Just a lover of James Buchanan Barnes

It was becoming a problem.

He noticed the way you tied your hair up when the heat got unbearable, twisting it off your neck with one hand while holding your drink in the other. He noticed how you always hummed along to songs before you remembered the lyrics. He noticed that when you laughed too hard, you leaned forward like your joy was too big to keep upright.

Worst of all, he noticed that you looked for him.

In crowded rooms. Across Sam’s backyard. Through the steam rising off the grill and the buzz of cicadas in the trees. Your eyes would find his, quick and bright, then flick away like you had not meant to get caught.

But Bucky always caught it because he had been looking too.

Tonight was no different.

The summer air hung warm and honey-thick around Sam’s place, the kind of heat that made everyone lazy and loud. Someone had dragged a speaker out onto the porch. Music spilled into the yard, all electric longing and restless devotion, a song made for open windows and reckless hearts.

You were barefoot in the grass.

That was the first thing Bucky noticed.

Not the fireflies blinking near the fence. Not Sam arguing with Sarah over whether he had burned the burgers. Not Joaquin trying to balance three paper plates on one arm.

You.

Barefoot. Laughing. Holding a melting popsicle between your fingers, your lips stained cherry red.

Bucky forgot how to breathe for half a second. Which was stupid. He had seen worse things than a pretty mouth in July.

Still.

His brain went quiet in a way it rarely did, all the static softening into one clear thought.

There you are.

You looked up then, as if you had heard him.

Across the yard, your smile changed.

It was small at first. Just the corner of your mouth lifting. Then it grew warmer, private in a way that made Bucky’s chest feel too tight beneath his shirt.

He looked away.

Coward.

“Man,” Sam said beside him, flipping a spatula in his hand. “You are pathetic.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m standing here.”

“Exactly. Standing. Brooding. Making tragic little eyes across my yard.”

“I don’t make tragic little eyes.”

Sam snorted. “You make museum-quality tragic little eyes.”

Bucky took the beer from Sam’s hand and drank from it out of spite.

Sam didn’t even blink. “That was mine.”

“Was.”

Across the yard, you laughed at something Joaquin said, but your gaze slipped back to Bucky again. This time, you didn’t look away as quickly.

Neither did he.

The whole yard seemed to blur at the edges.

You lifted the popsicle in a tiny salute.

Bucky’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.

Sam groaned. “Go talk to her before the grass catches fire from all this unresolved tension.”

Bucky handed the beer back. “You always this dramatic?”

“Only when two emotionally constipated people are ruining my barbecue.”

Bucky ignored him or tried to. But his feet were already moving.

Each step across the yard felt ridiculous. He had crossed battlefields with steadier nerves. He had walked into gunfire. He had faced monsters and gods and men who thought themselves both.

And somehow, walking toward you with the sun setting behind your shoulders made his pulse kick like a drum.

You watched him come closer.

That was the thing that ruined him. You didn’t glance around. Didn’t pretend you hadn't been waiting. You just stood there in the grass, cherry red smile softening into something sweeter, something almost shy.

“Hi, Barnes,” you said.

“Hi.”

Terrible start.

One word. He had eighty years of languages, mission reports, coded phrases, and poetry somewhere in his head, and all he managed was hi.

Your smile widened like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “You having fun?”

He looked over his shoulder at Sam, who was very obviously watching while pretending to inspect burger buns.

“Fun might be generous.”

“You smiled at least twice.”

“Maybe it was heatstroke.”

You laughed, and there it was again. That feeling. A door opening somewhere in him that he had sworn was sealed shut.

You held out the popsicle. “Want some?”

Bucky stared at it, then at you.

Your fingers were sticky. The thing was melting down your wrist. A drop of red sugar slid toward your palm, and Bucky’s mind, traitorous and unhelpful, noticed the movement with far too much attention.

“No,” he said quickly.

Your eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Scared of germs, Sergeant?”

“Scared of you.”

That slipped out before he could stop it.

The air changed.

Your teasing expression softened, the laughter fading from your eyes but not the warmth. You lowered the popsicle, suddenly still.

Bucky wished he could take it back... no, he didn’t.

That was the problem. He didn’t want to take any of it back. Not the looking. Not the wanting. Not the quiet ache that had been building in him for weeks every time you said his name like it belonged in your mouth.

You glanced down, lashes hiding your eyes. “You shouldn’t be.”

Bucky’s voice came out low. “I know.”

“Do you?”

He swallowed.

The music shifted behind you, the song swelling into something bright and desperate. Summer folded itself around the two of you, warm wind moving through the trees, cicadas buzzing like tiny live wires, fireflies sparking gold in the grass.

Bucky stepped closer.

Not much. Just enough that he could smell sunscreen on your skin, sugar on your fingers, the faint clean scent of your shampoo underneath the smoke from the grill.

Your breath caught.

He noticed that too.

“Doll,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to his.

The nickname landed differently this time. Not casual. Not easy. It hung between you, soft and trembling, waiting to see if either of you would be brave enough to touch it.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His name in your voice nearly undid him.

He had heard his name shouted. Ordered. Begged. Cursed. He had heard it through radios and nightmares and hospital rooms. But this was different.

This was summer-warm. This was wanting. This was you.

Bucky’s hand flexed at his side. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

You did not blink. “I don’t want you to stop.”

The words hit him clean through the ribs.

Behind him, someone laughed too loudly. A plate clattered. Sam yelled something about burger integrity. The world continued, careless and alive.

But Bucky could not hear much past the blood rushing in his ears.

“You sure?” he asked.

Your smile trembled at the edge, nervous and hopeful all at once. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

Bucky let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in him for years.

He raised his hand slowly. You leaned into the space between you, your eyes fluttering when his knuckles brushed your cheek.

Soft.

You were so soft.

It terrified him. It made him want to be soft too.

His thumb swept lightly beneath your cheekbone. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

A helpless laugh escaped him, quiet and disbelieving.

Your smile turned radiant.

There, that was the moment.

Not the kiss. Not yet.

The moment before.

The breath before the match struck. Your face tipped up toward his. His hand at your cheek. The music spilling into the pink-orange dusk. The summer heat pressing close, turning the air molten.

Bucky leaned in slowly. So slowly he felt every inch of it.

Your eyes closed first.

That nearly killed him.

Then his mouth touched yours.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question. Your lips were warm, tasting faintly of cherry sugar, and Bucky felt the shock of it all the way down to his bones. Not sharp. Not violent. Just bright.

A sparkler in his chest.

Then you sighed against him. That tiny sound broke something loose.

Bucky stepped closer, his other hand finding your waist with careful reverence. You leaned into him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and the kiss deepened just enough to become an answer.

Yes.

Yes, this.

Yes, you.

The yard disappeared. The years disappeared. For one impossible second, there was no past waiting behind his eyes. No cold. No ghosts. No weight dragging at his name.

There was only your hand over his heart. Only the warm press of your mouth.

Only the dizzy, golden thought that maybe he had not been made solely to survive. Maybe he had been made for this too. For a summer evening. For a kiss that tasted like sugar and courage. For wanting someone and being wanted back without either of you having to run from it.

When you pulled away, it was barely far enough to breathe. Your forehead rested against his. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt.

Bucky opened his eyes and found you already looking at him.

You looked stunned.

He probably did too.

“Hi,” you whispered again, breathless.

This time, Bucky smiled. A real one.

“Hi, doll.”

Your laugh came out soft and shaky, and Bucky wanted to kiss that too.

So he did.

Just once. Quick and sweet. Enough to make you smile against his mouth.

From across the yard, Sam shouted, “Finally!”

The entire barbecue erupted into noise.

You buried your face against Bucky’s chest with a groan. “I’m moving. I have to leave the country now.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, smiling into your hair. “I know a guy.”

You laughed, muffled against him. “You’re supposed to say no.”

“I’m considering my options.”

You tilted your head back, eyes bright with embarrassment and happiness and something so tender it made his throat ache. “Was that okay?”

Bucky stared at you.

The sun had nearly vanished, leaving gold caught in your lashes. The music was still playing. Sam was still yelling. The popsicle had melted completely, forgotten in the grass.

Bucky brushed his thumb over your cheek again.

“Best part of my summer,” he said.

Your smile went soft.

And Bucky Barnes, who had spent so much of his life bracing for winter, stood barefoot in the warm grass with you in his arms and let himself believe, just for tonight, that some things were allowed to last.

A faint, sleepy babble. Followed by a hushed, familiar voice.

“Hey, hey… easy there, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

You sit up slowly, pushing the covers back, careful not to make the mattress creak. The bedroom door is cracked open, and through it, you can see the hallway—just enough to catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair.

Bucky.

He’s standing just outside the nursery, one large hand braced against the doorframe like he needs the support. The other arm is cradling your daughter against his chest, her tiny body bundled in soft cotton pajamas with little yellow ducks on them.

She’s wide awake and it's barely seven in the morning. 

“She’s got your timing,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep as you pad quietly toward them.

Bucky glances up at the sound of your voice, and the look on his face—God, it gets you every time.

Soft. A little tired. Completely, utterly in love.

“There you are,” he says, just above a whisper, like speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “Was gonna let you sleep.”

You lean into his side, resting your head briefly against his shoulder before peeking down at your daughter. She blinks up at you with wide, curious eyes, her tiny fist tangled in the collar of Bucky’s shirt.

“Hi, baby,” you coo, brushing your fingers over her cheek. “You waking up early again, huh?”

She responds with a delighted little noise, kicking one leg against Bucky’s stomach.

He huffs a quiet laugh, adjusting his hold on her automatically. Effortlessly.

You remember when he was afraid to even touch her.

Now, he moves like he was made for this.

“She wouldn’t settle back down,” he explains softly. “Figured I’d walk her a bit. Didn’t want her cryin’ and wakin’ you.”

You hum, watching the way his thumb strokes absentminded circles along her back. The way his metal arm stays tucked close, careful, controlled, while his flesh hand does all the gentle work.

He still does that. Even now.

“You can wake me, Buck,” you say gently.

“I know.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just… you do enough. Thought I could take this one.”

Your heart squeezes.

“You always take more than ‘one,’” you tease quietly.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile.

“She’s got lungs,” he mutters. “Didn’t think something that small could be that loud.”

As if on cue, your daughter lets out a happy squeal, waving her arms like she’s proving his point.

You both freeze.

Then you laugh—soft and breathy, trying not to encourage her too much.

“Okay, maybe she gets that from you,” you whisper.

“Me?” he scoffs, though it’s barely audible. “I was a perfect angel.”

“Mm. Sure you were.”

He shifts his weight, glancing back toward the nursery. “You wanna go back to bed? I got her.”

You hesitate.

There’s a part of you that wants to say yes—to curl back up under the covers and steal another hour of sleep. But then you look at him again.

At the way he’s holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

At the quiet pride in his posture. The carefulness. The awe that still hasn’t faded, even months later.

You shake your head.

“No,” you say softly. “I wanna stay.”

His eyes flick back to yours, something warm settling in them.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needs.

You reach out, gently smoothing down a tuft of your daughter’s hair. She grabs your finger instantly, her tiny hand impossibly warm and strong.

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger already,” you murmur.

Bucky snorts quietly. “Had me the second I heard her cry.”

Your throat tightens.

You remember that moment too.

The way he had stood beside the hospital bed, completely frozen, like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like one wrong step might break everything.

And then she cried.

And something in him just shifted.

“I didn’t think I’d be good at this,” he admits suddenly, voice lower now. More vulnerable. “Still don’t, some days.”

You look at him, really look at him.

At the man who survived a century of war and pain and came out the other side still capable of this kind of tenderness.

“You’re kidding, right?” you say softly.

He shakes his head, eyes dropping back to your daughter. “I just… I don’t wanna mess her up. Don’t wanna—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

You step closer, pressing your palm gently to his chest.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

He does.

“You’re not him,” you say, firm but soft. “You’re not your past. You’re her dad.”

His breath catches.

“And you’re the best one she could’ve gotten.”

For a moment, he just stares at you.

Then his shoulders drop, tension easing in a way that tells you he needed to hear that more than he’ll ever admit.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Your daughter lets out another happy noise, like she’s agreeing.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Guess that settles it,” he says.

You lean into him again, the three of you standing there in the soft morning light, wrapped in a kind of peace that feels almost surreal.

“C’mon,” you whisper after a moment. “Let’s get some coffee before she decides we’re done being quiet.”

He grins—really grins this time.

“Too late for that, I think.”

As if she understands, your daughter squeals again, louder this time.

You both laugh.

And just like that, the quiet is gone.

💤 FALLING ASLEEP ON THEM unintentional closeness → realization / softness / caretaking 💤 "Have a nice nap?" / "I thought you were going to sleep forever." / "Shh, go back to sleep baby."

🌙 GOLDEN HOUR that in between moment → realization scenes / soft almosts / quiet tension 🌙 “It’s weird… everything looks different right now. You do too.” / “If I say something, will it ruin this?” / “We should probably go. - Yeah… just—give me a second.”

🧺 PICNIC BASKET something hidden inside → secrets revealed / gifts / unexpected confessions 🧺 “That wasn’t in there earlier. - “Yeah. I didn’t know how to give it to you.” / “You brought this… for me?” / “If I show you, you can’t pretend you didn’t see it.”

🪑SAVED SEAT someone always leaves space for you → quiet devotion / unspoken care / to be loved is to be known 🪑 “You always sit there. - Only when you’re here.” / “Was this—saved? - “It usually is.” / “I didn’t think you’d come. - “I didn’t think you’d leave me a spot.”

🌌 FIREWORKS ENDING silence after the noise → emotional comedown / realization / loneliness or peace 🌌 “It’s really quiet now.” / “I liked it better when I couldn’t hear myself think.” / “So… what happens after this?”

☀️ SUNBURN caretaking + vulnerability → tending to someone / soft touches / quiet intimacy ☀️ “Hold still—you’re gonna make it worse.” / “You don’t have to take care of me like this. - I know.” / “Does it hurt? - Not as much as you hovering.”

🍴 "TRY MINE" sharing food & sharing space → intimacy / trust / soft flirting 🍴 “Here—just take it. - “I could’ve asked. - You never do.” / “You always give me the better one.” / “Try it? For me?”

🪑 FOLD OUT CHAIRS side by side conversations → late-night talks / emotional honesty 🪑 “Funny how it’s easier to say things when we’re not looking at each other.” / “We’ve never actually talked about this, have we?” / “If I say it now, I can’t take it back.”

🛏️ AFTERNOON NAP lazy, quiet closeness → drifting in and out of sleep together / accidental cuddling 🛏️ “You’re still here. - “Wasn’t planning on moving.” / “Did I fall asleep on you? - “Yeah… didn’t mind.”/ “We should get up. -“In a minute.”

⏳ WAITING for them to show up + change → doubt / hope / payoff reunion ⏳“You said you’d come back.” / “I almost stopped waiting. - “Almost?” / “You’re late. - “I know. I’m still here.”

🧃 JUICE BOX playful, youthful energy → carefree chaos / laughter / childhood nostalgia 🧃 “You just sprayed that everywhere. - Worth it.” / “When did we start acting like kids again?” / “Don’t laugh—I’m serious. - “That’s the problem.”

🌾 TALL GRASS half-hidden, tucked away → private conversations / secret kisses / hiding from others 🌾 “No one can see us out here.” / “We shouldn’t be hiding. - “Then why are we?” / “It feels different when it’s just us.”

🕶️ SUNGLASSES seeing + not seeing → stolen glances / hiding feelings / perception vs reality 🕶️ “I can tell you’re staring. - You can’t even see my eyes.” / “You hide behind those a lot. - “Maybe I need to.” / “Take them off. - “Why?“ - So I know what you’re thinking.”

🧁 CUPCAKES small celebrations → “it’s not a big deal” birthdays / quiet milestones / soft surprises 🧁 “It’s not a big deal. - “Then why’d you remember?” / “You got these for me? - “Don’t make it weird.” / “Make a wish. - “You already know what it is.”

🪵 WOODEN FENCE leaning, waiting → watching from afar / longing / quiet observation 🪵 “You’ve been standing there a while.” / “I didn’t think you’d notice me.” / “You always look like you’re about to leave.”

🧂 POTATO CHIPS light, messy, impossible to eat just one → casual closeness / reaching into the same bag / lingering touches 🧂 “You’re gonna finish the whole bag. - “Watch me.” / "My hand was already there. - “So was mine.” / “You don’t mind sharing? - Not with you.”

🎆 FIREWORKS big emotions, louder than expected → confessions / overwhelm / emotional release 🎆 “I can’t hear you—what did you say?” / “I said I—” boom / “Fine. I’ll say it again.”

🍽️ PAPER PLATES temporary but meaningful → fleeting moments that still matter / this won’t last, but it’s real 🍽️ “This is kind of temporary, isn’t it?” / “Does it matter if it is?” / “I think I’d still choose this.”

🔕 MISSED CALL almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been 🔕 “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.” / “You were supposed to be there.”

🍦MELTING ICE CREAM time running out + fleeting moment → rushed confession / “before it’s too late” energy 🍦 “It’s gonna melt. - “Then say it faster.” / “We’re running out of time. - “Then don’t waste it.” / “Just—before it’s gone…”

💫 WATCHING THE STARS TOGETHER sneaky love + soft touches → falling asleep together / naming the stars after each other / forced (welcomed) proximity 💫 “That one’s yours. - “You can’t just claim stars.” / “You’re closer than you think.” / “If we stay like this, I might fall asleep. - “Then stay.”

⛺ BONFIRE warmth in the dark → storytelling / vulnerability / shared silence ⛺ “You don’t have to tell the whole story.” / “It’s easier in the dark.” / “I didn’t think anyone was listening. - “I always am.”

🌊 LATE NIGHT LAKE SWIM daring love + hidden feelings → romantic tension / almost confessions 🌊 “It’s freezing. - “You jumped in first.” / “You look different out here.” / “If I say something stupid, blame the cold water.”

🍯 HONEY slow, golden, lingering → drawn-out tension / soft touches that last too long 🍯 “You’re taking your time. - “I’m not in a hurry.” / “You always do that—linger.” / “Say it already. - “Not yet.”

🎇 FIRECRACKER sudden, sharp reaction → arguments / impulsive confessions / tension snapping 🎇 “Why are you acting like this?” / “Because you won’t just say it!” / “Fine—then listen.”

📸 DISPOSABLE CAMERA captured moments → memories / realizing feelings after the fact / almost too late 📸 “Don’t delete that. - “I wasn’t going to.” / “You kept all of these? - “Every single one.” / “That’s when it started, wasn’t it?”

🌧️ SUDDEN RAIN plans interrupted → running for cover / laughter / forced closeness 🌧️ “Run! - “Where?”/ “You’re soaked." -“So are you.” / “We should’ve checked the weather.” - “I’m glad we didn’t.”

🌳 SHADED TREE relief from the heat → safe space / emotional grounding / leaning on someone 🌳 “Come sit. You look like you need it.” / “It’s cooler here.” - “Stay, then.” / “You always find the quiet spots.”

🐜 ANTS tiny annoyance crowding into a big moment → interrupted confession / forced proximity / comedic tension 🐜“Don’t move—there’s—” / “Why are you so close?” - “Because you won’t stop moving.” / “This is not how I pictured this going.”

🍓 STRAWBERRIES soft, indulgent, a little romantic → feeding each other / quiet affection / yearning 🍓 “Here—try it like this.” / “You’re staring.” - “You make it hard not to.” / “You always give me the sweeter ones.”

✨ SPARKLERS brief but bright → momentary romance / realization of feelings / magical moment ✨ “It won’t last long.” / “Then don’t waste it.” / “Look at you—you’re glowing.”

🎡 CARNIVAL NEARBY distant music and lights → yearning / wanting something more / chasing a feeling 🎡 “We could go, you know.” - “Or we could stay.” / “You ever feel like you’re missing something?” / “I think this is enough.”

🍋 LEMONADE something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution 🍋 “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / “It gets better, I promise.” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."

💛 BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN aware of fleeting happiness + trying to memorize the moment → noticing details / fear of losing it 💛 “You’re doing that thing again.” - “What thing?” - “Trying not to forget.” / “Say something so I remember this right.” / “I wish I could pause this.”

📦 LEFTOVERS what’s left behind → memories / things unsaid / emotional residue 📦 “You can take this with you."/ “Feels weird packing it up." /“Not everything gets finished.”

☕ MORNING AFTER PICNIC soft aftermath → quiet conversation / reflection / “we should do this again” ☕ “We should probably talk about yesterday.” / “Do you have to go?” / “Same time next week?”

🧻 NAPKINS cleaning up a mess → vulnerability after something goes wrong / wiping tears / gentle care 🧻 “Hey—look at me.” / “It’s just a mess. We’ll fix it.” / “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”

🍉 WATERMELON sticky fingers, shared bites, sweetness that lingers → first kisses / almost kisses / teasing intimacy 🍉 “You’ve got juice all over your hands.” / “Then help me clean it.” / “You missed a spot.”

🍞BRUSHING NON-EXISTENT CRUMBS OFF crushing hard + scared to admit it → lingering touch / excuse for contact / care disguised as habit 🍞 “Hold still.” / “There’s nothing there.” - “I know.” / “You don’t have to find excuses.”

🌬️ SUMMER BREEZE soft, barely there → almost touches / words left unsaid / quiet longing 🌬️ “Did you feel that?” / “You almost touched me.” / “Almost doesn’t count.”

🚗 IN THE TRUCK BED open air, close proximity → stargazing / late-night talks / accidental intimacy 🚗 “There’s more space than I thought.” - “Not really.” / “You can lean if you want.” / “Don’t fall.” - “Then don’t move.”

🫙WATCHING THE FIREFLIES COME OUT summer crush → not realizing how close the other is / brushing hands 🫙 “You’re closer than you were a second ago.” / “Don’t scare them off.” / “I wasn’t looking at the fireflies.”

💬 OVERHEARD CONVERSATION something you weren’t supposed to hear → misunderstandings / accidental confessions 💬 “How long were you standing there?” / “Long enough.” / “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

🏡 BACKYARD LIGHTS soft glow at night → slow dancing / late-night confessions / lingering after everyone leaves 🏡 “Dance with me.” - “There’s no music.” - “There doesn’t have to be.” / “Stay until they turn off.” / “Just one more song.”

🎈WATER BALLOON FIGHT chaotic love + messy aftermath → picking pieces from their hair / hanging up wet clothes / sharing a towel 🎈 “You started it!” - “You escalated it!” / “You’re soaked.” - “So are you.” / “Come here—hold still.”

🥗 PASTA SALAD thrown together but somehow perfect → unlikely dynamics / found family / chaotic group settings 🥗 “This shouldn’t work, but it does.” / “Kind of like us.” / “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

🍒 CHERRIES sweet with a hint of tension → playful teasing / “tie the stem” flirting / building tension 🍒 “You’re not actually going to try that, are you?” / “Watch me.” / “You’re unbelievable.”

🧺 PACKING THE PICNIC preparation as love → doing things for someone before they even ask 🧺 “You already thought of everything.” / “I know what you like.” / “You didn’t have to do all this.” - “I wanted to.”

🌻 WILDFLOWERS simple, soft, meaningful → “i saw this and thought of you” / gentle love 🌻 “These aren’t anything special.” - “They are to me.” / “You picked these?” - “I saw them and—yeah.” / “You think of me when you’re not here?”

🌅 LAST SUMMER TOGETHER knowing it’s ending → goodbye energy / nostalgia / unresolved feelings 🌅 “Let’s not talk about what happens after.” / “Just this once, okay?” / “I’m going to miss this.”

🚶 WALKING AWAY choosing distance → self-protection / heartbreak / growth 🚶 “Don’t follow me.” / “If I stay again, I won’t leave at all.” / “This isn’t me giving up.”

🎶 PORTABLE RADIO music drifting through the air → dancing / memory-triggered moments / song-associated love 🎶 “You remember this song?” / “Don’t laugh—dance with me.” / “We used to—” - “I know.”

🥪 SANDWHICHES carefully made, quietly thoughtful → acts of service / knowing someone’s preferences / domestic intimacy 🥪 “You cut the crusts off.” - “You hate them.” / “You remembered that?” / “I always do.”

🤝 “WE'RE JUST FRIENDS” until it’s clearly not → blurred lines / tension / denial 🤝 “We’re not doing anything wrong.” / “Then why does it feel like we are?” / “Say it—we’re just friends.”

🧊 COOLER what’s kept hidden → secrets / things unsaid / emotional walls 🧊 “What else are you keeping in there?” / “Stuff you’re not ready for.” / “You don’t have to hide it from me."

✨ anything else i should know? just this: take your time, enjoy the process, and don’t overthink it

this collab is about capturing a feeling. something warm, fleeting, and worth holding onto 🌼

for any more questions/curiosities feel free to send a message my way so we can figure it out! thank you all so much and i can't wait to see what you guys write!

throwing a few tags out there, don't feel pressured into doing anything i just thought i would spread the word and make the blanket big enough for us all ✨

There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.

Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.

Wake up.

Coffee.

Work.

Dinner.

Sleep.

Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.

The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”

You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.

You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.

You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.

The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.

You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.

You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re brooding.”

He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”

You snort.

The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.

Byline: James Buchanan Barnes. Poet.

You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.

The same way you still need proof sometimes too.

Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.

“What’s that face?”

“What face?”

“That one.”

You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”

He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.

“You abandoned the poem?”

“Yeah.”

“That serious?”

“Very.”

You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Bucky—”

“Get your shoes on.”

You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

“That means pajamas.”

“That means adventure.”

“You sound like a children’s television host.”

He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”

You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”

His mouth twitches.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”

“What look?”

“The one where you disappear into your own head.”

Your chest tightens a little at that.

Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.

He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.

You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”

Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.

“That’s the spirit.”

The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.

Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.

Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“Nope.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You already agreed.”

“You manipulated me emotionally.”

“I used my charm.”

You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”

“They can be.”

You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.

He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.

“Oh.”

“Told you I had a plan.”

“You brought me here because I looked sad?”

“You looked existential.”

“That’s worse.”

The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.

Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.

“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”

“He called you my wife last week.”

“And did you correct him?”

Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.

You watch him for a second too long.

God.

You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.

The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.

“Live a little,” he says solemnly.

“You sound eighty years old.”

“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”

The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.

You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.

“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.

He turns his head slightly.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

You pull your sleeves over your hands.

“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”

“You know what I did today?”

“What?”

“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”

Your mouth twitches.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Nope.”

You lean against him more fully.

“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.

The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.

“You remember that first summer?”

You smile faintly. “Obviously.”

“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”

“You were scared.”

That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.

“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”

You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”

He laughs quietly.

“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”

The wind shifts colder around you.

You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.

Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.

Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”

“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”

You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.

The drive home feels lighter.

You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.

“Cover your eyes.”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re driving.”

“I know where we are.”

“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”

“Baby.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.

“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”

“She already steals your books.”

“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”

Bucky laughs under his breath.

You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.

The engine cuts.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”

“This is how horror movies start.”

He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.

You let him guide you carefully forward.

“One sec,” he murmurs.

There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.

“Okay. Open.”

You uncover your eyes and blink.

Animal shelter.

Your brain takes a full second to catch up.

“…Bucky.”

He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.

“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”

“Bucky.”

He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.

Cats.

Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.

Your chest physically aches.

“You brought me to adopt a cat?”

His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”

Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.

This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.

Now.

In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.

You look back at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”

You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.

“Is that a yes?”

“You knew it was a yes.”

Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.

Then—

You see her.

A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.

One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.

The tag reads: ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.

“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.

Bucky immediately falls in love.

“I think she’s perfect.”

Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.

You stare.

“Oh, so she chose immediately.”

Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.

“You jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.

“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.

Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.

This ordinary beautiful life.

You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.

Bucky glances up and catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head softly.

“Nothing.”

But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.

“What is it?”

You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.

Then back at him.

“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”

Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.

He cups your jaw gently.

“Yeah, baby?”

You nod.

Masterlist.

Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.

You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.

With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.

The positive pregnancy test.

The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.

You had no idea what to do.

During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.

And yet, there you were.

Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.

The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.

Your heart was beating too fast.

The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.

His expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.

His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.

That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.

The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time seemed to stand still.

A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.

You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.

“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”

As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.

“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.

The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.

He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.

That night.

The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.

In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.

Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.

You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.

But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.

The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.

He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.

“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.

There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.

You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.

For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.

It didn’t happen.

The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.

You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.

☆

The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.

You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.

Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.

Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.

The positive test.

Bucky’s expression when you told him.

The way he’d let go of your hand.

And, above all, the door closing behind him.

It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.

Five hours without a call.

Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”

The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.

You were worried about him.

You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.

He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.

And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.

Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.

About what that new life growing inside your body meant.

About how it would change your future.

About whether you would be able to handle it.

About whether you would be alone.

A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.

And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.

You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.

The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.

Silence settled between you once more.

You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.

But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.

His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.

He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.

He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.

The warm glow instantly filled every corner.

You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.

Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.

Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.

With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.

The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.

He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.

Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.

Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.

“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.

“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”

The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.

“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.

“I was never good at this.”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.

The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.

Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.

He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.

For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.

You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.

“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

The question hung between you.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.

He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.

"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.

It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.

He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."

☆

The next day, the uncertainty was still there.

After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.

It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.

After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.

An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.

When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.

You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.

He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.

He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.

The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.

The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.

Week 4—Poppy seed.

Week 6—Lentil.

Week 7—Chickpea.

Week 8—Cherry.

Week 9—Olive.

And the weeks and illustrations went on.

The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.

You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.

Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.

He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.

When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.

Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.

Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.

The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.

The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.

The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.

To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.

To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.

You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

It was strange and overwhelming for him.

A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.

The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.

Maybe the test had failed after all.

Maybe your period was just coming soon.

Maybe...

“There it is.”

Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.

She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.

“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a false positive.

It was real.

Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.

His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.

The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.

Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.

At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.

He looked completely vulnerable.

And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.

It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.

“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.

The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.

“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”

You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.

Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.

Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask any questions.

He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.

☆

The days that followed weren't easy.

Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.

You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.

But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.

Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.

He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.

He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.

Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.

It was his way of saying he was still there.

There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.

You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.

Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.

They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.

For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.

But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.

It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.

It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.

Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.

Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.

He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.

The words remained trapped inside him.

He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.

The nights were the worst.

There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.

You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.

Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.

You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.

You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.

The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.

You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.

That was all.

A tiny speck.

And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.

What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.

Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.

He didn’t interrupt.

He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.

He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.

A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.

He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.

He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.

You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.

According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.

It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.

For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.

You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.

Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.

You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.

It was something else.

A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.

It was hope.

Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.

They weren’t tears of anguish.

Not entirely.

They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.

“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

The decision was made.

The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.

☆

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.

The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.

He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.

You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.

The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.

“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.

He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.

“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.

For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.

It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.

A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.

But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.

It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.

The faint trace of his smile vanished.

The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.

“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.

Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.

Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”

Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.

Bucky remained completely still.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

His expression didn’t change.

He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.

Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.

His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.

Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.

It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.

He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.

He wanted that pregnancy to continue.

He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.

He wanted to meet that little life.

He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.

He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.

He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.

He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.

He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.

He had allowed himself to imagine a home.

And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.

The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.

What if he didn’t know how to be a father?

What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?

What if his past caught up with them?

What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?

What if her children deserved a different father?

He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.

He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.

When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.

How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?

How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?

The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.

He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.

His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.

That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.

For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.

Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.

His breath caught.

He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.

His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.

He slowly shook his head.

He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.

The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.

“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.

“Don’t think that.”

His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.

“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”

That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.

“I’m scared. Really scared.”

He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.

Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.

His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.

His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.

You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.

Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.

“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”

For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.

Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.

“I want to meet our little one.”

The words hung between you.

Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”

His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.

“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”

He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.

“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.

You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”

You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.

They stayed like that for several long minutes.

Without speaking.

Without moving.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.

They would face it together.

A man does the work.

A man holds himself over you, keeps his weight off your body, kisses your forehead, tells you, “I got you, sweetheart,” and makes damn sure you feel good before he even thinks about himself.

And honestly, you're not really complaining.

Because Bucky on top of you is a religious experience. Bucky with his hair falling around his face, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand curled around your waist, jaw clenched like he’s barely surviving the pleasure is a wonderful thing, 10/10 would recommend finding your own super soldier to do this with.

He loves seeing you under him. He loves when your head tips back, loves when your hands clutch at his shoulders. Loves when your eyes go glassy and unfocused because he’s taking care of you exactly the way he promised he would.

It’s sweet and hot and very gentlemanly in that old-fashioned, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart, that’s my job” sort of way.

And you love him for it.

But, unfortunately for Bucky and his entire masculine self-concept, you also like being an active participant in bed.

You like touching, teasing, taking. You like making him react. You like not just being adored, but getting to adore him back.

So one night, after he has once again kissed you breathless and settled himself between your thighs, you put a hand on his chest.

He stops immediately.

His eyes snap up to yours, alert and worried. “You okay?”

You almost laugh because he is so serious about your sex life. Still, you push gently at his chest and say, “Lie down.”

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“Lie down,” you repeat, smiling. “Let me take care of you.”

And ohm the look on his face.

It’s not reluctance, exactly. It’s confusion in some very outdated idea of what he is supposed to be. “Sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” You kiss him once, “I want to.”

That does something to him.

And because Bucky trusts you, he lies back.

And then you climb over him.

And James Buchanan Barnes, six-foot-something super soldier, man with a vibranium arm and a kill count he refuses to talk about, looks up at you like he has just discovered God is real and she’s sitting on his lap.

The first time you ride him, he loses his mind.

There is no dignified way to say it.

His hands go to your hips first. Then his gaze drops, and his eyes nearly roll back because the view is good.

You know the view is good.

You can feel the way he reacts to it, see his throat work when you start moving. Your hands on his chest. Your body over his. The roll of your hips. The way you smile when you realize he’s already fighting for his life.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

And that is when the power starts going to your head.

Because Bucky Barnes under you? Bucky Barnes  breathless beneath you? Bucky Barnes, who can flip cars and tear through reinforced doors and take down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat, looking up at you with parted lips and blown-wide pupils because you have him pinned to the bed with nothing but your thighs and your audacity?

It makes you drunk with lust. Drunk with power. Drunk on the knowledge that you can tame him. That this beautiful nightmare of a man is lying beneath you, moaning your name.

Of course, at first, he tries to help.

Because he’s Bucky and therefore doesn’t know how to simply receive.

You start riding him properly, slow at first, finding the rhythm, enjoying the way his hands flex against your skin, and then his hips snap up hard. 

You laugh, breathless and a little wrecked, and press your hands harder to his chest.

“No.”

Bucky freezes. “No?”

“No,” you say, leaning down until your lips brushes his. “Stop trying to do my job.”

His looks confused, flustered, and turned on beyond belief. “I was just—”

“I know what you were doing.” You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You were trying to take over.”

He swallows.

You sit back up, roll your hips deliberately, and watch his head press back into the pillow. “Let me ride you, Barnes.”

That shuts him up for about three seconds.

Then he makes a growl so deep and broken you feel it everywhere.

And that is how it begins: The glorious corruption of all his old-fashioned little ideas about what a man is supposed to do in bed.

Because once he realizes he is allowed to just lie there and let you want him, let you use him, let you take pleasure from his body while he gets to watch you come undone above him, he becomes addicted to it.

At first, he is almost shy about it.

He still offers to get on top. Still murmurs, “C’mere, sweetheart, let me take care of you,” because that is his default setting. That’s muscle memory. But then you push him back again.

And again.

And again.

And every time, he gives in a little faster.

Until eventually, it takes almost nothing.

All it takes is a hand on his chest and a “Lie back for me, baby.”

And Bucky’s gone.

He’s on his back, pillows messy behind his head, hair spread out, lips parted, eyes dark and dazed and fixed on you.

He is still strong, obviously. You never forget that. You know he could flip you over in a second. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to. 

You love it so much it makes you a little insane.

You love watching the terrifying Winter Soldier become your sweet, desperate, ruined man in bed. You love the way his hands hover when you tell him not to touch yet. You love the way he groans when you finally guide them to your waist. You love that he blushes sometimes.

Actually blushes.

This man has survived wars and assassins and brainwashing and aliens, but you tell him he looks pretty like this and he turns pink to the tips of his ears.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, even though his hands tighten on you.

“Why not?”

His jaw works. “Because.”

“Because you like it?”

He glares at you.

It is not intimidating at all, considering he’s underneath you, panting and letting you set the pace.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says.

You grin. “Yes.”

You enjoy it too much. You enjoy him too much.

It’s not really just about sex, either. 

It’s about trust.

It’s Bucky letting himself be wanted without earning it through service. It’s him learning that taking care of you doesn’t always mean doing all the work. 

And fuck, does he learn.

He learns a little too well, maybe.

Because now he has preferences.

Now he has the audacity to look at you from the bed with those big, tragic blue eyes and his hair already messy against the pillow. He reaches for you lazily and says, “You coming here or not?”

He knows what it does to you when he lets the metal arm rest above his head, when his shirt rides up, when he looks at you like he’s already waiting to be ruined.

He’s still a gentleman about it.

He says please.

He says thank you against your mouth afterward, which should not be as hot as it is.

He still checks on you, pulls you close and rubs your back and kisses your shoulder and asks if you need water. 

Sometimes, sure, he gets on top when you ask. Sometimes you want him over you, want that old Bucky sweetness, the low murmur of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you. And he gives it to you instantly. 

But even then, there is a difference now.

Because that’s not his default setting anymore.

His default is now being told to lie down, because he likes being ridden until he forgets how to speak.

Bucky Barnes may have started out convinced he needed to be on top because that was what a man was supposed to do.

But now, more often than not, he is your pillow princess.

And honestly, he has never looked better.

—

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.  

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes. 

The former Winter Soldier. 

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected. 

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.  

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.  

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities. 

Now, he was drawn to the past. 

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of. 

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings. 

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory. 

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought. 

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time. 

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer. 

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.  

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop. 

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it. 

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare. 

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.  

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d  missed it—  its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.  

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.” 

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”  

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.  

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”  

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”  

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer. 

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.  

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.  

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”  

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. 

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.  

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.  

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.” 

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.  

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”  

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.  

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.  

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.  

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.  

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.  

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.  

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.  

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.  

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.  

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.  

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.  

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”  

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.  

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.  

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery. 

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”  

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”  

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”  

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”  

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”  

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.  

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?” 

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly. 

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”  

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”  

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”  

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”  

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”  

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”  

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”  

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.  

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”  

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”  

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed. 

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch. 

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”  

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.  

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”  

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.  

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.  

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”  

Shit.

He was right.  

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.  

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.  

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.  

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.  

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.  

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.  

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.  

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire. 

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears. 

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow. 

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp. 

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone. 

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals. 

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

Multi-Character Pairings

One Shots

Birds of a Feather (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader x Sam Wilson x Joaquin Torres)

You and Bucky were already in a committed relationship when you both fall in love with Sam. What happens when Joaquin comes into the picture and starts questioning his sexuality?

Bucky Barnes

One Shots

Beautiful Mess

Bucky tries to cook you a food you’ve been craving. It goes wrong, but it also goes right.

Almost Kisses

Bucky's kisses have become a daily part of your life together, but it wasn’t always that way.

All These Things That I've Done

In which Bucky leaves behind a loving note every time he goes on a mission. But what happens when you stumble on a letter not meant to be found… yet?

In Another Life

Bucky is certain you only see him as a friend. It only took him travelling to a different reality to realise otherwise.

Comfortable and Easy

You are the only person Bucky could ever spend a domestic evening with.

Bloodstains and Daydreams

You and Bucky fantasize about starting a family while tending to each other’s wounds.

Under my Skin

Bucky is always ready to give his girl cuddles.

Hot Chocolate?

Bucky wakes up from a nightmare and can’t find you.

Do Humans Dream of Normal Sheep?

Generations ago, your family was cursed to never sleep. Now that the curse is broken, Bucky helps you rest by telling you a bedtime story.

Of Black Ink and White Lillies

Bucky wants to get a tattoo, so he asks you for advice.

Morning Coffee

A short fic in which he makes you coffee every morning, without fail.

The Great Wave

Bucky would do anything to make his girl happy. He would even risk his life to get you the perfect gift.

Altar Ghosts

While on a mission with Bucky Barnes, you’re forced to confront your ex-fiancé, who left you at the altar. Bucky helps you realize you deserve far better than the man who broke your heart.

Happily Ever Eventually

Sam and Yelena are helping you and Bucky plan your wedding. 

Love in Full Bloom

Bucky thinks everything he touches dies, but the plants in your apartment prove otherwise.

Dangerous Game

Bucky Barnes is dating a trigger-happy antihero, and she has him wrapped around her finger. She’s just Bucky’s pretty girl, and he lets her get away with everything.

Temple

Bucky Barnes is struggling to say ‘I love you,’ so he says other things to make sure you know he cares.

Breaking Point

You and Bucky had always hated each other. When Bucky gets injured during a mission, you start wondering if the hatred was just masking something else.

Strays

Bucky has a soft spot for strays.

Soft Lights

A short fic in which you and Bucky get high together.

Kickoff

A short fic in which Bucky tries supporting your favourite football team.

Hypothetically: Version 1 / Version 2

The Thunderbolts* crew gossip about Bucky's love life / Your ragtag group of supernatural superheroes gossip about your love life. (A one-shot told in two perspectives!)

Sleeper

When Bucky falls in love with the antihero he’s sleeping with, he offers her a place in the Thunderbolts*.

Match

You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Full Throttle

Bucky thinks he hooked up with a really pretty mechanic. 

The Catalyst

In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.

Portals

You teach Bucky how to open portals using a sling ring. Turns out, he’s a menace with that thing.

Getaway

No one knows Bucky is dating an F1 driver until you show up in a getaway car for mission extraction.

Papercuts

You, a mutant loyal to Magneto, gets transported to a world where mutants don’t exist. As you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start questioning Magneto’s views and start embracing the ideas of your old teacher, Charles Xavier.

The Art of Thieving

Bucky starts investigating a series of art thefts… and starts helping the thief.

Back on Track

After a brutal crash during a race, Bucky won’t leave your bedside.

Word of the Day

A short fic in which you teach him modern slang words.

Depths

Bucky is an open book and you don’t trust anyone enough to reveal your past. What happens when Bucky insists you don’t have to go through it alone?

Armed and Dangerous

A short fic in which he gets an upgraded arm and it gives you (dirty) thoughts.

Alpine and the Alien

Your and Bucky’s cat, Alpine, fucks around and finds out. 

Snow

You love the snow. Bucky can’t stand it, but he can’t bring himself to tell you, either. 

The Land Shark

A short fic in which Bucky gets attached to Jeff the Land Shark. 

Loose Ends

Your husband, Bucky Barnes, finally meets your multiversal best friend, Wade Wilson.

Swipe Right

You matched with Bucky Barnes, your teammate, on a dating app.

Golden

Bucky watches the Golden Globes with you, only to be adorably jealous when your celebrity crush, Sebastian Stan, wins an award.

Irresistible

Falling in love with Bucky Barnes is a little complicated when you also happen to be Yelena’s ex-girlfriend. 

Devil's Backbone

When you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start hunting down anyone who has ever wronged him. What happens when he finds out? 

Dinner and Diatribes

Bucky has a crush on you… and your knives. Who knew weapons turned him on?

Autobot Dad

Bucky’s daughter loves the Transformers cartoons. She asks Bucky if he’s an autobot. 

Bloody Mary

When you inherit a criminal empire from your father, Bucky Barnes decides to investigate you. He hadn’t expected you to be so… charming.

Perception

Congressional Candidate Bucky Barnes starts sleeping with his campaign manager. What happens when he wants more than just sex?

Princess

You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

All American All-Star

Falling for the club’s American striker, Bucky Barnes, was never part of the plan— especially since your father happens to own the club. (Football/soccer au)

Better Man

Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.

The Congressman's Secretary

Bucky forgets his birthday. You, his secretary, remember.

Menace

A short fic in which he showers with one arm (and with you).

Smitten

Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

Midnight Zoomies

Your super soldier husband always gets a burst of energy after a mission.

Cheer Up, Barnes

When you go undercover as a Professional Cheerleader, Bucky’s thoughts become filthy.

The Lady, or The Tiger?

Bucky is in love with you, but he doesn't even know what you really look like. What happens when he finds out?

Sanctuary

Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love.

Siren

Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.

Praise

Bucky realises he has a praise kink after getting a tattoo. 

Jackass

Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Simplify

Bucky falls in love with his best friend's ex-girlfriend.

Spare Parts

Your boyfriend gets used to life with one arm.

Hypersonic Missiles

Congressman Barnes falls in love with a fiercely progressive senator. What happens when he starts regretting going into politics at all?

Have We Met Before?

America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe. 

Don't Touch the Tech Girl

Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.

Frostbites

Bucky found you injured in the middle of a snowstorm.

Hold On

Bucky has trouble holding hands until he meets you.

Small Circles

Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

The Beholder

Bucky Barnes struggles with intimacy. Perhaps, he just needed to see himself through your eyes.

Kindred Spirits

Bucky starts courting you, a woman out of time.

Today, of All Days

You were self-destructing. Then, you found Bucky.

Structural Integrity

Congressman Barnes has to move into your office because there’s a leak in his. 

Only Fools Rush In

Bucky accidentally ruins a big surprise, and you take it into your own hands.

Series / Multi-parts

Of Heroes and Heartstings Masterlist (Completed)

Bucky Barnes develops a crush on the researcher who interviewed him.

Waste a Moment Masterlist (Completed)

Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Dark Necessities Masterlist (Ongoing and Paused)

You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a primal bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic.

My Own Soul's Warning + Supporting Stories Masterlist (Ongoing)

This is a series of one-shots that revolve around you, a cosmic entity who falls in love with Bucky Barnes and sacrifices everything.

In Her Corner (completed)

Bucky had already found the love of his life in the 1940s— a boxer, just like him. But as a woman in a male-dominated sport, your success looks different from his. In the present day, Sam offers to help Bucky track your family down… never imagining you might still be alive.

Super Soldier Support Group (completed)

Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.

Spoils of War (ongoing)

Your father, the God of War, trained you to be his executioner— his weapon. When he assigns you a mission on Earth, you encounter Bucky, who helps you see yourself as more than a weapon. He offers you refuge and helps you go into hiding. Knowing that his favourite child has gone rogue, your father sends your half-brothers, Phobos and Deimos to bring you home.

Agatha Harkness

One Shots

To be Loved

A short fic in which Agatha makes sure you can never die.

Perfection

You and Agatha are on a perfect picnic date when its started raining. Why not dance in the rain?

Safe and Sound

You have been cursed. Agatha will stop at nothing to destroy the witch that cursed you.

Winter of 1984

Agatha always makes sure you fall asleep safe and warm in her arms, even as the coldest winter in generations raged on outside. 

Natasha Romanoff

One Shots

Muse

You are an artist, and your greatest muse is an assassin. 

Pirouette

Steve and Sam set Natasha up with a professional ballerina, but they already know each other. 

Sam Wilson

One Shots

The Future's Overdue

A year after breaking up with Sam Wilson, he shows up at your doorstep.

Use Somebody

It’s Valentine’s Day and neither you nor your best friend Sam has plans, so he invites you over for movie night.

Carol Danvers

One Shots

Peace and Quiet

A short fic in which Carol always seems to run off to save a distant galaxy before breakfast.

Johnny Storm

One Shots

Desk Light

Johnny Storm has a very obvious crush on a very oblivious diplomat.

Various blurbs and ideas!

Bucky, Steve, and Sam as dads

Bucky has a light up arm

Sub!Bucky headcanons

Happy and Bucky spend Christmas together