” He says honestly.

“I wouldn’t want you to stop.” You say.

Once both of you got consent from each other, you two picked up where you two left off in the living room. The hatred the you two had for each other slowly began to fade away. What you two are beginning to feel now is love. That’s when realization hit both of you like a truck.

“I meant what I said earlier. I can’t stop thinking about you.” Bucky says softly.

“I meant it too. I can’t stop thinking about you either.” You say just as softly.

The hatred you two had for each other completely faded away and love quickly grew between you and him. It may have taken a while, but you and Bucky are sure of yours and his feelings now. You two are falling in love now. You two wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Agent? Location?"

"Agent 202, med evac is two minutes out, please confirm coordinates." A sterile voice spoke over him.

"You still on the first floor?" Bucky heard the crackle of Ava jumping between the walls.

"Agent, respond!" He would not panic.

"She's with me, Barnes."

"I'm coming."

Fuck, fuck.

Bucky jumped down the final flight of stairs, the metal tang of blood in the air leading him to you, crumpled at the end of the hall with Ava beside you.

"Press here," Ava pointed to your side, she'd already stipped off your flak jacket but it'd done little good. The bullet had grazed beneath, leaving blood blooming through your undershirt.

"It's going to be okay," Bucky felt himself talking, rather than making any decisions, and Ava immeditely jumped up, ready to phase back to the fight. "Evac is coming, we just have to get her outside."

Your smile was dopey, "you came for me. Bet you love this, don't you?"

"I hate it, I should've been here." Bucky used his left hand to apply pressure to the wound, the haptic feedback telling him the blood was slowing without him having to look. He used his right hand to tilt your head up. "Hope you got a good look at them."

"Yeah, so I can get them next time." Your eyelids drooped, your head going heavy in his hands.

"Stay with me." He tapped your cheek.

"Barnes, evac is available at the north east corner."

"Copy. Let's go."

Bucky stood first, trying to prolong the pressure on your side, and then lifted you into his arms. You tucked your head beneath his chin.

"I don't think I'm doing so good, Buck."

"Just stay still," he twisted his arm, trying to stop the bleeding still despite his rapid pace through the dark corridor.

"Okie dokie, aye aye Cap'in, at ease soldier." Your voice was slurred, eyes closing, body limp.

"Why is it you behave so much better when I have my hands on you? Why do you have to get shot so I can get close to you like this, huh?" Bucky whispered into your hair. "Here we go, putting you on the board, it's a helicopter, you'll be with the medic in seconds."

He strapped you in carefully, fighting the down draft of the blades, but you caught his hand.

"Don't leave me."

"I'll be with you soon, okay, be brave. I've got to go and kick that guys ass."

"Uh -huh," you kissed his bloodied knuckles, "be safe."

The medic signalled from the helicopter and your gurney lifted up, disappearing into the cockpit.

You knew it was ridiculous. Who got weak in the knees over someone's scent? But every time he walked past, leaving just a trace of it lingering in the air, you found yourself closing your eyes and breathing in deeper than necessary.

Thankfully, Bucky was completely oblivious about it.

"You're staring again," Sam muttered one day, elbows perched on the table beside you.

You snapped your gaze away from where Bucky was standing by the window, nursing a coffee and looking out into the city. "I don’t stare," you argued, voice a little too defensive.

Sam raised a brow. "Mhm. And you don’t take deep breaths when he’s near?"

You felt your face heat up. "That’s insane."

"Is it?" Sam smirked. "I bet if I pointed it out to him, he wouldn’t even notice. Man’s got the observational skills of a rock when it comes to women."

You shoved Sam’s shoulder, laughing. "Don’t you dare."

Unfortunately, Sam dared.

A few days later, you caught Bucky looking at you differently. A little longer, a little more curious. His brows knit together like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

It was during a mission debrief when he leaned in closer than usual, speaking in that low, raspy voice of his. "Hey…do I smell weird or something?"

Your heart nearly exploded. "W-what?"

"Sam said that you-uh-you like my scent or something?" Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably puzzled. "I don’t know. I just-"

You were going to murder Sam.

Heat rushed to your face as you cleared your throat. "I-it’s not weird! I just…it’s nice? Comforting, I guess. Maybe it's the shower gel or cologne you use."

Bucky stared for a second. Then, his lips twitched into a smirk. "Comforting, huh?"

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "You know what, just forget I said anything."

"Hey," he chuckled, reaching out to gently pull your hands away from your face. "I think it’s kinda nice that you notice things like that."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Really?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his stubbly jaw, seeming thoughtful. "If it makes you feel better, I notice things about you, too."

"You do?" You looked at him, surprised.

Bucky nodded. "You always pick up your pen and twirl it when you’re nervous. Your laugh, especially when Sam annoys you, kinda lights up the whole place. And you lean on people you trust."

"Oh."

"Would it be weird if I asked you out?" Bucky smiled.

"No," you breathed out, lips curling into a soft smile. "Not weird at all."

His smile grew, almost shy. "Then…how about dinner?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Barnes?"

Bucky shrugged, chuckling. "Guess I am."

Your grin was impossible to contain. "Then yes."

Sam, watching from across the room, pumped his fist in the air. "Finally!"

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his attention never wavered from you.

Bucky picked you up at your door, a little nervous but playing it cool, wearing a dark leather jacket. He smelled exactly like you loved it, maybe even better. “You ready?” he asked, with a softness in his smile.

You ended up at a cozy little cafe tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn. It was dimly lit and warm. Bucky ordered his usual black coffee, and you teased him about being predictable, while he countered with a smirk, “Well, you’re pretty predictable too, considering how much you like sniffing me.”

You groaned, covering your face. “You are never letting that go.”

“Nope,” he said, sipping his coffee like he won’t stop teasing you for the next century.

But then the teasing melted into something gentler, real conversation, stolen glances, the way his fingers brushed yours on the table, the quiet click of everything falling into place.

After coffee and dinner, you walked through the streets, talking, laughing, hands inching closer, closer, until Bucky just took your hand.

Eventually, you stopped on a quiet bridge overlooking the water. The city glowed around you, but all you could focus on was him. His warmth, his presence, the scent you had always loved.

“You having fun?” he asked, thumb running gently over the back of your hand.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Yeah. You?”

Bucky didn't answer with words. He just stepped closer, eyes flickering over your face, and then he leaned in. The kiss was soft and slow. It felt perfect.

And when you pulled apart, you exhaled shakily, grinning. “You still smell amazing, by the way.”

Or maybe he didn’t forget at all. You’ve spent your entire married life telling him how hot he looks with the toolbelt wrapped around his waist.

“Contractor’s word is sacred,” he says, voice rich and amused as he shoulders his way inside. “This one’s actually the last. Promise.”

He sets the box down in the foyer, right where the warm afternoon light spills over the hardwood. The house still smells faintly of fresh paint and new wood, something clean and intoxicating. It smells like him. You’re pretty sure it always will.

Your house.

Your home.

The one he built, designed, and obsessed over for almost a year. The one whose every inch you’ve seen on paper, and in progress, and in his eyes when he dragged you through showrooms and across job sites, mumbling to himself about structural supports and load-bearing beams.

You weren’t stupid. Even if you weren’t a contractor, you’d known when his gaze lingered a little too long on a certain height or surface. You’d seen the heat flicker in his expression when he ran his fingers along the edge of a half wall or tested the give in a support beam. It had always felt like he was trying to invite you into visualizing how supportive that beam could truly be with your bodies pressed up against it. 

You knew what he was doing.

Still, standing here now, in the finished space with sunlight shining on the curved white plaster and the gleam of polished metal, you feel like you’re seeing it all for the first time.

Bucky straightens up with a soft groan, hands going to his hips.

“You’re staring,” he says, eyes flicking from your face to the open-plan living room and the sweeping staircase that curves to the second floor.

“Just taking it in.” You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling small and a little overwhelmed in the best way. “Our house.”

He steps closer. The scuffed boots, the soft thud of his weight on the hardwood—familiar, grounding. His hands slide up your arms, over your shoulders, settling at the base of your neck, thumbs brushing your jaw.

“Our house,” he echoes, softer now. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Built it for you, didn’t I?”

Your heart skips. For me, you think.

After months of stolen looks and those low, gravelly sounds he makes when you’re close, you know better than to pretend it’s innocent.

“For you” isn’t just a gesture.

It’s a promise of exactly what he plans to do to you.

His thumb traces down the column of your throat, skimming over your pulse. “You wanna see it?” he murmurs, voice dipping the way it does when he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. “Really see it?”

You swallow. “You’ve already shown me everything.”

“On paper,” he says. “Walk-throughs. Punch lists. That’s not the same.”

You arch a brow. “No?”

He leans in, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “No, sweetheart. A house like this…” His hand drifts down, fingers sliding beneath the hem of your T-shirt, knuckles grazing your bare stomach. “Gotta be… tested. Broken in.”

Your breath hitches.

There it is; that little curl of filthy intention he’s been hiding behind blueprints and building codes.

You knew it. 

“What exactly did you design this place for?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

His grin turns wolfish. “You know.”

You do. You really do.

“All those nights,” you murmur, remembering the way he’d spread plans across your old, too-small kitchen table, pencil tapping against measurements while his gaze glazed over with want. “‘It’ll be beautiful, baby,’” you mimic, voice pitched low in a teasing imitation. “‘Open space, clean lines… perfect for entertaining.’”

“Oh, we’re gonna entertain,” he rumbles. His fingers flex against your skin, sliding higher, under your bra now, the rough pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your breast. “And don’t lie to me. I saw your face every damn time I mentioned that half wall.”

Your cheeks heat.

The half wall.

He pulls back just enough to tilt his head toward it, the curved partition that separates the kitchen from the sunken living room. It’s a piece of art, really. Smooth white plaster, edges rounded, top capped in warm oak that matches the floors. It’s just high enough to mark the transition between spaces and low enough to keep sight lines open.

And…you know.

Perfect height.

You bite your lip. “You told the inspector it was for sight lines and flow.”

He laughs, low and wicked. “It is. It just also happens to be the perfect height to fold you over until you’re archin’ that pretty back for me.” His hand squeezes your tits gently through your shirt, just enough to make your breath catch. “Multifunctional. I’m nothing if not efficient.”

You swat at his chest, feigning offense even as your thighs press together. “You are so full of shit.”

He catches your wrist, the calloused pad of his thumb circling the inside, right over your racing pulse. “You’re the one who signed off on it, doll. I gave you all the elevations. You knew what you were gettin’ into.”

Your pulse stutters at the undercurrent in his words.

You did know. From the first time he’d mentioned designing a place together, from the first sketch he’d slid across the table with a shy, hopeful tilt to his mouth. It hadn’t just been about a house. It had been about a life; a life with him. With his hands on you, his name in your mouth, his rules written into the bones of the space around you.

You’d said yes to more than a mortgage.

You’d said yes to him.

Yes to this.

The agreement had been half joking at first—a breathless, giggling thing whispered under worn sheets in your tiny apartment, his fingers already buried in you when he’d said, “Gonna build us a place where I can have you anytime I want. Any room, any surface. I built this home with you as the perfect image. Everything in it belongs to me—especially you. You’re going to be mine for as long as we live under this roof. Got it?

And you’d nodded, eyes glassy, fingers fisted in his hair.

Yes. Please. Yours.

“You moved the bed to the wrong wall,” you say now, voice barely steady. “That’s not where it was on the plan.”

He hums, unbothered. “Better angle for the hook from that wall.”

Your stomach flips.

“The hook,” you repeat.

His thumb drags over your lower lip, tugging it down. “Mmhm.”

You picture it—the heavy, discreet ring set into the ceiling in the center of your bedroom, disguised as part of the modern lighting track. You remember the way he’d stood there one afternoon, sweat-darkened T-shirt clinging to his back, brow furrowed as he double-checked the mounting bracket.

“Four to five hundred pounds easy,” he’d said, voice oddly rough. “Could hang a damn engine block off it.”

You hadn’t been thinking about engine blocks.

You’re not thinking about them now.

“Bucky…”

He kisses you before you can figure out what you’re asking for—mouth hot and sure, tongue sweeping against yours with the kind of deliberate control that always makes your knees weak. He tastes like coffee and the sweat of hard work, like home, like every filthy promise he’s ever made you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me give you the grand tour.”

You laugh, breathless. “We’ve already—”

His hand drops from your shirt to your ass, fingers squeezing firmly as he nips your bottom lip. “Different kind of tour, doll.”

Your insides melt.

You could say no. That’s part of it, and he knows it. You’d agreed on that too, somewhere between talk of tile samples and safewords. This house is a playground, a stage, a living, breathing consent agreement. He can take what he wants when he wants it; as long as you can take it back with a single word.

You could say no.

You don’t.

Instead, you nod, eyes wide, hand slipping into his. “Show me,” you whisper.

His answering smile is almost tender, the heat in his gaze tempered by something softer, deeper. “Attagirl,” he says, like you’ve done something right. Like you’re not the one offering yourself up to be used against every surface he can dream of.

You barely get a minute before he hauls you into the kitchen. There’s days of heated longing and charged ideas swirling in his eyes, and even though he’s trying to play it cool by giving this tour, you can already tell he’s been dreaming of taking you in the same pace you’re  meant to eat breakfast..

The space is a dream—white cabinets, brass hardware, a huge farmhouse sink overlooking the backyard. The island is massive, topped with a thick slab of veined quartz that catches the light like marble. There’s more counter space than you’ve ever had in your life.

Bucky stops beside the curved half wall, running his hand along the smooth wooden cap. “Now this,” he says, looking at you from beneath his lashes, “this is just good design.”

You snort. “Sure. For entertaining.”

“Oh, I’m feelin’ mighty entertained already.” His grip on your hand tightens, tugging you closer, until your hips bump the warm wood. “Turn around for me.”

Your breath catches. “Already?”

“Already?” His eyes darken, mouth tipping into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Baby, I’ve been waitin’ months to break this house in. You think I’m gonna be patient now that you’re finally here?”

Your pulse thrums. “Bucky…”

He steps into you, chest nearly flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You remember what you told me when I first showed you this wall? Hm?”

You swallow. The memory bursts behind your eyes—blueprints spread on your lap, his hand braced on the back of the couch, his voice low and hungry. The way your face had heated when you’d realized the height, the curve, the way your hips would fit against it just so.

You’d blurted it without thinking.

“That’s the perfect height to bend me over,” you’d said then, half laughing, half flushed.

He hadn’t laughed at all.

Now, in the finished kitchen, you can barely get the words out. “I said… I said it was… perfect height to bend me over.”

“That’s right.” He noses along your jaw, lips brushing your skin. “You said that. You asked me to. You remember that?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, hand smoothing down your spine. “You remember?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He hums, satisfied, and his palm presses between your shoulder blades, firm and sure, guiding you. “Then bend over for me, sweetheart.”

You exhale slowly, letting his command sink in. The world narrows to the curve of plaster in front of you, the warmth of the wood beneath your palms as you place them flat on the top of the wall. It’s cool at first, a faint breeze from the living room vent brushing your wrists.

You feel him behind you, big and solid, all heat and intention. His hands are gentle on your hips as he nudges your feet apart, boot toe sliding between your ankles to widen your stance.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like it was made for you.” He taunts, playing dumb.

You glance down. The top of the wall hits across your hips perfectly, cradling your lower belly, tipping your pelvis just enough that your ass presses back against him when he steps closer.

You feel him, hard and thick against the curve of you, already straining against his jeans.

“Bucky,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“Yeah, that’s it.” His hands slide from your hips to your waist, thumbs stroking where your shirt’s ridden up. “You good, doll?”

“Yes.” It comes out without hesitation, without thought, the answer wired into your bloodstream at this point.

He chuckles, low and pleased. “Thought so.”

His fingers slip into the waistband of your leggings, dragging the elastic down slowly, carefully, until the fabric hugs the tops of your thighs. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver, the polished wood cool against your stomach.

“You know what I thought about,” he says conversationally, as if you’re not already dripping for him, your core clenching on nothing. “Every time I checked these measurements?”

You bite your lip. “What?”

His hand slides between your thighs from behind, knuckles brushing your lips—bare, hot, and slick. You gasp, fingers digging into the wood.

“You,” he says simply, voice rough. “In this position. Just like this. My good girl folded over my pretty little wall, ready for whatever I wanna give her. Do you know how fucking impossible it was to build this house when all I could do was think about how pretty your pussy would look bent over this ”

You whimper. You can feel your arousal smear against his skin as he pushes two fingers through your folds, spreading the wetness lazily.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re fuckin’ soaked already. You like this that much, huh?”

“Yes,” you say, voice tight. “Bucky, please—”

He laughs, breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Already beggin’ and I haven’t even gotten my cock out yet. Greedy thing.”

His fingers circle your clit once, twice, a teasing brush that has you arching involuntarily, hips pressing back into him. The wall holds you, keeps you from losing your balance, lets you give into the curve of your spine.

“Look how easy you move,” he murmurs, as if commenting on the weather. His free hand slides up your spine, palm warm between your shoulder blades as he presses you down just a fraction more. “That’s why I made it like this. So I can get it just right, every time.”

Your breath stutters. He knows your body too well. Knows the exact angle that makes your thighs shake, the depth that makes your vision white out.

He gives your clit one last slow circle, then pulls away. You hear the soft rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim. The curve of him slots against your ass a moment later, heavy and hot, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“Color?” he asks softly, voice suddenly serious.

The word is an anchor, a reminder. A line in the sand you both drew long ago.

“Green,” you answer immediately. You’re not sure you’ve ever been more certain of anything.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. “Good girl.”

The praise melts you, leaves you loose and pliant as he pushes forward, sinking into you with agonizing slowness. He’s big—he’s always been big—but the angle, the way the wall tips your hips, makes every inch feel sharper, deeper, like he’s cutting you open and filling you in the same breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, nails digging into the wood as he pushes in, and in, and in—

“That’s it,” he groans, voice strained. “Take me, baby. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

You pant, trying to breathe around the fullness. The wall is supporting half your weight; your toes barely skim the floor as he bottoms out, his hips snug against your ass.

“Perfect,” he rasps, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades. “Knew it. Knew it would be perfect.”

He pulls back, slow and torturous, and then slams back in with a sharp thrust that sends you jolting forward, your belly hitting the curved plaster. The burn of stretch gives way to molten pleasure, the friction at this angle dragging against that spot inside you just right.

You moan, the sound high and unabashed.

“Yeah?” he grits out, hand sliding around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. “That good, doll? That what you wanted outta this wall?”

“Yes, yes,” you babble, mind fuzzing as he starts to move in earnest. Each thrust rocks you forward, the wall bracing you, keeping you from pitching face-first onto the floor. You ride the give of the wood and the flex of his hips, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings.

“This is why I built it this way,” he growls, fingers working your clit in tight circles. “So I can walk into my kitchen, see you standin’ here, and just—” He punctuates it with a thrust that makes you cry out. “Take what’s mine. Whenever I fuckin’ want.”

You whimper, heat coiling low and tight. “Anytime you want,” you echo, words tumbling out between gasps. “You can, I—I told you, I’m yours—”

“I know you are,” he snarls, pace quickening, the rhythm brutal and precise. “Whole house knows it now too. You hear that?” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “First day in our new home and you’re already makin’ those noises for me, lettin’ the walls hear what I do to you.”

His words send a fresh bolt of heat through you. The idea of it—of the house witnessing this, of the bones of it soaking in your pleasure like some kind of twisted christening—turns you inside out.

“Bucky, I’m—”

“I know.” His fingers press harder, faster. “Come on, doll. Come all over my cock. Mark my kitchen as yours.”

The filthy possessiveness snaps something, and you shatter with a choked cry, pleasure detonating behind your ribs. You collapse against the half wall, fingers scrabbling for purchase as your body convulses around him.

He groans, the sound guttural. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Squeezin’ me so tight—”

He thrusts through your orgasm, drawing it out until your legs shake and your throat is raw. Then, with a ragged curse, he pulls out, his hand wrapping around himself as he finishes against the curve of your ass, hot and sticky.

You tremble, breath coming in harsh pants. The wall holds you, solid and unyielding, as he strokes himself through the last pulses, chest heaving.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked. His hand comes to your hip, thumb rubbing comforting circles into the damp skin. “You okay?”

You laugh weakly, the sound dissolving into something like a sigh. “I’m… I think my soul left my body for a second.”

“That’s a yes, then.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

He cleans you up quickly, gently, using a dish towel he probably didn’t intend to christen like this but will never look at the same way again. He pulls your leggings up with careful hands, presses a soft kiss to the small of your back.

When you finally push yourself upright, turning to face him, he’s looking at you like you hung the moon and then fucked him on it.

You smooth your hair back, cheeks still hot. “So. Kitchen: tested.”

He grins, tucking himself back into his jeans, fingers lingering on his belt buckle. “Kitchen: tested,” he agrees. His eyes flick toward the living room, then up the stairs. “Whole lotta house left, though.”

You swallow, thighs clenching. “We have time.”

He nods, expression softening. “We have all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

You make it upstairs under the pretense of “unpacking.”

Which is technically true. You open one box in the bedroom and put exactly three shirts in a drawer before Bucky’s hand hooks in the waistband of your leggings again.

“This isn’t exactly efficient,” you say, even as your body leans into his touch, as if pulled by gravity.

“Disagree,” he murmurs, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “I’m bein’ extremely efficient.”

You follow his gaze.

The hook is subtle—a small, matte black ring mounted flush to the ceiling, centered over the bed. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you’d assume it was part of the lighting track or some kind of modern design element.

You know better.

“You had to special order that, didn’t you?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He smirks. “Maybe.”

“Bucky.”

“Baby, if we’re gonna have an anchor point in the ceiling, it’s gotta meet code. Detective work like that doesn’t come cheap.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs stroking the edge of your ribs. “And you want it to hold, don’t you?”

Your pulse skitters.

You glance at the bed—king-sized, solid oak frame, headboard built into the wall. The mattress is plush but supportive, the linens crisp and new. On the nightstand, you spot the neatly coiled length of deep navy rope you’d tucked there the last time you’d gone shopping together, when a “quick run” to the hardware store had turned into a half-hour detour through the aisle of nylon cords.

You’d picked it up as a joke.

Bucky hadn’t laughed then either.

Now, he reaches past you and picks it up, running the rope between his fingers. “Feels soft, doesn’t it?”

You nod, throat dry. “We… we don’t have to—”

He steps closer, rope dangling from one hand, the other cupping your jaw. “Stop,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are dark, yes, pupils blown wide with want, but beneath it there’s something steady. Something grounding.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

You exhale. “You know I do.”

“I do know,” he says. “But I like hearin’ it.” He tilts your face up, presses a slow, careful kiss to your mouth. “We do this, we do it our way. Your way. You tell me if you don’t like somethin’ and we stop. Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “Good girl.” The words sink into you like honey, thick and sweet. “Hands.”

You offer them without thinking, wrists together.

He hums approvingly and steps around behind you. The rope moves like water—soft and smooth as he wraps it around your wrists, looping and knotting with practiced ease. You shouldn’t be surprised; he’s a contractor. His hands know how to work with tension, with weight, with lines that need to be both beautiful and functional.

“Too tight?” he asks, giving the bindings a gentle tug.

You flex your fingers. The rope bites just enough to make you aware of it, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels like a hug around your wrists, a reminder.

“No,” you murmur. “Feels… good.”

“Yeah?” His voice is thick. “You like bein’ tied up for me, doll?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a groan. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He leads you to the bed, one hand on the small of your back. You crawl up onto the mattress at his gentle nudge, knees sinking into the soft top. He follows, reaching up to clip the rope through the hook with a carabiner.

“There,” he says, sitting back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “Look at you.”

Your arms are pulled up over your head, but not uncomfortably so; there’s enough slack that you can shift, enough give that you don’t feel trapped. You test it, tugging lightly, and the hook holds firm, the rope creaking softly.

Heat floods your cheeks.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “This is…”

“Hot as hell?” he supplies, climbing onto the bed fully, straddling your thighs.

You huff out a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

His hands trace down your sides, palms broad and sure. “Won’t keep you like this long,” he says. “Just wanna see you. Want you to feel it. Know you’re safe here. That this house holds you how I want it to.”

You shiver.

He takes his time undressing you this time, peeling your shirt over your head, mouth chasing every inch of newly exposed skin. He kisses your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the hollow at the base of your throat. He nips gently at your nipples, tongue soothing the sting, until you’re arching into his mouth despite the pull in your arms.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs against your skin. “All laid out for me. My girl in my bed in my house.”

“Your house,” you correct weakly, trying to keep your brain engaged.

“Our house,” he amends immediately. “But this…” His hand slides between your legs, over the damp cotton of your panties. “This is mine.”

You whimper.

He peels your leggings and panties down slowly, kissing the inside of your thigh as he goes. Once you’re bare, he sits back again, eyes roaming over you with open reverence.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I built walls and floors and doors, but nothin’ in this place is more beautiful than you.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t say things like that lightly. Not that he’s ever stingy with affection, but this—this specific kind of softness—always feels like being handed something precious.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause I let you tie me up.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “That helps.” He leans forward, bracing himself on one forearm beside your head. His other hand skims down your body, fingers spreading over your belly, then lower. “But I promise, sweetheart, even if you never let me do any of this, you’d still be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You blink hard, vision blurring for a moment. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Don’t,” he says, thumb circling your clit lightly. “Not when I’m tryin’ to make you come.”

The whine that leaves you is embarrassingly high-pitched.

He grins, then dips his head, kissing his way down your torso until his mouth hovers over your center. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes dark and burning.

“Gonna eat you until you’re beggin’,” he says calmly. “Then I’m gonna fuck you again. Gonna make this bed squeak so loud we void the warranty.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re an idiot.”

“You love me,” he says, then doesn’t give you a chance to answer.

His tongue is hot and sure, broad strokes from your entrance to your clit that drag a ragged moan from your chest. You tug at the rope reflexively, wrists flexing. The hook creaks, reassuringly solid.

The vulnerability of it, of being spread out like this, unable to grab his hair or push him away if it gets to be too much, should scare you. Maybe once upon a time it would have.

Now, all it does is send you hurtling headfirst into trust, into want.

His hands grip your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you open for him. He licks you like he’s starving, like this is the first real meal he’s had in days, every pass of his tongue purposeful. He knows your body too well, zeroes in on the exact rhythm that makes your hips twitch.

“God, Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs against you. “Give it to me. Let this room know how good I make you feel.”

“If the house had ears,” you gasp, “it would be traumatized.”

He laughs, the vibration sending a shock through you. “Our house loves it,” he says. “Built it on your moans.”

You want to be annoyed at how ridiculous that sounds. You can’t be. Not when his mouth seals around your clit and sucks, not when two fingers slide into you in the next breath, curling just right.

Your world narrows—hook above you, rope biting into your wrists, his head between your thighs, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead as if none of this is happening.

The orgasm hits fast and hard, ripping through you in a white-hot wave. You cry out, back arching off the bed as much as the bindings allow, hips jerking against his face.

He groans, holding you down, fingers pumping through the clench of your walls until you’re shaking.

“You okay?” he asks when you finally slump back into the mattress, chest heaving.

“Y-yes,” you manage, voice rough. “Just… give me a second or I’m gonna die.”

He chuckles, smug. “Gonna die on me in our brand new bed, huh? That’d be a hell of a note to leave the realtor.”

You snort weakly. “Shut up.”

“Language,” he scolds lightly, crawling up your body. He kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You ready for me, doll?”

You take a breath, feeling the throbbing echo of your climax, the lingering tension in your arms, the press of rope against your skin.

You’re wrung out. You’re overstimulated.

You’re so fucking ready.

“Yes.”

He nudges your knees wider, guiding his cock to your entrance. This time, when he pushes in, your body welcomes him, soft and yielding. The angle is different now—your hips flat on the bed, his weight above you, your arms stretched overhead—but the stretch is the same, the fullness just as consuming.

You exhale slowly as he sinks all the way in, eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You force your eyes open. He’s hovering over you, arms braced on either side of your head, your bound wrists between them. The hook creaks faintly with each breath, a reminder.

He starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in controlled thrusts that push little sounds out of you with every stroke.

“That’s it,” he says, gaze glued to your face. “There she is. My pretty girl takin’ my cock so well.”

You whimper, cheeks heating.

“This is what I thought about,” he continues, voice high and tight with restraint. “Every late night, every early morning on this build. Every time somethin’ went wrong and I had to fix it, every time somethin’ went right and I wanted to celebrate. All of it. Kept me goin’.”

You wet your lips. “Thinking about… this?”

He nods, thrusts picking up speed. “Thinkin’ about comin’ home from a job dusty and pissed off and findin’ you here.” His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the rope above your wrists, bracing himself with it. “Tied up in my bed, waitin’ for me. Letting me walk through that door and just… use you. As hard and as long as I need until I feel better.”

The image sends a sharp spike of heat through you.

“Anytime you want,” you whisper.

“Anytime I want,” he agrees, voice almost reverent. “Long as you say yes. Long as you want it too. That’s our deal, right, doll?”

“Yes.” You roll your hips up to meet his, chasing more friction. “Yes, Bucky, please—”

He groans, the sound like broken glass. “Good girl. You’re so fuckin’ good to me.”

He fucks you harder then, really puts his back into it, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. The rope creaks overhead with each thrust, your arms rocking with the motion. Your world is reduced to the slide of him inside you, the weight of his body, the scrape of his chest hair against your nipples.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, another wave building fast, shockingly soon after the last.

“Already?” he grits out, sweat dripping from his brow to your chest. “You gonna come for me again, baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

“That’s my girl.” He reaches between you with his free hand, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. “Come on, then. Let go. Let me feel you.”

You do.

The second orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, your whole body stiffening before dissolving into helpless tremors. You scream his name, the sound tearing out of your throat as your walls clamp down on him, pulsing.

He snarls, the last of his control snapping. He thrusts through it with ragged determination, hips stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Gonna come so deep in this pretty pussy, you’ll be leaking all over my sheets.”

“Yes, please—”

“Want it all, don’t you?” he growls. “That’s why you let me build this place. So you could be my perfect little fucktoy in every room.”

You nod frantically, words gone, throat raw.

He gives a few more wild, uneven thrusts and then he’s gone—tipping over the edge with a strangled curse, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you until you swear you can feel it in your chest.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are both of your breathing and the faint creak of the hook as it settles.

Eventually, Bucky’s grip on the rope loosens. He sags, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. His breath ghosts across your skin, hot and damp.

“You still with me?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead.

“Yeah,” you croak. “Just… dead.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Let’s get these off you, then.”

He carefully unclips the carabiner, lowering your arms to the bed before working the knots loose. His fingers are gentle, deft, as he unwinds the rope from your wrists. He rubs at the faint indentations with his thumbs, warming the skin.

“There,” he says. “You good?”

You flex your hands. They ache a little, but in a satisfying way. Your whole body does. “Yeah.” You look up at the hook, then back at him. “That thing really holds five hundred pounds?”

He smiles, boyish and proud. “Told you. Overengineered it for safety.” He wiggles his brows. “And versatility.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels full, overflowing. 

He softens, fingers brushing your wrists. “You okay?” he asks. 

When you nod, he unclips the hook, works the knots loose, and kisses the faint rope marks like an apology, pulling you into his chest until your breathing slows and your body feels like it belongs to you again.

“C’mon,” he murmurs after a minute, voice warm against your hair. “Before we glue ourselves to these sheets. Shower, then we can die in here properly.” 

You let him help you up, let him steady you on shaky legs all the way to the bathroom.

Later, clean and wrapped in fresh sheets that smell like detergent instead of sweat, you curl into his side and trace idle shapes on his chest. “So,” you say, a sleepy smile tugging at your mouth. “Bedroom: tested.”

He hums. “Bedroom: tested.” His fingers trail idle shapes along your spine. “We still gotta christen the shower.”

You snort. “Of course we do.”

“And the stairs,” he continues, undeterred. “That landing’s got your name written all over it.”

You imagine it—hands on the railing, his shoulder pressed into the back of your thighs as he goes down on you with your foot braced on the step.

Your cheeks heat. “You’re insatiable.”

He kisses the top of your head. “You built a sex palace with me, sweetheart. I’m just usin’ it the way it was intended.”

“You built the sex palace,” you counter. “I just signed paperwork.”

“Details,” he says dismissively. “Besides, you had ideas too. That pillar in the living room? That was you.”

You blink. “I thought you needed that for structural support.”

He grins, unrepentant. “I do. But it also happens to be the perfect width for you to wrap your arms and legs around while I fuck you from behind. Just sayin’.”

A shiver races down your spine.

“You thought this all through, didn’t you?” you murmur, half in awe, half in exasperation.

“Every inch,” he says sincerely. “Every room, every angle. This house is a love letter to you, doll. To us. To what we like.” His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. “I wanted you to feel wanted here. Always. Wanted and safe and… mine.”

You swallow past the sudden tightness in your throat. “I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat firmly. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s like the whole place is… holding me. For you.” You huff out a breathy laugh. “That sounds weird.”

“No,” he says softly. “That sounds perfect.”

You smile against his chest, tracing idle patterns on his ribs. “You know, for all your big talk about free use… you still ask every time.”

He snorts. “You want me to stop askin’?”

“Never,” you say quickly. “I just… I like it. That you designed all this to take me whenever you want, but you still… check.”

He kisses your forehead, lingering. “That’s the point, sweetheart. I can want you all the time. I do want you all the time. Built a whole damn house to prove it. But I don’t get to have you unless you want me back.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Consent’s part of the design.”

You laugh softly. “Of course it is. You’re a nerd.”

“I’m your nerd,” he says. “And your contractor. And your—”

“Sex architect,” you supply.

He groans. “God, don’t call me that, I’ll never recover.”

You giggle, the sound light and easy. “So what’s next in the… tour?”

He hums, considering. “We could get some water. Maybe actually unpack a box.”

“Responsible,” you say approvingly.

“Or,” he continues, ignoring you, “we could go downstairs, you could stand in front of that pillar, and we could find out if my calculations were right.”

You look up at him, at the spark in his eyes, the familiar challenge.

“You seriously ran calculations for that?”

He looks offended you even asked. “Of course I did.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Unbelievable”

He laughs, rolling you beneath him with an easy shift of his weight. “Come on, doll,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Let me show you what this house can really do.”

The pillar rises from the center of the living room, a sleek, square column of painted plaster that seems more aesthetic than structural. It breaks up the openness of the space, adding a modern touch.

It also, as it turns out, fits perfectly against your spine.

Bucky presses you gently back against it, hands braced on either side of your shoulders. The late afternoon light slants through the tall windows, bathing the room in gold.

“Hands around it,” he murmurs.

You obey, reaching behind you to wrap your arms as far as you can around the pillar. The cool surface presses between your shoulder blades, solid and unmoving. Your fingers meet the backs of your own shoulders, giving you leverage.

He steps closer, slotting his body against yours. His jeans are still undone from earlier, his cock already hard again, nudging your lower belly through your clothes.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Define ‘comfortable.’”

He smirks. “Not in pain?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

He sinks to his knees in front of you so fast you barely have time to squeak. His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.

“Bucky—”

“Relax,” he says, mouthing at the inside of your knee. “Gotta test the load-bearing capabilities first.”

“You—” You cut off with a gasp as he scrapes his teeth lightly up the inside of your thigh. “You already tested the load-bearing capabilities.”

“Mm, that was structural.” His fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings again. “This is recreational.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” you point out.

He grins against your skin. “You’re right. ‘S why we’re doing a full inspection.”

You shake your head, laughing breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

But you lift one foot, then the other, letting him peel your leggings and panties off entirely this time. The air kisses your bare skin, raising goosebumps. He lifts one of your thighs, rests your knee on his shoulder, and then does the same with the other, until you’re perched with both legs draped over his broad shoulders, your back pressed into the pillar.

You make a startled noise, gripping the column harder. “Bucky—”

“Look at that,” he says, sounding inordinately pleased. “Told you. Perfect height. Perfect width. I can fit right between your legs and still have room to move.”

You feel absurdly exposed—elevated, open, held up solely by his grip and the press of the pillar.

You also feel… safe.

The column isn’t going anywhere. Neither is he.

You exhale shakily. “You gonna… hold me like this the whole time?”

He raises a brow. “You doubt my stamina, doll?”

“Never,” you say truthfully.

He smirks, then leans in, mouth hovering over your center. “Then settle in,” he murmurs. “This might take a while.”

His tongue is devastating. If the half wall was about leverage and angle, if the bed and hook were about surrender and trust, then this—this is about worship. Pure and simple.

Held up against the pillar, your legs draped over his shoulders, you can’t do anything but hang on and feel. The column supports your back, keeps you from sliding, while he devours you like a man possessed.

You moan, the sound echoing faintly in the open space. The living room feels enormous around you—vaulted ceiling, big windows—but your world is only this. His mouth. The pillar. The way your fingers dig into the plaster as he pushes you higher and higher.

“You’re gonna ruin the paint,” you gasp at one point, nails scraping when a particularly sharp bolt of pleasure hits.

“I’ll fix it,” he growls, not bothering to lift his head. “Keep clawing.”

You do.

By the time he finally stands, easing your legs down one at a time, your thighs are shaking and your vision is foggy. You’re pretty sure you’ve come at least twice, maybe three times. Numbers are meaningless.

“You okay?” he asks, hands steady on your hips.

You nod, boneless. “House… passed inspection.”

He snorts. “Damn right it did.”

He kisses you then, hard and open and hungry, backing you up the few inches until your shoulders meet the pillar again. His hands fumble with his jeans, shoving them just far enough down.

“Gonna fuck you like this,” he mutters against your mouth. “Wanna feel you holdin’ on to my house and to me at the same time.”

You make a strangled sound that might be an agreement.

He lifts one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, and then the other, until your feet are off the ground, hands locked behind the pillar for leverage. He presses forward, sliding into you with a groan.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, head dropping back against the column. “Bucky—”

He’s deeper like this, somehow, the new angle hitting a spot that makes your toes curl. The pillar at your back keeps you from being knocked over by the force of his thrusts; you’re pinned between solid structure and solid man, nowhere to go and no desire to go anywhere.

“Fuck,” he grits out, pace quickening. “Look at you. Clingin’ to my pillar, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.”

You whimper, nails digging into the plaster again.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice ragged. “Not after watchin’ you come on my tongue like that. But that’s okay. ‘Cause I’m gonna do this again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next…”

You laugh breathlessly, even as your muscles tighten toward another peak. “Gonna wear me out in our new home, Barnes?”

“Gonna make you so used to me,” he says, thrusts turning punishing, “that you’ll get wet just walkin’ through the door. See this pillar, remember what I did to you on it, and start drippin’ for me.”

Your walls clench around him, the filthy words almost enough to push you over by themselves.

“Yeah, like that,” he groans. “You like that idea? My house makin’ you needy?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Yes, yes—”

He growls, hand dropping between you to rub your clit again. “Come with me, doll. Come on my cock while I fuck you against this pillar I built with my own two hands.”

You break.

Your orgasm rips through you, your whole body seizing as you cry out, back arching off the pillar. You cling to the column like it’s a lifeline, fingers digging gouges in the paint.

Bucky curses, a harsh, guttural sound, and buries himself deep, hips shuddering as he comes with you. You feel it, hot and thick, filling you once more.

When he finally lowers you back to the ground, your legs wobble dangerously. He catches you, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

“Mm,” you manage, leaning fully into him.

He looks over your head at the pillar and winces slightly. “Okay, yeah, we are definitely gonna have to touch up that paint.”

You glance back. There are faint scratches where your nails dug in, little crescents of exposed plaster.

“Worth it,” you say frankly.

He laughs, delighted, pulling you closer. “Love you.”

The words are simple, but they hit you like a hammer every time.

“Love you too,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, slow and sweet this time, no urgency, just warmth. The late afternoon sun slides lower, painting the room in shades of amber and rose.

Eventually, you both end up on the couch, tangled in a nest of half-unpacked blankets, your head on his chest. The house hums quietly around you—refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen, a soft creak in the walls as the temperature changes, the faint outside noise of life on your new street.

Bucky’s fingers card lazily through your hair.

“So,” you say, voice soft. “Half wall, bedroom, pillar. That’s… a good start.”

He hums in agreement. “We’ll get to the rest.”

You smile against his shirt. “Laundry room?”

He chuckles. “Hell yeah.”

“Garage?”

“Obviously.”

“Back patio?”

“Definitely.”

You consider. “Hallway?”

He pauses. “We can make the hallway work.”

You giggle, then sigh happily. “You really did this,” you murmur. “You built us a house designed to fuck me in.”

“And to keep you warm, and safe, and happy,” he adds. “Don’t forget those parts.”

“I won’t.”

He tips your chin up, eyes serious. “You know I’d still love you just as much if we lived in a crappy studio with a leaky sink and no sex furniture, right?”

You smile. “I know.”

“Good.” He relaxes, pulling you closer. “But this is more fun.”

You laugh. “Yeah. It is.”

The house settles around you, accepting you, claiming you. You think about all the mornings you’ll wake up here, all the nights you’ll fall asleep tangled with him, all the mundane in-between moments—coffee in the kitchen, mail at the door, laundry and dishes and bills.

And woven through all of it, like beams hidden inside the walls, there will be this: his hands, his mouth, his body, his intentions.

Intentional, beautiful design.

Filthy, perfect execution.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady thud of his heart under your ear, and let yourself sink into the knowledge that you are held—from the hook in the ceiling to the pillar at your back, from the half wall at your hips to the man whose arms you’re wrapped in.

His house.

Your home.

And you, the center of it all, made for his hands and his plans and every wicked, wonderful thing he wants to do to you in every inch of it.

You reply, telling him you love him, along with a heart emotion. You smirk as he immediately replies, telling you he loves you more.

“Alpine, let me try something,” you snicker and take a picture of Alpine sleeping soundly on the couch. You sent the picture to Bucky, asking him if he loves you as much or more than his cat.

Bucky takes his time replying. When he finally does, you laugh at his response. 'Know your limit. 

“Aw, Daddy loves you more than me. What shall we do about it, Alpine?”

“Doll, I’m home!” Bucky chuckles as you walk toward him, a grim expression on your face and your arms crossed over your chest. “I give up!” He raises his hands in surrender, still, that stupid smirk on his face that he wore this morning.

“I don’t know if I want to spend New Year’s Eve with you,” you sniff. “A man who loves his cat more than me.”

“Baby, we both know if the building was on fire, you’d save Alpine before me,” your boyfriend points out.

“Yeah, because the poor sweet cat cannot save himself,” you coo as Alpine walks toward you to rub his head against your left calf. “Aw, just look at him. He’s so pretty, and soft.”

“Sometimes I believe you agreed to go out with me because of my cat.” Bucky searches your face, waiting for you to disagree. “Baby doll?”

You giggle.

“Aw, poor Bucky believed for a second that I only love you Alpine,” you say while glancing at the cat rubbing his head against your leg. 

“That’s not funny, Y/N,” Bucky grunts. “I hope you know; you won’t get your surprise if you keep on being a bad girl.”

You peck his scruffy cheek, smirking as you nuzzle his cheek. “You love that I’m a bad girl, Sergeant. Now, let me check if we got everything for our party.”

“Five, four, three, two, one,” you and Bucky count the last seconds of the year. You smile at each other and when the last second ticks by, you share a passionate kiss to welcome the new year.

“Happy New Year baby,” Bucky whispers against your lips. “I love you.”

“Happy New Year, Bucky,” you kiss him again. “I love you.”

“Wait here, I got something for you.” He steps away and calls for Alpine. “Come here, punk. It’s your time to shine.”

You laugh as Alpine trots inside the living room. He meows loudly and sits next to Bucky. 

“Punk, do your job,” Bucky points at you. “Go and get our girl.”

“What?” You crouch down to watch Alpine. He’s wearing a black neckerchief. ‘Will you marry my dad? Stands on the neckerchief. You reread the words, gasping loudly.

You look at Alpine, his neckerchief, and then at Bucky who crouches down next to Alpine to offer you a beautiful diamond ring. “Doll, as Alpine already asked, would you give me the honor to become Alpine’s mommy and my wife?”

“What? I…I,” you are speechless and a little shell-shocked. “Of course, I want to be Alpine’s mommy,” you grab Alpine to pepper kisses on his head.

“Doll…Y/N!” Bucky grunts as you cuddle his cat.

“Oh,” you smile softly and place Alpine on the ground. You scoot closer to Bucky to cup his face and kiss his nose, “and I’d be honored to become your wife.”

“Punk,” Bucky dips his head to glance at his cat, “you’re lucky she said yes. You almost screwed things up for us.”

“Aw, he could never screw things up,” you fist Bucky’s shirt to bring him closer. “But if you put that ring on my finger you can screw my brains out later…”

In your shared bedroom, you were perched at your vanity chair in nothing but lace panties, legs crossed neatly, arms lifted slightly as you kept your freshly painted nails suspended in the air to let them dry. The bottle of polish sat open beside you, the faint chemical scent mingling with your perfume, and the lamplight glowing warm on your bare skin.

The moment you finished your last nail, you glanced up into the mirror, only to find Bucky staring.

His eyes dragged over you, lingering shamelessly on your body before meeting your eyes in the reflection.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his cuff.

You arched an eyebrow. “I’m literally sitting still and not touching anything,” you said, although you were checking out his reflection, too. 

Bucky looked incredible in a suit. Ergo, your thoughts were definitely just as sinful as his.

“Exactly,” he said as he walked toward you like a lion approaching his mate. “You’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that… and I’m supposed to remember how to behave in front of my colleagues tonight?”

You held your hands out carefully, showing him your perfect little red nails, though all Bucky could think was how good they’d feel leaving scratches down his back later. “I can’t smudge these, honey,” you pouted adorably, “please don’t distract me.”

Still, he chose to ignore you.

He slipped behind your chair, his reflection towering over yours, and let his hands settle on your bare shoulders possessively. His thumbs brushed lazily across your skin, tracing slow circles that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Buck,” you warned, though your voice had already gone softer than you meant it to.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, bending to press a kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “Just appreciating my wife.”

His metal hand drifted lower, following the line of your collarbone, until his palm lay against your chest. He didn’t even squeeze. They just rested there, teasing, knowing the textural difference between his metal and human hands was something that… turned you on.

That bastard. 

You tried not to move.

“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time, eyes fluttering shut for one second. “My nails.”

“Your nails look perfect,” he praised, lips brushing your jawline. “So does the rest of you.”

His metal hand slid down your side, fingers tracing your waist before curving around your hip, drawing you subtly back against him. He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

You let out a shaky laugh. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re always late,” he said, kissing the corner of your neck. “No one’s surprised anymore.”

“Congressman Barnes,” you tried again, hopelessly flustered, “behave.”

He chuckled, hands drifting a little bolder, and you could tell he had absolutely no intention of behaving at all.

You tried to keep your breathing steady while his hands wandered, like he was mapping every inch of your skin. His lips traced a lazy path along your shoulders, and you could feel the smile he wore when your breath caught.

“Alright,” you breathed out with a small chuckle, “if you’re going to keep touching me, you can at least be helpful.”

He hummed, mouth brushing trailing kisses down your arm as he playfully grabbed at you in all the best ways. “Pretty sure I’m bein’ very helpful right now.”

“Honey, my nails are still drying.” you reminded, tilting your chin toward the bed. “Please put my bra on for me.”

He froze just long enough for you to feel the shift in his attention.

He looked over at the lace bra that matched the panties you wore, then back to your bare chest in the mirror, his fingers tightening just a little where they cupped you.

“You really wanna hide these?” he asked, thumbs brushing across your breasts, making your breath hitch. “Feels like a crime.”

You swallowed, heat curling straight down you. Still, you managed to be a little snarky. “Would you rather Senator Brandt see me like this?”

Ugh. Brandt. 

Last time you attended one of Bucky’s work functions, he got very drunk and tried to convince you to go home with him. He didn’t cross any physical boundaries with you, and you had managed to take care of yourself that night, but when Bucky found out, he very nearly broke his jaw. Instead, he only gave him a black eye. 

He got off with a warning, to stop resorting to physical altercations, and was told to behave. 

But you know your husband always found it hard to do so. 

With that, finally, begrudgingly, he reached for the bra.

He picked it up like he’d rather drop it to the floor and forget about the charity auction entirely. Then he came back behind you, eyes still dark on your reflection as he slid the straps up your arms.

His fingers dragging along the curve of your shoulders before guiding the cups into place, and even with fabric between you now, you could feel the hunger in his touch, the way his palms lingered just a second too long.

Then the band brushed your back… and stopped.

He angled the clasp.

Missed.

He tried again, teeth clicking.

The strap twisted.

Could he not… put a bra on?

You could feel the stubborn frustration building in him. He hated losing to anything— especially while touching you.

He pulled the band tighter, his chest pressed almost flush to your back now as his metal hand worked one strap and his flesh hand fumbled with the other.

You bit your lip, fighting a laugh.

Because fuck, he was so close to getting it right, then again and again…. He failed. 

“Everything okay back there?” you asked, teasing.

He growled under his breath, his palm splaying across your stomach to hold you in place as he tried again.

Your husband was an expert with his fingers. In fact, he was devastatingly sinful when he wanted to be. You would know.

But apparently… not at this.

As you laughed at his sloppy attempts, you remembered the first time Bucky had gone head-to-head with your bra.

—

The very first night you ever slept together, everything had been slow at first. After all, he was finally crossing a line you both had been circling for months.

You remembered the way he’d kissed you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

You’d been lying back against the pillows, heart racing, his body hovering over yours. His fingers had slid beneath the band of your bra, pausing just long enough for his eyes to meet yours.

You nodded.

And then, within five seconds, Click.

He used two hands, but he was smooth, quick, and clean.

The clasp had opened like it was designed for him.

The straps had slipped away as the fabric fell.

He hadn’t gloated or smirked then.

He just let a deep breath out like your body was a prayer he’d never learned but somehow already knew by heart.

And afterward you’d thought: Of course he’s good with his hands.

—

Then, you remembered your wedding night.

You were both laughing, giddy, breathless, drunk on happiness more than the reception wine, still half-dressed and stumbling through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.

His tie was gone. Your shoes were discarded somewhere near the door. He’d kissed you against the wall like he couldn’t wait another second to be close to you, to finally celebrate being husband and wife and hopelessly in love.

You remembered the way his metal hand had cupped your cheeks while his flesh one traced down your spine… pausing at the clasp of your lingerie.

You barely had time to register the movement before—

Snap.

One-handed, in three seconds

It was effortless.

He pulled back just enough to grin against your lips.

“Still got it,” he’d said, voice smug and unbearably fond.

You’d laughed, breathless, and whispered back, “I married a show-off.”

—

And then, you remembered last night.

You’d been straddling him on the couch, your skirt bunched around your hips, his tie loosened and his hair mussed from your fingers. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your back as he kissed you just a little deeper.

His metal palm ghosted beneath the band of your bra, cool against your skin.

He didn’t even hesitate.

There was a precise flick of his wrist, a quick curl of his fingers—

Snap.

The clasp practically melted for him

He pulled back, chest rising as he muttered under his breath with boyish triumph, “Ha. Sub two seconds.”

You’d snorted, half turned on, half amused, and shoved him back onto the cushions with a grin. You stood up, guiding him to the bedroom as your bra fell to the ground. “Get over here, Congressman.”

He let out a wicked laugh.

—

The memories faded, and you were yanked right back into the present by the sound of Bucky muttering under his breath as the clasp slipped out of his fingers again.

He tugged the band tighter, trying to guide the hooks together.

They slid. Missed.

The strap twisted halfway up your shoulder.

He froze.

You bit your lip so hard you almost ruined your lipstick.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You blinked innocently at the mirror. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t laugh.”

You almost obeyed.

But then he tried again, with that same intense concentration he used when testifying before a committee, and the bra just… refused to cooperate.

A tiny laugh escaped before you could stop it.

“Sweetheart,” you said with faux sympathy, “do you need me to call tech support?”

He looked at you through the mirror. “I can do it.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, far too entertained, “sure you can, big guy. You only took it off in, what, sub two seconds last night?”

“That was different,” he grumbled, fingers fumbling again.

“How?” you teased. He tugged too sharply, and the band snapped against your back.

You jumped.

His hands rubbed where it hit, concern threading through his voice. “Sorry, sweets.”

Then he tried the clasp again.

And missed.

Again.

You sucked in a breath to keep from laughing outright. “This is… kind of adorable.”

He leaned closer, close enough to feel his breath warm at your ear.

“Keep talkin’,” he said darkly, “and I’m just gonna decide it doesn’t need to go on at all.”

As heat rippled through you, but so did mischief.

“Just admit that you can’t put a bra on,” you whispered, eyes sparkling.

He grunted something that sounded awfully like “never” under his breath, as he stubbornly fought the clasp.

“I can strip you blindfolded,” he said, frustration and desire tangled in his tone, “but this— this damn thing—”

You couldn’t help it.

You laughed.

And then, finally, it clicked.

The clasp slid into place, the band settling snugly across your back. 

Bucky froze behind you, like he didn’t quite believe it had happened. 

“Ohhh, look at that,” he said, grinning against your ear, his hands smoothing over the band like he was inspecting the handiwork he was ridiculously proud of. “Hooked. Secured. Aligned. Perfectly installed by your very capable husband.”

You snorted. “Installed?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said smugly. “Professional application.”

Then he gave the clasp its last gentle pat, like it was a trophy.

As you stood up, he stepped back to admire his work, and immediately forgot about his work entirely.

His eyes dragged over you, again tracing the curve of the lace across your breasts, the matching panties hugging your hips.

You watched his reflection: his pupils blown wide, lips parted.

And lower…

Yeah.

There was no hiding the way his slacks suddenly fit a lot tighter.

You let your lips curve into a smile.

“Everything okay?” you asked sweetly.

He swallowed hard.

“Not even a little,” he rasped.

His gaze roamed you again, you could feel him undressing you with his eyes, could practically hear the thoughts rattling around in his head, none of them even remotely innocent.

“Christ, doll… look at you,” he said, visibly breaking a sweat. “Standing there in our house… in our bedroom… in that little set… like you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”

You smiled and leaned up to kiss his cheek, like a counterweight to the heat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“That’s not even fair,” he said, rubbing a hand over his chin. “You stand there lookin’ like sin and expect me to behave like a gentleman?”

You tilted your head sweetly. “You did great, baby.”

That was his undoing.

His hands came back to your waist, thumbs brushing the satin of your panties before sliding down and hooking his finger on your panties like he needed to feel that he’d earned this moment.

“Damn right I did,” he said, “but I still wanna take it apart.”

You were about to tease him — until you caught sight of the clock on the wall behind him.

Oh no. You were running far behind.

you nodded toward the bed, where your long strapless cocktail dress lay waiting in a pool of satin. “Can you help me with my dress, please?”

He groaned, head tipping back, and eyes closing. 

“Sweetheart…” he said, voice strained, “you seriously want me to cover you up?”

You bit back a smile. “We have to leave. I’ll even have to let my nails dry in the car.”

“We could cancel,” he argued weakly. “Tell ‘em the congressman’s wife had… an emergency.”

“Bucky.”

He rested his forehead to your shoulder for a second, gathering himself like he was preparing for combat.

“Okay,” He sighed, a man accepting his tragic fate. “Okay. I can do this. I’m strong. I’ve got discipline. I’m a government official.”

You bit back a laugh.

He guided the long strapless cocktail dress up your body, smoothing satin over skin he very clearly wanted exposed again. His palms smoothed over your waist. Up your ribs. Along the curve of your back as he pulled the zipper.

You felt him want you, even now, when he was trying to behave.

When the dress was on, he didn’t step away. He stayed, admiring you.

His hands rested at your hips again, fingers pressing gently into the fabric. “My wife,” he said, kissing your temple. “The most beautiful woman in any room she walks into.”

His eyes traced from your neckline to your lips… then down your figure again, then back to your eyes.

“And just so we’re clear…” his voice dropped, “the second we get home I’m takin’ that bra back off in one second flat.”

-end.

Request Guidelines

Bucky, ever the brute force option, had lunged at a guard, his metal arm swinging wide. In the scuffle, his fist connected with a sealed vial on a nearby shelf, the fragile container exploding in a puff of iridescent dust. 

You watched in horror as the shimmering particles swirled through the air like deadly fireflies, Bucky inhaling a lungful before he could react. He coughed once, twice, waving it off with a curse, but you knew better - HYDRA's experiments were never benign. 

Before either of you could process it, alarms blared, and a massive steel door hissed shut behind you, trapping you both in what must have been a forgotten utility closet.

The space was minuscule, no more than three square meters if you were generous, the walls pressing in from all sides like the jaws of a trap. Barely room to turn around without your shoulders grazing the cold, grimy metal panels. Shelves crammed with forgotten tools and wiring dug into your back as you tried to create distance, the dim overhead bulb casting harsh shadows that made the confinement feel even tighter. 

The door was solid, unyielding - Bucky's vibranium fist thudded against it repeatedly, the impacts echoing like muffled gunshots, but it didn't budge. No give, no panel, just seamless HYDRA engineering designed to hold.

And then the pollen hit him. 

You saw the change ripple through Bucky almost immediately. His breath hitched, coming in shallow, uneven pulls as he slumped against the opposite wall, his broad frame taking up most of the available space. A flush bloomed across his stubbled jaw, creeping up to his ears, and his blue eyes - usually sharp with that perpetual scowl - now darted wildly, pupils dilating into dark pools. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill in the air, his flesh hand clenching and unclenching at his side while the metal one whirred softly, servos straining. 

The air in the tiny room thickened with his labored exhales, carrying a faint, sweet undertone from the pollen that made your own throat tighten in response.

He rounded on you suddenly, his body invading the scant inches between you, heat pouring off him in waves that clashed with the cool press of his arm brushing your side. 

“This is your fault, damn it!” Bucky snarled, his voice rough and edged with something raw, almost desperate. He jabbed a finger toward your chest, close enough that you could feel the tremor in it, his muscles taut under his tactical gear. 

The proximity was immediate and invasive - his chest nearly brushing yours, the scent of his sweat mingling with the chemical haze. 

“If you hadn't frozen up back in the hall, barking orders like you run the show, I wouldn't have had to improvise. Now I'm breathing in this crap, feeling like my skin's on fire, and it's all on you, you reckless idiot!”

His words dripped with the same old animosity, the kind that had fueled your clashes since joining the team - him seeing you as a liability, you viewing him as a relic too stuck in the past to adapt. But the pollen amplified it, twisting his anger into something sharper, more primal. 

His gaze raked over you, lingering a beat too long on the curve of your neck, the way your body shifted in the cramped confines, and you felt an unwelcome spark ignite low in your gut. It had been ages since you'd felt any real contact, any touch beyond the impersonal brush of mission gear, and this forced closeness clawed at that deprivation, making your pulse thrum despite the irritation boiling up.

You shoved his hand away firmly, your palm connecting with his warm knuckles, the contact sending a jolt through you that you immediately regretted. Pressing harder against the wall to put space where there was none, you met his glare head-on. 

“Save your breath, Barnes,” you snapped, your tone laced with steel even as your body tensed from the unwanted awareness of his nearness. “I didn't smash that vial, you did that all on your own with your caveman routine. Blame me if it makes you feel better, but we're both stuck here because of HYDRA, not because I 'froze.' So quit whining and figure out how to deal with your little pollen problem without taking it out on me.”

Ten minutes dragged by in the stifling confines of the room, each second amplifying the awkward standoff between you and Bucky. 

You had retreated to your corner as much as the tiny space allowed, your back wedged against the unyielding wall, knees drawn up slightly to carve out a semblance of personal space. 

The air hung heavy, laced with the faint, cloying sweetness of the pollen that still lingered like an unwelcome fog. Bucky occupied the opposite end, his massive frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor - or so you thought. 

The dim light flickered occasionally, casting erratic shadows that danced across his tense shoulders and the rigid line of his jaw.

You closed your eyes, forcing your mind to focus on escape routes, on the mission protocols you'd drilled into memory during briefings. Anything to ignore the growing heat radiating from him, the way his breathing had shifted from ragged anger to something deeper, more labored. 

The proximity gnawed at you; even at opposite ends, you could feel the brush of his presence, the shared oxygen turning thick and intimate. It had been too long since you'd allowed anyone close - missions, distrust, the endless grind of Avenger life had left you starved for touch, and this enforced nearness twisted that ache into something sharp and unwelcome.

When you finally reopened your eyes, blinking against the haze, you found Bucky's gaze locked on you. 

Intense, unblinking, like a man parched in the desert who'd just spotted salvation in a distant oasis. His blue eyes, darkened by the pollen's grip, roamed over your form with a hunger that made your skin prickle. Sweat glistened on his brow, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, and his metal arm flexed subtly, fingers curling as if fighting an invisible pull.

“What?” you demanded, your voice edged with irritation as you straightened up, meeting his stare with a glare of your own. The word came out sharper than intended, a reflex to the vulnerability his look stirred.

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, and for a moment, he looked almost lost -  the Winter Soldier reduced to a stuttering mess. 

“I... Er... I need your help,” he stammered, the words tumbling out rough and halting, his usual gruff confidence fractured by whatever the pollen was doing to him.

A scoff escaped you, laced with sarcasm as you crossed your arms over your chest, the motion pulling your shirt taut against your skin. 

“Oh, so the great James Buchanan Barnes needs the help of the annoying agent he can't stand now?” you shot back, your tone dripping with mockery. 

The jab felt good, a way to reclaim some control in the charged air, even as his pleading expression tugged at something deeper, stirring the long-dormant tension that simmered beneath your mutual disdain.

Bucky's eyes narrowed into a glare, dark and stormy, as your words hung in the air between you. The pollen's influence sharpened the edges of his expression, turning his usual brooding intensity into something predatory. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his metal arm glinting faintly in the dim light, while his flesh hand clenched into a fist at his side.

"You're always so nice," he drawled, his voice laced with irony and a bitter cynicism that cut through the tension like a knife. The words dripped with sarcasm, a mocking echo of your barbs, but there was an undercurrent of raw frustration in his tone, the pollen twisting his restraint into something fraying at the seams.

You opened your mouth to fire back, but he wasn't done. His gaze raked over you again, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way your stance shifted under his scrutiny. 

"And at least I'm asking," he added, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "I could take what I want from you and you'd be in no shape to stop me."

The threat ignited a spark of fury in your chest, hot and unyielding. It had been months since anyone had touched you like that, the isolation of missions and the walls you'd built around yourself leaving you aching in ways you refused to acknowledge. 

But his words stripped away the pretense, forcing that denied hunger to the surface, mingled with the rage you both shared. 

Your blood boiled, and before you could think, you surged to your feet, closing the scant distance between you in two strides. Towering over him as he remained seated on the grimy floor, you glared down, your fists balled at your sides.

"Fuck you, Barnes! I fucking hate you," you spat, the words exploding out like venom, your voice echoing slightly off the confined walls. 

The air crackled with your mutual loathing, amplified by the pollen's insidious pull, making every breath feel charged, every inch of space between you electric.

But as you turned to retreat to your corner, desperate to put even a foot of distance between you, Bucky moved. 

Fast. 

His hands shot out, one flesh and one metal, clamping down on your ass with a firm, unyielding grip. The metal fingers were cool and unyielding against the fabric of your pants, sending a jolt through you, while his warm hand squeezed possessively, pulling you back toward him. 

You stumbled slightly, caught off balance, your body now pressed closer to his seated form, the heat of him radiating up through your clothes. His touch was aggressive, fingers digging in just enough to hold you in place, the pollen-fueled obsession making his hold both desperate and dominant. 

Your heart pounded, a mix of anger and unwelcome arousal surging as the proximity forced you to confront the hard lines of his body beneath you.

Bucky's face hovered mere inches from your crotch, his breath hot and ragged against the thick fabric of your combat pants. 

The confined space amplified every sound, every shift, turning the air thick with the scent of sweat and something primal that the pollen had unleashed in him. His eyes fluttered shut, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest, vibrating through the point where his hands still gripped your ass - flesh fingers kneading the firm muscle, metal ones pressing with unyielding precision, holding you captive in his grasp.

"You smell so fucking good..." he murmured, the words rough and husky, laced with a desperation that clawed at his usual control. 

The pollen surged through his veins like fire, sharpening his senses until your natural scent - musky and intoxicating after the mission's chaos - drove him wild. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing gently against the seam of your pants right over your pussy, inhaling deeply as if he could taste you through the barrier. The friction was subtle but insistent, the tip of his nose nuzzling the sensitive swell, sending electric sparks shooting straight to your core.

Your body betrayed you in an instant. Despite the layers of tactical gear, the pressure ignited a deep, aching throb in your lower belly, a reminder of how long it had been since anyone had touched you there - months of pent-up frustration bubbling up like a storm. 

Heat flooded your veins, your clit pulsing faintly under the fabric, and you braced both hands against the cold, grimy wall behind him to steady yourself. Your palms pressed flat, fingers splaying for support as your knees threatened to buckle, the small room leaving no room for escape.

You bit down on your lower lip, the sharp sting grounding you just enough to summon a sharp retort - something biting, something to shove him away and reclaim the hate that felt safer than this unwelcome fire. But Bucky didn't stop. 

His hands roamed bolder now, sliding up the curve of your ass cheeks, squeezing and massaging with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. The metal arm's cool grip contrasted with the warm insistence of his flesh hand, thumbs digging into the cleft through your pants, pulling you even tighter against his face. 

The dual assault overwhelmed you, and instead of words, a soft, involuntary moan slipped from your lips - low and needy, echoing in the tight space like an admission you couldn't take back.

Bucky's eyes snapped open at the sound, dark and feral, locking onto yours with a hunger that mirrored the pollen's curse. 

His lips parted slightly, brushing the fabric as he exhaled, the warmth seeping through to tease your folds. Your heart hammered, anger and arousal twisting into a knot that made your thighs clench instinctively, trapping his head between them for a split second before you caught yourself. 

The proximity was torture - his broad shoulders filling the space, his body heat enveloping you, the faint stubble on his jaw scraping lightly against your inner thigh as he shifted. You hated him, hated this, but the ache between your legs screamed otherwise, demanding more even as your mind reeled.

"How long since you were fucked?" he demanded, the words rough and edged with amusement, his face still buried too close to your core, breath hot against the fabric of your pants. Bucky's question lingered like a taunt, his mocking tone slicing through the haze of heat that clouded your mind.

You ached to ignore him, to twist away and put even an inch of distance between you in this suffocating space, but there was something in his voice - low, insistent, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve - that made the answer spill out unbidden. 

Your hands pressed flat against the cold wall behind you, seeking stability as your body betrayed you with a fresh wave of slickness.

"A long time," you confessed, the admission hanging heavy in the air, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe a year at least." The truth burned, a reminder of the isolation your life as an Avenger enforced, nights spent alone with nothing but echoes of battles to fill the void.

Bucky growled again, the sound primal and vibrating straight through you, his nose rubbing insistently against your crotch, tracing the outline of your pussy through the damp material. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine, your clit pulsing under the pressure as he inhaled your scent like a man starved. 

He didn't stop, couldn't stop, the pollen driving him to claim every inch of your reaction.

"Why?" he asked, his voice muffled but demanding, eyes locked on yours from his position between your spread thighs.

You huffed through your nose, frustration mixing with the building ache that made your legs tremble. 

"We don't exactly have the kind of job that is ideal for relationships, Barnes," you shot back, the words laced with bitterness, your forehead now joining your hands against the wall for support. The cool surface grounded you, a stark contrast to the fire he was stoking lower down.

He was still seated there, knees bracketing your calves, his broad shoulders forcing your legs apart as he leaned in closer. His metal arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open, while his flesh hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. 

The tactical pants you wore felt like a cruel barrier now, chafing against your swollen folds with every shift of his head. You could feel the heat of his mouth through the fabric, his tongue darting out to press flat against the seam, tasting the wetness that had soaked through.

Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping despite your clenched jaw, your pussy clenching around nothing as his nose nudged your clit again, deliberate and teasing. 

The hate simmered beneath it all, fueling the intensity, but the pollen stripped away the barriers, leaving only raw need. 

Bucky's eyes darkened further, his grip tightening as he nuzzled deeper, lips parting to suck lightly at the material covering your entrance, drawing out more of your arousal with each pull.

"A year without this," he murmured against you, voice thick with his own torment, the pollen making his cock strain painfully against his pants, hard and leaking pre-cum from the prolonged denial. 

He shifted, grinding his hips against the floor for friction, but his focus stayed on you, on breaking you down inch by inch. Your forehead pressed harder into the wall, sweat beading on your skin, the room spinning as the ache between your legs became unbearable, demanding more even as your mind screamed to fight it.

“And we can't all be a manwhore like you, Barnes," you couldn't help but fire back, the words sharp and laced with accusation as memories flooded your mind - of all those nights you'd seen him saunter out of the compound with a different woman on his arm, their laughter echoing down the halls while you buried yourself in mission reports. 

Jealous? 

No, not really. Just another layer of resentment piled onto the heap between you two.

Bucky chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest with a possessive edge that sent a shiver racing down your spine. It wasn't amusement; it was hunger, the pollen twisting his usual cynicism into something darker, more claiming. 

His hands shifted, metal fingers cool and precise as they worked the zipper of your tactical pants, popping the button with a flick before tugging the fabric down your hips in one swift pull. Your underwear followed, dragged along with it, leaving your bare pussy exposed to the stale air of the room and his ravenous gaze.

The sudden coolness hit your heated skin like a shock, your folds slick and swollen from his earlier teasing, clit throbbing visibly under the scrutiny. 

You gasped, instinctively trying to clamp your thighs together, but his broad shoulders wedged between them, keeping you spread wide. His flesh hand gripped your ass cheek, kneading the muscle to hold you steady, while the vibranium one traced the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Before you could protest, his tongue darted out, flat and hot, lapping experimentally along your slit from entrance to clit in one long, deliberate stroke. The wet drag ignited every nerve, your knees buckling as a loud moan tore from your throat, echoing off the tight walls. 

Your pussy clenched hard, fresh arousal leaking out to coat his lips, the taste of you - salty, musky - making him groan against your core. He didn't pull back; instead, he pressed closer, nose bumping your clit as his tongue delved deeper, spearing into your entrance to fuck you shallowly with it.

"Fuck," you whimpered, your forehead grinding against the wall now, nails scraping the surface as your body arched into his mouth despite the fury boiling in your veins. 

The pollen's influence radiated off him in waves, his breaths coming ragged, but he was relentless, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. Each pull sent jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core, your hips jerking forward involuntarily, grinding against his face for more.

Bucky's cock twitched in his pants, the fabric tented obscenely as pre-cum soaked through, the ache of denial amplified by the scent and taste of you filling his senses. He blamed you for this -  for the trap, for the pollen, for every release you had denied yourself over the past year - but right now, all he wanted was to bury himself inside you, to fuck the sarcasm out of your mouth. 

His metal fingers dug into your thigh, spreading you wider, while his free hand palmed your ass, a single digit circling your puckered hole teasingly, not pushing in yet but threatening to.

You hated how good it felt, how his tongue curled inside you, lapping up your juices like he owned them. Your clit pulsed under the assault, building toward that edge too quickly, the confinement making every sensation sharper, inescapable. 

"Barnes... stop," you managed, but it came out breathy, lacking conviction, your body betraying you as another moan escaped when he sucked harder, his teeth grazing your sensitive folds.

He lifted his head just enough to speak, lips glistening with your wetness, eyes wild and dark. 

"Liar," he rasped, voice thick with lust. "Your pussy's dripping for it. Been waiting for this, haven't you? All that hate’s just foreplay." 

Then he dove back in, tongue thrusting deeper, his nose rubbing circles over your clit as he ate you out like a starving man, determined to make you come undone right there against the wall.

“I hope you choke on this," you spat, the venom in your words diluted by the husky edge of pleasure threading through your voice, a betrayal from your own throat as his tongue worked you over relentlessly. The hate simmered, but the heat building in your core made it hard to summon the full bite, your body arching despite the sharp words.

Bucky laughed against your pussy, the vibration humming straight through your clit, sending fresh sparks of unwanted ecstasy racing up your spine. His breath was hot and ragged, fanning over your slick folds as he pulled back just enough to slide his flesh finger along your entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pushing inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. 

The intrusion stretched you, filling the aching void that the pollen's haze had amplified in both of you, and you saw stars bursting behind your eyelids - white-hot bursts that made your vision blur.

Your walls clenched around the invading digit instinctively, gripping him like a vice as your body sought more friction, more relief from the building pressure. Bucky groaned in raw appreciation, the sound guttural and animalistic, vibrating from deep in his chest as he felt your pussy flutter and squeeze. 

"That's it," he murmured against your thigh, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there before he pumped his finger deeper, curling it to stroke that spot inside you that made your legs shake. The metal of his other hand clamped down on your hip, holding you pinned in place, unyielding as your hips bucked forward to meet his rhythm.

One of your hands fisted in his dark hair, yanking hard in a mix of punishment and desperation, the strands pulling taut between your fingers. The tug only spurred him on; his eyes flashed with that pollen-fueled obsession, darkening as he added a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you wider, his thumb circling your clit in firm, insistent strokes. 

He redoubled his efforts, thrusting faster, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the cramped space - schlick, schlick - as he finger-fucked you without mercy, his tongue joining back in to lap at where his fingers plunged in and out.

Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, bouncing off the walls as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The long drought of no sex made every sensation excruciatingly intense, your pussy hypersensitive, clenching and releasing around his fingers as if trying to pull him deeper. 

Bucky's cock strained painfully against his pants, the outline rigid and leaking, but he ignored it, focused solely on unraveling you, on making you shatter under his touch. His free hand squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth, nose buried in your pubic hair as he sucked your clit hard, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

"Come on, doll," he rasped between licks, voice muffled but commanding, the endearment twisted with possession. "Give it to me. Soak my face like the needy little thing you are." 

His fingers hooked inside you, rubbing that ridge relentlessly, building the pressure until your thighs quivered, your grip in his hair tightening as the orgasm crested, threatening to crash over you in waves.

Bucky grazed your clit with his teeth, the sharp edge of the bite sending a jolt through your oversensitive nerves just as his fingers pressed firmly against your G-spot, rubbing in tight, insistent circles. 

It was enough - too much, really - to shatter you completely. 

Your orgasm ripped through you in seconds, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over the edges of your hatred, making your entire body seize up as ecstasy pulsed from your core outward.

"Shit," you swore, the word bursting from your lips in a ragged gasp, your voice cracking with the intensity of it all. 

Your hand yanked harder on his hair, pulling with a violence born of the overwhelming release, and it drew a fresh growl from him, low and appreciative, vibrating against your throbbing pussy like a promise of more.

Your thighs clamped down around his head and the hand buried inside you, trapping him in the slick heat of your climax as waves of it rolled through you, your walls fluttering and squeezing his fingers in rhythmic contractions. 

But Bucky didn't pull away; if anything, he leaned into it, his metal arm locking your hips in place while his mouth stayed latched on, refusing to let up. 

He lapped at your release like it was the finest nectar, tongue delving between your folds to collect every drop, swirling around your entrance where his fingers still pumped slowly, drawing out the aftershocks until you were trembling, oversensitive and spent.

The confined room felt even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and his sweat, the pollen's grip tightening its hold on him as he savored you. 

His cock throbbed visibly against the fabric of his pants, a dark wet spot forming from his own leaking precum, but he ignored it, eyes locked on yours with that feral, obsessive gleam. 

"Fuck, you taste like sin," he muttered against your skin, voice rough and laced with triumph, his lips shiny with your juices as he finally eased his fingers free, only to suck them clean with deliberate slowness, holding your gaze the whole time.

Your chest heaved, breaths coming in sharp pants as the high faded, leaving a hollow ache in its wake - and a surge of fresh anger bubbling up beneath the haze. 

You hated how good it felt, hated him for making your body betray you like this, but the pollen whispered promises of more, stirring the embers back to life even as you glared down at him, fingers still tangled in his hair.

Bucky surged to his feet with a swift, predatory grace, his body crowding yours in the suffocating confines of the room as he slammed you back against the cold wall. 

The impact jarred a gasp from your lips, but before you could snap at him, his face hovered inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. 

That smug, carnivorous smile stretched across his lips, all sharp edges and feral pride, like he'd just conquered some battlefield and claimed you as his prize. It ignited a fire in your gut, not just the pollen's relentless burn, but pure, seething hatred. 

You wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogant grin right off his face, to make him choke on his own triumph.

So you did. 

You lunged forward, crashing your mouth against his in a kiss that was all teeth and fury, no tenderness, just raw, punishing force. Your lips bruised against his as you devoured him, pouring every ounce of your defiance into the clash. 

At the same time, your hand shot down, palming his rock-hard cock through the straining fabric of his pants. You squeezed and stroked with deliberate roughness, feeling the thick length twitch and throb under your grip, the heat of him searing through the material like a brand.

A deep, guttural moan rumbled from his throat straight into your mouth, vibrating against your tongue as his body jerked forward into your touch. 

It was your opening - you sank your teeth into his lower lip, biting down hard enough to draw a metallic tang of blood, the sharp pain making him hiss even as his hips bucked against your hand. 

You didn't let up; instead, you plunged your tongue past his parted lips, invading his mouth with aggressive sweeps, tangling with his in a messy, desperate dance. 

And there it was - the salty-sweet flavor of yourself on his tongue, mingled with the faint copper of his blood, a twisted reminder of what he'd just done to you. You tasted your own release, slick and intimate, as you licked deeper, claiming that evidence of your surrender right back from him.

Bucky's response was immediate and overwhelming. 

His metal hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging in with bruising strength to hold you pinned, while his flesh arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against his so you could feel every inch of his arousal grinding against your thigh. 

He kissed you back just as viciously, his tongue battling yours for dominance, sucking on it before nipping at your lips in retaliation. The pollen fueled him, turning the kiss into something animalistic, his growls mixing with your own frustrated whimpers as the room spun with the heat building between you.

Your hand kept working him through his pants, rubbing up and down the rigid shaft, thumb circling the damp head where precum had soaked through. 

He was huge, pulsing under your fingers, and the way he shuddered against you only spurred you on, even as a part of you screamed to stop, to push him away. But the aphrodisiac haze blurred the lines, your body aching for more despite the venom in your veins. 

Bucky broke the kiss just enough to rasp against your mouth, voice gravelly and laced with dark amusement, "That's it, doll - fight me all you want. Your hand's telling a different story." His words were a taunt, but his eyes burned with that same obsessive hunger, the pollen making him swell even harder in your grasp.

Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of Bucky's pants, the metallic rasp echoing sharply in the tiny room as you yanked it down with impatient force. The fabric parted, and without hesitation, you shoved your hand inside his boxer shorts, bypassing any barriers to wrap directly around his throbbing cock. 

It was scorching hot against your palm, the veined length pulsing with urgent need, thick and rigid from the pollen's merciless grip on him. 

As soon as your grip tightened and you began pumping him with fierce, unrelenting strokes - up from the base to the swollen head, then down again in a rhythm designed to overwhelm - he twitched violently in your fist, a low, animalistic growl tearing from his chest.

Bucky's face buried itself into the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping your skin as he inhaled deeply, his hot breath fanning over your collarbone. His body shuddered against yours, metal arm locking you in place while his flesh hand clutched at your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. 

The confined space amplified every sensation - the slick slide of his precum coating your fingers, the way his hips jerked involuntarily into your hand, chasing the friction you denied him any break from. 

You could feel the tension coiling in him, his muscles tensing like a spring about to snap, all because of that damn pollen turning him into a powder keg of lust.

A smirk twisted your lips despite the chaos raging inside you, the mix of loathing and this unwanted thrill making your voice drip with sarcasm as you taunted him right against his ear. 

"What, gonna come like a horny teenager, Barnes?" 

The words were sharp, mocking, meant to sting even as your hand kept up the brutal pace, twisting slightly at the top to rub over his sensitive tip.

You weren't sure if it was the pollen amplifying every touch to unbearable heights or the humiliating jab that pushed him over the edge, but Bucky came undone without a second's warning. 

His cock swelled in your grip, and then he was erupting, thick ropes of cum spilling hot and messy over your fingers, soaking into his boxers and dripping down your hand. A ragged groan muffled against your neck as his body convulsed, hips bucking erratically while you milked every last spurt from him, feeling the way he throbbed and jerked with each pulse. 

It was intense, almost violent, his release leaving him panting and trembling against you, the scent of his spend filling the air in the stifling room.

Even as he rode out the aftershocks, Bucky didn't pull away - instead, his grip on you tightened possessively, his lips brushing your skin in a way that sent unwelcome shivers down your spine. 

The pollen still burned in him, his cock twitching half-hard already in your cum-slicked palm, refusing to soften fully. He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, that feral glint still there, mixed now with a dangerous satisfaction.  

"Keep talking like that," he rasped, voice rough and edged with promise, "and I'll show you just how much more I can take, doll." 

His words hung heavy between you, the hatred simmering beneath the surface even as your body betrayed you with a fresh wave of heat.

You weren't sure what possessed you in that heated moment, the air thick with the musky scent of Bucky's release and the lingering haze of the pollen's influence on him, but you withdrew your hand from his boxers slowly, your fingers glistening with his thick cum. Strings of it clung between your digits, warm and sticky, and without thinking, you brought them to your lips. 

Your tongue darted out, tasting the salty bitterness as you licked it clean, sucking each finger into your mouth one by one, the act bold and uncharacteristic amid the storm of your mutual hatred. The flavor coated your tongue, a mix of him that sent an unwelcome spark through your core, your body still humming from his earlier attentions on you.

Bucky's eyes locked onto the sight, his blue gaze darkening to a stormy black with raw, unfiltered desire. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the super soldier serum surging through his veins alongside the pollen's relentless fire, keeping his cock rigid and insistent, refusing to let him soften even after spilling so intensely. 

He watched you devour his essence like it was a challenge, a low rumble building in his throat, his metal arm flexing against the wall behind you as if anchoring himself from lunging.

Without a word, he shifted his hips forward, pressing the soaked fabric of his boxers - and the hard bulge of his erection - directly against your exposed pussy. The heat of him seeped through the thin barrier, grinding against your slick folds with deliberate pressure, the tip of his cock nudging your clit through the material. 

You gasped at the contact, your thighs instinctively parting just a fraction before you caught yourself, the friction igniting fresh sparks of arousal despite the venom in your glare. He rolled his hips slowly, dragging his length along your wetness, soaking his boxers further as he pinned you there, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice gravelly and edged with that possessive hunger, his face inches from yours, breath mingling hotly. 

The pollen drove him, made every brush of skin against skin feel like a necessity, but the serum amplified it all, his body a machine of endless stamina. He thrust shallowly against you, the outline of his cock teasing your entrance, promising more even as the room's confines trapped you both in this escalating torment. 

Your hatred for him boiled beneath the surface, but your pussy clenched involuntarily at the sensation, betraying you as wetness gathered anew.

His hand clamped down on your hip with bruising force, fingers digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself against the storm raging inside him. 

Bucky's stare bored into yours, laced with that scorching hatred that had always simmered between you two, yet tempered by a flicker of restraint - a momentary leash on the beast the pollen had unleashed. His breath came in hot bursts against your skin, the conflict evident in the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking under the strain.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your neck in a surprisingly gentle kiss, softer than anything you'd expect from him, a stark contrast to the aggression that defined your clashes. The pollen clawed at his mind, a relentless loop of obsession demanding he claim you right then, bury himself deep to quench the fire twisting through his veins like a live wire. But he held back, just barely, his body trembling with the effort as his cock throbbed insistently against your slick entrance through the damp fabric.

Something snapped in you then, a reckless surge born of the haze clouding your judgment, the ache building in your core overriding the venom you harbored for him. 

Without a second thought, your hands moved to his waistband, yanking down his boxers in one swift motion. The material slid over his hips, freeing his thick cock to spring forward, still rock-hard and glistening from his earlier release, veins pulsing with the serum's unyielding vigor. 

The act was your concession, your unspoken permission - no, your invitation - for him to take what he'd been grinding against so desperately.

Bucky's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing before it drowned in triumph and raw need. 

He didn't hesitate. 

With a single, assured thrust of his hips, he drove into you, his cock stretching your pussy wide as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The sudden fullness ripped a moan from both of you - yours a sharp gasp that echoed off the confined walls, his a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through his chest into yours. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, slick and hot, welcoming the invasion even as your mind reeled from the intensity.

“Been dreaming about fucking that pussy for years,” the words tumbled from his lips in a choked admission, almost a sob of pure, overwhelming pleasure, his voice breaking on the edge of desperation. 

He stilled for a heartbeat, savoring the tight grip of you around him, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he fought to compose himself. But the pollen wouldn't allow it; his hips snapped forward again, pulling out halfway before slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had your back scraping against the rough wall.

Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, his metal arm bracing beside your head while his flesh hand guided your thigh higher around his waist, opening you up further for his assault. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the tiny space, mingled with your shared pants and the wet slide of him plunging deep. 

He kissed your neck harder now, teeth grazing the skin as he marked you with nips, his obsession spilling over into every movement - hating you, wanting you, owning you in this fevered moment. Your body betrayed your fury, hips bucking to meet his, chasing the friction that built like a coil in your belly, the long-denied release hovering just out of reach.

Your words came out laced with sarcasm, a bitter edge cutting through the haze of pleasure as his cock drove into you with unerring precision. 

“And what? Next you're gonna say you've been fucking all these women because I wouldn't give you the time of the day?” 

A self-deprecating laugh bubbled up from your throat, ragged and broken between the moans he wrenched from you with every thrust. 

His body moved against yours like it was sculpted for this exact rhythm, hips snapping forward to fill you completely, the thick length of him dragging along your inner walls in a way that sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids. Your pussy clenched around him greedily, slick and swollen, every slide pulling you deeper into the abyss of unwanted ecstasy.

Bucky's gaze locked onto yours mid-thrust, his blue eyes stripping away the layers of fury that had always clouded them when he looked at you. For the first time since you'd crossed paths in the Avengers compound, there was no trace of animosity - no venom, no guarded sneer. 

Instead, something raw and unguarded flickered there, a vulnerability you couldn't quite name, or maybe refused to acknowledge in the heat of the moment. His metal arm pressed firmer against the wall beside your head, holding you pinned as his flesh hand squeezed your hip, guiding your body to meet his relentless pace.

“Doll, I've been in love with you since day one,” he confessed, the words spilling out like a dam breaking, his voice rough and strained over the wet sounds of him pounding into you. 

He punctuated the admission with a particularly hard thrust, his cock slamming deep, the head brushing that spot inside you that made stars burst across your vision. Your back arched off the rough surface, a cry tearing from your lips as your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails on his sweat-slicked skin.

“And you've been hating me from the beginning,” he added, his breath hot against your ear, hips never faltering as he chased the friction, the pollen fueling his stamina to keep you impaled on him without mercy.

“Liar,” you shot back, the word a gasp amid the building tension coiling in your core. 

Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer even as your mind rebelled against the intimacy. 

“You've hated my guts from the moment we've been introduced. I was so excited to be working with you, and you've been an asshole.” 

The accusation hung between you, sharp and accusatory, but it dissolved into another moan as he ground his pelvis against your clit, the pressure sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your limbs.

Bucky's response was a low growl, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising kiss that swallowed your protests. His tongue invaded your mouth, tasting of salt and desperation, while his cock continued its punishing rhythm - pulling out almost to the tip before surging back in, stretching you wide with each invasion. 

The tiny room echoed with the obscene symphony of your bodies colliding, skin slapping, breaths mingling, the air thick with the musk of sex and the faint, floral hint of the pollen that had trapped you here.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there as his metal fingers traced the curve of your breast, thumb circling your hardened nipple with deliberate pressure. 

“Excited, huh?” he murmured against your throat, voice laced with a mix of amusement and something deeper, more aching. “You hid it well behind all those glares and sharp words.” 

Another deep thrust followed, his cock throbbing inside you, the veins pulsing against your clenching walls as he angled his hips to hit that perfect spot again and again.

Your body betrayed you utterly, hips rocking up to meet his, chasing the orgasm that hovered just out of reach, your pussy fluttering around him in desperate need. The hatred that had defined your interactions felt distant now, eroded by the raw honesty in his eyes and the way he fucked you - like he was pouring years of unspoken longing into every movement. 

But the words stuck in your throat, tangled with doubt and the remnants of your pride. 

“Prove it,” you challenged breathlessly, your hands fisting in his hair to yank his head back, forcing him to meet your gaze. “If you've been so in love, why the hell did you act like you wanted me gone?”

Bucky's eyes darkened, not with anger, but with a fierce intensity that made your heart stutter. He slowed his thrusts just enough to torture you, rolling his hips in a deep grind that had his cock pressing insistently against your cervix, filling you so completely it bordered on pain. 

“Because you made it impossible not to want you,” he admitted, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Every time you snapped at me, every mission where we fought side by side, it just made me crave you more. The pollen? It's just ripped the lid off what I've buried for years.” 

With that, he surged forward again, picking up the pace, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

The dual assault shattered your defenses. Pleasure built like a tidal wave, your moans turning into pleas as your body tensed, teetering on the edge. Bucky watched you unravel, his own release building in the way his thrusts grew erratic, his cock swelling thicker inside you. 

“Come for me, doll,” he urged, lips brushing yours in a softer kiss this time, a stark contrast to the ferocity of his movements. “Let me feel you… show me you want this as bad as I do.”

And despite everything - the hate, the lies, the years of antagonism - your body obeyed, crashing over the precipice with a scream that echoed in the confined space. 

Your pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock as waves of ecstasy ripped through you, your juices soaking where you were joined. Bucky followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural roar, his hot cum flooding your depths in thick spurts, marking you from the inside out.

He didn't pull away immediately, staying lodged inside you as you both panted, foreheads pressed together in the aftermath. The pollen's grip lingered, but for the first time, the air between you felt charged with something beyond lust - possibility, maybe, or the start of unraveling truths neither of you could ignore anymore.

“Admit it, doll. You don't hate me as much as you pretend,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your joined bodies, still slick and sensitive from your shared release. 

His cock remained buried deep inside you, thick and unyielding, the pollen keeping him rigid despite the way your pussy fluttered around him in the aftershocks. He shifted slightly, testing the waters with a subtle roll of his hips that dragged his length along your oversensitive walls, reigniting the spark low in your belly.

This time, it was you who held his gaze, searching those piercing blue eyes for any flicker of deception, any hint that this was just another layer of his bullshit. But all you found was that same raw honesty from before, unguarded and intense, pulling you in despite the walls you'd built over years of clashes. 

Your breath hitched as he moved again, a gentle thrust that made your clit throb against the base of his shaft, the pressure building anew even as your mind raced to process his words.

“Barnes, if you're lying -” you started, the warning sharp on your tongue, your hands pressing against his chest to create some distance, though your body refused to let go completely.

“Bucky,” he interrupted, his tone firm but laced with a plea that caught you off guard. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as he held your stare. “Call me Bucky. Just for once.” 

The request hung there, simple yet loaded, stripping away the formality that had always armored your interactions. His metal arm stayed braced against the wall, but his touch on your face was almost tender, a stark contrast to the way his hips began to move with more purpose now - slow, deliberate slides that kept him seated deep, stirring the cum he'd spilled inside you into a messy glide.

You swallowed hard, the nickname feeling foreign and intimate on the tip of your tongue, like crossing a line you weren't sure you wanted to. But the haze from your release clouded your resistance, and the way he filled you so perfectly made it impossible to think straight. 

“Bucky,” you whispered finally, the word tasting like surrender as it escaped your lips. 

His eyes lit up at the sound, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he rewarded you with a deeper thrust, his cock pulsing inside your clenching heat.

“That's my girl,” he breathed, leaning in to capture your mouth in a kiss that started soft but quickly turned hungry, his tongue sweeping against yours while his pace quickened. 

He pulled back just enough to nip at your earlobe, his breath hot as he confessed more against your skin. “See? Doesn't hurt, does it? And yeah, I know you've felt it too - the pull, the fire every time we butt heads. That's not hate, doll. That's us.”

Your defiance cracked under the onslaught, hips lifting instinctively to meet his rhythm as pleasure coiled tighter. His free hand roamed down your side, fingers digging into your thigh to hitch your leg higher around his waist, opening you up further for his thrusts. Each one landed with precision, the head of his cock nudging that sensitive bundle of nerves until your moans filled the cramped space again. 

The room's confines amplified everything - the slap of skin, the wet sounds of him fucking into your soaked pussy, the shared pants that mingled with the lingering scent of sex and pollen.

But even as your body arched into him, chasing that building ecstasy, doubt lingered in the back of your mind. 

“If this is real,” you gasped between kisses, nails scraping over his shoulders, “then why wait for some damn flower to make you say it?” Your words were a challenge, but they came out breathless, undermined by the way your inner muscles squeezed him, urging him deeper.

Bucky's response was a dark chuckle, his thrusts turning sharper, more insistent, as if to drive his point home with every plunge. He shifted his angle, grinding against your clit with each withdraw and push, the friction sending jolts straight to your core. 

“Because I'm an idiot,” he admitted, voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climb toward release. “Scared you'd shoot me down - or worse, see right through me. But now? No more hiding.” His metal fingers trailed down to where you were connected, the cool vibranium circling your clit with expert pressure, making your vision blur.

The dual sensation overwhelmed you, your body trembling as the orgasm crept closer, faster than before. 

Bucky watched every twitch, every gasp, his eyes never leaving yours, that unnamed emotion shining brighter now - love, maybe, or something just as terrifying. 

“Say it back,” he urged, hips snapping forward harder, his cock swelling as he teetered on the edge. “Tell me you feel it too, doll. Let me hear my name on your lips when you come.”

You shattered under him, crying out “Bucky!” as waves crashed over you, your pussy convulsing around his length, pulling him under with you. 

He buried his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled again, hot jets painting your insides while his body shook against yours. In the quiet that followed, with him still hard and nestled deep, the air felt heavier - not with hate, but with the weight of truths finally laid bare.

The pollen's grip finally began to loosen, its feverish haze fading from Bucky's veins like a receding storm, leaving behind a bone-deep ache and the lingering throb of his cock still half-hard inside you. 

But even as the insatiable drive ebbed, he made no move to pull away, his body a solid, unyielding weight pinning you against the wall of the cramped room. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, flesh and metal holding you close as if afraid you'd vanish if he let go. You felt every inch of him - sweat-slicked skin, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, the way his breath ghosted warm over your collarbone.

He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, pressing soft, tender kisses along the sensitive column of your throat, each one light and reverent, a far cry from the bruising hunger of before. Your body, oversensitive and spent, responded with a shiver, your skin prickling under his lips as you panted softly, every nerve ending alive and humming from the multiple releases that had wrung you dry. 

Satisfaction pooled heavy in your limbs, a languid warmth that made your eyelids droop, even as the reality of your situation crept back in.

"You know," you started, your voice husky and breathless, fingers idly tracing the ridges of his back muscles, "we're still stuck in this damn room."

"Yeah," Bucky murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your pulse point in another gentle kiss before he lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His blue gaze was clearer now, the wild obsession tempered but no less intense, softened by something deeper - affection, perhaps, or the raw vulnerability of what you'd just shared.

"So..." you continued, a teasing lilt creeping into your tone despite the exhaustion, your hips shifting slightly under him, feeling the subtle twitch of his length still nestled deep in your slick heat.

Bucky's flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw as he waited, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We could call for help. Or..."

"Or what, sweetheart?" he prompted, his voice low and rough, laced with that familiar cocky edge, though his touch remained gentle, almost protective.

You bit your lip, heat flushing your cheeks as you held his stare, the words tumbling out bolder than you expected. "We could wait for your stamina to come back and make up for all that lost time?"

His eyes darkened at that, a spark reigniting in their depths, and he let out a low, appreciative chuckle that vibrated through your joined bodies. 

"Lost time, huh?" Bucky shifted then, not withdrawing but pressing closer, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind that made your breath catch, your oversensitive pussy clenching around him involuntarily. 

The pollen might be fading, but the super soldier serum in his veins promised he wouldn't stay down for long - his cock already stirring, thickening slightly as blood rushed back, responding to your words like a challenge.

He captured your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a tenderness that belied the strength in his grip, his metal fingers splaying across your lower back to hold you steady. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the tight space. 

"I like the sound of that," he admitted, voice gravelly with renewed want. "Calling for help can wait. We've got years of this tension to burn off, doll. Starting right now."

His hand trailed down between you, cool vibranium digits teasing your clit with feather-light circles, coaxing a fresh whimper from your throat as pleasure flickered back to life. 

The room felt smaller than ever, charged with the promise of more, your bodies entwined and unwilling to part, the outside world forgotten in the heat of what was finally unfolding between you.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked in slowly, boots soft against the linoleum, eyes flicking toward the only occupied bed.

Bucky was already awake.

Curled awkwardly in a too-small hospital-issued foldable cot, the sheet tangled around his legs like it had been kicked off in a restless sleep. If you could even call it that.

He sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed as his fingers toyed with the worn edge of a medical bracelet still looped around his wrist from when he’d refused to leave the ER that night.

He looked up when he heard her—or maybe just sensed her presence—and Yelena caught the full brunt of what the last five days had done to him.

His eyes were bruised with fatigue, red-rimmed and glassy. The stubble across his jaw had darkened into something more permanent. His hair was a mess—not the charming, tousled kind, but the kind born of sleepless nights and fingers dragged through it too many times out of pure frustration.

The navy blue t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been slept in. The sweatpants sagged slightly at the hips. He didn’t look like a soldier, he looked like a man desperately holding himself together by a thread.

“We found him,” Yelena said softly, breaking the silence as she approached. “Raskovic.”

Bucky didn’t react right away. Just blinked up at her, like he had to translate the words in his head before they could settle.

“And?” His voice was low, rough—not from sleep, but from disuse.

She sighed, offering him one of the coffees. “We haven’t gotten much. He’s not talking. Won’t give up the rest of the weapons cache.”

He took the cup without meeting her eyes, fingers curling tightly around the warmth like it was the only thing grounding him. He didn’t drink it, didn’t speak. Just let the silence fall again, heavier this time.

Yelena studied him for a moment—really studied him.

The way he hadn’t moved from that chair for nearly five days.

The way the cot hadn’t even been laid flat most nights.

The way he looked at you every hour, on the hour, as if just by watching hard enough, he could will your eyes to open.

“You should rest,” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Bucky… it’s been five days. You need to—”

“No.” He cut her off, firm but not sharp. Just final. Like the decision had already been carved into stone. “I’m staying. The doctors said… they said she could wake up any moment.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I need to be the first face she sees.”

Yelena swallowed. There wasn’t anything she could say to that.

Not really.

Not when she’d watched him refuse to leave even once, not even to shower. Not when John, Alexei, and even Bob had tried every tactic short of physically dragging him out, and still—still—he hadn’t budged. 

He’d brushed his teeth in the tiny public restroom by the elevators. Bought protein bars and shitty vending machine sandwiches. Sat by your bed, hour after hour, whispering things he didn’t think anyone could hear.

There was nothing she could say. So she just nodded, gently, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

The door clicked shut behind Yelena, leaving the room in its usual hush—the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around your throat and refused to let go. Too still. Too loud. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but suffocated. 

Outside, the world was slowly waking—nurses exchanging shifts, machines humming behind closed doors—but in here, time had collapsed into a slow, dragging ache.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, casting a pale sheen over the metal railings and tile floor. Even they seemed to dim beneath the heaviness in the air. Like the room itself knew how close it had come to losing you.

Bucky turned toward you.

He moved like it hurt. Like his limbs had forgotten how to function under the weight of what they’d carried for the last five days. His gaze dropped to your hand—pale and unmoving, the skin bruised beneath the tape and gauze, fingers limp where they lay curled near your hip. 

The IV line trailed upward to the bag above your head, slow and methodical, like it had all the time in the world.

But he didn’t.

The sheet had been drawn neatly to your waist, the corners folded with practiced care. But Bucky had seen beneath it. He’d memorised the cuts, the dressings, the angry bruises blooming along your ribs.

He’d scrubbed your blood from his hands in the emergency room sink, over and over, until they were raw. Until there was nothing left but the ghost of your voice in his head.

He reached out—slowly, carefully, like one wrong move might shatter you all over again—and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The contrast was stark: his calloused, battered hands, and yours, soft and still. He held on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice barely there—cracked and raw, like it had been scraped against too many sleepless nights. “I know you can hear me. Please…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand. The contact was fragile, gentle. His breath hitched against your skin.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just a plea.

It was a surrender.

The words hung in the air, splintered and fraying at the edges—the way a man breaks when there’s no one left to see it. When the fight runs out, and all that’s left is the ache.

His lips brushed your knuckles, soft and lingering, like he could pour everything he hadn’t said into that single touch. Like if he kissed you gently enough, it might undo what the world had done to you.

His hand trembled around yours, chest rising in short, unsteady bursts. He’d spent the last five days holding it together—barely—and the cracks were beginning to show.

A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw like it had every right to be there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, doll,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t just tenderness in his voice. It was fear. Bone-deep, marrow-carving fear.

Because Bucky Barnes had spent the last five days living in a world where nothing he did was enough—where holding your hand, begging, waiting, breaking, hadn’t been enough to undo the sight of you going still in his arms. Of blood on concrete. Of your eyes fluttering closed while he screamed.

He had faced war, torture, brainwashing—hell itself—and nothing had ever scared him like this.

He didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t come back.

He didn’t want to.

The memory came like a tide—slow and gentle—washing over Bucky where he sat now, curled at your bedside, hand still laced with yours.

It had been quiet then, too. Not like the sterile hush of a hospital, but something warm. Alive. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones without asking permission, that made everything else—pain, history, guilt—feel far away for just a moment.

The dock creaked beneath his feet as Sam’s boat rocked gently with the tide, tethered but still breathing with the water. The sky had melted into soft amber, streaks of orange and pink dripping into the still, dark ocean like brushstrokes on silk. 

The air was thick with the scent of salt and sugar—someone onshore frying something sweet, maybe beignets or funnel cake—and the breeze tasted like summer. Warm, lazy, golden. 

Somewhere behind him, Sam and Sarah laughed over an engine that refused to start, and AJ’s voice rang out, high and playful, a child’s joy unburdened by the weight of the world.

The sounds of a family.

You sat beside him on the edge of the boat’s stairs, knees pulled up, paper plate balanced in your lap. The hem of your shirt fluttered in the breeze. Your bare feet tapped gently against the wood, relaxed, alive. Like you belonged there.

You nudged the plate toward him without looking.

“Cake,” you said simply.

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours—a soft, accidental touch that lingered longer than it should’ve. He muttered a quiet, almost bashful, “Thanks,” eyes still cast toward the horizon.

But he didn’t eat it. Just sat there, the plate warm in his lap, staring out like the ocean might give him an answer if he looked long enough. The world had gone quiet in his chest for the first time in days, and it scared him more than he let on.

Peace wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Not really.

Then, quietly—almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud—“You think I deserve this?”

You turned to him, brows drawing in slightly. “Deserve what?”

His eyes were still on the water, unmoving. But his voice—that voice—was steady. Careful.

“Peace.”

It was such a simple word. But the weight it carried in his mouth was enormous. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like saying it out loud might make it vanish. Like wanting peace made him weak.

You didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the dying light—how it hit the high points of his face, turned his lashes gold, softened the lines etched deep into his forehead. How his jaw clenched, how his shoulders never fully relaxed.

There was a quiet awe to him then, even in stillness. Even in pain. Like he didn’t know what to do with a moment that didn’t come with gunfire or consequences.

You smiled, slow and sad. “You do, James.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and it almost hurt, the way your voice curled around his name like it was something worth holding.

“After everything,” you went on gently, “you deserve so much more than what the world gave you.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly around the paper plate, untouched cake still resting there. Like he needed to hold onto something just to stay grounded.

“But there’s so many people I—” he started, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand found his, warm and certain, sliding over his knuckles like an anchor. You didn’t grip too hard. You didn’t need to.

“It wasn’t you,” you said. “You never had a choice. None of it was your fault.”

The wind tugged at your hair. The sky kept burning gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a ship docking further down the bay.

But here, on the steps of Sam’s old boat, time had frozen—like the world was giving him permission to stop running. Just for a second.

And for the first time in a very long time, something shifted in him.

Something cracked open. A softness he hadn’t known how to hold. A thought he hadn’t dared entertain—that maybe he could want something. Someone.

That maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

The memory faded, slow and reluctant, like a sunset slipping beneath the water. And when it was gone, Bucky was still there—seated at your bedside in the dim hush of the hospital room, your hand in his, the air too still.

The beeping of the monitor was steady, but too steady. Not fast enough to mean you were waking. Not flat enough to mean you were gone.

That in-between rhythm—it was driving him insane. Mocking him. Reminding him that you were here but not really. Close, but still too far.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise everything all over again. Your lashes against your cheek. The way the corner of your mouth dipped slightly, always slightly, when you slept. The small, near-faded scar on your temple from a mission gone wrong in Marrakesh. Every inch of you mapped onto him like a language only he could read.

And still… nothing.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, thick and tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not really. Not since Yelena left, not since the memory of your voice had come back to him, soft and alive and warm in the golden light. 

Now it felt like if he opened his mouth, the entire dam might break.

So when he finally did, it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.

“Please don’t take her away from me.”

It cracked in the middle, fractured down the middle of his chest like a fault line giving way.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “I don’t care about anything else.”

His eyes stayed on you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened faintly around yours.

“Just…” he breathed, voice shaking, “just let her stay. I-I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t praying. Not really, no, Bucky didn’t believe in that anymore. Hadn’t in decades. Maybe never did. 

But he said it anyway—like if he could just get the words out, the universe might hear him.

Might show him mercy, just this once.

Might understand that you were the only good thing left in him.

That without you, everything else didn’t matter.

That if he lost you, there would be nothing left to come back to.

And so he sat there, forehead pressed to your hand again, tears slipping quietly down his face—no sobbing, no shaking, just the steady, exhausted grief of a man begging the world not to take the one person he didn’t know how to live without.

The first thing you registered was the light—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the darkness behind your eyelids like glass.

You blinked, once, twice, and the world came back slowly. Fuzzy around the edges.

The air felt sterile and cold, too clean. The scent of antiseptic curled at the edge of your senses, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then came the pain.

A dull, biting throb that pulsed hot through your leg—enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You winced, the movement sending a shock up your thigh. Your body felt heavy, as if the last week had settled into your bones like lead. It took effort to tilt your head, but you did, wincing as your vision swam.

And then you saw him.

Bucky was slumped beside you in a narrow hospital chair, legs sprawled out awkwardly, one arm still draped across the edge of your bed. His fingers were locked around yours—loosely, like he’d fallen asleep holding on and never let go.

His head was bowed, chin resting against his chest, and for a split second you thought he might have finally passed out from exhaustion. His hair was a mess, strands flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His jaw was rough with days-old stubble, his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him in tired lines.

He looked wrecked.

But beautiful.

In that devastating, unguarded way he never let you see when he was awake. Like every sharp edge had been sanded down by worry, like grief had made room for something gentler.

Your chest tightened.

And just like that, it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the blood, the sting of your own scream. The panic in his voice when he found you. The way he’d cradled you against his chest, whispering your name like he could pull you back to the earth with nothing but his breath.

You stared at him now, barely breathing.

Because for all the bruises, for all the exhaustion written into every line of his body, he was still here.

Still holding on.

Like he’d never stopped.

You blinked hard against the prick of tears and let your fingers shift, just slightly, in his hand.

A small squeeze. Barely there.

But it was enough.

He stirred beside you, slow and groggy, like the weight of the last five days was still holding him under.

At first, he didn’t move. Just shifted slightly in the chair, the hand around yours twitching like his body already knew something had changed. Then his head lifted, eyes blinking open, blearily searching the room in that half-conscious fog where dreams hadn’t quite let go yet.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you—awake, breathing, eyes on him.

His breath caught in his throat. His entire body froze.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice rough and thin, barely more than air.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The emotion hit too fast—like it had been waiting just behind his ribs for this exact second to shatter him. His lips parted, a breath escaped, and then—

“Sweetheart.”

It came out like a promise. Like a prayer finally answered. He moved forward, hand cradling your face, thumb trembling where it brushed beneath your eye, over your cheek, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to believe this was real.

You could feel him shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to know that this had broken him in ways you hadn’t seen. That he had fallen apart in the quiet, in the waiting. And now that you were back, he didn’t know how to hold all of it.

His thumb traced down your jaw, reverent. Like you were something fragile, something rare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice raw. He didn’t let go of your face.

You swallowed, the ache still sharp in your throat. Everything still hur—your leg, your ribs, your eyes—but somehow, right now, it didn’t matter.

You mustered a small, crooked smile. “Think I’m okay. Didn’t Steve used to say ‘break a leg’ before missions?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, a sound that cracked as much as it warmed. His eyes shone—too glassy, too full—but he let the joke carry him for a second. Let it be a tether.

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in something soft, something cracked wide open.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to finally breathe easy.

His forehead was still resting against yours when the silence stretched again—not heavy this time, but fragile. Like something delicate was settling between you, something you both felt but hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It trembled between your shared breath, suspended in that sliver of space where everything had changed and nothing had yet been said.

Bucky pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still cupping your cheek like he couldn’t bring himself to let go—like if he did, you might disappear again, slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice low and stripped raw. “That I’d lose you.”

The confession wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it cracked something open between you, split wide and aching. His voice held no armor. No deflection. Just truth—and the unbearable weight of it.

You opened your mouth, not to argue, not really. But he shook his head once, gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me finish.”

His chest rose, then fell—one deep breath, then another, like he was trying to steady himself before the dam broke. Like every word cost him something he’d never learned how to give.

“I know I’m not easy,” he began. “I’m rigid. Controlling. I hold onto things too tight, like if I let go, everything might fall apart. I ruin things before I ever deserve them. Before I even let myself hope.”

He blinked down at you, and his expression was ruined—not because he was falling apart, but because he was letting you see it.

Every crack. Every fear. Every piece of him that had been stitched together over years of surviving, now trembling in the quiet between you. 

He wasn’t hiding behind protocol or mission strategy or the weight of being Bucky Barnes. Not here. Not now.

“But you…”

His voice caught, just for a moment. He swallowed hard and tried again, slower, like the words had to be dug up from somewhere deep.

“You changed everything. And I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. I stopped keeping you at arm’s length. And now—” his thumb brushed your cheek again, barely there, “now I can’t imagine anything without you in it.”

He paused, breath uneven, like he was standing in front of a door he didn’t know how to open—afraid of what might be waiting on the other side.

His jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself for impact.

“I can’t lose you. If I do… I’ll have nothing left.”

And he meant it. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a line. It was a quiet, soul-deep truth. One that had been building inside him long before the blood and the gunfire and the scream that had torn from his throat when he thought he’d already lost you.

He exhaled slowly, like he had to push the words past the fear.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I love you. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just—if there’s still a part of you that wants this… if you’ll still have me…”

His voice broke, just barely, a hitch so small most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“I’m yours.”

He looked at you then, like he was standing on the edge of something sharp and bottomless. Like your silence might be the thing that finally shattered him. Like he would take whatever answer you gave—even if it gutted him—because loving you had never been about control.

Because this wasn’t a man trained to ask for things.

And still—he asked for you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right—like the words had landed too softly to be real, like they’d slipped through his defenses before he could catch them. 

The weight of everything he’d just laid bare sat heavy in the space between you, and it was clear from the flicker in his eyes that it had taken everything he had to give it to you. Now, he didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know how to hope.

Then, softly, almost like it hurt: “Say something. Please.”

His voice was barely above a whisper—fragile and trembling, held together by nothing but hope and fear and the quiet kind of love that never asked for anything, but still wanted everything. 

There was no demand in it. Just raw need. The sound of a man standing at the edge, waiting to see if he’d be pulled back or left to fall.

Your heart ached with the honesty of it. With the way he sat there, waiting—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as someone who’d been trained to endure the worst the world could throw at him.

But as a man. Just a man. One who had finally admitted what he wanted, and was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, and he went still beneath your touch—completely still, like something inside him was holding its breath.

Your thumb swiped gently at the tear trailing down his cheek—a small, quiet thank-you for every part of him he had given you without expecting anything in return. For the courage it took to let himself be seen.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His eyes shut like the words had cracked something wide open—like they’d found every broken part inside him and flooded it with light. His shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with release, like the tension he’d been carrying since the moment he found you on that warehouse floor had finally let go.

And when he moved, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours, and his breath ghosted across your lips—warm, uneven, shaky.

His hands came up to frame your face, fingertips brushing just beneath your ears, thumbs trembling faintly against your skin. And there was something in his expression that looked a lot like awe—like he couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

You felt your gaze drift down—just slightly—and caught the glint of silver on his hand.

The thin band still wrapped around the fourth finger of his right hand.

The one from the mission.

“You’re still wearing it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like it startled him, that he still had laughter in him at all. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.”

There was something unshakable in the way he said it—not possessive, not forced. Just steady. Like this had never been a tactic or a disguise to him. Like it had always been more. Like somewhere along the way, without even meaning to, he’d decided that the ring was already real.

Then, carefully, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, slow, almost tentative, like even now he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. You watched as he pulled out the second ring, slim and silver and achingly familiar. The one he’d never gotten to put on you.

Until now.

He looked up at you again, and this time his smile was smaller. Shyer. A little nervous in the way only he could be, all confidence stripped away, leaving behind something earnest and boyish and real.

“You never let me put it on, remember?”

You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t speak. Just looked at him, this man who had nearly shattered in front of you, who had stayed by your side through blood and silence and pain, who had chosen you even when it wasn’t easy.

And without a word, you extended your hand, left palm facing him, fingers slightly curled, offering it to him like it meant something.

Because it did.

“Now’s your chance,” you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make it grand. He just took your hand like it was made of glass, something precious, something that had almost been taken from him, and slid the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that made your chest ache. 

His touch was steady now, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth. They shimmered with a kind of wonder, like he couldn’t believe he got to do this. That you were letting him.

When the band settled into place, his lips found the center of your palm, pressing there softly, not rushed, just sure.

Like a vow made without words.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like home.

One week later, the compound felt like a strange mix of familiar and surreal. The sterile hallways and reinforced doors hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Or maybe it was just you.

You were home. Bruised, still limping, a dull ache riding your spine every time you moved too fast, but alive. Healing. Whole enough to smile when someone cracked a joke. Stable enough to tease John back. Present enough to notice the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the glass atrium instead of the pain it lit up in your leg.

The team had been insufferable, in the way that only people who loved you could be.

Bob made soup. Every day. Different flavours, each one weirder than the last, like he was trying to test the boundaries of what counted as comfort food. 

The last one had contained turmeric, coconut milk, and what he swore up and down were healing enzymes. You hadn't asked. You just nodded, thanked him, the smile on his face grew brighter. 

Alexei had taken it upon himself to be your personal chauffeur. The man had nearly gotten into a shouting match with a medbot over who was allowed to push your wheelchair. He’d won. Somehow. 

And ever since, he wheeled you around like a race car driver, dramatic turns, Russian commentary, occasional sound effects, and all. “Turn three, is hairpin! Hold on!” he’d shout gleefully.

John yelled at the medbots on your behalf. Loudly. Colourfully. "Come on!" he'd barked after the fifth proximity alert went off near your bed, like the bots had something personal against you. 

The medbot responded with a passive-aggressive buzz. John flipped it off. The medbot flipped the switch back, in its own, uncanny little way. You were pretty sure it had been programmed just for him.

And Bucky?

He stayed close, but not hovering. A hand always offered before you asked. A look always checking, just in case.

He’d been quieter these days, not distant, just steady. Like now that he’d said it, now that you’d both said it, he didn’t have to force anything. 

He could just… be. With you. No more waiting, no more pretending. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen you every day, even when you couldn’t see it.

You were curled up on the couch in the common room, a blanket across your lap and a hot pack on your hip when Yelena dropped down beside you. She handed you a cup of orange juice—cold, freshly poured.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat close, shoulder brushing yours.

Then she nudged you gently, her gaze tilted your way, curious. A little soft at the edges, like maybe she'd been waiting for the right moment to ask.

“How’s you and Bucky?”

You looked down instinctively, your fingers brushing the ring now resting on your left hand. 

“I never thought I could find happiness,” you said after a moment, voice quieter than you intended. “Not really. Not like this. But with him… it feels real.”

Yelena’s eyes softened. She reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You deserve it,” she said simply. “You both do.”

You let your head rest against her shoulder, the blanket shifting slightly as you moved. Your chest felt warm, not from the heating pad, but from the way she said it. 

After a beat, Yelena added, deadpan, “Val says she’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You wrinkled your nose. “No thank you.”

She smirked. “You don’t want a government-sponsored vacation? With gps tracking and an optional mission brief?”

“I’d rather eat more of Bob’s soup.”

Behind you, from the kitchen, Bob yelled, “Hey!” You didn’t even turn around.

Laughter spilled into the room, light and easy, stretching out across the space like sunlight through glass.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself sink into it.

A few weeks had passed, and life had begun to stitch itself into something that resembled normal. Not the kind of normal you'd known before, not pre-mission, but something quieter. Softer. A version of normal that fit into slow mornings and shared looks across rooms. 

It was healing, in its own strange way. A patchwork of bruises and blooming, of awkward firsts and familiar silences.

You still limped some days. Bucky still flinched at sudden noises.

But there was laughter now. There was warmth.

So when Bucky told you to meet him at the compound garage at 7 p.m, and added, almost shyly, “Dress nice” —you didn’t question it. Not out loud, anyway. 

You just raised an eyebrow, and he gave you that look. The one that meant, Trust me.

You tried to pry it out of John first. Predictable. Blunt-force obvious. And somehow, somehow, the man managed to keep his mouth shut. Not even a hint.

“He made me swear,” he said with smugness. “I’m not breaking that.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? As if that ever stopped you.” You quipped, jokingly.

John just grinned. “You think I want to be the reason he throws me through a wall?”

Alexei was no better. He distracted you for a good hour with a wild, mostly unverifiable story about his glory days involving a Russian circus, a helicopter, and what may have been a tiger. 

You weren’t sure if the entire thing was real or if he’d just been buying time, but he kept looking at the clock like it owed him something.

“Do not worry,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Is worth it.”

And then it was seven.

You made your way down the corridor, heels tapping softly against the concrete, nerves low in your belly even though you didn’t have a reason to be nervous. 

The garage doors were half-open. The light inside was warm, glowing.

You stepped through.

And your breath caught.

There he was.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was neatly pushed back, the kind of effort he only made back when he was a congressman and that, that had been after you told him he can’t walk into the capitol with his hair in a mess. 

You both argued over that, sort of, but when you saw him on your television, hair slicked back, you had smiled. 

In his hand was a bouquet, mismatched wildflowers, soft pinks and whites and sprigs of green,like he hadn’t just picked the nicest flowers and wrapped them himself, but the ones that looked most like you.

And behind him, tucked into the far corner of the garage, was a small table for two. White tablecloth. Candles flickering inside glass jars. A few strands of string lights hung above it, casting the scene in a golden, dreamlike glow. 

A single speaker sat nearby, humming something low and instrumental, a soft jazz tune you vaguely recognized, the kind that filled a room without asking too much of it.

“What’s all this?” you asked, your voice catching slightly on the edges. You felt breathless. Not from shock, but from the tenderness of it all.

He gave a shrug, casual, but not careless. There was a nervous twitch to it, like he wasn’t quite sure how you were going to react. Like part of him still expected this to be too much. Or not enough.

“I figured…” He glanced away, then back at you. “I never got to take you on a real date. I wanted to do it right this time.”

You stared at him for a second longer, because it hit you all at once—the candles, the table, the flowers, him.

Every moment that had led to this one. Every choice, every ache, every time he could have walked away and didn’t. 

The man who'd stormed into a warehouse for you, who had stayed awake five nights just to be the first thing you saw—he was here. In jeans. With wildflowers. 

You stepped forward, eyes still on his, and took the flowers from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was anchoring himself in the contact.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, a grin tugging at your mouth despite the lump rising in your throat.

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched warm between two people who no longer needed to rush. Who had already survived the worst and come out of it not just intact, but better. 

Then his head tilted, the corner of his mouth tugging up into that familiar, crooked smirk that always made your heart skip a beat.

“So… Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft. “You free tonight?”

Your smile bloomed, wide and stupid and completely uncontained—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, your lungs, your bones. The kind that had once felt impossible and now came easy, like breathing.

“For you, Always.”

a/n: oh my gosh, we are at the end!!! ❤️ i am so grateful for each and everyone of you for taking the time to read this series, for your support, kind words that really motivated me to keep this series going 💌.

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth. 

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments. 

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision. 

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping. 

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe. 

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again. 

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape. 

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people. 

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die. 

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first. 

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. 

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips. 

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives. 

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you. 

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door. 

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her. 

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast. 

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him. 

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Bucky didn’t beg. 

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust. 

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood. 

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all. 

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different. 

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion. 

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light. 

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking. 

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it. 

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below. 

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in. 

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full. 

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you. 

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all. 

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you. 

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from. 

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks. 

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

A wall-to-wall aquarium stretched across one entire side of the room, aglow with bioluminescent fish imported from some private reef halfway across the world.

Even the water shimmered like it had been distilled from diamonds. Every inch of the space screamed exclusivity, opulence, danger. 

You could feel it in your skin—like silk suffocating you.

Beyond the towering glass windows, the Monaco skyline glittered against the velvet night. Yachts drifted below like ghosts, their lights blinking lazily on the dark sea.

And at the center of it all was Raskovic.

He was built like a war—not a man, but a monument. Thick-necked, wide-shouldered, a towering frame that made the tailored lines of his suit look stretched and choked. 

He radiated the kind of threat that didn’t need to be spoken. Every guard in the room flinched just slightly when he turned his head—a glance carrying the weight of a command.

You’d seen powerful men before. But this… this was different. Raskovic didn’t just own power. He embodied it.

His face was carved in hard lines, his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It didn’t soften him. It made him look sharper. Hungrier. Like a lion watching dinner stumble straight into the den.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice smooth like old leather and too much vodka. He didn’t stand, just gestured lazily for you to join him at the long glass table set in the center of the room.

Bucky was close behind you. His hand slid to the small of your back—part of the act, of course. But his fingers pressed in slightly harder than they needed to. Like a warning, like reassurance. You didn’t know which one you needed more.

“We’re honoured,” you said smoothly, your voice polished and poised, as if the glittering tension didn’t make your skin itch. Bucky gave a nod beside you, his eyes tracking every guard, every movement.

The table had been laid out like an art piece, foie gras resting atop toasted brioche with violet fig compote, lobster bisque in impossibly thin porcelain bowls, and Duck à l’orange carved so precisely it looked painted. 

Surrounding the spread were polished silver utensils and deep-red wine glinting in faceted crystal flutes, poured with care by servers in floor-length black gowns.

You sat, and the moment your body touched the chair, something in your gut twisted hard.

It wasn’t anything obvious. 

No flashing lights, no sudden danger. Just instinct—a whisper at the base of your skull that grew louder with every breath you took. The way the servers didn’t meet your eyes. The way Andrei leaned in the shadows of the far wall, watching, waiting.

You knew. Something was wrong.

Raskovic took his wine in hand and swirled it lazily. “So. I heard from Andrei…” He turned those cold eyes to you. “You know me?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Who wouldn’t?”

A smile crept across Raskovic’s face. “A good answer.”

He chuckled and sipped his wine, exuding the confidence of a man surrounded by his kingdom. You let the conversation glide around you like smoke, lips curved just enough, playing your part. 

Andrei hadn’t moved from the wall, but you could feel him, gaze heavy, predatory. You didn’t trust the shadows here—they belonged to him.

“And what do you specialise in?” Raskovic asked, breaking off a piece of bread with delicate fingers. “Explosives? Biochemical toys? Or are you more... traditional?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, casual on the surface but coiled beneath. “Mostly smart-range pulse rifles. Electromagnetic scatter rounds. Some Stark-modified EMPs, the kind that make your eyes bleed if you’re standing too close.”

Raskovic laughed, low and genuine. “Ah, Stark. Yes. He did have flair.” He lifted his glass. “To creative destruction.”

You raised yours to match. Glasses clinked. The wine shimmered.

You hesitated. Then drank.

And regretted it instantly.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your hand tightened around your glass as you turned slightly in your chair.

“I—I don’t… feel so—”

Your words fell apart, slurred and sticky. Your throat closed. The room twisted violently beneath your feet. Bucky was on his feet before your head even dipped forward.

“What the hell did you do?” he snarled, voice tight.

Raskovic didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Andrei moved like a shadow—fast, precise, and cruel. You barely saw him before his arm wrapped around your body, dragging you upright as your legs gave out beneath you.

One thick arm locked around your chest, yanking you back against him, while the cold edge of a knife pressed into the delicate line of your throat.

You whimpered—not from the pain, but from how far Bucky suddenly seemed.

He surged forward. “LET. HER. GO!”

But the guards were faster than he was.

Two lunged first, catching him at the arms. Then another. Then two more. They tried to hold him down, to pin the fury inside the soldier’s body—but he was already gone. 

Not Bucky. Not James.

The Winter Soldier raged, and the man underneath him broke.

His scream tore through the air—raw, unfiltered. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

He fought like a beast, like he was tearing out his own soul to get to you. Every muscle locked and screamed with effort as he dragged the men across the polished floor. His eyes were wide, burning blue, locked on yours like they were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

You could see it—the pain in him. The terror.

“Get off me!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into someone’s face with a sickening crack. “You touch her again, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you all!”

“Try something, Barnes,” Andrei hissed into your ear, his knife pressing harder into your skin. A thin line of blood slipped down your neck. “Give me a reason.”

“STOP,” Bucky roared, his voice shredded and frantic, “PLEASE—please, take me instead—just let her go—”

But Raskovic only leaned back in his chair, amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice like rot. “The infamous Winter Soldier. Look what they turned you into.”

Bucky thrashed harder, dragging three men with him as he reached toward you, fingertips almost brushing yours before another slammed into his gut. He coughed, staggered, and still tried to crawl.

“Let her go!” he screamed again. His voice cracked this time—a break in the steel.

You could barely keep your eyes open, your limbs like water. But you turned your head—just slightly—enough to meet his gaze.

And even through the fog choking your mind, you knew what you saw in him.

Rage. Fear.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

“No—no, don’t—” His eyes widened, frantic. “Please—don’t—don’t leave me.”

“Go. Please.” you managed to choke out.

And then you fell. Andrei’s arm caught you, yanking your limp body back as you slipped into unconsciousness.

The last thing you saw—or maybe only imagined—was Bucky’s face as he screamed your name like a prayer no god ever answered.

You came to with the sharp sting of blood in your mouth and the icy ache of metal biting into your wrists.

At first, it was hard to tell what was real—the room swam at the edges, spinning in slow, nauseating waves. 

Your head throbbed. Your lips were cracked and dry. And your shoulders screamed from the strain of your arms wrenched behind your back, cuffed so tight that you could already feel the skin splitting beneath the metal. 

Cold concrete bit into your ankles where they were tied to the chair legs. Your knees burned and your spine howled with every twitch of movement.

The drug was still in your system—not fully, but enough to slow your thoughts, to fog the corners of your brain like frost on glass. You blinked, trying to force focus into your vision.

The room was dim, windowless. Cement walls scarred with water stains and age. 

It smelled like damp stone and blood and the metallic tang of old air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling on a rusted chain, swaying with each low hum that vibrated through the floors—generators, maybe. Or worse.

You were underground. You were alone.

And then you realised—you weren’t.

A figure sat in front of you, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees. Like this was casual. Like he was waiting to chat over coffee.

Andrei.

But he wasn’t smiling this time. Not exactly. The amusement from the dinner—the smug, showman’s flair—was gone now. What was left behind was leaner. Sharper. Hungrier. 

He looked at you like prey.

“Tough girl,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and smooth. Too calm. “Didn’t even scream when I hit you.”

He stood slowly, circling the chair. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. You followed him with your eyes but didn’t move your head—your neck was too stiff, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Trained well,” he murmured, coming to stand behind you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and intimate and rotten. “Let me guess. Romanov?”

Still, you said nothing.

Silence was all you had left. Silence and the rhythm of your heart, pounding slow and hard in your chest. 

One beat for every second Bucky wasn’t here. One beat closer to whatever came next.

Andrei exhaled, circling around again. He crouched low in front of you, arms braced on his thighs, and looked up at you like you were something he’d found crawling under a rock.

“Almost believed your little act,” he said. “Almost. You were very good. And he—he was damn near convincing. Protective. Devoted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Barnes might actually care about you.”

The corners of your mouth curled in a humorless smile. “He doesn’t fake things well.”

Andrei raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not wrong.”

He stood again, restless energy leaking into his movements now. Pacing. Turning. Talking more to himself than you. “But Layna—sweet girl, fucking dumb, but she has good memory. Told me she saw you before. You were blonde, standing behind a Swedish diplomat during a black-tie in Prague.”

You stiffened.

That op had been burned. Buried. There should’ve been no trace left.

Andrei’s grin returned, sharp and self-satisfied. “Told you. Almost.”

He drifted to the side of the room, plucking something off the metal tray on the workbench behind him. You couldn’t see what it was at first—until the low light caught the blade. Polished. Thin. Surgical.

Your blood ran colder.

“You know,” he said casually, running his thumb down the flat of the blade, “I’ve dealt with a lot of spies. A lot of agents. They’re all the same when you strip them down—arrogant, mouthy, trained to suffer but everyone breaks eventually.”

He turned toward you again. His boots scraped slightly across the floor as he came closer, blade gleaming.

“But you,” he said, voice lower now, almost admiring, “you’re different, so impressive. So decorated. Partner to Steve Rogers, mentored by the Black Widow."

He crouched again, placing the knife under your chin—just enough pressure to tilt your head up, to meet his eyes.

“But look at you now,” he murmured. “All alone.”

You glared at him, breathing hard. Your ribs ached with each inhale.

“You’re still not gonna get out of this,” you rasped.

Andrei gave a soft, mocking sound—almost a laugh. “Still fighting,” he said. “I love that.”

He pulled the knife back. Then his hand—the same one holding the blade—cracked across your face.

Your head snapped to the side. Fire bloomed in your cheek. Your vision spun again, and for a moment, you tasted nothing but copper and heat.

You forced your head back up. Stared at him. And then spat blood on his shoes.

His expression twitched—not anger, not quite. But it changed. Shifted. Amused and annoyed all at once.

“So dramatic,” he muttered, straightening up. “Barnes really married a firecracker.”

You smiled, lips cracked and bloodied. “Yeah. He has excellent taste.”

He turned his back to you. You didn’t trust what that meant.

“You know,” he said, picking up something else—a cloth, maybe. “When I first saw the two of you, I thought it was a clever front. Pretty couple, good chemistry and such an easy cover.”

He turned.

“But then I saw his face when we took you.”

Your heart lurched.

“I saw the way he screamed for you. Like he’d rather die right there than let you go. And that,” Andrei said, walking back toward you, “told me everything I needed to know.”

You went still.

“And now,” he said, crouching once more, “we find out just how long it takes to make you scream.”

You didn’t flinch.

But somewhere, deep in your chest, you whispered a prayer.

Not to be saved. But that Andrei would get out alive.

Because you knew Bucky was coming.

And if he didn’t find you soon— He’d tear this whole place apart.

Yelena slammed a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click that echoed through the hangar.

“I’m done,” she snapped. “I’m done waiting around like a fucking headless chicken."

Her vest hit the open duffel with a thud, followed by two extra mags, a smoke grenade, and a roll of wire.

Her hands moved fast, efficiently, but her face—her face was all fire, controlled only in the loosest sense of the word.

“Val said to hold,” Ava said from across the room, but even her voice sounded unsure. Her fingers were curled too tightly around the hilt of her blade. “It’s too risky for an extraction.”

Yelena’s jaw clenched as she zipped the duffel shut with a savage pull.

“Bullshit,” she cursed. 

“She said their cover was still good!” John yelled suddenly, pacing across the cracked concrete like a caged animal. His voice cracked from frustration, boots striking hard with each step.

“Cover’s blown, Ava. Raskovic’s got them. We saw that footage from the drone feed. You think Bucky screams like that when things are fine?”

No one answered. The silence that followed was deafening.

They had all heard it— the live feed that cut out halfway through, but not before they heard your slurred voice, the scrape of a chair, and—

Bucky’s scream.

It wasn’t just your name.

It was a sound torn from the center of him, ripped out like something primal—like grief, rage, and helplessness all wrapped into one brutal, broken cry. A roar that echoed through the comms with so much pain it made Ava flinch and John go deadly silent.

It didn’t even sound like a name by the end. It sounded like a man being ripped in half.

“Val’s still trying to assess options,” Ava said finally, quieter. “Wants to keep it clean. Low profile. Wait for the opportune moment.”

Yelena turned sharply. “She wants to wait until there’s nothing left to save.”

“(Y/n)'s not dead,” she added, voice lower now, shaking. “Not yet.”

Across the room, Alexei tightened the last strap of his tac vest and let out a heavy grunt from the loading ramp of the jet.

“Then we go,” he said simply. “Fast. Before is too late.”

It was Ava who moved next. She didn’t say anything.

Just unsheathed her blade, slid it into the thigh holster, and grabbed her gear. 

Bob passed her the radio jammer without a word.

John pulled a second glock off the weapons table, racked it with a sharp motion, and tossed a rifle to Alexei.

“You’re flying.”

Alexei caught it mid-air. “Da. And if Val calls mid-flight?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

“Ignore it,” Yelena muttered, strapping her vest down tight. “Unless you want to hear more bureaucratic bullshit while someone guts her open.”

“Val have our asses for this,” Ava said flatly, though she didn’t slow her pace as she climbed into the jet. “You know that, right?”

John snorted. “What’s new?”

The engines roared to life behind them—a deafening hum of rebellion.

Back in the jungle of halls and locked doors, Bucky was losing his mind.

He had already taken down four men—maybe more. He couldn’t keep count anymore, it was all a blur of fists and fury, of red-soaked sleeves and splintered bone. His knuckles were split wide open, blood running down his fingers like oil, blood that he didn’t even know was his own. 

The once-pristine black suit he’d worn to dinner, tailored, pressed, immaculate was in ruins. The white shirt beneath was streaked with blood. Buttons missing, collar torn, cufflinks long gone.

He looked like a ghost dressed for a funeral.

Yours.

Somewhere behind him, alarms blared in a shrill, endless loop. He had triggered them when he shattered the keypad on the security gate with his bare hand. 

Somewhere ahead—locked doors, concrete walls, goddamn silence.

He didn’t know where they’d taken you.

And that not knowing—that not knowing—was what was killing him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rasping, barely human. “Fuck, fuck—”

He stumbled sideways, shoulder crashing into the wall. The cold bite of cement anchored him for a second, but not enough. 

He was unraveling. Frantic. Adrenaline wearing thin.

He reached for the comms, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the dial, all he heard was static, it was dead, no signal.

His breath hitched in his throat.

“No—no—come on—” He hit it harder this time, palm slamming into the casing with a sickening smack. Blood smeared the plastic. His hands were shaking.

“Come on, come on—please—”

A crackle. Static. Then—

“—arnes?”

Yelena’s voice.

His knees almost gave out.

He pressed himself back against the wall, clutching the comms like it might vanish if he let go.

“I got out,” he breathed. “I got out, I’m—I can’t find her.”

His voice broke. Shattered.

“I can’t—I don’t know where they took her. They drugged her. He had a knife at her throat—I couldn’t fucking stop it—”

He swallowed a sob. Tried to breathe, and failed.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. She knew. She felt it in her gut. And I just let her get taken.” He pushed off the wall, stumbling forward down the corridor, every door a dead end, every hallway too quiet. 

The sound of his shoes—black dress leather, scuffed now, stained red—echoed down the sterile concrete like a countdown.

And he was running out of time.

John’s voice came through next. 

“We’re in the air. Twenty minutes out. Hold tight, Bucky. We’ve got you.”

But the brunette wasn’t listening anymore.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, blood dripping to the floor beneath him.

“She was scared,” he whispered. “She told me to go. Begged me.”

The words tasted like glass in his mouth.

“She looked me in the eye like it was the last thing she would ever say to me. And I fucking left her. I left her there.”

His voice cracked again. Barely a sound.

“I can’t lose her.”

His hands curled into fists — raw, trembling. “I can’t.”

He slammed his fist into the wall—vibranium meeting concrete in a sickening crunch—and staggered forward. He was pacing now, wild and cornered and coming undone.

“I know I screw things up. I know I push people too hard. Say the wrong thing or nothing at all. I don’t... I don’t let myself feel shit unless it’s already too late.”

He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, dragged it down his face.

“But (y/n), I—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

“Every time she disobeys me on a mission, I yell. I chew her out like she’s reckless. Like she’s careless.”

He swallowed hard. Blinked. Focused on the darkness ahead.

“It’s not control. It’s not protocol. I just—fuck, I’m scared she won’t come back.”

He stopped, spine against the wall again. Voice low, almost fagile.

“That I’ll lose her. And it’ll be my fault. Because I never told her what she really means to me.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the line again. “Then don’t stop.”

A pause.

“You find her.”

His jaw tightened.

“I will,” Bucky said.

The tone in his voice changed—gone was the shaking, the hesitation.

“I swear to god, I’ll find her.”

His steps quickened. He pushed through the next door like it owed him something, storming into a stairwell, eyes wild, movements sharp. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Even if I have to burn this whole fucking place down.”

And he meant it.

He’d burn the compound, the mission, the goddamn world to the ground.

He was coming for you.

a/n: and that's chapter 5!! i hope you enjoyed, and please drop a comment or a reblog, it genuinely gives me so much motivation to give you guys my best! love y'all!

You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.

The room held its breath for a moment.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.

“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.

“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.

His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”

You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.

“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.

“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.

The words sank deeper than you expected.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.

“It’s not that I don’t care.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.

“I care too much. That’s the problem.”

Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”

He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“I’m asking you not to die over it.”

That landed harder than anything else.

A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.

“You always know what to say to piss me off.”

Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.

“Unfortunately.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.

Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.

You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.

Another long pause.

Then—his voice, tired but teasing.

“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”

You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.

“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”

That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.

Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.

Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”

He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.

But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.

“’Night, doll.”

Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.

Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee. 

The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer. Familiar.

Something was different.

He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.

Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there. 

The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.

Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.

His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin. 

Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.

Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.

But he didn’t. He just stared.

His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.

“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.

You hadn’t.

You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.

Trouble.

That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.

You were still trouble. Just a different kind now.

His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.

Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”

He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.

Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.

“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”

Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.

And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.

Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.

Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.

Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.

None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.

You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.

The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.

The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.

It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.

Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.

Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.

He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”

You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.

“What do we do?” you asked quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.

“Take it.”

Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.

But your pulse stuttered all the same. Then you slid your hand into his.

His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.

Like you did this every day.

And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.

It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.

Technically.

But it lingered.

Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.

The words hit low, sharp. Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.

And of course he did.

You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.

He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”

You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”

You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall. 

The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.

“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”

Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”

You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”

“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”

You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”

He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”

Everyone laughed.

You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.

Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.

“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.

“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”

You blinked. Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.

He said it like he meant it.

Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”

You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”

Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.

You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.

“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.

Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”

The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.

But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.

The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.

Unfortunately.

His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.

Because there you were.

Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.

The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.

You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You had to know what you were doing.

You had to.

“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.

Because now some guy was approaching you.

Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.

Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.

Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations. 

But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.

“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”

Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.

You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.

Flirted.

Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.

And that was it.

His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.

He didn’t think, didn’t pause.

The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.

You noticed him immediately.

Of course you did.

Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.

“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.

The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.

“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.

The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”

“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.

You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.

“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.

Then, slowly, you stood.

It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.

“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.

“You were feeling yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.

Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.

Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.

“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.

Bucky stopped short.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”

You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”

“Because I care if you get killed”

The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.

You blinked. Once.

And then the space between you collapsed.

You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.

Your noses bumped.

His breath ghosted across your lips.

The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.

So close.

So fucking close.

You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.

“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.

You tilted your chin.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

And then—

A door slammed.

A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.

The spell shattered.

Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.

Then, finally, you stepped back.

One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.

Bucky didn’t follow.

Not yet.

He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Because he almost kissed you.

And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.

The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.

The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.

You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.

And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.

It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.

Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.

God.

You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.

But it didn’t go.

You could still feel it.

The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.

The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.

It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.

You hated it.

Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.

You were supposed to be in control.

You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.

But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.

You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.

You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.

It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.

But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.

From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.

Bucky.

You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.

The faucet turned off.

You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.

Not just at him. At yourself.

At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.

The bathroom door opened.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.

He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.

You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.

He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.

You didn’t make it easier.

Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.

A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.

The tension hung between you anyway.

It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.

You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.

But not calm.

You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.

You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.

But you didn’t do any of that.

You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.

Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.

And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.

You didn’t sleep well.

Neither did Bucky.

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

“I do not understand this football Sunday tradition” you hear Alexei say to Sam and Bucky again across the room. They had been explaining football Sunday for the last twenty minutes.

“There’s not much to understand, we’re gonna sit our asses on the couch and enjoy some snacks and beer. It’s what you do every day anyway Alexei.” Sam said, standing up and joining you on the couch, Bucky following after him.

Sam plopped across from you, claiming the corner with the best view of the TV and Bucky stood over you, tapping your thigh. Indicating he wanted to join you.

You pressed yourself into the cushions and he slid his broad body next to you, wrapping both arms around you. He placed a soft kiss on your lips, making you smile. You nuzzled into his soft tshirt and Sam made a gag noise at your interaction, making Bucky smile. “Speaking of football Sundays I have to get up and get started on the food. I’m teaching Yelena how to make chili”

Bucky groaned at the thought of you leaving the couch, making you chuckle.

Before you could respond, Joaquin and Yelena walked out of the elevator doors with bags of groceries, Joaquin with a huge grin, his normal happy self. “Hola Familia! Happy Football Sunday” he sang as he walked into the kitchen with the food and beer.

Bucky was moving his hands mindlessly up and down your back, trying to make you forget that you have to get up and cook, when you felt a light slap on your forehead, making you flinch and gasp.

“You are an international spy and you didn’t hear me coming, no?” You both looked up and saw Yelena standing above you smirking.

“As much as I love watching the happy couple canoodle, you promised me American football food lessons.”

You sighed and began to move but Bucky tightened his grip, claiming you in this spot.

“Hmmm the soldier wants to fight for her honor now?” Alexei questioned dramatically from across the common room. You and Bucky both rolled your eyes. You placed a big wet kiss on his cheek, making Sam gag again. “Cmon babe, I’ll lay with you for all the stupid football games” you said sitting up and prying his arms off of you. He grunted but was seemingly satisfied.

You padded into the kitchen behind Yelena. Joaquin brought beers to the boys on the couch, and they all began to settle in comfortably.

This was life recently, besides the missions and training, there was normalcy at the Avengers Tower. Consistency for the first time in your life.

Once Sam and Bucky made up, he moved in, along with Joaquin, and you felt whole again for the first time since Thanos left his mark. Your small shared room with Bucky was tight, but it was home, and the perfect space for you two.

These crazy people were seemingly helping you heal in ways you didn’t know you needed. You smiled softly at the thought as you began chopping the chili ingredients, Yelena hovering over your shoulder obnoxiously. Bob walked in quietly and slid into a barstool across from the counter you were working at.

“Bob, you know of these football traditions?” Yelena asked over your shoulder in her thick accent.

He shrugged, “yeah but I was never a big football guy. Too busy with the meth I guess” he said casually, making you laugh out loud.

The morning flew by and you showed Yelena every step. She listened like you were going to test her on it later. Bob prepared the plate of chips and dip, along with other miscellaneous snacks Joaquin and Yelena picked out at the grocery store. Before you knew it, it was 1:00 and time for the game.

“Alright so now we just let it sit in the pot and cook” you said closing the lid and wiping your hands on a dish towel, “and we can go sit and enjoy the first game” you smiled.

“First game??? There is more than one?” Yelena asked shocked.

“Football is literally going to be on the TV until night time, knowing Sam and Joaquin” you replied, knowing how seriously they were taking their fantasy league.

You each grabbed a beer and carried the snacks into the living room. Bob placed everything on the table in front of the couch. John and Ava were also now piled onto the large couch in the common space. Everyone dove into the snacks and the first game kicked off.

You made your way back over to Bucky and stood in front of him with a soft smile. He was now sitting up with his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, saving the space just for you. “Can I have her back now?” He said moving his gaze to Yelena. She rolled her eyes, “yes James she is a person though, try to remember you do not literally own her” she lectured jokingly.

You smiled and plopped down under his extended arm, snuggling into his side. He adjusted so that he was holding you firmly at his side.

Upon moving to New York, you were put right to work with media training the mess that was the Thunderbolts. They have made your job far from easy, some on purpose, others, like Alexei and Bob were truly trying their best. Bucky had little to say at first and Yelena and Ava eventually grew to like you, once you started helping them prank John. You settled into life in the tower much easier than you thought, although it was vastly different from your life in DC, you finally felt like you had a place in this world. And instead of managing a 65 year old congressman’s tik tok account, you were finally doing real work.

About eleven months in, it was the night of the charity gala you had been working on diligently. Although the team showed improvement, you couldn’t help but worry about their behavior tonight. There would be an open bar and hundreds of wealthy investors looking to donate their money to the cause you were all supporting.

Your heels clacked as you paced in front of the team. They were lined up in the common space of the tower. Bucky was leaning on the couch, arms crossed, Bob stood as straight as a soldier, and the rest lazily looked ahead. “You will be perfect tonight…” you walked slowly, looking at each of them up and down, “no pranks, no weapons,” you stopped in front of Alexei and placed your palm up, he sighed and placed the knife in your hand, you continued walking. “You will wear what I picked out, you will use your flashcards, drink an appropriate amount,” you stopped in front of Yelena and Ava, “if you don’t trust yourself to drink an appropriate amount, hold the same glass of champagne all night.” You stopped walking and took a step back, “any questions?” They responded with mumbled nos and groans. Yelena mock saluted you, “okay, then go get ready, we meet back here and leave in one hour.”

You pulled your iPad up and everyone began filing out of the room. “I think you’re starting to scare everyone,” a deep voice spoke. You smiled without looking up from your iPad, “took them long enough, what about you super soldier, are you scared of me?” You looked up at Bucky with a curious look. He chuckled, “terrified.” He winked before he walked back to his room, leaving you blushing. When you first started working, Bucky was a book you couldn’t quite read. It took the longest for him to warm to you, but after learning you’re both insomniacs, late night kitchen talks became your routine, and you got to know him that way. As you’ve gotten closer, you have even felt him flirting, but you told yourself that’s just because you had a major crush on him and you wanted him to be flirting with you. You let your blush subside and made your way back to your room.

Your black gown was hanging on the frame of your closet, you began working on your makeup and hair, while simultaneously checking your iPad and confirming everything for the event tonight. You reviewed the guest list for the millionth time and took a deep breath, “everything will work out,” you mumbled to yourself, trying to make yourself believe it.

You slipped into your stilettos and smoothed out your dress. You grabbed your ipad, your lipstick, and your clutch before walking back to the common space a full ten minutes early, wanting to beat the team there so you can make sure everyone is wearing their assigned outfit when they walk in. When you turned the corner, Bucky was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of whiskey in his metal hand. Tux pressed to perfection, hair styled back, he looked like a god. You tried to take a steady breath and rid yourself of the thoughts you were having.

He turned when he heard you walk in and you swear you saw him look you up and down. He cleared his throat. “Starting already?” You asked as you slid into the bar stool next to him. He smiled and looked up at you from his glass, “well considering I cannot physically get drunk, I figured why not,” he shrugged and offered you the glass. You shook your head, “not yet, unfortunately this is work.” He sighed, “well, for what it's worth, you look beautiful.”

Your breath caught and your eyes met his, the softness and sincerity in them catching you by surprise, you opened your mouth to speak when you heard steps entering the room, you peeled your gaze away from him, but he kept his eyes locked on you.

“Let’s do this,” Yelena said excitedly, “we’re going to make you proud, mom,” she said looking at you, you rolled your eyes at the nickname she loved to throw at you, and stood up.

“Lift your dresses,” you said standing in front of Yelena and Ava. They both feigned offense, “gosh, buy me dinner first!” Yelena exclaimed. You put your hand on your hip and raised your brow. They both looked at each other and sighed. Yelena lifted her dress to reveal her combat boots, and Ava lifted her dress to reveal a knife strapped to her ankle. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut.

“All the men, god, even Alexei, were able to get dressed for this.” You opened your eyes and looked at Yelena, “go change into the heels I bought you.” She groaned and turned around. Then, you reached down and unstrapped the knife from Ava’s ankle, who now had her arms crossed around her chest. “Does anyone else have any surprises? Please hand in ALL weapons now.” Bob shook his head with a smile, Alexei took Bucky’s whiskey and knocked it back. John looked annoyed, but was wearing the exact outfit you asked him to and even shaved, so you couldn’t complain.

When Yelena reentered, she dramatically lifted her dress to reveal the correct shoes. “Okay, let’s go.” You lead the team to the elevator and ushered them all in.

“Alright, Alexei, Yelena, Bob limo one. Me, Bucky, John, Ava limo two,” you said looking down at your ipad as the elevator descended to the ground floor, “Valentina is meeting us there.”

‘Why are you separating us?” Yelena whined, referring to her and Ava, you ignored her complaint and looked forward, not giving in to the childishness this early in the night. When you got to the ground floor, you all slid into your assigned limos.

“I feel like Yelena and Alexei should have been separated, they love to try and out drink one another,” John said thinking out loud. You sighed, “But if I switched you with one of them, they would have pissed you off and then you would’ve been in a bad mood by the time we got there,” you said matter of factly. John hummed in response, “well, you could have put Barnes with one of them.” You froze, finally looking up from your phone, Bucky turned his head to look at you with a smirk, “yeah, you could have thrown me in there, but you didn’t.”

You looked at him, eyes wide, “well, Barnes is the only one of you who doesn’t make me feel absolutely insane, besides Bob, which feels like a crucial aspect to the evening.” You hoped that was a good enough answer and did not expose your mega crush on him. John stopped pestering you, but Bucky was still looking at you, smirking, seeing right through you. You ignored his stares and went back to your phone for the remaining few minutes of the drive.

The car came to a stop and you took a shaky breath, “alright remember, tonight is about appearances. We need them to donate, but we also want them to invest in us. They’re all rich and narcissistic so you need to make them think it’s their decision to spend their money on this charity and on us… you’re all smart enough, you got this.”

“Well that was quite the pep talk, mom.” John said sarcastically before sliding out of the limo. Ava followed him and you took another deep breath. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky shift, and then you felt his metal hand right above your knee, the cold cooling you down through your dress. “Everything is going to be fine tonight, I’ll help keep them in check,” he said reassuringly. You nodded in thanks and gave him a small smile. Suddenly your mouth felt dry and all you could focus on was the feeling of his hand on your leg. He smiled at you and slid out of the car, extending his hand to help you. You graciously took it as you made your way into the venue side by side.

The New York Public library looked magical at night. It was exactly as you planned it, the red carpet on the steps leading up the grand entrance, perfectly lit. You smiled at the sight, it was exactly how you imagined it. Getting the library on such short notice was deemed impossible, but Val wanted it, and with the right connections and donations, you made it happen.

Bucky extended his arm, and you slipped your hand through. He guided you up the steps, cameras flashed and when you reached the door, a waiter with champagne was waiting. You thanked him and continued inside. There was a circular bar at the center, a band playing soft music on the steps, and bright florals everywhere, you outdid yourself.

“This looks amazing, I’m not usually impressed by these sort of events but, wow.” Bucky was looking around taking it all in.

“Bucky, I just want to let you know… Sam and Joaquin were invited tonight and they both accepted,” he turned his head and looked at you, “listen it’s a big party, you can easily avoid them, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it's good optics. And maybe even a chance to have a civil conversation,” you continued, hopefully. He sighed, sipping his champagne.

“Are you mad?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried,” he said sincerely, “but, a heads up would have been good.”

You nodded, “I know, I just didn't want you to avoid coming if you found out.”

“I get it,” he said simply, with a small smile.

“Thank you for understanding, now go get em tiger,” you said, ushering Bucky off. He laughed and made his way to the center of the party.

“And the relationship continues to blossom, right in front of our eyes…” a thick Russian accent spoke from behind you. You rolled your eyes and sipped your champagne. Yelena stood next to you, always observing.

“Are you already drunk?”

She shook her head, “just having a little bit of fun… and I think both you and Barnes need to get laid. I think it would benefit you both.”

You fiddled with the champagne glass in your hand and looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, “Yelena.. I- I get.. I definitely get laid,” you stammered, completely unconvincingly, making her laugh.

“Yeah okay… considering you are literally always working I find that hard to believe, but whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You scoffed, “whatever Yelena, we don’t even like each other like that, we’re coworkers, friends maybe.”

She hummed, “well considering he has not stopped staring at you from across the room, I would say definitely…. Friends.”

You looked around and met his eyes, had he really been staring this whole time?

“Hmmm, maybe you got it worse than I thought,” she said watching the interaction.

He winked at you, and you blushed, just like you always did when he winked.

“Right, no crush there,” Yelena said sarcastically before walking away.

The night seemed to carry on smoothly, Valentina gave a speech that was perfectly written, by you, the Thunderbolts stood behind her poised and behaved. You were extremely proud of how the evening was going, and even allowed yourself a few glasses of champagne.

An hour or so in, Bucky found your side again, “you can totally say no to this, but how about a dance?”

Your eyes lit up at the question, “I would love that,” you said, taking his extended hand and following him to the dance floor. He placed his metal hand on your waist softly and grabbed your hand in his. You swayed lightly to the music and sat in the comfortable silence. You have never been this close to him, your chest basically pressed against his. You were hoping he couldn’t feel your heartbeat that was pounding in your chest.

The soft string-section of the band filled the space between the chatter and clinking glasses, and for a moment you felt a rush of nerves that came when he led you in a slow sway. He slipped his arm around your waist, guiding you easily and the world outside seemed to fade.

He looked down at you, his metal hand warm against the fabric of your gown, and he broke the silence, “So I did speak to Sam,” you raised your brow at him, “it went well. I think we’re headed on the right path, even got to talk to Joaquin for a while, who I think has a crush on you by the way.”

You laughed, “okay he does not!”

He nodded, smiling, “does too, kept asking me about your relationship status.”

You laughed again, “and what did you say?”

Bucky took a deep breath in, “told him you were married to your job,” he smiled, hoping you liked the joke.

You laughed again, louder this time, “well, no matter what was said, I’m glad you were able to talk civilly and maybe you guys can start to… move on.”

He smiled again, “yeah me too, thank you for inviting him, you always seem to know what I need.”

You blushed under the praise, “I like to think I’ve gotten to know you pretty well.”

“I’m proud of you, this event is perfect,” he said softly. He gave you a small, genuine smile, and leaned in closer: “And… thank you, for knowing me so well.”

His gaze flickered to your lips, his brow drawing in slightly as if he were measuring the moment. You felt the air shift and his hand tightened around your waist. He whispered your name, quiet enough so only you heard. You leaned in.

Just then, the party’s rhythm stuttered. From across the room, you heard a sharp laugh, a crash on the marble, then the unmistakable clatter of something hitting a cocktail table. You knew exactly what was happening, Yelena Belova and Ava Starr got bored, so they had pulled a prank. Something mean-spirited and brilliantly chaotic, on the team's resident hot head, John Walker. Yelena’s voice rang out: “You should see your face, John!” And John shot back with a shove. Arms flew up, a waiter recoiled, dropping the platter of champagne glasses, one of the socialites gasped. It all exploded at once.

The moment between you and Bucky vanished. He straightened, his eyes flashing concern as he looked at the altercation. Yelena’s heel hit the floor so hard it echoed; John’s jaw clenched. You swallowed, heart sinking, and Bucky muttered, “Stay right here.” He slipped away, towards the chaos, he motioned for the band to continue, so they did.

You stood there, stunned, your lips still parted, your earlier courage draining. You watched John push Yelena back, hard. Yelena’s smirk cracked into something colder and you know it was elevating. You felt tears prick the back of your eyes, but you refused to give them. Bucky made his way between the two, but before you could see how it played out, you turned and walked out of the grand ballroom, past gilded columns and shocked glances, into the silver night of the city, the faint hum of traffic a world away from the gala’s glamor.

Outside, you leaned against the cool stone wall of the entrance, the wind tossing your hair across your face. You hugged your arms around your chest, trying to steady your breath, bitter at how the moment had slipped, how your hope had flickered. The heels you’d so carefully chosen threatened to topple you on the uneven pavement, but you didn’t care. You just needed space.

Minutes passed, standing there with tears running down your face, smudging your makeup. Then Bucky found you. His footsteps were soft on the stone, and when you looked up you saw his eyes, shadowed and uneasy in the ambient streetlight. He didn’t say anything at first, he just slid beside you, his metal hand resting lightly on the wall between you, the hand that had just been around your waist moments ago.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, voice barely a whisper. “I just worked so hard and I really thought everyone would keep it together tonight I just -” you started, then stopped.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Thank you for handling them, I just couldn’t do it,” you said honestly. He nodded at you in response.

You looked at him, really looked, and something in your heart cracked open. The vulnerability there. The late-night kitchen talks. The way his usual cool had thawed. You realized you weren’t just relieved he was there, you were happy. Happier than you’d let yourself admit.

“Bucky,” you said, “I want—”

He raised his hand, covering yours, firm and sure. “I like you,” he said, plain and true. “More than I ever let myself think. You make this crazy job, this weird life with a weird team feel… like home.” He paused, his breath visible in the cold. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Your brows furrowed, not exactly sure where he was going with all of this. And there, under the soft glow of the street lamps, he closed the distance. His lips found yours, gentle at first, then deeper. The muffled noise of the gala faded; the world narrowed down to you and him. Your arms curled up to his shoulders, and he held you steady. Nothing else mattered in that moment but the truth between you.

When you pulled back, your forehead resting against his, he whispered, “I don’t want to pretend that I see you as a friend anymore, not when I want so much more with you.”

“I want more too,” is all you could say back in the moment.

You both smiled and he kissed you again, deeper this time.

He broke apart and wiped the tears off your cheeks softly, “what do you say we abandon this party, get some ice cream and head home?”

You smiled and slipped your hand into his, “I think I love that idea, but my feet are killing me” you said gesturing to your heels.

“No need to fret, luckily you just kissed a super soldier,” before you could respond, Bucky scooped you up bridal style, making you squeal.

He carried you 6 blocks to the nearest ice cream shop, ordered your favorite, which he had memorized from your late night kitchen raids over the past few months. Then he hailed a cab and took you back to the tower. Your stress from the evening was long forgotten. When you got back, you finally slipped your heels off and followed him to his room.

When the ice cream was discarded, you kissed him again. This time, in his bed, Your hands were roaming freely up and down his body, he slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned. You felt needy, like you had been waiting all this time for this exact moment. You moved to unbutton his dress shirt when his hands covered yours.

“As much as I like where this is going,” he started, slightly out of breath, “I really like you, and I would really like to take you on a date first.”

You groaned, making him laugh, “man, I try to be a gentleman and that's your response, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him and kissed him again, “I can respect it, let’s make that dinner date tomorrow then,” you suggested.

He laughed, “tomorrow night it is.”

He stood up and opened his dresser throwing a tshirt at you. You both changed and got into bed, he immediately pulled you into his chest. You sighed in relief, breathing his lingering cologne in. He kissed your forehead and before you could even say goodnight you were fast asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You woke slowly, sunlight brushing over your face through unfamiliar curtains. For a split second, you didn’t know where you were, the sheets felt softer, the air cooler, the faint hum of the tower quieter than usual. Then you turned your head and realized.

Bucky’s room.

The events of the previous night flickered in and out of your mind like a dream. The gala. The chaos. The argument. The kiss. The icecream. The second kiss. Falling asleep in his shirt.

You sat up quickly, heart pounding. You were still in one of Bucky’s shirts , a soft grey thing that smelled like cedar and whiskey, falling on your thighs. You saw your gown neatly folded on the chair by the window. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, alongside a neatly scribbled note in his distinct handwriting:

“Didn’t want to wake you. You needed rest. See you downstairs.”

— B.

You smiled despite yourself, brushing your thumb over the paper before setting it down. Your pulse fluttered in your chest , that warm, dizzy kind of nervous excitement that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You slipped out of bed, changed back into your clothes from last night, and tiptoed barefoot out into the hallway. The tower was unusually quiet. That, in itself, was suspicious. You padded into your room to change into sweats, washing your face and brushing your hair.

When you rounded the corner into the common room, the smell hit you first, coffee, pancakes, bacon, and something sweet, like berries, considering you were the only one besides Bob that could cook, you assumed Bob was busying himself in the kitchen. Then you heard it: hushed voices, clattering dishes, and… was that Yelena humming?

You stopped in your tracks.

Every single one of them was there.

Yelena stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. Ava was cutting fruit with frightening precision. Alexei was wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook (if you dare)”, John was pouring orange juice like it was an Olympic sport, and Bob was setting the table with almost military precision.

And in the center of it all stood Bucky, his arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a faint smirk.

Yelena noticed you first. “Oh! Sleeping Beauty lives!” she announced dramatically.

The entire room turned.

You froze. “What—what is happening right now?”

Bucky stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apology breakfast,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Apology… breakfast?”

Yelena pointed the spatula at you. “Barnes made us. Said we embarrassed you and ruined your perfect night. Which, for the record, was not entirely our fault.”

“It was entirely your fault,” John muttered.

“Anyway,” Yelena continued, ignoring him, “he gave us the ‘you disappoint me’ speech, and it was terrifying, so here we are.”

You looked at Bucky, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile. “They wanted to say sorry,” he said, “and I figured breakfast was safer than another gala.”

You covered your mouth to hide your smile, but a laugh still escaped. “You made them cook?”

He shrugged. “Team-building exercise.”

Ava snorted. “You mean punishment.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to be stern. “Well, I have to say… I’m impressed.”

Yelena flipped a pancake onto a plate and presented it to you like it was an award. “For our fearless leader,” she said, mock-serious.

You took the plate, and something in your chest softened. The sight of all of them all ,messy, loud, imperfect, but trying, made your throat tighten. “You guys didn’t have to do this,” you said quietly.

Bucky stepped closer, close enough that his voice dropped to just you. “Yeah, we did.” His eyes softened. “You deserved better than how last night ended.”

You looked up at him, searching his expression. He meant it.

Yelena’s voice cut through again. “Oh my god, can you two not make heart eyes while I’m holding a spatula near an open flame?”

You laughed, shaking your head, cheeks warm. “Fine, fine, I’ll sit.”

Bucky pulled out a chair for you and when you sat down, he leaned in, his voice low and teasing, “You slept well?”

“Better than I have in a while,” you admitted softly.

He smiled, that rare, real kind that made his eyes crease at the corners. “Good.”

The rest of the morning unfolded in easy laughter and chaos, pancakes flipping onto the floor, Alexei trying (and failing) to make espresso, Yelena complaining that she wasn’t “built for domesticity,” and Bob accidentally setting off the fire alarm.

When the laughter finally died down, and everyone dispersed, you stayed behind with Bucky, washing dishes side by side.

He handed you a plate to dry. “So,” he said casually, “about last night…”

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, then gave a small grin. “I meant what I said.”

You smiled, feeling that same warmth from the night before. “Good,” you said softly, brushing your hand against his. “Because I did too.”

“So dinner is still on for tonight then?” he asked with a smirk.

You smiled, "absolutely, Barnes.”

He glanced down at where your hands touched, then back up at you, and for a second, everything stilled again. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the morning.

He leaned closer, voice low and teasing, “Think Val would let us expense all this as… team morale development?”

You laughed. “You can try, but I’m not helping you write that report.”

He chuckled, and as you turned to put the last plate away, his hand found yours again, deliberate this time, steady.

“Then maybe we just don’t tell her,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but smile.

Dinner that night wasn’t anything fancy. Just takeout from the little Thai place around the corner that Bucky swore had “the best dumplings in New York,” eaten on the roof of the tower under string lights Bob had fixed weeks ago. You sat side by side on a picnic blanket, still dressed from the day, him in a Henley and jeans, you in a baggy sweater that hung off your shoulder. The city glowed beneath you, endless and alive, you were completely at peace.

“So,” you said between bites, “this is your idea of a first date?”

Bucky smirked, taking a sip from his beer. “What, you don’t like fine rooftop dining with world-class views and five-star takeout?”

You laughed softly. “It’s perfect, actually.” And it was quiet, warm, and comfortable. After months of chaos and crisis management, it felt like peace.

He watched you for a moment, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You know,” he said finally, “when Val first told us we were getting a PR manager, I thought you were gonna be another suit trying to make us look less dangerous.”

“Oh, I do wear suits and I am trying to make you look less dangerous,” you teased. “It’s literally my job.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but you make it feel like it’s more than that. Usually that comes along with making us act like people we aren't. But you see us like we’re not just… weapons. Like maybe we’re actually worth saving.”

You met his gaze then, steady and honest. “You are.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than you expected, truer than either of you probably meant to let on.

He shifted closer, his metal hand brushing against yours. “And you,” he said softly, “you’re something else entirely.”

You smiled, heart fluttering as he leaned in, closing the small space between you until your foreheads touched. “You gonna kiss me again, Barnes?” you whispered.

He grinned, voice low. “That depends. You gonna let me?”

You tilted your chin up in answer, and this time, the kiss was slow, sure, certain. There was no chaos to interrupt, no audience, no mission to run off to. Just him and you and the city stretching out below you.

The next morning, Valentina’s voice echoed through the tower’s intercom.

“Thunderbolts, team meeting in five. And someone tell our PR manager she’s giving the press briefing this afternoon.”

Groans erupted across the floor, making you laugh, there were no groans from Bucky, who was quietly sipping coffee beside you on the couch. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll make sure they behave.”

You gave him a look. “You promise?”

He smiled. “I’ll even confiscate Alexei’s knives before the meeting.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Wow. You must really like me or something.”

He grinned wider. “I guess I’m doing pretty good at this boyfriend thing.”

You froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking up to his — the word hung between you, daring and soft.

“Boyfriend, huh?” you teased, pretending to be casual.

He smirked. “You objecting?”

You leaned in, stealing a quick kiss before anyone could walk in. “Not even a little.”

By the time the team assembled in the common room, they were half-dressed, half-awake, and already bickering. Bucky’s arm brushed against yours as you stood before them, iPad in hand, ready to do what you did best: make sense of the chaos.

And when Yelena leaned over to whisper, “So, is this a thing now? You and Grandpa Barnes?”

You just smiled and said, “Let’s call it… good publicity.”

Bucky caught your eye across the room, that same small smile tugging at the corner of his lips you adored.

And for the first time since joining the Thunderbolts, you realized you didn’t just manage the team anymore.