Malum - Forev

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

★ ─ manchild ( roommate!bucky, frenemies to lovers )

synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. ( 34.4k words )

★ ─ tears ( bf's older brother!bucky, childhood crush to lovers )

synopsis. bucky has been your ideal man since the fresh buds of puberty made your eager eyes gravitate towards his biceps: intelligent, considerate, good with his hands... his only flaw? he's your boyfriend's older brother.

★ ─ my man on willpower ( congressman!bucky, established relationship )

synopsis. in the blink of an eye, a couple has become a throuple: you, bucky, and politics. you've always been down for a threesome, but you're getting sick and tired of the government coming between you and bucky's sex life.

★ ─ sugar talking ( tinder crush!bucky, strangers to lovers )

synopsis. months of dancing around one another, never too far yet always just out of reach, comes to a head when you finally give your tinder crush an ultimatum: put your money where your mouth is, or i'm blocking you.

★ ─ we almost broke up again ( new avengers!bucky, make up sex )

synopsis. after a mission goes awry and voices are raised, the entire watch-tower is forced to reckon with the fallout of you and bucky's relationship. thus commences the rest of the team's ploy to get you back together.

★ ─ nobody's son ( dbf!bucky, age-gap )

synopsis. your relationships have a life-span of 3 months before it all goes to shit... so perhaps it's time you stop looking for someone's son, and set your eyes on someone's father.

★ ─ never getting laid ( ex-fiancé!bucky, romcom )

synopsis. being natasha's maid of honour comes with three simple rules: be civil, be polite, and please don't start an argument with steve's best-man. that's easier said than done when the best-man just so happens to be your ex-fiancé, bucky barnes.

★ ─ when did you get hot? ( surgeon!bucky, rivals to lovers )

synopsis. working as an anaesthesiologist is stressful enough, the last thing you need is an entitled surgeon breathing down your neck. too bad that's exactly what you get when your high school rival walks through the hospital doors and proclaims himself the new chief of your department. worst of all? bucky is hot now.

★ ─ go go juice ( best friend!bucky, friends to lovers )

synopsis. drunk, horny, and alone, you're on a mission to entice any old flame to come satisfy your needs. in a twist of fate, your thumb slips and suddenly you're begging your best friend to come screw the brains out of you.

★ ─ don't worry i'll make your worry ( knight!bucky, royal au )

synopsis. amidst royal balls and pleas for your hand in marriage, you strike up a dangerous affair with the man your father assigned to keep you safe... in your defence, his sword is really big.

★ ─ house tour ( tfatws!bucky, new relationship )

synopsis. you've finally been handed the keys to your new house, so naturally the next step is to host a house-warming. the guest list? one super soldier, and a mission to christen as many surfaces as you can.

★ ─ goodbye ( neighbour!bucky, fake dating au )

synopsis. tired of your ex showing up at your door with crumpled flowers and a plea to get back together, you accidentally drag your unsuspecting neighbour into a ploy of feigned affection and play-pretend dates.

They called them the New Avengers after the incident in New York City, so scripted it made Walker nearly choke on his own smirk. Fontaine smiled like a pageant mother, polished and venomous, announcing her monsters like debutantes. And Bucky, God help him, stood there and let it happen. He let the crowd clap. Let the name stick.

It was easier than trying to explain how little of himself he recognized in the man on stage.

They’re a mess of a team—Bob still witnessing horrors from the confines of his mind, Ava flickering in and out like her faith in the mission, Walker gritting his teeth and pretending that guilt makes him noble. Alexei drinks too much and talks too loud, and Yelena keeps her knives sharp, her exits mapped.

And Bucky leads them. Somehow. Quietly. Stoically.

He tells himself it’s because someone has to. But the truth is simpler: it’s because he doesn’t know how to stop. How to let the world spin without trying to hold it together with shaking hands.

Most nights, he doesn’t sleep. 

Sometimes he thinks about you.

Well. That’s a lie.

He thinks about you all the time.

.

He hasn’t spoken your name aloud in months, but it lives under his tongue anyway. Like the taste of old pennies. Like the first sip of whiskey after a long winter walk—hot, biting, familiar. He pretends he doesn’t still scan rooftops when he passes through small towns, doesn’t still look for the slant of your shoulders in crowded cafes or behind fences overgrown with honeysuckle. He pretends a lot of things.

There’s a photo saved in the notes app of his burner phone. Grainy, zoomed in too far, your back turned. Holding a chicken. You’d posted it on some burner account Sam found by accident—an alias, dumb and playful, like a name you would’ve given your first cat. The caption read: “One of us is emotionally stable and it’s not me.” You were laughing, he thinks. The picture didn’t show your face, but he knows your laugh. Remembers the way it sounded in his kitchen, too late at night, as you mocked his cooking and then sat in his lap to eat anyway. 

You’d asked him to come with you.

That was the part no one knew. Not Dr. Raynor, not Sam, not even Steve. You hadn’t just left—not just vanished in the quiet way operatives sometimes do when they’ve seen too much and breathed in too many fires that weren’t their own. You’d stood in front of him, shaking with restraint, and you’d said it.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Buck. I don’t want to keep pretending this is saving people.”

He’d looked at you like a man underwater, too slow to catch anything that wasn’t already halfway gone. You were all raw edges and conviction then—bloody-knuckled from a fight neither of you were supposed to be in, scraped up from dragging a kid out of a collapsed stairwell. He remembers how your hair was damp with rain, your voice calm in that terrifying, resolute way.

“Come with me,” you said.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a whisper. You weren’t a woman who begged. But it was the closest you’d ever come to laying yourself bare. And he’d heard it. Felt it. Let it pierce straight through him like a thread catching on old scar tissue.

He said nothing.

He watched your face crumble in the smallest, quietest ways—like a building set to implode from the inside—and still, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t give you anything except the same blank silence he always wore when he didn’t know how to be a person.

So you left. Took the bag already packed by the door. Didn’t even slam it. Just walked out with your shoulders squared and your heart in pieces, and didn’t look back.

He hadn’t meant to let you go. He just didn’t know how to say yes to something that felt like hope.

Because back then—God, back then he was still trying to figure out what wanting meant. Wanting something didn’t come naturally, not after years of being pointed like a weapon and told to fire. Wanting had been trained out of him. Beaten out. Frozen out.

And you—what you were offering—wasn’t just escape. It wasn’t a plane ticket or coordinates to some cabin in a country that didn’t ask questions. It was a future.

It was yours.

He’d have followed you anywhere if you’d asked in a way he could understand. But you weren’t built for manipulation, and he’d only ever been taught obedience.

So when you asked for something he couldn’t compartmentalize, couldn’t file into mission parameters or coded objectives—he froze. And then he nodded. Like a fucking coward.

Like he didn’t love you with every half-repaired piece of himself.

He thinks about that moment more than he admits. Thinks about what might’ve changed if he’d stood up and said, Yeah. Okay. Take me with you.

Last he heard, you were in Virginia. Somewhere with acreage and too much sun, where the satellites don’t reach so fast. Sam mentioned it once, offhand, like it was a rumor. “She’s got a cat now,” he’d said, like that was the most remarkable part.

Bucky can’t picture it. You, bent over a garden. You, reading in a quiet room. You, peaceful.

What he can picture is the last time he saw you. Rain. A motel. The quiet war of your backs turned to one another. You didn’t yell. You didn’t ask him to fight for you.

And he hadn’t.

You’d left behind a sweatshirt in his duffel. Navy, worn thin at the cuffs. He wears it now, sometimes, under the leather and the Kevlar, tucked close to skin like a secret.

.

There was the time when you brought up the courthouse on the Q train, just south of Atlantic Avenue. It’s late, and the subway car is near empty, all plastic echo and tired fluorescent buzz. A woman with too many plastic bags sleeps across from you both, mouth parted in a way that makes Bucky look away politely, as if modesty is still a reflex he knows how to honor.

Your hand is on top of his. Fingertips warm. Your thumb stroking the glimmering vibranium metal—like it’s not strange, like it’s not terrifying, like it’s nothing at all.

“We could just… do it, y’know?” you say. “Courthouse. One of those dumb Tuesdays. I’ll wear something I already own.”

You don’t look at him. You look at the window, at the way your reflection warps and bends with the flicker of passing tunnels.

Bucky swallows, throat clicking. “You’d marry me in a courthouse?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would you rather wait in line at the DMV together? Because that’s my second most romantic setting.”

He smiles, soft and cornered. “I just thought… you’d want something beautiful.”

“I do,” you say, and finally glance back at him. “But the part that’s beautiful is you. The rest is just staging.”

And God—he thinks he might cry. Just there, on a bench that smells like wet metal and too many years of bad decisions, with a poster peeling off the wall that says “SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.” He sees you. He’s seeing you now, the way he didn’t let himself before. And still, he says nothing.

He thinks about a garden wedding. Somewhere green and far and full of things he doesn’t have to understand. Maybe upstate. Maybe not even this country. Something with color and quiet. You’d hate it, he knows—complain about the bugs and the lack of cell service and how long it takes to drive there—but you’d wear the hell out of a dress and lace your fingers through his and smile like he’s worth a thousand-mile detour. That’s what he wants. Not the spectacle, but the vision. You, with sunlight in your hair, smiling at him like he’s made of something safe.

But it’s easier to make a joke. Easier to deflect.

“What about Coney Island?” he asks. “We could get married on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Real classy.”

You snort. “You wanna puke on my vows?”

“Could be romantic,” he says. “Trauma bonding.”

“Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still wrecks him. Like the first time you said it, somewhere between Berlin and Lagos, when everything was cold and loud and uncertain. You said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t attached to decades of war crimes and waking nightmares.

He never asked you to call him James.

And you never asked him to apologize for being broken.

.

It’s late by the time you’re back. The kind of late that doesn’t belong to any day anymore—just exists, unclaimed, in the hours between wound and healing.

You laugh when you kick off your boots. They thunk hollow against the apartment wall. “I feel like I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for fourteen hours.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you. The way you stretch, lazy and light, the way your shirt rides up at the hem.

He wants to touch you. Not possessive, not frantic—just close. Wants to lay you down and watch you breathe. Wants to kiss the skin behind your ear and the curve where your hip meets your thigh. All the soft, unguarded places. The ones only he knows by heart.

You step toward him, eyes warm.

“Bucky.”

He never gets used to that. Never will.

His whole chest cracks open at the sound of it. Like you’ve whispered something sacred and forbidden, just for him. A name that doesn’t carry the weight of blood and trigger pulls. Just warmth. Just want.

You press your hand flat over his heart, like you’re checking to see if he’s real. Like he might vanish if you blink.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “I’m gonna start thinking you missed me.”

He huffs, quiet. “I always miss you.”

Your fingers slip into his hair. Soft, familiar. He closes his eyes when you kiss him—slow and sweet and deep enough that he feels it all the way through.

You walk him back toward the bed without saying anything else. He lets you. Lets your hands trace his collarbone, slow. His vibranium arm settles beside your head as he leans in, pressing his mouth to your neck, your jaw, the place just under your ear that makes you sigh like he’s found something secret.

“Bucky,” you whisper again, when his hands slip under your shirt. “You can have me. You always can.”

He never stood a chance against you.

So he drags himself, down, down, down past your hips, face to face with your cunt, and begs you, with the earnestness he learned a long time ago, before the war and the soldier, to show him how much of you he can have.

"Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it."

You'd fingered yourself with one finger to start, until he clicked his tongue and added another. Couldn't take his eyes off your wrecked, frenzied pace like some sort of rocket. Watched the way your back arched and your hips jutted against his when you started to cum, and he pressed his mouth against your opening and tasted. 

Didn't stop until you were pulling away and even then, when your breathing started to even out and your eyes became lucid again. "Again," he rasped. Like a starving man.

He loves the way you make a mess, every time. It physically—god, it drives him crazy—how someone can make his heart practically burst out of his chest. His tongue lazily lapping along your thighs, your folds, your clit, sucking and rolling and grazing his teeth against the soft bundle of folds.

"Bucky, Bucky, please—"

If it were up to him, he doesn't think his hunger would ever be sated.

Wrenches orgasm, after orgasm, after orgasm from your willing, pliant body until you're close to tears, fingers wrapped around the sheets like a lifeline and he has to reorient you back to his hair. Where you pull so deliciously, it makes tears spring up in his eyes.

.

The thing about memory is that it lies. That’s something he knows. He lived in fractured ones for years. But you—your memories cling true. Linger like ghosts.

He remembers your hands in his kitchen after. A chipped coffee mug. The time you tried to bake a pie and nearly started a fire because you forgot the filling. You’d licked cinnamon off his finger, grinning, and said, “It’s a personality trait now. Bad decisions, good pastry.”

You’d kissed him with sugar still on your mouth.

He remembers you sprawled on a motel bed, flipping through a paperback with your feet tucked under his thigh. He remembers the scar on your shoulder, the one you got on a mission neither of you were supposed to be on, and the way he touched it once like it was a question.

He sees your shadow in the face of every kindness. He feels your phantom laugh in every silence too long.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write.

But he keeps the screenshot. The one of you and the chicken. He stares at it when he’s too fucked up, too tired, too anything. He doesn’t remember the last time he heard your voice outside a dream, but he remembers the weight of you in his arms. Remembers the sound you made when you laughed into his neck, like it cracked you open.

He’s never deserved that sound. Not really.

But God, he misses it.

.

He finds himself in the observation room when the signal hits.

Bucky sees the jet through the satellite feed. Just a flicker of silver and blue, sharp-edged and strange, carving a line through the upper layers of Earth’s atmosphere like it belongs there. A "4" on its wing.

The room is silent but for the soft hum of the holographic display, and the sound of his own jaw locking tight. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shift. But something in him—a thread, a tendon—pulls.

Yelena cocks an eyebrow. Bob goes quiet. And Bucky—

—Bucky just stares.

He doesn’t know why this moment is the one that does it. Why this, and not the Hydra facility they torched in Belarus, or the body they pulled from the wreckage last fall. But something shifts. Something breaks.

The thought lands heavy: you should know about this.

You always liked patterns, puzzle-boxes. Things that nested inside themselves. He used to find you at mission briefings with a pen tucked behind your ear, absently solving logic puzzles in the margins of your reports—Sudokus, cryptics, mazes with no entry point. “Keeps the brain from rusting,” you’d say, tapping your temple like it was a lock he didn’t have the key for.

But it wasn’t just the puzzles. It was the way you thought about the world: as something decipherable. As a system of signs and symbols that could be parsed, if only you looked at it from the right angle. Bucky never understood that. Still doesn’t. Not really.

When the world felt like it was breaking—when the walls closed in after a mission, or the memories returned out of order and too loud—you never told him to breathe. Never asked him to talk. You’d just sit next to him on the floor, lean your shoulder into his and murmur something like, “Entropy is just the universe trying to find its balance.”

And he’d laugh. Or try to. “That doesn’t help,” he’d say.

“I know,” you’d reply, grinning sideways. “But doesn’t it sound cool as fuck?”

You’d pick apart the world like it was a riddle, not a tragedy. You believed in equations of fate, in karmic symmetry. You’d say things like, “Every time we save someone, that has to go somewhere. That has to matter, even if we can’t see it yet.”

And he—God, he’d wanted to believe you.

There’s one night he can’t stop thinking about. Somewhere out there. The desert too loud with wind, the air gritty in his throat. You were both running low on sleep, bruised and dehydrated, holed up in the skeleton of a house that hadn’t been lived in for years. You were curled up under a jacket, shivering, your eyes half-lidded.

He’d sat beside you, back to the wall, gun across his lap. Watching shadows stretch long through broken windows.

“I think this one’s gonna go sideways,” he’d muttered, more to himself than anything.

You hadn’t opened your eyes. Just mumbled, “Then the next one’ll go right.”

“Where do you get that kind of faith?”

And you’d said it without missing a beat: “From you.”

He wonders if you’d answer his call.

If your number’s the same. If you’d still let unknown calls through, the way you used to—claiming spam calls were like horoscopes: always inconvenient, sometimes weirdly accurate. He used to roll his eyes at that, but secretly, he’d loved it. 

He stares until the screen times out. Lights up again. Fades. It’s pathetic, this dance. Cowardice in increments.

Then, finally, a breath. A sound like surrender.

He dials. It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Every second is an ache. Every pulse of silence feels like the hollow of your absence pressing into his ribs. He can’t breathe.

And then—

Your voice.

“Hey.”

He forgets how to speak. How to move. All he can do is feel.

The sound of you, real and whole and alive, scrapes something raw in him. It’s not just memory now—it’s present tense. The now of it. The breath you took to answer. The rustle on your end of the line. The shape of your voice, unchanged.

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to.

He says yours like it costs him something.

Soft. Unsteady. Like it’s prayer. Like it’s regret folded into reverence.

There’s a pause. Then you sigh. He hears the tight release of breath through your nose, and he’s close enough to the memory of you that he can see your face. Head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. That expression you wore when you didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. The one that always cut him the deepest.

Your voice comes again, warm and wry.

Bucky let his blue eyes roam your body, he had made it his personal mission to memorize the curves on your body. It was like he had X-Ray vision and he could accurately pinpoint where each and every one of your moles and scars were.  

Sam hummed. “If you two aren’t exclusive, then tell me who you’ve fucked other than her lately.”

Bucky realized it would have been too embarrassing for him to say he’d turned down more than a couple of offers. To be honest, once he got used to this new world, Bucky was- what’s the correct word?- he was liberated. 

When Dr. Raynor told him he was free and he’d asked her “Free to do what?” 

He didn’t think fucking every single woman within a five-mile radius would be her answer- but that’s what he did. And it was amazing. He wasn’t used to women being so open about how he made them feel, Bucky had even asked for pointers to make the experience more pleasurable for them. There wasn’t a clause in his contract that forbid him from fraternizing with other agents and boy did he make some of his higher ups wish they did. 

The Winter Soldier had gotten quite the reputation for being an expert in the one and done category. Making women all around the compound want him even more, wishing they would be the ones to return the soldier back to his 40’s ways. None of them had been successful. 

But something changed when he met you. You’d been on the team for some time now but you had never expressed any interest in him. Until that night. For Bucky, his life would be separated into two categories: Before You and After You. 

It was a late night and you came into his office with your tactical suit zipped down to your waist with a tight cropped shirt underneath that begged to be taken off, your hair that was usually up in a ponytail had been let free a long time ago.

Bucky gulped as you leaned over the table to reach for something, your breasts taunting him.

Before he knew it, your lips were on his. You were running your hands through his short hair, trying to grip anything. Your ragged breaths only pushed your breasts closer to him, making him go feral. 

“I’m not looking for anything serious.” He panted.

Your devious smile only made him harder. “Neither am I.” 

Ever since that day, he’d been entranced. Of course he enjoyed sex with other women but with you, Bucky felt a deep connection. Like you were made for him, you introduced Bucky to a pleasure high he didn’t think was even possible or existed for that matter. 

It started when he called you after a mission, wanting to get rid of pent-up aggression. Bucky was extra happy when you’d told him you were more than happy to let him use your body, that day he’d introduced you to the stars. Fucking you into oblivion. 

Then, it was once a week at least. 

“Training has been-“ Bucky said between thrusts but you shushed him. 

You craned your neck from your position on all fours, locking with his darkened and lustful eyes. “Concentrate on me, on us.”

Bucky thought it was a miracle he didn’t come then and there, just from your words. 

You laid in bed with him after the two of you had finished. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back on his almost flat pillows before focusing all your energy- whatever he hadn’t drained- into lifting your body. 

“A-are you leaving already?” Bucky’s voice was just above a whisper. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to stay longer.” You chuckled. 

Bucky’s eyes furrowed. “What makes you think that?”

“I thought you used those as a quick fuck quick exit tactic.” You pointed at the uncomfortable pillows. “You know, to make your guest understand they shouldn’t overstay their welcome.”

When you came over a week later, a couple of things had changed in his room. On the nightstand opposite his were a couple of boxes of tampons, one candle, a toothbrush and an oversized vintage t-shirt of his. You fought back a smile as you saw a brand-new fluffy pillow rest next to his flat one on the bed with the tags still attached. 

“Did you take some pointers from romantic comedies?” You bit your bottom lip. 

Bucky smiled, kneeling between your legs perched at the edge of the bed. “Concentrate on me.” 

You threw your head back with a moan as he lowered his head in between your thighs. 

“I’ll take your lack of an answer as a no.” Sam laughed. “The fuckboy became the simp.”

“What of course I’ve been seeing other people.” Bucky scoffed. “Yes, I’ve been doing a lot of that. Recently. Constantly.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Then I assume you won’t care if I told you Thor is coming to the compound next week.”

The sound of his name made the blood coursing through Bucky’s veins become hot. He clamped down on his molars. 

“I thought he wasn’t returning, at least not soon.” Bucky tried to sound relaxed, like he totally didn’t care that the man you have the biggest crush on would be training with the team. 

Sam shrugged. “Something about having intel.”

“What kind of intel could he have that we couldn’t easily get.” Bucky rolled his eyes and sipped the beer. 

“You’re seriously considering you have more information than the literal God of Thunder?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “It’s not like I care anyways.”

“You don’t?” Sam pushed.

“I. don’t. care.” Bucky enunciated each word, following your hands as you placed them on Garrett’s chest. 

“When’s the whole Mr. Casual act going to stop?” Sam asked. 

“You know me-“ Bucky let out a strained smile. “Monogamy bores me. Being with only one woman, for the rest of my life, the whole get married and spend eternity wishing I would die at the same time as her so I don’t need to spend another minute of my time on Earth without her- yeah that doesn’t sound like me.” 

Sam judged his friend silently. 

“She can go home with Garrett and I wouldn’t care-“ Bucky laughed into his beer. “Plus he’s like a full four inches shorter than me so- yeah I don’t care.”

Just as Sam was about to say something, his friends eyes lit up and for the first time in hours he saw Bucky look not miserable- dare he even say happy?

You strutted towards the soldier, your happy glow transferring onto him. 

“How about you take me back to your place, Sarge?” You whispered into his ear. 

Bucky’s face lit up and he took your hand, quickly waving back at Sam. “If you have an emergency, don't call!”

I'm the worst at writing even mild spice so pls don't kill me if this is cringeeee. I triedddd and I'm a sucker for slutty Buck.

It was just a dare that people gave him, and he took it half-seriously. 

He didn’t think he’d actually get in. 

It was supposed to be one term, a few speeches, some votes. Smile for the camera, shake some hands, look like a functioning member of society. Do enough to convince the world—and maybe himself—that he wasn’t just a broken weapon trying to pass as a man.

And then he met you.

An independent senator born into old money—exactly the kind of person he was supposed to be suspicious of. Legacy Ivy League, tailored suits and dresses that probably cost more than his first apartment, and the kind of name people recognised from museum wings and political dynasties.

But you were something else entirely.

You were a walking contradiction: born into wealth, but ferociously progressive. The kind of person who argued that people like you should be taxed more. That inherited wealth was a societal rot, and the system was rigged in your favour. You were intelligent, articulate, relentless— and you meant every word.

He first saw you during a bloated committee hearing on national defense spending. Bucky had spent most of it zoning out, trying not to twitch every time someone mentioned “strategic elimination” like they were ordering lunch. And then you walked in— heels clicking, shoulder squared like you were preparing to box a colleague. 

When you took the floor, you destroyed a five-star general with nothing but a mildly uninterested tone and a stack of paper. 

Technically, he was supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes, even engaging in conversation. But his brain short-circuited somewhere around “our national priorities are upside down,” and all he could think was very sinful thoughts about you.

It was deeply humiliating.

He wasn’t some starry-eyed intern. He was a hundred-year-old super soldier with a metal arm and enough emotional trauma to fill several Olympic-sized swimming pools. But you had him blushing like a teenager and rethinking every life choice that led to this moment.

“General,” you said, voice sharp as glass, “let me get this straight. You’re asking for a thirty-two billion dollar increase to the black budget, and yet you can’t provide so much as a redacted audit?”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the space. Not yet.

“I have constituents rationing insulin and getting evicted over hundred-dollar rent hikes,” you continued, “And you’re sitting there telling me you need more stealth bombers?”

“Senator, we need to keep foreign powers in check—”

“Oh?” You tilted your head and smiled a scalpel. “Since you’re asking for a blank check, let’s have a little transparency. I want a full accounting of every regime change operation we’ve bankrolled with taxpayer dollars. How many foreign elections have we meddled in this year, General?”

The room shifted. You heard the uneasy scrape of a chair leg, felt the flicker of glances darted like knives.

The general’s teeth clenched. “Senator—”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood, spine straight as a bayonet.

“This isn’t about national security,” you said, like the room belonged to you. “This is about institutional gluttony. This is about feeding the military-industrial complex while our infrastructure rots and veterans sleep on the streets.”

That one hit him.

Bucky shifted on his feet, pulse getting too quick for comfort as your words carved clean through the theater of power like you had no time for pageantry. 

God, you were so pretty.

Not pretty like a diamond on a pedestal. Pretty like lightning. Pretty like the kind of woman who left men aching and terrified all the same. Pretty like you’d taste like red wine and righteous fury.

Bucky adjusted his tie. Bad move. His hand was shaking.

“Until then,” you said to the general. “you’ll have to win your wars with the money you already wasted.”

Then the general backed off, and Bucky watched the way your mouth pressed into a faint, satisfied line. You turned slightly, eye sweeping the room. You didn’t look at him, not really, but it still hit like a sucker punch.

It was his first week. He hadn’t voted yet. He hadn’t been whipped into line by the party. And there you were, ruining and making his day at the same time. 

The first person in the chamber who didn’t sound like a politician. 

He watched you sit down, watched your blazer slide just enough to flash the curve of your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone, and he thought:

Oh, I’m fucked.

—

It didn’t stop there.

He started noticing your name everywhere. Not just in headlines or on committees, but stamped onto action. He did some research, and found that your office quietly funded a network of off-the-books health clinics in rural counties the state wouldn’t touch. Through your “charity”—technically a nonpartisan foundation—you rerouted your family’s trust fund into safe needle exchanges, mobile mental health vans, domestic violence shelters in red districts, and reproductive care buses that crossed state lines.

He soon realised you didn’t wait for the system to work. You circumvented it.

And then you got back on the floor, dragging corrupt policy into the light with a dangerous smile. 

“If we have money for drones, we have money for dialysis. If we can find $14 million to research a new combat exosuit, we can find money to put roofs over people’s heads,” you said once. “Let me be clear: I'm not against defense. I'm against waste. I'm against empire. I'm against bleeding the people dry while contractors get rich off fear. Patriotism isn’t writing blank checks to private corporations. It’s making sure kids don’t go to school hungry.”

And when anyone tried to counter, quoting national security you said, “Fine. But fund healthcare. Fund education. Fund the VA. Fund cyber security that doesn’t involve selling civilian data to private firms. Don’t sit here and sell me a war machine when our bridges are collapsing and towns still don't have clean water.”

And every time, Bucky felt something deep inside him unravel.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to stay quiet, play the game, and vote his party’s way.

But you weren’t playing. You were rewriting it.

And he was obsessed.

He’d scroll through C-SPAN footage like it was porn, watching you deliver moral beatdowns with the prettiest smile he’d ever seen in his overextended life. He caught himself lingering outside your office more than once, pretending to check his phone, knowing your aides saw him. Knowing you probably did, too.

—

AFTER HOURS

U.S. Capitol – Private Committee Room

It was Bucky’s second month in Congress when you called for a private meeting.

You just put your name on his schedule— no context, no agenda.

He told himself it was probably routine. Some strategic alignment thing. You were an independent— you needed people you could count on. 

Or perhaps, it was a courtesy meeting. Maybe you wanted to trade notes on legislation or something.

Bucky spent the three days leading up to the meeting nervous. He didn’t know why. 

You were younger than him, one of the youngest senators ever sworn in. Smaller than him, too—he was a six-foot hunk of super soldier beef, and yet you were the one who made his palms sweat.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door to the meeting room you booked out. 

Definitely not this.

The room was dark, save for the warm glow of a desk lamp and the shimmer of DC lights bleeding in from the window. 

You were at the head of the long table—blazer off, sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar loosened just enough to show a line of cleavage that made his thoughts derail immediately.

You looked up when he entered. “Close the door, Barnes.”

He froze for a second.

You arched an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to hear how badly I’m going to make you admit what you really think.”

His heartbeat spiked. 

He closed the door and locked it.

You didn’t stand, didn’t even offer a seat.

He sat anyway, opposite you.

“You’ve been voting neutral on defense amendments,” you said, voice smooth as butter and sharp as the stiletto heels you always wore. “Even when they gut oversight. Even when they reroute billions to black ops programs.”

“I’m not here to make waves.”

“That’s a coward’s answer,” you said calmly, though he could hear the grit through your teeth. “And you are not a coward.”

His muscles flexed. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you haven’t said a damn word in committee,” you said, “I know you abstained on the surveillance expansion, but signed off on the military budget with a barely legible signature.”

You stood.

Bucky sat straighter, his breath hitching. 

Fuck.

He watched you walk as you circled the table.

“I’ve read your file,” you said, now behind him. Your voice was close, borderline intimate. He could feel your breath in his ears, feel his body trying not to react. “Not the redacted fluff they released to the public. The real one. I know what you were turned into. What they did to you. What you could be.”

His fists clenched in his lap. Where were you going with this? 

“I’m not trying to use you, Barnes,” you murmured, and your tone shifted— now gentler, more empathetic. “I’m trying to wake you up.” 

You leaned in. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear, and that was when he stopped breathing.

“You’re not a weapon anymore,” you whispered, “But you could be a bomb, placed exactly where they won’t see it coming.”

He let out a deep breath through his nose. “And what?” he managed to rasp, “You light the fuse?”

You moved in front of him now, stepped between his knees, hands braced on the table behind you.

It was so casual, so maddeningly dominant, towering over him without ever needing the height.

It was devastating.

“I fund clinics they won’t touch. I move money across invisible lines to make sure queer kids in red states stand a chance. I've bought entire warehouses full of Narcan to smuggle into countries that don't believe in harm reduction,” you slammed a first in the table behind you, “I’ve turned every cent of my family’s blood-soaked money into a spear— and I’m not done yet. I have already lit the fuse, Barnes. I just need someone to spread the fire with me.”

Bucky knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t virtue signalling— you were trying to set a standard. You need him to know what that standard was.

He stared, chest heaving, locked on the soft dip of your throat, on the way your shirt pulled just a little too tight across your chest, how your lipstick hadn’t smudged even a little.

“You… is this even allowed?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I’m free to do as I wish with the money I inherited,” you told him.

You leaned down again, just enough to let your neckline dip further—just enough for him to realise how much he wanted to fall to his knees for you and stay there.

“Tell me something, Barnes,” you said. “When you look at all those men selling war—do you want to follow them?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to stop them?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

You smiled a wicked smile then. It tasted like victory.

“Then stop compromising for your party’s sake. You’re not Switzerland, James. You’re a powder keg with a heart,” you sighed, brushing dust off his shirt, “Be useful.”

And just like that, you stepped back, smoothed out your sleeves, picked up your folders, already reading through your next meeting like you hadn’t just dismantled his thoughts.

But before you opened the door to leave, you paused.

“Next time you vote,” you said, looking back. “Try using the part of you that’s still dangerous. Not the part that wants to be forgiven.”

Bucky knew he shared values with the party he belonged in. But for the first time, he wondered if they lacked the spine.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

House Floor – Defense Authorization Act Vote, Section 42: Expansion of Overseas Military Facilities

This was the kind of amendment that slipped under most radars— buried in bureaucratic language, pretending to be“regional stabilisation.” On paper, it looked harmless. Just another billion-dollar expansion of drone bases and “forward operating stations” in oil-rich regions that happened to be politically unstable.

For most in the room, it was routine.

For Bucky Barnes, it was a line he couldn’t cross. Not after he was used as the Winter Soldier. 

He sat there, card in hand, listening as name after name was called. Every “yea” felt like a drumbeat, a reminder of how easy it was to slip back into the machine, how easy it was to disappear into the grind of votes until your hands were bloody and your conscience ran dry.

He could see all these men in suits who’d never seen war, pushing buttons that sent kids to die. And then he saw you, across the chamber, watching him like you already knew.

You didn’t blink.

“Congressman Barnes?” the clerk called out.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Nay.”

The room didn’t react all that much. One no vote in a sea of yeses. The machine kept churning.

But you heard him.

—

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Antechamber off the Rotunda

You didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stepped in like you had every right—which, of course, you did.

You found him leaning against the far wall, jacket off, tie loose, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance.

“You broke party line,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. To be honest, he didn’t know what to say.

You walked in slowly, like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to punch him or drag him into your office. Maybe both.

“You know what you just voted against?”

“I read the whole thing,” he said, looking down. “The base in northern Syria is going to displace an entire village. The one in Nigeria is three miles from an elementary school. And the contractors running ‘support services’ are private militias with a human rights record almost as bad as Hydra’s. I recognised one of their tattoos, actually. The head of the program used to work for the winter soldier program.”

You stared at him.

He finally turned to look at you.

“I watched them build empires with blood,” he said. “I’m not signing off another one.”

You let the confession just sit there for a few seconds, untouched. 

Then, you stepped closer, “You think you’re a good man for finally seeing it?”

“No,” he said. “I think I’m already too late.”

You were close now— almost chest to chest.

His breath was shallow, but steady, as if stepped into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.

You tilted your head, “Then why do it?”

He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. “Because you asked me to stop pretending.”

And that—that did something to you.

He wasn’t apologising. He wasn’t posturing. 

He was offering.

Not a clean conscience. Not redemption.

But loyalty to the version of himself that you saw. 

Your hand came up, fingers brushing the lapel of his shirt.

And then—because this wasn’t the time, and because you both knew what would happen if you gave in now—you let go and stepped back.

“You’re not off the hook,” you said, already walking toward the door. “You’ve got a long way to go before I believe you’re not still sleepwalking.”

He didn’t follow.

But when you glanced back just once, he saw your… approval.

The kind that could either kill a man or remake him.

Bucky was excited to see which he would fall under. 

—

After that, tension built. 

Every committee hearing, every closed-door strategy meeting, every hallway brush of shoulders was… charged now.

He started showing up more— to panels you hadn’t invited him to, to press conferences where he had no reason to be. He stayed just outside your orbit like he was waiting for permission to fall into it.

And when you challenged someone in session, his eyes would find yours like he was feeding off it. 

Like he wanted to kneel in the wake of your ambition.

But it wasn’t just the glances. It was the touch.

It started small. His hand would graze your lower back when he passed behind you in a hearing room. His fingers brushed yours when he handed over a folder. One late night, he reached around you to grab a glass and let his knuckles drag across your waist. You never stopped him.

He was bolder after that.

“You know,” he whispered once, as the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder behind the Senate chamber, “you could tell me to behave. Just once. I’d probably listen.”

You didn’t look at him, but chuckled, “You wouldn’t.”

And he laughed and leaned closer, like he couldn’t help it. “Only one way to find out.”

Another night, at a policy summit out of town, he found you in the hallway of the hotel after your keynote. He was loose-tied and grinning, one hand pressed against the wall beside your head. He couldn’t really get drunk, but he was a little drunk on you. A little desperate for permission he hadn’t figured out how to ask for yet.

“You keep looking at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve,” he said.

You raised a brow. “You are a problem.”

“And what if I want to be?” His tone dropped. “For you.”

You just stepped forward, close enough that he had to either move back or let you invade his space. He didn’t move.

“You really think you’re ready for that kind of trouble, Congressman?” you whispered, sultry, fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt.

He shuddered.

And just like that, you knew that he liked it when you were the one in control.

—

After that night, he became flirty in a way that barely skirted on professional, but always left you wondering if he’d drop to his knees the moment you told him to. He called you “Senator” with that smooth Brooklyn drawl, as if he knew it drove you insane. He touched your fingers when he passed you documents. Let his thigh press against yours under the table during closed sessions.

And every time you checked on him, you felt him fold just a little more.

He was waiting, waiting, and wound tight around your little finger, loving every second of it.

—

THREE MONTHS LATER

U.S. Capitol – Outside the Senate Floor

It started with a vote.

Of course it did.

He blindsided you on the floor. Not by going against the party line—that wasn’t new anymore—but by attaching an amendment you hadn’t signed off on. One that would gut your infrastructure bill if the wrong committee caught wind of it.

You barely made it off the Senate floor before you turned on him.

“Barnes,” you snapped, heels sharp against the marble.

He slowed to a stop, irritatingly casual. 

You shoved open the door to an empty hearing room and walked inside, not even checking to see if he followed. You knew he would.

The door clicked shut behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, turning to the supersoldier. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. Just crossed his arms, standing his ground. “I strengthened your bill.”

“You undermined it. That amendment will kill support in Appropriations, and you know it.”

“I know the version you want passed is safer for everyone except the people who need it most.”

You stared at him, breath hitching. 

“You’re not the only one who gets to steal the show, Senator.” His voice was low, controlled. But there was heat behind it. It sounded almost…. reckless, almost hungry.

You stepped in closer.

“Don’t you dare— ugh, fuck!” You raised your hands, exasperated. “You could’ve talked to me! You chose to pull that stunt in public. You wanted to make a point.”

He tilted his head, smiling a beautiful smile. but it was all teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push you.”

Shit.

There it was.

You were toe to toe now. You could feel the tension rippling off him in waves. It barely contained under the surface that unruly front he liked to wear for everyone else. Not for you.

Never for you.

“Even if I did tell you,” he said to fill the silence, “Would you have listened?” he said again, almost smug. 

Fuck him.

You should’ve torn into him. Told him he was reckless, self-righteous, impossible to work with at times. 

Instead, you grabbed the folder from the table beside you and flipped it open—anything to put distance between you and that fucking look on his gorgeous face.

But the moment your eyes read the amendment again, the realisation hit like a gut punch.

Damn it.

It was good.

Not just some posturing idealist’s rewrite—it actually filled in what you hadn’t been able to get past the budget committee. 

He proposed relocating funds from defense surplus, rebalanced long-term projections so the bill could stretch further without tanking in Appropriations.

But you still hated that he’d gone behind your back.

You hated even more that it worked.

You looked up slowly. “Goddamn you, Barnes.”

You threw the files on the fucking floor.

And before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how wrong this was, how stupid—you grabbed his lapel, yanked him down, and kissed him.

His hands were on you in an instant, his metal one gripping your waist like he’d been waiting for this moment for months, the human one cradling the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth met yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You made a sound—half a growl, half a whimper—and pushed him back against the wall, biting his lower lip as he groaned into your mouth. Your hands were under his jacket, fingers brushing the belt at his side, trying to pry it off before giving up and letting your palm run under his shirt instead, feeling every plane of muscle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a scandal waiting to happen.

But you liked the feeling of him moaning in your goddamn mouth too much to care.

And then—knock knock knock.

You froze.

“Senator?” your secretary called through the door. “They’re looking for you upstairs.”

You jerked back instantly, heart beating too fast for your ribcage to handle. Bucky blinked down at you, lips swollen.

Shit.

Your hand pressed to his chest firmly, pushing him back. “Don’t—don’t say anything.

He raised a brow, still dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“No one can know,” you hissed, “No one.”

He just nodded, eyes raking over you. “Whatever you say, Senator.”

You adjusted your suit jacket, tried to fix your hair, ignored the heat still thrumming between your thighs.

And as you opened the door to leave, you thought to yourself—

Fuck. What did I just do?

—

The week after the kiss was brutal.

You shut him out.

No meetings. No calls. His name popped up on your calendar twice and both times, you had your scheduler cancel. You claimed conflict: Travel got in the way. There were urgent committee matters. Anything to avoid sitting across from him. 

Because you didn’t trust yourself to be around him. 

You didn’t trust the way your body reacted at the thought of his mouth on yours. How it replayed on loop when you closed your eyes. You didn’t trust that if he gave you that look again, that you wouldn’t grab him and make an even bigger mistake.

But Bucky noticed.

And it wrecked him.

His expression wasn’t quite as cocky. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And in the one hearing you couldn’t avoid, he was burning a hole through the side of your head with his stare, as if daring you to acknowledge him. 

You didn’t.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Freedom Forum Benefit

It was an annual auction event, all champagne and schmoozing and high-dollar promises. You wore black and entered with your head high, your staff two steps behind you.

You felt untouchable.

Until you saw him.

Bucky stood near the bar, fake-laughing at something a donor said, until he saw you.

His expression instantly changed.

He looked like he’d been sucker-punched.

He was in a gorgeous black suit that hugged his shoulders sin incarnate, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you remember exactly what you’d tasted last week. His hair was slicked back, his stubble rough.

He barely lasted an hour before finding you again.

You’d just stepped out into one of the gallery’s quieter hallways, wine glass in hand, needing a break from the circus when you heard his footsteps. 

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucky said quietly.

You took a breath, controlled. “I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

You turned to him and sighed. “This isn’t the time.”

“Then tell me when the time is,” he said, exasperated, “because I’ve been trying to give you space, and you’ve been using it to pretend none of it happened.”

“We kissed,” you narrowed your eyes and finished the rest of your wine. “It was a mistake.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth like he didn’t believe a word you said. “Funny. Didn’t feel like a mistake when your hands were under my shirt.”

“That was—” Your voice hitched. “We weren’t thinking clearly.”

“I was.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

Your back hit the wall before you even realised he’d cornered you there. He didn’t touch you—he wouldn’t—but he stood so close you could smell the spice of his cologne.

“You looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said. “And what, now you’re telling me you don’t feel the same?”

Your pulse thundered in your temple as he pushed in closer.

“Tell me to back off,” he said. “Say the word and I’ll walk away.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “Come home with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Tonight. After the gala,” you told him, “if you want to talk this out, I’d rather not do it in public.”

His breath caught.

You could see him recalibrate—like every wire in his body short-circuited, then surged back online.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, okay.”

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

And when the gala ended, the motorcade took you back to your place, careful not to attract any unwanted attention.

You locked the door behind you, turned, and gave him that look.

That look that made his knees weak and his mouth dry.

He followed you into the kitchen like gravity had shifted in your favour. 

You poured yourself a glass of water to sober up, not that you were too drunk to begin with. “You wanna talk?” You asked, “Then talk.”

What?

“That’s it?” he asked, almost hurt. “You shut me out for a week, pretend it never happened, and now I’m just—what? Why did you even bring me here? You want me to be your secret late-night one night stand?”

You turned slowly, arms crossing as you took him in.

“No,” you said coolly. “You’re a scandal waiting to happen.”

He flinched.

You stepped closer. “A walking PR nightmare, and those pretty eyes could cost me reelection. You’ve got a mouth that’s going to get you in trouble if you don’t stop pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, defensive, but his voice cracked.

“Poor Congressman Barnes,” You tilted your head. “Thought one kiss made him special?”

He opened his mouth, but you were already closing the space between you.

“Because you’re right. You fucking are,” you said through gritted teeth. Your hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling around the silk of his tie. You tugged. “Because you know you’re a good man now, Congressman Barnes.”

He gritted his teeth. “I never said that.”

You tilted your head. “But you voted like one. You voted against drone strikes in civilian zones. Against privatized cyber warfare. Against mandatory surveillance of activist groups.”

You stepped closer, “You stood on the floor yesterday, opposing my proposition of keeping tabs on vigilantes and said ‘a government that fears its people more than it protects them is not a democracy—it’s an empire in decline.’ And you changed my mind. Do you know how hard it is to make me change my mind?”

He was breathing hard now.

“And fuck, darling…” you drawled, “I just can’t resist a good man,” your voice was so sweet and sour, like you wanted this but knew you shouldn’t let yourself have it. “You think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve spent every day this week trying not to picture you on your knees between hearings.”

He took a deep, shaky breath. His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’ve been rewriting statements while imagining how pretty you’d look with my hand in your hair between my legs. I’ve been arguing tax reform while wondering if you’d whimper when I told you to open your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again. Not because I didn’t want to,” you leaned in, lips at his ear, “but because you’d let me. And I just. Can’t. Resist. A. Good. Man.”

He was trembling now.

You stepped back, “But here you are. In my home. Looking at me like you need me to take control.”

“I do,” he said, voice hoarse, wrecked. “I do.”

You shoved him back against the island kitchen and climbed on top of him like a campaign you meant to win. Your mouth found his ear, hot breath slipping into the space where his composure used to live.

“Then be good, congressman,” you purred, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “Can you do that for me?”

He groaned, deep and wrecked. It didn’t take long before he was grabbing and tearing.

Clothes came off in pieces. Buttons hit the floor. His tie stayed wrapped around your wrist because you yanked it free and didn’t want to let it go. Zippers were wrecked like decorum— ripped right through. He switched over your position, lifting you up and laying you out across your marble kitchen island instead. 

His hand slid down your thigh and then up, right where you needed him.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “You wanted this.”

You arched beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other fisted in his hair.

“I wanted to ruin you.”

His eyes shot to yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“You already have.”

That night, you learned that Bucky Barnes fucks like he fights. He was precise. He was relentless. He was a machine, a man trained to outlast anything. 

So you rocked together there in your marble kitchen like the Capitol couldn’t burn fast enough. You bit his lip. He swore against your throat. He grabbed your hips like you were both anchoring him and tearing him apart.

At one point, you leaned in close and said, “I should filibuster you. Keep you here for hours. See how long it takes before you break protocol.”

He whimpered.

And when it was over—when you both were trembling and flushed and too ruined to speak—you dragged your nails down his chest and whispered, “Still think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?”

He could only shake his head.

“You ruined me,” he said, quiet. “And I liked it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “Don’t get poetic,” you reminded, “You still tanked my vote yesterday.”

He leaned his forehead against your chest, groaning.

“Fuck, I know,” he laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna destroy me in committee next week.”

“I might.”

He looked up again, playful while still managing to be sincere. “Will you at least destroy me like this again afterward?”

You tried to be annoyed. You tried to remember all the ways he drove you insane. But his voice was a little hoarse, his hands were still on your hips like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

And you knew what that meant— loyalty. 

Not weakness. Not worship.

But it lived in between.

You slid off the sticky counter, standing on shaky legs, and he caught your hand before you could step away fully.

“Stay,” he said.

You looked at him. Bare, naked, still burning from the inside out.

“You’re in my house,” you chuckled.

“I know.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrists.

Fuck, this wasn’t just politics anymore.

This wasn’t strategy or tension. This was something you could walk away from unscathed.

You pulled him up with both hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth— much softer this time.

“I’ll stay,” you said, “if you do, too.”

And he did.

—

And things… evolved.

He kept it clean in public. Professional. 

Well… mostly. He’d place the occasional hand on your lower back, he’d give you kisses on your temple when no one was around.

But behind closed doors, your townhouse became home base. He cooked surprisingly well. 

He’d make pancakes on Sundays. Steak when you were pissed off. Toast and black coffee after sex so good it felt like treason.

You’d read from draft bills while lying across the bed in nothing but his flannel shirt. He’d rest his chin on your thigh, half-listening, half-worshipping.

Sometimes you'd argue between kisses, about anything and everything. Foreign policy. Trade sanctions. Use of force authorizations.

Once, after a particularly vicious day on the floor, you were pacing the living room, still in heels, when he sank down to his knees in front of you, hands sliding slowly up your calves.

“Ma’am,” he murmured, eyes dark with devotion, “I’m just a humble public servant.”

Then you made him shut up and prove it.

And he did. On the floor. With his mouth. With his hands. With everything he had.

His house was no better off.

The bed smelled like sweat and parchment. There are bills marked with lipstick smudges. A copy of the Intelligence Committee’s black-budget proposal lay under the couch with a condom wrapper on top of it.

He read your notes. You wore his shirts. He’d eat you out mid-argument, face between your thighs while you’re yelling about how best to handle money-driven foreign ambassadors.

“I’m not voting for that amendment,” you’d gasped. 

He dragged  his mouth away from you for just one second.

“I’ll change your mind.”

You didn’t win that one.

—

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Your Office

Even your place of work wasn’t safe from Bucky Barnes.

You’d tried to draw a line—several, in fact—but Bucky never much cared for red tape. Or rules. Or doors, apparently, because he stepped into your office without knocking, shutting and locking it behind him with a soft click. 

A Homeland Security report sat open on your desk, pages half-read and already bleeding red ink from your pen. You tried to stay focused, legs crossed. 

But then he was there and he dropped to his knees in front of your chair like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

He pushed your skirt up with both hands—one warm and calloused, the other cool and metal— like it was his constitutional duty.

“I’ve got a briefing in the morning,” you said, trying to keep your voice even and failing.

“I’ll be quick,” he said, his mouth was anything but.

He was thorough. He took his time, tongue tracing patterns into you like your pleasure was classified intelligence and he was breaking into it for the first time. 

When you came undone, legs locked tight around his shoulders, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other gripping the armrest of your chair—you didn’t scream his name. You threw your head back, tried to remember how to breathe, and with the last shred of composure you could muster, you said, “Recess adjourned.”

He grinned into you, smug and satisfied, like he’d just won a vote with both sides of the aisle.

And just like always, he made you wonder which of you really held the power.

—

SIX MONTHS LATER

Barnes' Residence

Even now that he had you, Bucky still found congress to be a little… too much. 

The marble halls, the cameras, the backroom deals— none of it felt like him. Not really.

You found him in his house, suit jacket crumpled on the floor, tie discarded somewhere on the kitchen counter. His metal hand rubbed slow circles over his tired temple as he sat slumped on the couch. He looked so out of place in his own home.

You padded over quietly, barefoot, your old oversized campaign shirt hanging off your body.

“You didn’t even make it to the bedroom,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch immediately. He craved you. 

“They're pissed,” he said, eyes closed. “My whole damn party. Said I vote too… independent. That I don't ‘play nice.’ As if any of this should be about sides.”

Your heart broke just a little. You hated what this job did to him— how it wore him down and made him question if he was doing enough. You climbed onto the couch without hesitation, curling into his side until your head was tucked under his chin and his arms were around you.

“You’re not here to play nice,” you whispered against his chest. “You’re here to do what’s right. And that means they’re going to be mad sometimes. But I’m proud of you, James.”

He let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—as his arms tightened around you. 

“This is so fucked,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I spent a year of my life trying to get elected only to regret it.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheek, guiding his eyes to yours. His blue eyes were tired, but still full of fire.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you said. “Not with me. If you want to leave politics tomorrow, I’ll be the first to pack up your office. If you stay, I’ll be in the front row of every speech.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your nose. You giggled, and he did it again, because he loved the sound— because it reminded him that he managed to tame a senator with knives for a tongue.

God, how did he even end up in a relationship with a career politician?

His metal hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he kissed you.

And later, as you lay tangled in each other beneath a blanket on the couch, he whispered sleepily, nose brushing yours. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I’d vote for?”

You smiled. “What?”

“More nights like this. Just you and me. No debates. No bills. Just… us.”

You kissed him softly. “Unanimously approved.”

He smiled his real smile—the one he only saved for you. And for the first time in days, he looked like he could breathe again.

—

ONE MONTH LATER

House Floor – Supersoldier Proposal Hearing

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked into that chamber.

And when the CIA director came in, people listened.

Her heels clicked like gunfire against the polished marble.

She presented her proposal like it was already law. A radical new supersoldier program. No more Avengers. 

You watched it unfold with ice in your veins. Her plan took fear into account, and weaponised it. It was disguised as strategy. 

And Congress—both parties—ate it up.

Except Bucky.

He stood alone.

“I’ve been in that program,” he said, and you heard the crack in his voice even if no one else did. “You don’t force heroes. You don’t use people. You don’t turn them into weapons just because you’re scared of the next big threat.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward him with that shark-like smile and ripped into him. 

Not his policies.

Him. 

His past. His record. The Winter Soldier. The man who was programmed. 

“You, of all people, are going to lecture us on this?” she sneered. “You’re a reminder of why this program is necessary.”

He stood there, eyes glassy, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

He just walked out.

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

You found him hours later in your dark bedroom, after a social event. He hadn’t turned anything on. No lamp. No TV. 

Bucky was sitting on the edge of your bed, his back hunched, hands limp in his lap. His suit still clung to him like a cage. His tie was crooked and loose, shirt wrinkled like he’d pulled and scratched anxiously at it. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths he only took when he was trying his hardest not to break down.

He didn’t even look up when you stepped inside, he just kept staring at the floor like it stretched miles beneath him.

You stepped inside the room and knelt in front of him carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. You reached for his shoes, slipping them off one by one. He blinked slowly, as if only now noticing you were there.

You took the suit jacket away gently, as if it were battle armour. In a way, it was. 

The tie followed. Then the first few buttons of his shirt. Bit by bit, until only the man remained.

And that’s when he broke.

A quiet sound escaped him— a sound that broke your heart. His shoulders trembled, and his hands came up to cover his face. “I can’t do this,” he choked out, barely audible. “I can’t—this place, these people… they don’t want me. Not really.”

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees on either side of his hips, arms sliding around his neck

“They’ll never trust me,” he went on, breath catching, hot tears leaking past his finger before burying his face in your neck. 

“No matter what I do. No matter how many times I show up, or fight, or play by their goddamn rules. I’m still the monster in the room.”

“James,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his temple as his arms wrapped around you. “You are not a monster.”

He held onto you like he was drowning, his tears soaking into your blouse. “I thought if I did everything right… if I followed every step they gave me, every rule, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could fix me.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face— your thumbs brushing at his tear-streaked cheeks.

“You are not broken,” you said, driving the point home. “You are brave. And kind. And you’ve saved more lives than they’ll ever understand. You carry more pain than they ever will—and still, you choose to fight.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“And I love you for that,” you breathed. The words escaped before you could second-guess them. “I love you, Bucky. All of you. Not just the soldier. Not just the survivor. But the man who still believes there’s something worth fighting for.“

His breath hitched —and then he was crying in earnest. He was not hiding begin silent tears anymore. 

Was that the first time you’d said it?

He didn’t answer right away. Just buried his face in your shoulder and cried like he hadn’t in years, because he knew, no matter how intimidating you seem to be on the house floor, it was safe to fall apart here, with you. 

“I just…” he finally whispered, voice barely there. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to face them again. I just want to be with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Then be with me,” you whispered, a small smile breaking through the ache in your chest. “We’ll figure it out together.”

His metal hand came up and settled between your shoulder blades. 

He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. 

—

Later that night, when he was done crying his heart out, he became… calmer.

Still exhausted and red-eyed, but calmer nonetheless. 

You found him in the kitchen, his shirt still unbuttoned, stained faintly with some red sauce from the food you ordered in for him. He’d forgotten to take his socks off, and one sleeve was slightly rolled higher than the other. 

There was still plenty of food on the counter.

And next to it was a printed copy of Valentina’s proposal.

She sent it to him, not because he asked. She wanted to taunt him.

He must’ve read it a dozen times. Couldn't stop. Couldn't help touching it, even though every word made his skin crawl.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“You know…” you said finally, your voice steady. “I know what you’ve been doing,” 

He didn’t turn around, but he froze. 

What were you talking about?

“I’ve known for a while,” you went on, stepping closer. You had found the files accidentally, when you were looking for a pearl necklace in one of his drawers. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up… until now.”

You watched the tension ripple through his shoulders.

“You’ve been keeping tabs,” you continued, “The former Red Room Widows. The Soviet super soldier who’s still off the grid. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who can phase through walls. Even that fucking dollar store Cap. You’re thinking of building something, are you Bucky?”

He still didn’t face you, but his hand dropped to his sides.

“You’re… putting a team together,” you said, more gently now. “I… don’t need to know the details. But I see what you’re trying to do.”

He turned then.

He hadn’t known how to bring it up to you. Hell, he hadn’t even known if it was really going to happen. It had all started as just instinct— keeping an eye on the kind of people most had written off as monsters or mistakes. People like him.

And what was he supposed to say, anyway? To you—his girlfriend, a sitting member of the Senate? That he was considering building a team made of people with blood on their hands and trauma in their bones? That he was offering them redemption not because he was certain they deserved it, but because he hoped they did?

He couldn’t picture your reaction. Would you be proud? Horrified? Would you see him as foolish… or as the same broken man they once turned into a weapon?

So he had said nothing… until now.

“You’re right.” The words fell out of him like a confession. 

He ran a hand through his hair, mussed and sauce-stained and tired as hell. “This… this whole thing,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos of the kitchen—the proposal, the uneaten food. “Politics. Committees. Playing nice with people who smile while they sharpen their knives behind your back.”

He looked down at himself, and for a second, you thought he might shatter all over again. “I never wanted this,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought—if I did this job, played the game—maybe I could protect people. Maybe I could stop people like Valentina from getting a foothold.”

“But this isn’t it,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is for you. God, it is. Every time I see you on that floor, you own it. You belong there.”

His breath caught, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips.

“I… don’t,” he whispered. “Fuck, I try—I… I sit in those chambers and pretend I’m part of it, but I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. This is not who I am supposed to be.”

You came up and slid your arms around his waist. His breath hitched, and his hand came to rest at the small of your back—metal fingers curling in tight.

“Then who are you supposed to be, darling?” you asked, not caring that your blouse was now stained, too.

He hesitated. The answer had been in him for so long, it was almost scary to say out loud.

“I’s supposed to be in the field,” he admitted. “Tracking these threats. Taking them out before they grow roots.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But I don’t have Stark money. Or a tower. Or a government stamp of approval. Half the people in D.C. still think I’m one bad day away from a murder. It would be impossible to get fucking funding for this.”

“Well…” You smiled the kind of smile that could wage wars and stitch hearts back together. It always made his chest ache in the best way. “I transferred… a little something to your account,” you said with a shrug.

Bucky blinked. “You… you what?”

You chuckled, and it was insane how mundane you were going on about this. “It’s from my discretionary fund. Technically it’s filed under ‘independent research security initiative,’ if anyone’s asking.”

His brows furrowed, “You’re—wait, you’re funding this?”

You stepped in closer and kissed his jawline. “It’s barely a dent in my inheritance,” you said. “And if it means I get to sleep at night knowing you’re out there doing what you were meant to do? Then, yeah, sweetheart—I’m backing your project.”

He stared like you’d just handed him the world on a silver platter, then kissed the nape of his neck and told him it had been his all along.

“You’re… serious,” he breathed.

You gave an amused laugh, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Do you even know me?” you whispered. “I am always serious when I believe in something.” You leaned in, close enough that your lips ghosted over his. “And I believe in you, James Buchanan Barnes. I always have.”

He sighed— along with a half-sob, half-laugh—and crushed your body in his arms like he was terrified you weren’t real. He kissed you like you were the only clean air left on Earth and he’d been suffocating for years.

And when you pulled back, your hands cradling his face, your thumbs gently chasing the dampness from under his eyes, your voice was nothing short of conviction. 

His eyes glistened with tears— and finally you saw a spark return. 

A purpose.

“I don’t deserve you,” he choked, barely holding himself together.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “No, sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”

Your fingers reached up and slipped into his hair, combing through it, grounding him one tender touch at a time. “But it needs you anyway. So quit Congress if that’s what it takes. I’ve got this— I can hold the line in the halls. You take the field, yeah?”

His arms wrapped around you tighter, like he was afraid you were too good to be true. 

He held onto you with everything he had left, bending down and burying his face in the curve of your neck like your skin was the only place in the world he felt safe.

He still smelled like stress, coffee, and metal but under it all, he smelled like home.

And then—barely a whisper, he told you. “I love you.”

Oh.

Your smile bloomed as you pressed your forehead to his, fingers curling at the nape of his neck like you never wanted to let go. “I know,” you whispered back, “I know, darling.”

—

By morning, his resignation letter was written. You proofread it over pancakes, still wearing one of his t-shirts, a pen tucked behind your ear and syrup on your fingers.

He read through it again at the kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep. He hadn’t even bothered to put on any trousers. 

But his eyes were more focused than you’ve seen in weeks.

You even brought him coffee in his favorite mug (the custom one you got from Etsy that said I Fought Hydra and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug), and pressed a kiss to his temple before handing him a pen.

“You sure?” you asked.

He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue and nodded. 

By afternoon, his first mission plan was already sketched out on the back of a napkin—next to a plate of half-eaten fries and a mostly empty bottle of ketchup.

“This is not normal,” you muttered, staring at the haphazard yet oddly brilliant strategy chart scribbled in blue ink and crumbs. “You’re literally building a rogue ops unit on a paper towel.”

“It’s got character,” Bucky said, popping a grape in his mouth like a smug little gremlin.

You helped him map out every potential recruit. The names rolled off your tongue like a to-do list: Yelena Belova. Alexei Shostakov. Ava Starr. Antonia Dreykov. And—because the universe had a sense of humor—John fuckin’ Walker.

Red tape covered your living room floor like crime scene string art. The place looked less like a D.C. home and more like a joint ops bunker. A Post-it with “Call Sam” was stuck to your microwave. You had government dossiers, encrypted USB drives, and half a dozen color-coded sticky notes labeled ‘THREAT LEVEL: Eh, manageable.’

It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous, late-stage-caffeine chaos.

All of that, and you were still in your pajamas.

Bucky looked at the mess of documents, then at you—hair tangled, chewing the end of a pen, a folder in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.

“You sure you don’t want to fund a think tank like a normal senator, sweetheart?” he asked with a smile.

You shook your head. “Think tanks don’t get to blow stuff up with their hot ex-assassin boyfriends.”

He laughed as he leaned over and kissed your forehead. “You’re absolutely out of your mind,” he murmured.

“I’m in love,” you said simply, poking his chest. “Which is a lot more dangerous.”

By evening, the resignation was submitted. The burner phones were ready. You’ve tracked every recruit to their last known location.

Bucky Barnes was no longer a congressman.

But for the first time in a long, long time, he was exactly what the world needed.

Not a suit. Not a symbol.

A good man. 

With a good heart. 

-end.

Extra Note : so many tag requests got buried in all your wonderful comments! if you'd like to be tagged in the general Bucky masterlist, please message me either personally, or write to my inbox! <3

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“You look like you just got stood up,” he had said to you that night.

You glanced up at him. “I wasn’t,” you corrected, taking a sip of your drink. “Just… broken up with.”

“Damn, that’s even worse,” he said, chuckling. “Guess you wouldn’t mind some company, then?”

You shrugged. “Depends. You a creep?”

“Nah,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “I’m Sam. Air Force. And a gentleman, despite what my sister says.”

So you introduced yourself to him.

It started casual between you. Late-night texts, stolen weekends when he was not in a war zone. Sam wanted someone to fool around with in between deployments, and you had this fucked-up military fantasy that he fulfilled. You became friends with benefits, sharing nights in tangled sheets and lazy mornings where neither of you bothered to define whatever this was. You were young, reckless, and Sam had the kind of charm that made it easy to keep things short-sighted.

And then, one day, he stopped texting.  

Not in a cruel way. Life just… happened.  The deployments got longer, life got busier, and you had to move away to take a job. No hard feelings, it was just time pulling you both in different directions.   

—

Years later, after the whole Flag Smashers mess, Sam found you again. It was pure coincidence—he ran into you at a coffee shop in D.C., and the moment your eyes met, it was like no time had passed.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam said, smiling as he approached your table.

You looked up, startled. “Sam?”

“In the flesh,” he said, arms outstretched like he was waiting for a hug. “Wow, you look good.”

You laughed, standing up to hug him. “And you look... exactly the same.”

“I age like fine wine, sweetheart.” He pulled back, winking. “What are you even doing here?”

“Living,” you teased. “I moved back a while ago. What about you? You flying around saving the world now, Cap?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look modest. “Something like that.”

That coffee turned into lunch, which turned into dinner, which turned into you waking up in his bed the next morning, except this time, things weren’t just casual fun. Sam wanted more.

“You know I’m not just passing through this time, right?” he murmured against your bare shoulder, tracing patterns on your skin.

And before you knew it, you weren’t just someone he called when he was in town— you were his girlfriend.

—

A couple of months later, Sam took you by the hand and said, “Okay, you gotta meet my boy. He’s a softie, you’re gonna love him.”

“Who, Joaquin?” you teased.

“Nah, not Torres. My other best friend.”

That was how you found yourself sitting across from Bucky Barnes in a small cafe, nursing a cup of coffee while Sam rambled about something you weren’t really paying attention to. 

See, Bucky was exactly as advertised. Standoffish at first, eyes studying you like he was assessing a threat. But the thing about Bucky was that even if he didn’t talk much, he listened. And once he realised you weren’t just Sam’s temporary fling, he started to warm up.  

From that moment on, it was easy.

You and Bucky clicked in a way that surprised you both. He was quiet, but you could get him to laugh. You teased each other, shared inside jokes, and—much to Sam’s delight—became friends faster than either of you expected.

“You two are like… my proudest achievement,” Sam said one night, slinging an arm around both of you as you sat on the dock behind his house. “My best friend and my girl? Getting along? Life is great.”

You leaned into Sam’s side, content. You glanced at Bucky as Sam rambled on about how great this all was. And for a second, you let yourself admit it— Bucky was handsome.

Not in the same way Sam was, not in the way that made you dizzy with laughter. No, Bucky’s was different. It was something you would never—never—act on.

Right?

Over time, Bucky watched you and Sam together, and saw the way Sam beamed every time you saw each other. He could see how much you cared about each other.

But Bucky also saw the cracks.

The way your smile faltered when Sam’s phone rang. How Sam never hesitated before answering. How you always waited. 

Bucky had seen it before. Sam’s heart belonged to the job. It always had.

But it wasn’t Bucky’s place to say anything.

—

Two years later, things weren’t bad between you and Sam. Not exactly.

But they weren’t good, either.

Sam had spent the last two years becoming Captain America— taking on mission after mission, rebuilding trust with the government, working with Joaquin, training, speeches, outreach programs, meetings. 

Always something.

And you understood. You knew who Sam was before you got involved with him. You knew what being with him meant.

But lately, it felt like you weren’t his girlfriend so much as his afterthought.

It was little things at first.

He’d cancel dinner plans last minute because Joaquin needed him at the base. He’d text you not to wait up because a job he couldn't refuse came up. He’d say he was exhausted when you finally got time together, and then turn around and fly across the country at a moment’s notice.

The worst part was you didn’t even think he realised he was doing it.

So, you didn’t say anything—  not at first.

The night it all came to a head, you were sitting at a restaurant alone, your fingers tracing patterns on the linen tablecloth. 

Sam was supposed to be here. It was your anniversary.

Then, you heard a notification. 

Your boyfriend texted you: Something important came up. Rain check?

That was it. No apology. No phone call. 

Were you not something important to him?

You should’ve seen it coming, but it didn’t make it sting any less.

You scrolled through your contacts, wondering if anyone would be available for a rant. 

Bucky. He was your friend, too, right?

So you texted him: are you free tonight?

Not a minute later, he answered: Yeah. Sam told me something came up. You okay?

You stared at the message for a second too long. 

A few minutes later, you called. Bucky answered on the second ring.

“You still at the restaurant?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” you admitted. “But I think I’m heading home.”

“I’ll meet you at yours,” he said, and you didn’t argue.

—

By the time Bucky arrived at your place, you had already changed into sweats and wiped off your makeup. You looked tired. Almost…  defeated.

Bucky sighed, setting down a bag of takeout. “Figured you didn’t eat,” he said.

You gave him a small smile. “You figured right.”

He sat down next to you on the couch, cracking open a takeout container. “So. You wanna talk about it?”

You let out a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said to myself a hundred times before.”

“Try me,” Bucky said, handing you a fork.

You poked at the food, hungry but not really having the energy to eat. “I just… I feel like I come second. Like, if it’s between me and the job, it's always going to be the job.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then, he said carefully, “And is that something you can live with?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean, it’s not Sam’s fault that he puts the job first, that’s just who he is,” Bucky said, watching you closely. “But if he’s not willing to compromise, then maybe his values are… not suited to you.”

Your throat tightened. “I care about him, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky said, gently. “But do you see a future like this?”

You didn’t answer.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just stayed with you, eating in silence, ignoring his phone when it buzzed. Sam’s name lit up on the screen, probably to ask him to check on you.

And he ignored it. Because you had called first.

—

You didn’t sleep.

The hours bled together, stretching endlessly as you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the too-quiet nothingness.

Sam wasn’t here— not that he usually was.

Maybe that’s why this hurt so much. You had already felt alone for so long.

The sun had barely risen when you sent Sam a text.

Can I come over? I need to talk to you.

His response came an hour later. 

Sure, sweetheart.

When you walked through Sam’s door, he looked tired— his uniform still slung across the kitchen table, his hair slightly damp from a shower, like he’d come straight from a mission. Like always.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you sat down in the kitchen. “Sorry about last night. I know I messed up, I just—”

“Sam.”

Your voice wasn’t malicious by any means, but it stopped him in his tracks anyway.

Slowly, he turned to face you. His eyes scanned your face. He sighed as he sat down, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

Here goes nothing. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His expression didn't change right away. It was like his brain refused to register the words. Then, after trying to process, his brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly. “What?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I love you, Sam.” Your voice cracked at the mention of his name, and that made his entire body go still. “I do. But I can’t keep coming second to everything else in your life.”

He blinked, thoughts shifting behind his eyes. “Come on, that’s not fair—”

“But it is.” Your voice was firmer now, more desperate. “It’s fair, Sam. Because I get it. I get why you put the job first. I get that the world needs you. I get that you’re Captain America.” Your throat tightened. “But I need you, too.”

For a second, there was only silence. Sam’s muscles flexed. He looked away for a moment, inhaling through his nose. “I’m here now.”

“No,” you whispered. “You’re here today. But what about next time? And the time after that?” Your voice wavered, hands starting to tremble now. “How many more anniversaries are we going to rain check?”

Sam didn’t answer. Because you both already knew the answer.

Your chest ached with dull pain. You felt like you were holding onto sand, the last of it slipping through your fingers.

And fuck. Fuck. He wasn’t even fighting for you.

He should’ve said, Stay. Please, stay.

He should’ve said, I’ll do better.

But he didn’t. Because those were promises he just couldn’t keep. 

So you reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his fingers like you had so many times before. 

For two years he had been your safe place. Your home.

“I will always care about you,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Sam shook his head, looking down on your clasped hands, his fingers tightening around yours like he could hold you here forever if he just gripped hard enough.

“Then why are you leaving?” he asked, barely above a whisper. 

Your heart shattered. “Because I care about myself, too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, finally, you leaned in… and kissed him.

It was slow and painful. The kind of kiss that felt more like a gunshot. The kind of kiss that left a wound behind, that dug into your ribs like a knife and twisted around in your flesh. You kissed him like you wanted to memorise him one last time— how he felt, how he breathed, how he tasted.

He tasted like salt and sweat and regret. Like the past. Like he was already slipping away.

Sam kissed you back— just once. Like if he just kissed you hard enough, maybe you’d change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So you pulled away.

And Sam let you go.

You turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back.

He was sitting there, looking at you like he wanted to stop you, but he didn’t know how.

But he didn’t say anything.

So you left.

—

That night, Sam called Bucky.

“Meet me at the gym,” was all he said.

Bucky didn’t ask why. He just went.

When he arrived, Sam was already wrapping his hands, his movements more rigid and mechanical than usual, like he was just itching to hit something.

Bucky grabbed his own wraps and joined him. They didn’t start with words nor questions. They sparred in silence for a long time, fists landing against pads, grunts filling the space where words should’ve been.

Then, finally, Sam stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

“She broke up with me,” he finally said.

Bucky already knew that. Or at least, he suspected. He had watched you cry last night as Sam ditched your anniversary dinner for a mission, but hearing Sam say it out loud… That made it real.

“I’m sorry,” was all Bucky had to offer. 

Sam let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Man, I—” His voice broke.

And suddenly, he wasn’t okay.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Because Sam Wilson—Captain America—was crying.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. His sobs came in choked breaths, his hands on his hips, his head dropping forward.

Bucky had never seen him like this. Ever.

“…Shit,” Bucky muttered, pulling off his gloves. He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Sam—”

Sam wiped his face, shaking his head. “I knew,” he said, voice open like a fresh wound. “I think I knew this would happen. I knew I wasn’t giving her… enough. I just—I thought I had time to fix everything.”

Bucky swallowed hard, and repeated. “I’m sorry, man.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“I got a mission coming up,” he said. “Couple of weeks.” His voice was quieter now, like he hated the words coming out of his mouth, because this had proved you right— that the mission will always come first. He finally looked at Bucky with red eyes. “Can you just… make sure she’s not alone?”

Bucky hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam nodded too, like he already knew Bucky would say yes. 

You were his friend, too. 

And then, without another word, Sam threw his fists back up.

And Bucky let him punch the grief out of his body.

—

The next day, he found himself on your doorstep.

And Bucky didn’t knock.

He just let himself into your apartment, the way he always did when Sam asked him to check on you. But this time, Sam wasn’t your boyfriend anymore.

The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn, the television playing some random sitcom you weren’t even paying attention to. You were curled up on the couch, buried under a blanket, staring at the screen but not really seeing it.

You looked… tired. Worn down, the way people got when they spent too much time wanting something they couldn’t have.

Bucky sighed, setting yet another takeout bag down on the coffee table before sitting beside you. Close, but not too close that it felt claustrophobic. 

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You blinked, slowly turning your head to look at him. But you didn’t respond.

Bucky nudged your foot lightly with his knee. “C’mon. Say something. At least yell at me for letting myself in.”

You said nothing. Perhaps because you felt nothing— numb and hollow, because you just broke it off with the man you loved.

You had been Captain America’s girlfriend for two years. You have occupied that space, and he had filled in so much of your life, that you don’t even know what made you special if you weren’t tied to his whole Stars and Stripes career.

Bucky, perhaps, knew a little of what that felt like. 

He frowned, leaning forward. “You miss him.” It was an observation. 

Your breath hitched, and just like that— you broke.

A choked sob clawed its way out of your throat. You pressed the sleeve of your sweatshirt to your mouth like you could somehow shove it back down, like you could hold it in if you just tried hard enough.

But you couldn’t.

Tears spilled over, your shoulders trembling, and you turned away from him. You didn’t want him to see.

Bucky could only lean back against the couch. He didn’t tell you not to cry. He didn’t tell you Sam wasn’t worth it. He didn’t say it was going to be okay.

And when you finally stopped pretending he wasn’t there and pressed your forehead against his shoulders, he didn’t hesitate putting his arm around you.

Bucky held on to you until you stopped shaking. Until your breathing evened out, until the tears slowed down. 

Eventually, you spoke. “I-it’s only been a day,” you choked out, “a-and I already miss him.”

Bucky sighed. “I know.”

You exhaled shakily. “I miss everything. I miss how he always made me feel safe. I miss how he would bring me coffee in the mornings he was available and complain about how mine was too sweet. I miss how he always smelled like clean laundry and aftershave. I miss how he laughed at his own jokes— God, his dumb fuckin’ bird jokes.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “They were terrible.”

“They were,” you whispered. “But I loved them anyway.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you, letting your thoughts settle. 

Then, softly, you said, “I miss the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He had seen that look. Had seen Sam look at you like you were everything.

But he had also seen the way it faded. The way he took your presence for granted.

And now Sam was not your boyfriend anymore, and you were here, sitting beside his best friend instead.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “You’ll be okay.”

You closed your eyes. “I don’t feel okay.”

He nodded. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will be.”

You didn’t argue. You just sat there, leaning into him.

—

It became a habit. He’d visit every other day. 

The third time Bucky checked on you, you didn’t let him leave. Not really. 

You weren’t okay, and he could see it in the way you hesitated when he got up, the way your eyes darted toward the door like you were already dreading being alone again.

So he sighed and said, “I’ll crash on the couch.”

You’d say “thank you” and hand him a pillow and a blanket before retreating to your bedroom.

That was the first night. Then the second.

And then, without really thinking about it, Bucky just… stayed every once in a while. 

He spent his nights on the couch, spent his mornings making coffee in your kitchen, spent his afternoons convincing you to leave the apartment to do small things to keep you from going insane. Sometimes, he offered a walk. Maybe a visit to the  bookstore. Or a late-night grocery run because he laughed and said he couldn’t eat another one of your sad freezer meals.

Little by little, you started getting back on your feet.

Until one night, you saw Sam on TV.

You had just started feeling normal again—had started breathing without it hurting, had started waking up without reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then there he was.

The news anchor was talking about Captain America, but all you saw was Sam. He was at a podium, addressing the country about a recent mission. He looked strong, like he always did. He looked… whole.

And God, if it made you selfish… but it hurt that he wasn’t shattered, that he hadn’t fallen apart the way you had.

That he didn’t seem like he was missing you at all. 

You weren’t sure when the tears started again.

Bucky walked in just as you swiped at your face. His eyes flicked from the TV to you.

Oh.

Sam looked.. fine on screen. But Bucky knew his best friend. And his best friend hid his emotions well when he wanted to.

“You’re not okay,” he muttered.

You let out a huff. “You think?”

He tilted his head, watching you for a second before stepping in to turn off the TV.  “So, what’s the verdict? You planning on crying yourself into dehydration, or is this just a one-night special?”

You shot him a glare. “You have the emotional depth of a teaspoon.”

“That’s not true,” he said, faking offense. “I’m at least a ladle.”

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was amused enough. 

Bucky took that as a win.

“Listen,” he continued, plopping down onto your couch like he lived there (He practically did at this point), “I’m heading out of town for a couple of weeks. Campaign stuff.”

Ah, right. Congress. Everyone said he had a real shot. An honest man in politics— you knew Capitol Hill could use a guy like him.

He stretched his arms behind his head, shooting you a glance. “And, uh… clearly, you can’t be left alone for two seconds without turning into a wet puddle—”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“—so, I’m just gonna extend the offer.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To events,” he clarified. “Speeches. Dinners. Awkward meet-and-greets with people who pretend to care about the public’s welfare.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds awful.”

“Right? Misery loves company.” He chuckled. “And clearly, you could use an excuse to get out of the house. And I might need you to hold me back from punching a lobbyist.”

You frowned. “So, what, I’m your emotional support human now?”

“I mean.” He shrugged. “I seem to be yours right now.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it with a kind grin.

“I just figured…” He hesitated, the playful edge in his voice smoothed out by sympathy. “Instead of sitting here, waiting for things to get better, you could go out and use my campaign circus as a distraction.”

You stared at him.

Sam would’ve left you behind.

Sam would’ve told you to “take care of yourself,” give you a kiss, and assumed you’d be fine.

But Bucky…

Bucky was asking you to come with him.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about you being alone. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone, either.

Your throat tightened. “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded, rocking back slightly like he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. Then, because he was Bucky Barnes, he just shrugged.

“Cool. Pack something nice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he stood up and stretched, “if I gotta suffer through these events, I’d rather not do it with someone in smelly sweatpants.”

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. “Are you insulting my loungewear?”

“Not insulting. Just… you’ve been wearing those for five days.”

You hurled yet another pillow at him. He caught it easily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“But these are comfy.”

He groaned, heading for the door. “Fine. Stay here. Cry over Sam.”

You laughed, catching his sleeve before he could escape. “I’ll pack something nice.”

He paused to look at you.

Then, quieter than ever before, he said, “okay.”

You weren’t sure why that made your stomach flip.

Or why you let yourself watch him walk away, just a little longer than necessary.

And you definitely weren’t sure why, when you finally dragged yourself to your room to pack, you found yourself reaching for something really nice.

Something you knew would make Bucky look twice.

Not that you cared.

Obviously.

It was just… strategic. For the campaign.

That was all.

Right?

—

When you showed up at the airport the next day, Bucky told himself he was just doing Sam a favour.

That was all this was.

He was keeping you company, making sure you weren’t alone, just like Sam had asked.

It wasn’t because he liked having you around.

It wasn’t because he liked the way you smiled at him.

It wasn’t because you made him feel more human that he had even been. 

It wasn’t any of that.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

Campaign life was a whirlwind. Speeches, press conferences, stiff handshakes with people who smiled too wide and cared too little.

Bucky took it all in stride. He gritted his teeth and smiled through the fake pleasantries, rolled his eyes at the bullshit, and kept himself calm when answering the same three questions a hundred times.

You, however, were just trying to survive.

“You didn’t tell me there’d be this much small talk,” you whispered at one of the evening fundraisers, swirling the champagne in your glass as you stood beside him in a too-shiny ballroom.

“I figured you’d figure it out,” Bucky said, scanning the crowd. “Besides, you like talking.”

“Not this kind of talking,” you grumbled.

And it was easy—easier than it should’ve been—to fall into step with him. To stay by his side during conversations. To steal each other’s untouched hors d'oeuvres when no one was looking. To sit beside him in the car after a long day, both of you half-asleep, Bucky rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, stretching his legs out with a tired groan that you definitely didn’t stare at.

And somewhere in between the speeches and the late-night drives and the endless political nonsense, he became the person you talked to about everything.

And, yes, that included Sam.

“I mean, I get it,” you sighed one evening, your shoes discarded on his hotel couch. “I get why things didn’t work out. I do.”

Bucky nodded, sitting beside you, his tie loose, his jacket ohh. “Mhm.”

“And I get that he’s this whole… larger-than-life thing now.” You exhaled, stretching your legs across the couch in his hotel room. “But it’s like—he thought of me like I was a footnote.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “Trust me,” he told you, “You were never a footnote to him.”

You scoffed. “Sure feels like it.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not saying Sam’s not an idiot—”

You rolled your eyes. “Good start.”

“—but I need you to know he didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said. “He’s just… Sam. He doesn’t always see things the way other people do.”

You rolled your eyes. “You always defend him.”

“Because I know him,” Bucky said simply. 

—

Somehow, you got more… involved in his campaign.

When he muttered, “I fucking hate this paperwork,” and you just laughed, took the folder from him, and organised it yourself.

The next morning, after you restructured his entire PR strategy, Bucky stared at you in horror. “I’m gonna have to hire you.”

You scoffed, flipping through notes. “Bucky, no. This is just a favour for a friend.”

Yeah. A favour.

A friend.

You both kept pretending that’s all it was.

That’s all you were. 

—

It had been two months since you walked out of Sam’s apartment. Two months since you had kissed him one last time. 

You were sitting on your hotel bed, curled up in one of Bucky’s campaign sweatshirts—because apparently, there was merch now—scrolling mindlessly on your phone when the screen lit up with a name you hadn’t seen in weeks.

Sam.

Your stomach didn’t drop the way you expected it to.

You hesitated for half a second before answering.

“Hey.”

There was a pause. 

“Hey.”

His voice was steady. A little too steady, like he was putting conscious effort into making sure it stayed that way.

You weren’t sure what to say.

And maybe he wasn’t either, because for a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“How are you?” He finally asked. 

You blinked. That was not what you expected.

“I’m…” You thought about it. “I’m okay.”

You could hear him processing that.

“You are?” His voice was careful, as if he didn’t believe you.

You shifted against the pillows. “Yeah. I mean—don’t get me wrong, I was a mess for a while.” You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “But, y’know. Time, distractions. That kinda thing.”

“Distractions?” He echoed.

You hummed. “Bucky’s been dragging me around on his campaign. Keeping me busy. Making sure I don’t, I don’t know, waste away in my apartment or something.”

Something changed in Sam’s breath. It wasn’t loud, nor was it obvious. But you knew him.

“…You’re travelling with Bucky?”

You frowned slightly. “I mean, yeah. It’s not—” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal.”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

And yet, on the other end of the line, Sam was gripping the edge of his kitchen counter, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the splintering feeling in his chest.

Because he had been so sure you were still drowning without him.

Had convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, you were just as wrecked as he was.

But here you were, saying you were okay.

That Bucky—his best friend—was the one making sure you were okay. Sure, he had asked him to, but he didn’t realise the lengths he would go to just to make sure you weren’t lonely. 

And now, Sam was suddenly, completely, unbearably aware of the fact that he wasn’t okay.

“That’s good,” he finally said, “I’m—I’m glad.”

For the first time, you heard a break in his voice. 

It should’ve made you angry— should’ve made you want to throw his own actions back in his face. You left me no choice, Sam. 

But instead, you just felt… tired. Because it was too late for both of you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

Sam cleared his throat. “When are you back home?”

You glanced at your calendar, thumb hovering over the screen. “Two weeks. Tuesday.”

“Oh.” His tone was unreadable. “Well… call me then. I want to pick up my stuff from your place.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him again. “You have a spare key, Sam. Just use it.” You still trusted him— of course you did. That had never been the issue. 

Sam let out a deep breath, like he was tiptoeing around glass. “I know. I just… I wanted to do it in person.”

Oh.

Your fingers curled against your palm. “Okay.” The word felt insignificant, but what else was there to say? Sam would come over. He’d gather his things. You’d stand in the doorway, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching as he took the last of himself out of your space.

Or maybe… he had something to say. Maybe he needed an excuse to see you again. 

“Take care of yourself, Sam,” you said finally, gentler this time. “I better not see you outside the hotel room window, throwing hands with another rage monster.” You joked, because maybe, you wanted to make sure this didn’t become awkward. You wanted to make sure that even if you weren’t his, he would always be your friend.

“Yeah,” he chuckled in a whisper. “You too.”

And so, even when the call ended and the silence settled back in, you didn’t feel like crying.

On the other side of the country, Sam put his phone down, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and wished, for the first time, that he had done things differently.

—

You knocked on Bucky’s hotel room door.

“Hey.” He said when he answered voice was a little rough from disuse— maybe he’d been winding down for the night. He was in a Henley and sweatpants, barefoot, hair in a bun a little messier than usual. 

You sucked in a breath, needing to just…  talk. “Sam called.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside to let you in.

You sank onto the edge of his bed, arms wrapping around yourself. He sat across from you in the chair by the window, forearms resting on his knees.

“I think we needed to hear each other’s voices again,” you admitted. 

Bucky nodded, waiting for more.

You shook your head. “And I think… I think he really did care about me.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “But he was always looking at the next thing. The next fight. The next problem to fix. And I— never felt like I could share my problems.”

“You know…,” Bucky started, “The break up wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why did it feel like it?”

Bucky inhaled sharply, like he’d given this a lot of thought. “Because it wasn’t his fault either,” he said simply. “You just wanted different things.”

You licked your lips, but you saw it— that look in his eyes— a certainty, as if he had been sitting on this for years.

You narrowed your eyes. “You knew it was never gonna work between me and Sam, didn’t you?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Your heart ached. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

You studied him. “But you knew.”

“I knew Sam,” he admitted. “And I got to know you. You needed more than he could give.”

“And what was that?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, hands nervously twitching. “He did love you.” His voice was quiet. He felt like he needed to preface that. “But I think… I don’t think love was enough.” He considered. “I think you… wanted time with him. I think you wanted attention.”

You closed your eyes briefly, nodding. You knew that. You had always known that— that Sam’s attention was always on the good of all mankind. 

“Bucky, I—” You stopped mid-sentence.

Because suddenly, the realisation hit you.

Time. Attention.

The things you’d never gotten from Sam.

Bucky had stayed. He had been there, making sure you got out of bed, making sure you were okay, pulling you along on this campaign, keeping you close.

And suddenly, you were seeing it—him—differently.

“Those are the things you’re giving me now,” you whispered. 

Bucky gulped.

His teeth clicked. His fingers curled against his thighs. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Neither of you said anything for a moment, but the silence wasn’t empty. It reminded you of every moment you’d spent together the past few weeks. The banter. The glances. The way you gravitated toward each other in a crowded room without even thinking about it.

“You should go to bed,” Bucky finally muttered. His voice was low, a little uneven. Fuck, was he scared. You were getting too close to the truth, to how he’s always felt about you. 

“Yeah.” You agreed but didn’t move. Neither did he.

His fingers twitched. Your breath hitched.

“This is—” He groaned like something inside him snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so stupid.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head, eyes flicking down to where your trousers met his sheets. You should’ve moved. You should have gone. You should’ve this should’ve that. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to. 

Bucky’s fingers curled, gripping the edge of his chair like he needed to ground himself. 

“This… this is nothing, right?” you said, and you said it like a warning. You were trying to convince yourself to believe.

His jaw was tight, his throat bobbing. So quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Like what?”

His fingers curled against his thighs. “Like I’m your next mistake.”

A heat bloomed in your chest— something that felt too much like frustration, like a want that you had denied, that had been simmering under the surface for weeks and was finally clawing its way out.

Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, your hands fisting against your lap. “You could never be a mistake.”

Bucky flinched. 

And the way his shoulders stiffened made it seem like he didn’t believe you, because of course he didn’t.

Of course he thought this was wrong.

Of course he thought he wasn’t allowed to want this. Want you. 

Bucky’s breath was shallow. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—like he wanted something.

And then—

“Fuck it.”

His chair scraped back. His fingers found your wrist.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Sam kissed like a promise. Bucky kissed like he was drowning and begging for air. 

His hands were firm but hesitant, gripping your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you— like he was waiting for you to push him away.

You didn’t. Instead, you were pressing closer, fingers fisting in his shirt, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, gasping when his hand trailed up your spine, leaving a burning trail of in its wake.

You had only broken up with Sam two months ago. But you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered against your lips, exhaling hard, like he was trying to catch his breath. His forehead pressed against yours, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. “We shouldn’t—”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“Then why does it feel like I’ll fucking die if I stop?” His voice was ragged. This was killing him.

You closed the gap and kissed him again, because kissing Bucky was addicting. 

Sam had always kissed you slowly, held you like you were fragile.

Bucky?

Bucky kissed you like the wild thing he was. Like he had been starving for you.

His hands were firm, his mouth rough against your skin, his hips moving like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed this, like he needed you to survive.

He gripped your waist, mouth moving against yours, the way he groaned when your fingers tangled in his hair—God, you couldn’t stop.

He sighed when you moaned against his lips. He gripped your thighs hard, dragging you closer, deeper, until there was nothing left between you but heat and aching want. Soon, your back was against the mattress, your clothes discarded. 

His weight pressed you into the sheets, his lips dragging down your throat, hot and desperate. His stubble scraped your skin, sending sparks of heat curling in your stomach.

Sam used to be careful. Always controlled, always measured.

Bucky was not.

His hands were everywhere. Rough, needy. His metal fingers traced over your ribs, cool against skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your throat. His breathing was ragged. “If you want me to stop, just—”

You didn’t.

You grabbed his face, dragging him back to your mouth to taste him— and he tasted sweet. He tasted like your future.

His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and when he finally sank into you, you shattered.

Sam was always slow. Always careful, murmuring praises against your skin, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbone.

Bucky was none of those things.

He buried himself in you, his forehead pressing against yours. He felt so good, so full, so much— it was overwhelming.

And fuck, he looked at you like you were a vice he wasn’t supposed to have, but took you anyway.

Sam used to say your name, pressing kisses to your jaw. Bucky grunted your name like a prayer, like he was losing himself.

And you wanted him to.

You wanted him to lose himself in you.

Because right now, you weren’t thinking about Sam.

Right now, you weren’t second place to a job. 

And when you finally broke apart beneath him, gasping, trembling, falling apart at the seams—

Bucky followed right after.

—

Bucky was a light sleeper. After years of war, of Hydra—his body never let him sleep too deeply.

Which was why, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, his eyes snapped open instantly.

His arm was still wrapped around you, your bare skin pressed against his. You were still asleep, your breathing soft, lips slightly parted.

Fuck.

His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He carefully reached for his phone, trying not to wake you, and when he saw the caller ID—

Sam.

Fuck.

He answered anyway. “Hey.”

“Hey, man.” Sam’s voice was too kind, like he was trying to mask something else. “Uh, thanks for keeping an eye on my girl—” he stopped in his tracks, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I mean… well. Not my girl anymore. Just—uh, I didn’t expect you to bring her with you.”

Bucky glanced down at you. What was he doing? What was he supposed to say? 

“She was in no place to be alone in D.C.,” he replied. “I did what I had to.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “Yeah, I get that.”

Then, Sam said something so soft Bucky almost didn’t hear it.

“Do you think there’s a chance she might want me back?”

Bucky closed his eyes. 

No. No, no no. Sam couldn’t still love you that way, right?

He swallowed hard. “Sam… you… this…” He exhaled. “You know how this ends.”

Then, he heard a longer sigh.

“Right.” Sam’s voice was strained. “You’re right.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening as Sam shifted on the other end of the line.

“I’d just hurt her again,” Sam murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “Hm.”

“I don’t want that,” Sam admitted. His voice was stripped back. “I don’t want to do that to her again.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Guess we should just be friends.”

Bucky swallowed. “Hm.”

Sam was quiet for a long time, before saying, “Take care of her, alright?”

Bucky looked down at you again, at the way you had shifted slightly, brow furrowing, lips parting. His fingers brushed over your shoulder.

“I will.”

And for the first time since he answered the phone, Bucky didn’t feel guilty about it.

—

When your eyes fluttered open, you woke to the scent of him still lingering in the sheets. The room was still dark, the hotel curtains muting the scorching sunlight.

You could hear the faint rustling of clothes, the sound of trainers being laced up.

Bucky was standing near the desk, already dressed in his jogging clothes— sweatpants, a t-shirt that clung to his frame, a hoodie zipped halfway up. His hair was damp, probably from a shower. He glanced at you when he noticed you stirring.

“Mornin’,” he greeted.

You sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist. Your eyes went to the clock— 8.45 AM. “Press today?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured I’d go on a coffee run first.”

You tilted your head, watching him. Then, before you could overthink it, you pushed the blankets back and stretched. “I’ll come with you.”

—

The café smelled like burnt espresso and fresh pastries, the morning rush having finally calmed enough for you and Bucky to claim a quiet booth in the corner. The windows fogged up, the city humming on the other side of the glass. 

Bucky sat across from you, stirring sugar into his coffee even though you knew he drank it black. A distraction, maybe. Or maybe…  he needed a shock to his system.

“You good?” he finally asked, hesitantly.

You nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

“I…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t regret it.”

The spoon in his hand stilled. The soft clink of metal against ceramic was the only sound between you. Then, slowly, he looked up, blue eyes searching for any sign of a lie. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Even though it’s… messy?”

You huffed, almost amused. “Bucky, our lives have been messy for a long time.”

That made him laugh. His shoulders relaxed, just a little.

“What about you?” You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Do you regret it?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window like the answer might be written in the crowds. “I thought I would,” he admitted. “I thought I’d wake up and… feel like I’d done something wrong.”

“But you don’t?”

His fingers tapped against the side of his cup, like he was cataloguing his thoughts. Then, quietly, almost like a cardinal sin, “No. I don’t.”

The silence between you stretched before you swallowed, voice quieter this time. “I’ll always care about Sam.”

Bucky nodded. He had already known that. 

You sipped your coffee. “When I was younger…” You sighed, choosing your words carefully. “When I first hooked up with Sam, it was just a fling. I knew he could get up and leave at any time, and I wouldn’t blame him. So when he offered a relationship, I was over the fucking moon. I thought it would be different. I thought—if I could make it work—it would prove I wasn’t disposable.” You let out a self-deprecating laugh.“I think staying as long as I did—knowing I’d never ask him to stop being Captain America—just gave me… abandonment issues.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, “You were never disposable.” He reassured. “Not to me. Not to Sam, either.”

You looked away. “It doesn’t matter if he thinks so. I don’t feel like I’m not.” You exhaled, barely believing that even after you had just slept with Bucky, after breaking things off with Sam, yet here he was, still defending his best friend.

“Sam… He’ll always put the world first.” And you understood that. So you let the statement steep in silence.

He stared down at his coffee for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the ceramic, like he was debating whether to say something, anything. Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, he said, “I’ve been in love with you for a long, long time.”

Your breath hitched.

He let out an almost bitter chuckle. “Figured I should put that out there.”

Your heart pounded in your ears “How long?”

Bucky’s eyes darted, like he was debating whether to tell you the truth. “Since the first time you laughed at one of my jokes.”

A disbelieving gasp left your throat. “Bucky—”

“I hated it,” He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head like he didnt like admitting it. “I fucking hated it, because you were with Sam. He’s my best friend.” His voice cracked, just a little. “And I’d never do that to him.”

Your chest tightened. “Did you ever think about telling me?”

He hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Not as long as you loved him.”

But you didn’t, didn’t you? Not anymore, not in any way that mattered in this conversation, anyway.

You swallowed hard, the truth pressing against your ribs. “I think… in the last couple of months, when Sam started taking on more and more missions—after the president, after everything—I think I started… having… feelings for you.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours so fast it almost startled you. What?

You didn’t let yourself back down. Not when you owed him this—owed yourself this. “But… I was with Sam.”

Bucky didn’t say anything right away, but you could see his fingers twitching where they rested on the table. When he finally nodded, it was slow, like he was letting each word sink into his skin. “And now you’re not.”

You nodded, searching his eyes. “Now I’m not.”

You could always tell when he was holding something back, his muscles would tighten just a little too much, his fingers would tap away. He was doing it now, tracing the rim of his coffee cup. His lips parted, “I didn’t tell you something.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

He looked up at you then, “Sam called this morning.”

You blinked. “Oh…”

Bucky’s grip on the cup tightened. “He asked me if I thought you’d take him back.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

A month ago, you would’ve said yes without hesitation.

A month ago, if Sam had promised to change—to make more time, to choose you over the mission just once—you would’ve taken that deal in a heartbeat.

But now, after knowing what it felt like to have someone who was there, who made sure you were okay before you even thought to ask, who would make you his first priority— You couldn’t imagine life without him.

Your throat felt tight. “What… did you say?”

He shook his head,  “I told him he knew how this ended.”

You looked down nervously at your lap.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I—maybe I shouldn’t’ve assumed—”

“Do you think I should take him back?” you interrupted.

He went still. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and they looked like they were burning.

“No,” he said, hopeful.

The café buzzed with life around you—clinking mugs, distant chatter, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine—but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the way Bucky was looking at you the way you wanted him to.

You swallowed. “Do you think I’m a bad person for wanting to be with you instead?”

“No,” he whispered

Your hands found the sticky vinyl of the booth seat. “Shit,” you shook your head. “I feel like I should feel worse about this.”

Bucky tilted his head, “You loved him.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. You traced the tabletop with your finger, avoiding his eyes. “But I love you more.”

Bucky took a deep breath, like you’d knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His pupils blew wide, and for a second, he just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“Say that again,” he breathed, almost begging. “Please.”

Your throat went dry, finally looking him in the eyes.“I love you more.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. “I shouldn’t be this happy, should I?”

“Probably not,” you admitted, laughing weakly.

Bucky leaned in slightly, nearly knocking over his coffee. “If you let me,” he promised, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel disposable again.”

The world outside your little coffee booth faded into nothing. Just you and him and this inevitable connection.

“Deal.”

Bucky froze, just for a fraction of a second, before shoving the contained aside, climbed halfway over the table, and kissed you like a man starved. His hands cradled your face, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was messy, and perhaps a half apology for making you wait this long.

You gasped against his mouth, fisting the front of his jacket to pull him even closer. His metal hand slid against your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a throat cleared.

“Uh.” The barista’s voice rang in your ears. “Not to kill the vibe, but this is a family-friendly establishment.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, forehead pressed against yours, and let out a breathless laugh.

You bit your lip, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, still dazed, “Sorry.” He leaned back, but not before pressing one last, fleeting kiss to your lips. And then you just looked at him.

Hair tousled from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen, eyes alive in a way you hadn’t seen before. He grinned—grinned, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

In that moment, you realised that while Sam had spent the last two years figuring out what it meant to be Captain America, Bucky had spent that time figuring out who he was outside of the Winter Soldier.

So of course Sam couldn’t put you first. He had the whole damn world resting on his shoulders.

But Bucky could.

Bucky would.

And maybe it was complicated. Maybe it would get messy.

But with Bucky smiling at you like that, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

—

But how do you even bring something like this up to Sam?

How do you look him in the eye and say, Hey, I know we broke up, but your best friend and I…

So, you didn’t. Not yet.

When you got home two weeks later, you didn’t call Sam like you said you would. You figured he could survive a night without the spare clothes you still had.

But Sam had texted earlier, even called a couple of times, too. When neither you nor Bucky answered, he started to get worried. It wasn’t like either of you to ignore him completely.

That worry led him here.

Standing at your door, with his spare key in hand.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

That was… weird.

He hesitated—just for a second—before slipping it into the lock. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, expecting a dark apartment. Maybe you were curled up on the couch watching something with Bucky eating ice cream, both too distracted to check your phones.

What he didn’t expect—what he never could have expected— was the sound that stopped him cold in the doorway.

“Oh—God—please, please—”

His stomach turned to ice.

He heard the bed creak, he heard the sound of skin hitting skin at a pace so incredibly intense, he felt like he was about to throw up. 

Then Bucky’s voice followed, so goddamn gentle.

“That’s it, that’s it. Let me hear you.”

Oh. 

Oh. No.

Why did it have to be Bucky? Sam thought, why couldn’t it have been anyone else?

Sam’s lungs filled like it might as well have collapsed.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be hearing this, but his feet wouldn’t let him move. His fingers gripped the key so tightly it cut into his palm.

“You like that, sweetheart? You know I’d give you anything. Just gotta tell me what you need.”

Sweetheart.

Sam used to call you sweetheart all the damn time. He used to say it over breakfast, in sleepy murmurs when he curled around you at night, with laughter in his voice when you teased him. You had smiled, then. You had kissed him. You had never asked him for more.

“Please…”

Sam could count on one hand the number of times you had begged him for anything.

You had never been needy with him. Never desperate. You had been understanding. You had been patient.

“Buck— James—please, I—”

And the worst part?

You had never once said his name like that— like it was a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

A choked sound tore out of him before he could stop it.

He barely managed to step in, barely remembered to breathe as he forced his legs to carry him into the kitchen, blinking rapidly.

The spare key felt heavy as he set it down on the table. His hands shook as he reached for a pen, vision blurring as he scribbled the words before he could think too hard about them.

He left immediately.

—

Bucky was up before you the next morning.

When he walked into the kitchen, he saw the key.

The note.

The second he recognised Sam’s familiar handwriting, his stomach dropped.

‘Sounds like this key belongs to you, Barnes. -S’

His fingers trembled as he picked up the key, as if it might vanish between his fingertips.

He knows.

The room suddenly felt too small, his chest too tight.

You walked in a moment later, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, his henley hanging off your frame. “Sweetie… you left me alone,” you mumbled adorably, voice still groggy.

But the second you saw his face, your brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just handed you the note, watching as your expression shifted from confusion to horror.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Sam had heard, Sam had been here, and Bucky hadn’t even noticed. He had been too caught up in you, too caught up in the way you had fallen apart beneath him.

“I’ll call him.” he gulped, “I’ll meet him. I’ll talk to him.”

You swallowed, watching the tension grow in his shoulders. “I could come with—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, “I need to do it on my own.”

You didn’t push, though concern flickered in your eyes. You just nodded.

—

Bucky had asked to meet in a text.

Sam had agreed.

The bar was nearly empty, the kind of place where no one asked questions and no one cared about anyone else’s problems.

Bucky sat across from Sam, hands wrapped around a half pint of beer he hadn’t touched. Sam hadn’t touched his either. Neither of them were here for that.

Sam didn’t waste time. He didn’t dance around it. “How long?”

Bucky blinked. “How long what?”

Sam’s teeth clenched, his fingers curling into fists against the wooden tabletop. “How long have you been in love with her?”

What was the point of lying?

“Longer than I’d like to admit.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath. He shook his head once, like he could shake them off. “How long have you been waiting for me to fail?” He demanded, “How long were you just waiting to step in?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?”  Sam let out a humourless laugh. “Then tell me what did.”

Bucky didn’t answer fast enough for Sam’s liking.

“Tell me,” Sam repeated, “Tell me everything.”

God, it was terrifying to see Sam like this.

He was always so level-headed, so in control. But now his anger crackled like a live wire.

It didn’t feel like him. It didn’t look like him.

“Sam,” Bucky said slowly, “I never told her to leave you.”

Sam leaned back. “Sure.”

“I didn’t—” Bucky insisted, leaning forward. “I just— I pointed out that you two had different values. That maybe you weren’t giving her what she needed. That’s it.” His mechanical fingers whirred. “I did nothing wrong.”

Sam’s eyes flashed with red. “Nothing wrong,” he repeated, like he could barely believe the words. His voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper. “You knew.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“You knew how much I loved her.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sam—”

“No. Don’t ‘Sam’ me,” Sam snapped. His voice was rough. “You answered the call and listened to me talk about her. You knew how much I still cared, and you l—” He stopped himself, chest rising and falling too fast.

“She wanted more,” Bucky said, exasperated, “You didn’t see it, or maybe you did and you didn’t care, but she was waiting for you, Sam. And she got tired of waiting.”

Sam’s hands curled into fists. “And you just happened to be there when she did, huh?” His voice was scathing.

“I didn’t plan this!”

“But you sure as hell didn’t stop it,” Sam shot back. “You sure as hell didn’t tell me—”

“What was I supposed to say?” Bucky’s voice rose into a subtle shout now, frustration bleeding through. “That I’ve been in love with your girl for longer than I can remember? That every time I saw her look at you, I wished—” He cut himself off before he could spiral, shaking his head. “What would that have changed, Sam? Huh? Would you have treated her any different?”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “I loved her,” he could only repeat those words. 

“I never told her to leave you,” Bucky said again, as if to drive the point home. “But I wasn’t gonna tell her to stay, either.”

Sam shook his head, laughing under his breath, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah. Yeah, I bet you weren’t.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “Sam—”

Sam shoved back from the table, chair scraping against the tile as he stood.

For a second, it looked like Sam might say something else.

But he didn’t.

He just turned and walked out.

And Bucky let him go.

—

When you saw Bucky by your door, you knew something was wrong.

He looked drained, like he had been hollowed out from the inside. 

You reached for him the second he stepped in. “Bucky—”

“I told him,” he said, voice rough. “We talked.” A dry chuckle left his lips. “If you can call it that.”

Your chest tightened. “That bad?”

Bucky closed the door behind him. “Yeah.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his hipbones. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” His voice was quieter now, more worn out. “He’s hurt. He’s pissed. And I— I don’t know if he’ll get over this.”

You didn’t push for more. Instead, you just pulled him into you, wrapping your arms around his waist.

The moment your arms circled him, his entire body gave out. He melted against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I got you,” you cooed, one hand threading through his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his back.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there like that, but eventually, Bucky’s weight grew heavier against you. You carefully guided him to the couch, easing him down beside you.

The second you settled in, he curled into you without hesitation, head resting against your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Get some rest, baby,” you said.

Bucky sighed. He nuzzled closer, and within moments, he was asleep in your arms.

—

Two hours later, Bucky was still asleep. He hadn’t moved in a long time—so emotionally exhausted that even when you carefully shifted out from under him, he barely stirred.

You knew you had to do something about this. 

If you left this too long, the fallout between Sam and Bucky would be worse than when you and Sam broke up. So much worse.

So you grabbed Sam’s spare key buried at the bottom of a drawer, shoved there weeks ago like out of sight meant out of mind.

On the way out, you grabbed the last of his things— the small pile he had planned to come back for. A sweatshirt, a couple of books, little trinkets he probably hadn’t even realised he left behind.

You called Joaquin on your way there.

When he answered, he was half-yawning. “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

You shifted the bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah. Just—checking in.”

Joaquin sighed. He already knew why you were calling. 

“It’s bad,” he admitted. “Not gonna lie.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I checked on him after he met with Bucky and… He’s not talking much, which is weird for Sam.” Joaquin’s voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure he should even be telling you this. “Just kinda… sitting in it, you know?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Joaquin hesitated. “He’s pissed. I think he’s just—” He sighed. “I don’t know, man. It’s rough.”

You knew this would hurt him. You knew it would break something between you, between all of you.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

“I’m bringing his stuff now,” you said.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Joaquin asked.

No.

But it didn’t matter.

—

Sam opened the door on your first knock like he had been waiting for you.

The circles under his eyes were deeper than you remembered. His usual magnetic warmth, that easy charm, was gone. 

Without a word, you held up the bag. “Brought your stuff.”

Sam didn’t reach for it. He just stepped aside. "Come in."

The apartment looked the same. It was the same kitchen where you used to make coffee while he read the news, the same living room he used to sneak up behind you, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple.

But it didn’t feel the same.

It felt… abandoned. Like a house after the fire has burned out—everything still standing, but covered in soot.

You set the bag down and turned to face him. 

Joaquin had warned you that he was not himself.

But seeing him like this… made it real.

He broke the silence first. “Joaquin said you called.”

"Yeah."

Sam let out a dry chuckle. “Checking to see if I’m still breathing?”

You looked at him in half-shock. He had always been so calm and collected. He had never, ever been self-destructive before. "Sam."

He shook his head, looking away. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I care about you, Sam.”

That made him laugh. “Funny way of showing it.”

You flinched, but held your ground.

"Come on,” you said, voice tight. “You know this isn’t about that.”

His eyes flashed. “Enlighten me, then.”

"We just weren’t a good fit,” You trailed a hand on his forearm, somehow feeling too close and not close enough. “We kept pretending, we kept trying, but deep down, we both knew it wasn’t right.” You gestured between the two of you. “I did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. We just— We just weren’t meant for each other.”

His fingers trembled just a little. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

"I know.” You soothed. “I know it hurts.”

For a moment, the anger bled out of him. "He should’ve told me before it happened."

"He– we,” you corrected, “We didn’t plan this.”

Sam scoffed. 

Your frustration bubbled over. “You’re really gonna let your friendship with Bucky die over a girl?” You shook your head, voice finally rising. “Over me?”

He had nothing to say to that.

"Two months, Sam.” You swallowed hard. “Two months we weren’t together before anything even happened. You can’t sit here and act like we were still—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head.

He swallowed hard, finally meeting your eyes.

"I loved you," he said, voice rough, like the words had splintered on the way out.

"I know," you whispered.

He looked away. His fists unclenched. “Well this fucking sucks.”

"Yeah." You gave a sad, tired smile. “It does, but I’m always going to be your friend." You gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “And Bucky… Bucky is your best friend.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Don’t treat him like this,” you almost pleaded. “Not over me.”

With a long, tired sigh, he nodded. He never could argue his way out with you. 

"J-just give me time," he said.

And you did.

—

A week later, Sam wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

He had never really exploded on anyone before, not in a way that left wreckage behind. He had spent so much of his life learning how to hold it together, how to bite his tongue and keep moving forward.

But this wasn't something he could outrun.

Because now, when he looked at Bucky, all he saw was you leaving him.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe that was selfish.

So yeah, he was not angry anymore, but he hadn’t really processed the fact that you had found something with Bucky that you couldn’t find with him.

And Sam didn’t know how to move past that.

He let the days blur together, filling them with distractions that didn’t work, pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

Until Joaquin called him on his shit.

"Alright, man. Enough of this."

Sam barely looked up.

Joaquin stood across the room, arms crossed. Sam had been so unfocused while working on his wingpack that Joaquin had finally just snatched it from him, setting it down with a loud clank.

"You can sulk all you want, but this is ridiculous." Sam sat at the table, fingers loosely curled around the glass of iced coffee he hadn’t touched in over an hour.

"Didn’t know my personal life was any of your business," Sam shrugged.

Joaquin scoffed. "You broke the law for him, Sam.” His patience was running thin. He was sick of being stuck at work with a fucking brick wall that only said one or two words every two hours. “You broke the damn law for that man, stood by him when no one else would, risked your life a hundred times over. And you’re not even talking to him!”

Sam’s fingers tightened around his glass. "It ain’t that simple.”

"It is," Joaquin said. "I’m not saying Bucky isn’t a dumbass for falling in love with your ex— but have you even tried being happy for them? The guy who’d take a bullet for you is the same guy who’d take a bullet for her— You think that’s a coincidence?”

He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to admit that Joaquin was right.

But… he knew had to face it.

Sam let out a long breath, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes before finally pulling out his phone.

Then, finally, he typed:

I’m ready to talk again.

And he hit send.

—

So now, here they were.

Sitting in silence in the same bar, drinks in front of them.

Sam just sat there, studying Bucky like he was waiting for something—an explanation, an apology, hell, maybe a fight.

“So… you ready to yell at me again,” Bucky sighed, rolling his shoulders, “Or can we just talk?”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “You act like I’m the unreasonable one.”

"I mean." Bucky gestured vaguely. “You did storm out of a diner after accusing me of stealing your girl.”

Sam leveled him with a flat look. “Because you did.”

“We’re already doing this wrong.” He leaned back. “Look, I don’t wanna fight you. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I don’t—” He stopped, considering whether or not Sam wanted to hear him out. Then, quieter, “Like I don’t love her.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Bucky huffed out a laugh. “Look, I am sick for her, man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean it," Bucky continued, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s disgusting. You ever see a dog get left alone for too long and lose its goddamn mind the second someone walks through the door? That’s me. She walks in, and suddenly I forget every bad thing that’s ever happened to me."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sam’s lips curled into a small smile. “That’s pathetic.”

"I know."

"You’re a grown man."

"I know."

Sam took a slow sip of his drink. "That’s embarrassing for you."

Bucky just shrugged.

“…Was it always like that?” Sam’s voice was quieter now, but not accusing. “Did you always love her like that?”

Bucky’s fingers tapped against his glass. “I tried not to. I really did.” He huffed. “Told myself you were my best friend, told myself it wouldn’t happen. But—” He shook his head. “It wasn’t something I could turn off.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He knew he had asked his next question before, but he had to ask again. He had to be sure.

"So did you?” Sam leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Did you sit there the whole time, waiting for me to fuck up?”

“No,” Bucky said without missing a beat. “I sat there hoping you wouldn’t.”

That shut Sam up. How was he supposed to answer that?

Bucky sighed, his fingers curling loosely around his glass. "Sam, you’re a better man than me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don’t start with that dramatic ass—"

"I mean it." Bucky turned toward him fully, "The world will always be your priority. You are a hero, Sam. You always will be. That makes you a better man."

Sam scoffed, tipping back the rest of his drink. "Yeah? And what does that make you?"

"More selfish." He admitted. "More broken."

Sam didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue, either.

Bucky’s voice went a bit more quiet. “You will always protect the world." He looked him in the eyes. "I will burn the world for her."

Sam froze.

"Have you ever thought that’s what she wants?" Bucky asked.

He hated how much sense it made.

"Sam." Bucky leaned forward, elbows on the bar. "She is as selfish as I am."

Sam shook his head. "She’s not selfish—"

"She is." Bucky’s voice was firm, no room for argument. "She asked to be the center of my world. And I can give her that."

Sam inhaled deeply, tilting his head back. “Shit.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah.”

Then, Sam shook his head, letting out a cynical laugh. “You know what pisses me off?”

"What?"

"That I have to admit I overreacted.” Sam let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I was mad, I was hurt, but—shit, Buck. She wasn’t mine anymore. And I acted like—” He shook his head. “I acted like an asshole.”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah, you did.”

Sam shot him a pointed look.

Bucky held up his hands. “Hey, your words, not mine.”

Sam sighed. "I still think you should’ve at least told me."

“I know,” Bucky nodded. "And I’m sorry you found out the way you did."

Sam groaned, shaking his head. "Man, I did not need to hear all that."

"Yeah, that was rough."

Sam groaned louder, rubbing his temples.

“So…” Bucky nudged his shoulders. “You done being mad at me?”

Sam shrugged, shaking his head. "You’re still a pain in my ass."

Bucky smirked. "You wouldn’t know what to do without me."

"Whatever,” he dismissed, but there was no real disdain behind it.

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

"Man, what do you want from me?” Sam finally chuckled. “You already stole my girl, you want my blessing too?"

Bucky grinned. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Sam groaned, shoving at his shoulder. “Fuck off, Barnes. Now buy me a drink before I change my mind.”

Bucky just laughed, and somehow, somehow, it felt like things might just be okay.

—

A Year Later…

"To the left."

"No, the other left."

"Barnes, if you drop that couch, I swear to God—"

"It’s fine, Sam, I got it."

"Do you? Do you really? Because that thing is tilting real suspiciously—"

"Bucky, sweetie, please don’t break the couch before we even sit on it."

"I got it."

THUD.

Joaquin snorted. “Yeah, you totally got it.”

Bucky shot him a glare as he flexed his metal fingers. The couch had technically made it inside, albeit with a new scuff mark or two. It now sat in the middle of the living room—your living room. Yours and Bucky’s.

"I should’ve stayed home," Sam muttered.

"Me too," Joaquin agreed, clapping him on the back.

"No one asked you two to help," Bucky pointed out.

"We came because she asked," Sam insisted, pointing his chin at you.

You grinned, stepping around Bucky and squeezing both his arms. "Alright, enough whining, boys," you said. "We need to get everything unpacked before we drown in boxes."

Bucky sighed but gave in, nudging Joaquin toward the kitchen to help with electronics. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your lips. It was a bit rough, but still loving, as it always was. He never failed to make your heart flutter.

When Bucky was out of earshot, Sam leaned against the wall. “You know,” he said after a moment, holding up his hand. “I was this close to asking you to move in with me our second year together.”

You turned to him, "Oh?"

He shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Figured it would’ve been nice. You and me. House in the suburbs, co-parenting Redwing…”

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sam…” it was a gentle warning.

“I know, I know.” He shook his head, crossing his arms. “You’re with him now.”

And that was okay.

It really was.

“Hey,” you stepped closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “I’m glad you boys came around.”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Joaquin was currently attempting to swindle Bucky out of the last slice of pizza.

“I just—” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he should say it, “—I’m glad it’s him.”

You blinked. "What?"

Sam sighed. “With you. If it had to be anyone else, I’m glad it’s Bucky.”

You hadn’t expected that. A year ago, he might’ve made a snide remark. Maybe stormed out.

But he’d done the work to balance job and life. He’d gone to therapy. He’d let himself heal.

And now, here he was. Helping you move in together with his best friend. 

You swallowed. "Me too."

He shrugged, then sighed. "You know what I realised?"

You shook your head.

"I was never mad that you moved on with him," he admitted. "I was mad that you moved on easier than I did."

You let the confession settle between you.

Then you broke the silence, “I’m… I’m proud of you.”

For putting in the work. 

For being happy for you.

For being happy with himself.

And you meant it.

He only smiled.

You and Sam were always going to be friends. Maybe not in the way you once were, but in a way that still mattered. That would always matter.

Then, Bucky caught both you and Sam staring at him, he waved.

Sam waved back.

And when Bucky smiled at you again, this time with an adoring look, like you were the best damn thing that had ever happened to him— Sam knew, without a doubt, that the truth had always been simple:

Bringing you and Bucky together was still his proudest achievement.

-End.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

There was a spark about her—a being of chaos and confidence wrapped in a teenage body. Even the air around her seemed to him with potential. As you walked toward her, preparing the same measured welcome you gave all new students, she looked up, caught your eye, and smiled. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed, “I know you!”

You furrowed your eyebrows, puzzled. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Not this you,” she said with a smirk. “Other yous. I can travel to different realities.”

You studied her for a moment, and in that instant, your understanding of the multiverse shifted slightly—not in theory, not in abstract philosophy, but in practice. 

She was real, tangible, and standing three feet in front of you, smiling like this sort of thing happened every Tuesday.

And maybe, for her, it did.

—

You quickly became her favourite teacher.

She liked Strange, but you were more sympathetic than him, and less rigid than Wong. You were enough of a challenge to keep her attention— on good days, anyway. America had a habit of brushing off lessons she didn’t think she needed. If a spell didn’t explode or glow or bend reality sideways, she wasn’t that interested. But she also had a habit of punching holes through space and tearing through dimensions like they were paper. She could travel without a Sling Ring, which made her a magnet for trouble.

See, that kind of power doesn’t go unnoticed. That kind of power needed protection.

So you pushed her a little harder. Taught her advanced shielding techniques, the kind that could hold up against dimensional anomalies and the occasional demon. You worked patiently with her, correcting her form, teaching her to stabilise her breathing, to anchor her focus in the midst of chaos. 

She rolled her eyes more than once, but she listened. And when it mattered, she applied what she learned.

She wasn’t a quick learner, but she was talented. 

You liked her instantly.

By the end of your first month teaching her, you established a rhythm. She’d show up (sometimes late), and you’d teach her something new. 

Sometimes she challenged you, sometimes she surprised you, but always, she reminded you why you taught in Kamar-Taj in the first place.

That day, after a particularly solid session—she’d finally nailed an advanced protection spell, the Sigil of the Aegis, and managed to hold it steady under pressure. “You’ve been practicing—good. It shows,” you said with a smile. “But I gotta run. My husband’s waiting for me at home.”

America perked up immediately. “Oh! Tell Bucky I said hi!”

You blinked. “I never told you about Bucky.”

She gave a little shrug, casual as ever. “Didn’t need to. You’re with him in every universe.”

Oh?

You paused, her words lodging deeper than you ever expected. You felt a gentle warmth bloom in your chest— perhaps a sense of inevitability, of cosmic affection. You smiled, more to yourself than to her.

“Well,” you finally said, after processing her words, “That’s good to know.”

—

After the first six months, the classrooms of Kamar-Taj weren’t enough for America anymore. She craved more than theory, more than chants and sigils. She wanted something real. She wanted something to punch.

And being married to a feisty ex-assassin, you understood that hunger better than most. You understood the calling that came from knowing you were built for something bigger than the four walls of a training room. 

So… you started bringing her on missions.

At first, it was small stuff— clearing out rogue spirits in the Alps, helping Wong seal a breach in an ancient temple, handling a cursed artifact that had ended up in the hands of an unsuspecting kid in Tokyo. 

She was fearless on the field, and just reckless enough to keep you on your toes. And she loved every second of it.

Sometimes it was just the two of you. Other times, when physical force was needed, Bucky joined you.

Where you moved with grace, he moved with force. Where you cast with precision, he fought with instinct. You were opposites in many ways— but you worked like clockwork together. 

The first time the three of you teamed up, America gave Bucky one long look and smirked. “So, the Winter Soldier in this universe, huh? Doesn’t look so scary.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Give me five minutes and a reason.”

“He’s all bark until someone threatens me,” You laughed. “Then it gets messy.”

From then on, the three of you became a strange little unit. America would tease Bucky constantly—calling him grumpy, old man, or “Sergeant Sunshine” on good days. She’d stick close to you when he got too serious. You always laughed.

—

When this all started, America had two legal guardians— Wong and Strange. Recently, you and Bucky were added to the list. 

So you started inviting her to yours and Bucky’s home more, especially when Strange or Wong had pressing matters to attend to. Dinner at your apartment became a regular thing. She’d crash on the couch in an old hoodie, eating popcorn and flipping through your spellbooks like they were comic books. Bucky cooked big, hearty meals more often than not, recipes that reminded him of a time before this one. You’d float the dishes clean afterward with a flick of your hand, and America would clap.

Strange and Wong would sometimes be invited too, and they’d bicker about magical ethics. At least they’d brought dessert. One time, Wong showed up with six tubs of ice cream and didn’t explain why. No one asked.

Then came Madripoor.

A Skrull impersonated you during an ambush, but America decked her with a right hook, and she dropped like a sack of bricks.

“My sister doesn’t stand like that,” she said, shaking out her fist.

You didn’t say anything right away, but you beamed with pride. 

After that, she started calling you her big sister like it had always been the case.

Bucky didn’t argue. In fact, he was fond of it. 

He started teaching her how to throw knives, how to read people’s movements in combat, how to hit where it counted. “Just in case the magic fails.” he’d say with a shrug. 

He trained her like she mattered to him, like he’d already decided she was family.

“She reminds me of you, you know,” he said one night, after America had passed out on your favourite armchair in the living room with her mouth open, TV still on.

You were curled up beside him on the couch, your legs over his lap, a cup of tea floating in the air between you.

“She’s louder,” you replied with a smile.

He chuckled. “Yeah, but she’s got that same… fire. She knows she’s meant for more, just waiting for the world to catch up.”

You glanced at her, snoring under your old jacket, curled up like she hadn’t fought a demon with Wong twelve hours ago. “I get it. She doesn’t just want to survive. She wants to matter.”

Bucky tangled his metal arm in your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. “She does. Especially to you.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “To us.”

Bucky smiled and nodded, kissing the top of your head.

—

Then, something started… changing. Especially in lessons.

America started showing up late, later than usual—and when she did, her energy was all over the place. Spells fizzled out, sigils came out crooked, and her focus was… somewhere else entirely. 

She was still trying, still cracking jokes, but something had… shifted. 

After the third lesson in a row where she couldn’t hold a basic containment shield (even though she’d mastered it weeks ago), you finally decided to ask around.

You found Wong and Strange in the library, deep in a debate about magical interference patterns in unstable realities. They paused when you walked in, and Wong raised an eyebrow at the look on your face.

“America is distracted,” you said simply. “I’ve tried scolding her, grounding exercises, even bribing her with snacks. Nothing’s working.”

Wong gave a thoughtful nod. “Food usually does the job. That is serious.”

Strange leaned back in his chair with an annoyingly smug grin. “I think I know what it is.”

You folded your arms. “If it’s dimensional exhaustion, just say so. Don’t be cryptic.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” He smirked. “I think she’s got a crush.”

You blinked. “A what?”

Strange gestured vaguely toward the southern wing of the compound. “On that new teenage sorcerer. The cocky one from London. You know, the one who wears sunglasses indoors and thinks enchantments are a ‘vibe.’”

You stared at him. “Huh?”

Wong groaned. “Dear gods. Leo?” 

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I caught her staring at him throw basic sparks into the air. She didn’t blink for, like, five whole minutes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “She’s letting her shields drop because she has a crush?”

“She’s sixteen,” Wong said with a sigh. “It’s developmentally appropriate.”

“Tell that to the demon who nearly melted my eyebrows off yesterday.”

Strange raised a finger. “To be fair, you were the one who let her take point on that breach.”

You scowled. “She begged to.”

“She wanted to impress Leo,” Strange said with a shrug. “Teenagers do dumb things when they have crushes.”

Wong crossed his arms. “So did you. Still do.”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make this about me.”

You sighed and dropped into the nearest chair. “Okay. So. Teen crush. What do I do? Forbid her from seeing him? Set your cloak on surveillance duty?”

“Or,” Wong said gently, “talk to her. Like you always do.”

You groaned dramatically, head in your hands. “I liked it better when the only thing she wanted to punch was interdimensional rifts.”

“She still does,” Wong said with a small smile. “She just also wants to punch them while looking cool in front of Leo.”

“Honestly, you should be proud,” Strange added, “She’s becoming terrifyingly normal.”

You could only chuckle, because they were right. She was growing. And real growth was never clean or controlled.

Especially not when teenage feelings got involved.

But you were still a legal guardian to her. The only female one, too. Neither lunatic wizards in front of you would know how to handle it, and as much as you loved your husband, he would not know how to handle girl talk. 

So you stood up, dusted off your robes, and said, “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if he hurts her, I’m sending him into a mirror dimension for a week.”

Strange grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

—

You found her by the koi pond, skipping stones with the same power she usually reserved for punching demons. Her robe sleeves were pulled down over her hands.

You didn’t approach right away. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, watching the way she groaned every time a stone bounced fewer than three times.

Finally, you said, “You know your shields are garbage lately, right?”

America sighed without looking at you. “Yeah.”

You stepped beside her, picked up a pebble, and skipped it clean across the pond— six hops. 

She gave you a side-eye. “Okay, show off.”

You smiled. “You wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated, but then said without looking up, “You ever like someone who’s... dumb hot but also kinda ridiculous?”

You nodded solemnly. “Bucky had an eyeliner phase.”

She turned to you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Long story,” you shook your head, “Focus. You mean Leo?”

She winced. “You know?”

“Everyone knows. Wong’s pretending he doesn’t, but Strange tells me you stare at him like he’s a walking portal to a candy dimension.”

“I hate it,” America groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I hate it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s cool and I’m… I dunno. I punch holes in space,” she sighed, “Not exactly first-date material.”

You nudged her shoulder. “You just need a plan, kid.”

She looked up, hopeful. “You’re gonna help me?”

You grinned. “What are big sisters for?”

After some (a lot) of encouragement, she found him in the spellcasting chambers and stammered out something along the lines of, “Hey, do you wanna get noodles and maybe talk about...like...not magical stuff for once?”

Leo blinked behind his ever-present sunglasses and gave her a grin that somehow tied her stomach into a knot and annoyed her all at once.

“Only if you don’t punch open a portal in the middle of dinner,” he said.

She punched his arm lightly. “No promises.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

—

Back in your home, America was pacing like a storm in a bottle while you tossed clothes across the guest bed, which has turned more and more into her second bedroom.

“I don’t know what to wear. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, right?”

You held up a bright red flannel and black jeans. “There. Makes your eyes pop.”

She grabbed them, holding them up in the mirror. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Then came the shoes decision, and the hair style spell, and a tiny protective charm you discreetly stitched into her jacket pocket— just in case.

And when she was almost ready, Bucky strolled in.

He looked at the pile of clothing chaos, then at America.

“…Where are you going?”

America froze like a deer in headlights. You smiled. “She has a date, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “With who?”

America muttered under her breath, “Leo.”

Bucky stared at her. “Sunglasses Indoors Leo?”

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yep.”

He crossed his arms, metal plating shifting with a whir. “Is he human? Does he have a criminal record? What’s his GPA? Has he ever made a pact with an ancient entity?”

You stepped between them before America combusted from secondhand embarrassment. “He’s fine, Buck. Wong already did the background check.”

Bucky looked unconvinced. “If he hurts her—”

“I’ll punch him into another reality,” America said quickly. “Relax, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, but he still handed her a switchblade. “Keep it in your boot. Just in case.”

“I can tear open a hole in space.”

“Still.”

—

That night, America left through a portal with flushed cheeks, perfect eyeliner (Bucky’s doing), and the world’s most awkwardly concealed switchblade in her boot.

You and Bucky watched her go, standing side by side at the window.

“She’ll be fine,” you said.

“She’s still just a kid,” he grumbled.

You leaned into him. “She’s got this.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “Still interrogating the boyfriend when I see him.”

You smiled. “Obviously.”

—

The date went well—really well. America came back that night practically floating. 

She walked into your study smiling from ear like she’d just discovered treasure in a new universe, then immediately collapsed face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“He ordered dumplings for me without asking,” she mumbled into a cushion. “Because I mentioned it one time like two days ago.”

“That’s your bar?” You raised an eyebrow. “Dumpling telepathy?”

She rolled over, eyes bright. “It’s not just that! We talked for hours. Like, real talk. He told me about how his dad was a monk and he hated it. He said I’m like— this walking, talking reminder that the multiverse is bigger than all the rules he grew up with.”

Bucky, sitting nearby cleaning a knife, glanced over. “Sounds like he talks a lot.”

America waved a hand. “Yeah, but it’s good talk.”

For the next few months, it was like a new light had switched on in her. Still reckless, still stubborn—but brighter around the edges. 

She practiced spells with more purpose (if not more focus), sometimes scribbling his name in the margins of her notes with tiny hearts, like magic school had turned into high school overnight.

And she gushed. Oh god, she gushed.

Leo said this. Leo did that. Leo levitated an entire tray of fries because he didn’t want to stop holding her hand. Leo cast a musical glamour to make her laugh. Leo kissed her in the rain and she swears it was like being in a movie.

You smiled through most of it. You’d tease her sometimes. You offered advice when she asked. And when she didn’t, you still made sure she knew you were there.

Bucky, of course, took longer to warm up. He never threatened Leo outright, but every time the boy showed up at your door, Bucky just happened to be cleaning a rifle.

“Be safe,” he’d always say as America ran out the door. “No unsupervised pocket dimension hopping.”

But then the stories… changed.

Not in tone— she was still breathless, still had rose tinted glasses on—but in content. She started mentioning how he didn’t like sparring with her anymore because he said she “came on too strong.” How he’d get quiet when she talked about going on missions.

“He says I make everything too big,” she said once, curling deeper into a blanket while your tea kettle whispered in the background. “That I treat magic like it’s a fight instead of a philosophy.”

You didn’t say anything then.

You just handed her a cup and listened.

Because it wasn’t your place to step in— not yet. Not when she was still so hopeful, still so sure she could bend the edges of her world to match his if she just tried hard enough.

But you noticed the red flags.

You noticed how, after a couple of months, her posture shrank when she talked about him. She laughed less when he was around. How her magic sparked in unpredictable, frustrating bursts when she thought no one was looking. How she said “sorry” too often. For being late, training too hard, for simply… taking up space.

Once, during a lesson, she flubbed a shield charm she could’ve done in her sleep, and when you offered to go over it again, she waved it off with a tired smile. “Leo says I overthink everything. Maybe I should just... stop trying so hard.”

That one hurt.

But still, you didn’t say anything. You just adjusted the angle of her stance, guiding her through the sigil again. 

You’d built a relationship on trust and choice, so you needed to let her figure things out for herself while still making sure she held her head up high.

Now, even Bucky’s muscles tensed every time she brought Leo up. But even he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth he were starting to see:

That sometimes people can love you and still not understand the way you’re built.

That sometimes, someone wonderful just isn’t right.

That he wasn’t bad— but he was small, and she was infinite.

So you just waited and watched.

—

One day, Strange poked his head into the training hall after a novice lesson, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, like a man who had been asked to do brain surgery with chopsticks.

“America in Wong’s study,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “She asked for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your spellcasting hand. “Everything okay?”

“Leo… well...” Strange scratched the back of his neck. “I... tried. I made tea. I offered her a lecture on heartbreak through a metaphysical lens.”

You snorted. “You two tried to girl talk, didn’t you?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I thought I was doing well. Wong even mentioned Beyoncé.”

“… dear god.”

“She’s waiting,” he said, already walking away.

—

Wong’s study was unusually quiet when you stepped inside. The Sorcerer Supreme himself was nowhere in sight.

America probably told him to go because he just didn’t have anything worthwhile to say to get over a boy. 

She sat curled up in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, oversized robe sleeves hanging past her hands. She stared at the floor.

You didn’t say anything, but you walked in slowly, careful not to startle her, and took the chair opposite her. You waited.

Eventually, her voice came flat, like it had been sanded down. “I told Leo it’s over.”

You nodded once. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She took a deep breath. “He said I’m becoming… too much.”

There it was, the dealbreaker. 

You could almost hear it, the way she'd been turning that phrase over and over in her mind.

“He said he loves how strong I am, but he also said I have too much of a temper. That I make everything a fight. That he doesn't like being around someone who’s always ready to run headfirst into danger.”

You let her keep going.

“He said I never sit still. That I always want more. And I tried, you know? I really tried. I stopped portaling. Skipped training. Just to show him I could be… less.” She swallowed hard. “It didn’t help. He wasn’t happier. I just felt like a stranger to myself.”

“You’re never too much,” You leaned forward slightly, “He was just too little.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” She blinked, tears threatening to spill but not quite falling. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“Would you have listened?”

She froze, before giving you a rueful shake of her head.

“I was a teenage girl once, too, y’know.” You smiled gently. “Sometimes you have to feel it for yourself. Sometimes love has to fall apart before you see it was never really whole. But I need you to know— I’m here. No matter what.”

Her fingers trembled, just slightly. “It sucks.”

“It does.”

“He was almost enough,” she whispered. “But I can’t do almost.”

You studied her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, wide with the kind of grief that makes a person seem older than they are. 

You reached over and took her hand in both of yours, “America, your standards are already higher than most people twice your age. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You gave her hand a squeeze. “You knew it didn’t feel right, and you walked away. That takes guts.”

She sat quietly for a moment. Then, she hiccuped. “You know… there’s a reason for that.” She looked up at you now. “It’s you. You and Bucky. You’re always together.”

Your breath hitched. She hadn’t said it like a compliment. She said it like it was an undeniable truth. 

“In every version of you I’ve seen,” she continued, “you two are always in love.”

You tilted your head. She had mentioned this before, but never quite expanded on it. “What do you mean?”

America sniffled, shifting slightly in her seat. “There’s a universe where you’re Spider-Woman. Bucky’s this sarcastic, reckless reporter who keeps getting himself kidnapped. You save him from actual robot ninjas and kiss him upside down in an alley.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds dramatic.”

“Oh, it was.” She smiled faintly. “There’s another one where you’re a Nova Corps commander and he’s a Ravager. You risk everything to protect him. Your rank, your life. You betrayed your division to be with him.”

You hadn’t asked for these glimpses before—never wanted to pry into how the multiverse folded versions of you into different shapes. But now… now you realise how much more she actually knew you and Bucky. 

“And this one—this medieval one—where you’re a princess, and he’s your knight. He loses an eye protecting you during a siege.” Her voice cracked. “I cried in that one.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of it all settling in your soul.

“In every universe,” she said softly, “you choose each other. No matter how different the world is. Even when it doesn’t make sense. You always find your way back.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently along her skin. “That’s… a lot.”

“Well…” She shrugged, cheeks flushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re why I have high standards. Every time I see you, I think—that’s what love is supposed to look like. That’s why I couldn’t take ‘almost.’”

You hadn’t realised she'd been watching. That across every world she slipped through, she’d been collecting pieces of your love story like broken glass, trying to piece together something whole for herself in the process. Perhaps, it explained why she got attached to you both so quickly. 

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, your voice soft. “You just haven’t met your Bucky yet.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she smiled through it. “That makes sense.”

You opened your arms, and she folded into them like she’d been waiting for permission. You held her close, her forehead against your shoulder, breathing finally evening out.

Because maybe that was the secret the multiverse had been trying to whisper to her all along—that some loves echo. That some hearts are meant to find each other, no matter how many versions of the world exist. No matter how far apart they start.

And maybe one day, she would find that kind of love. A love that wasn’t almost. A love that chose her back, again and again, across time and space.

But until then—she had you.

She had Strange.

She had Wong.

She had Bucky.

And for now, that was more than enough.

—

Meanwhile, on Earth 363…

You crept in through the second-story window like you always did, the faintest thwip of your web the only sound betraying your arrival. The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow from the living room

Still in your Spider-Woman suit, you moved stealthily through the hall, peeking around the corner just as Bucky stepped into view, holding a mug in one hand and a half-eaten cookie in the other.

“You’re late,” he said, amused and entirely unsurprised. He was still in his work clothes, the name tag from the Daily Bugle still clipped to his pocket.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch. “How do you know I’m here? I didn’t even make a sound.”

Bucky grinned, setting his mug down as he walked over to you. “You smell like roof tar and adrenaline.”

“…well, shit.”

He leaned down and gently tugged at your mask. “C’mere.”

You let him peel it off, your hair a messy halo from hours of swinging across rooftops. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks, then kissed you. You felt loved and warm and so very home.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Still.”

You grinned and kissed him again, slower this time, one arm snaking around his back, the other cradling the back of his neck. The cookie he had was now abandoned for good.

Eventually, you both sank onto the couch, limbs tangled and a blanket pulled over you. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe had given him a sudden urge to ask, his voice muffled as he buried it in your shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

You blinked, then smiled. “Me neither… wonder where she’s gone off to.”

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the slight thump of Bucky’s heartbeat against your ribs.

Wherever she was, you hoped she was safe.

You hoped she found good people. 

—

Meanwhile, in Universe-8990…

The engine hum of Bucky’s ravager ship was a familiar purr beneath your boots, the kind of sound that settled in your bones’ memory after enough time spent in deep space. You sat cross-legged on the floor of the weapons bay, your busted blaster disassembled on a crate in front of you, hands smeared with grease and face in frustration.

“I swear,” you muttered, yanking at a stubborn coil, “I could field-strip this thing in my sleep during basic training, and now I can’t even hold it right.”

“You’re probably just mad because it reminds you of the Nova Corps, babe,” Bucky said, waltzing over with a crooked grin and a Nanobot Welder in hand. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, but couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not. I'm devastatingly handsome and occasionally insightful.”

He dropped to his knees beside you, his shoulder bumping yours. Without a word, he took the blaster from your hands, flipped it over, and adjusted the coil with a flick of his wrist. The click of realignment was so smooth, you almost didn’t hear it.

You gasped. “You’re kidding.”

“Ravager skills,” He winked. “We get creative out here without a billion credits in R&D.”

You rolled your eyes. He always looked and sounded so cocky, but underneath was the man who risked a death sentence by harboring a former Nova Commander like you. The man who never once asked if you regretted choosing him over the Corps.

“Thanks,” you said, gentler now.

“For fixing your weapon, or for stealing you away from a galactic space militia?”

You tilted your head. “Both.”

Bucky smiled, then leaned in slowly and kissed you. As always, the kiss was gentle. His fingers brushed under your chin, thumb ghosting over your cheekbones. 

When you pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe suddenly told him to say it. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Yeah... me neither.”

She had helped you once—ripped open the stars and gave you a door when you thought there wasn’t one. And now, with the Corps calling you a traitor and half the galaxy after your head, you hoped she was somewhere out there, safe and happy. 

–

Meanwhile, on Earth-223…

The castle halls had been quiet for hours, the usual echoing bustle replaced with the rustle of wind through ancient stone and the occasional hoot of an owl beyond the nursery window. You rocked gently in the gilded chair beside the cradle, your newborn swaddled in your arms, his tiny fists curled against your chest as he breathed in adorable hiccupping sighs.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Everything felt… right.

From across the room, you heard the familiar clink of armour being put down. James stood by the wardrobe, his tunic slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick wash. The eyepatch over his left eye caught the firelight like polished obsidian— your knight, and now your husband.

“You’re still awake,” he said as he padded over barefoot.

“He wouldn’t settle,” you whispered, glancing down at the bundle of joy in your arms. “Too curious, I think. Like his father.”

James chuckled softly, lowering himself to one knee beside you. He reached out and ran a calloused finger down the curve of your son’s cheek— the heir to the throne. 

“He’s perfect,” he said.

“You say that every night.”

“And I’ll say it every night after this.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead. “He’s going to be strong, like his mother. Brave, too.”

You looked at James, heart swelling until it threatened to spill over. “You’re not too bad in those departments yourself, my love.”

He could only give you a tired grin. 

You reached out, brushing your fingers through the hair above his ear— careful not to disturb the scar that ran beneath his eyepatch— a souvenir from the siege. The day he nearly gave his life for you. The day he threw himself in front of you, sword drawn, as the enemy breached the gate.

“I still think about that night,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he replied just as quietly. “I only think about this one.”

You smiled down at your child, who had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep.

James leaned his head against your knee for a moment, before sighing, as if the universe had told him to ask this question. “I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” he said, almost absently. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your smile faltered just slightly, but fondness curled in your chest. “Me neither, my love.”

She had disappeared like a star falling sideways through the sky, always moving, always needed somewhere else. But there had been a time, not so long ago, when she stood at your side—young and fierce and loyal beyond reason. 

Wherever she was, you hoped she found a kingdom to settle in. 

—

Back in Earth-616…

You had just gotten back from Kamar-Taj. 

The buzz of a sling ring portal hummed behind you, your muscles sore from the emotional more than the physical toll. The second you stepped into your home and shut the door behind you, you let out a deep breath.

And there he was, your husband, half-reclined on the couch, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a book resting on his lap. He looked up the second he sensed you, and the lines on his forehead relaxing instantly. 

“Hey,” he said, already setting the book aside as he stood.

You let your bag drop to the floor and walked straight into his arms.

He pulled you in without a word, hugging you, metal hand pressing gently against the small of your back while the human combed into your hair. You melted into his chest, burying your face in the cotton of his Henley.

“The kid okay?” he asked after a moment, “Wong called. Told me everything.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and nodded with a sad smile. “She will be.”

He watched you for a second, like he was trying to gauge how okay you were. Then he led you to the couch, letting you curl into his side with your legs thrown over his lap and his arm around your waist. 

“America was the one who broke it off,” you said, head resting against his shoulder.

Bucky’s arms twitched just a little. “Good.”

You blinked, tilting your head up at him. “Good?”

He gave you that wicked smirk—the one that said he was already plotting something. “Where’s this Leo kid live again? Is it the left wing of the eastern temple?”

You groaned. “Bucky—”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he said, which was exactly what he would say before doing something. “I’m just saying. You care about her. So I care about her. That’s the rule.”

You bit back a smile. “Since when is that the rule?”

“Since I fell in love with you,” he said without missing a beat.

Even after all these years, your heart still did a stupid little backflip.

“Well…” You hesitated, tracing patterns on his vibranium arm with your fingertip. “She said we are the reason she has high standards. She’s seen us together enough times to believe that kind of love is real. That she… wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, processing that. Then he exhaled, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“Huh,” he said, “I’m proud of her.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded, “Took me long enough to learn that lesson. She’s ahead of the curve.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

You kissed him then. Slowly. Sweetly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as he pulled you closer, if that was even physically possible.

“Have I mentioned lately,” you whispered, “how much I love you?”

“Not since this morning,” he let out a small laugh, kissing you again and smiling into it. “I was starting to worry.”

You chuckled.

One day, you’d tell him the rest of the conversation. You’d sit him down and let America tell him about all the other versions of the two of you she’d seen—the princess and the knight, the runaway and the Ravager, the dramatic spider-kiss. 

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to just this version of you and him. The one where his hand fit perfectly in yours, and your hearts beat in sync on a worn down couch that felt like the center of the universe.

And honestly… it kind of was.

-end.

yes it’s 616 for all intents and purposes even though I am well aware it is also the designation for the main comic universe. Edit: a lovely comment pointed out that America is a lesbian and dw, I am aware and I didn’t mean to undermine her sexuality! I should’ve mentioned that I am currently working on a part 2 where America starts questioning her sexuality ft. Bi!reader that centers around setting apart aesthetic attraction vs romantic attraction 🫶

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

it was joaquin who convinced bucky to go out that night. something about being mentally 100, but physically 30 and needing to meet new people to have fun with … blah blah blah. bucky doesn’t really know since he completely tuned him out and just said yes to shut him up. somehow sam had found a new right hand man who had just the same amount of zest for life as he did, how utterly adorable.

clubs were not his scene, though he had surprisingly been in his own fair share of them from missions that required him to stake out some hit he had who liked the companionship of the cute go-go dancers. it made him itch to think about what kind of sleazebags roamed some of those he had been to - they were mostly full of activities that no one would want to be a part of.

but, of course, the club joaquin wanted to take him and sam to wasn’t like that. no, it was a place where the lights were too bright and colorful, the drinks were a bit sweeter, and the music was too loud. it was a place that, surprisingly, intimidated bucky beyond belief.

he tried really hard to remember what his life was like before the winter soldier, he remembers having fun flirting with anyone he could, because he could. but, it had been years since then and he wasn’t sure he was capable of even doing that anymore.that was his former self, the bucky before the trauma and the bad things - the one that didn’t wake up sweating and panting through another panic attack. 

all of it accumulated into the wallflower he was now, quiet and brooding. dating didn’t come as naturally as it once did, let alone talking to someone who made his heart race, but he tried to convince himself he just needed to clean off the rust and get things moving again. 

the other thing that clubs had that scared the shit out of bucky? dancing. now, don’t get him wrong, back in the day he had his fair share of swing dancing with a beautiful partner on his arm - but the things people were doing in this century? bucky’s sure his body didn’t know how to move like that. 

“don’t be so grumpy,” sam said as three men finally settled on a spot by the bar, his hand clasping bucky’s shoulder. “you need a night out from time to time, man.”

“i do get a night out, most of them don’t require this many sweaty bodies.” bucky calls out over the loud music; a song he definitely did not know. 

“you know that getting your system updated doesn’t count as a night out, right?” sam can’t help but get the jab in. bucky bites down on his cheek as he pushes his friend playfully, tempted to curse him out, but sam’s loud cackle as he regains his balance makes any slight tension melt.

bucky wasn’t kidding though. saying the club was crowded was putting it mildly, it was filled to the brim, and the super soldier stood out like a sore thumb which inherently made his palms sweat.

“here!” joaquin called, handing back two shots and two beers towards bucky and sam before turning back around to pay the bartender.

bucky looked down at the shot glass and frowned, this definitely didn’t look like a normal spirit. despite the darkness in the room, he could still make out the light yellow color of the liquid.

“what is it?” he asks, brows furrowing as he tries to wrack his brain for anything that looks this color.

“green tea shot!” joaquin smirks as he grabs his own glass after shoving his wallet back into his pants pocket. “drink up!”

“great…” bucky mumbles as he shakes his head before downing the shot. weak. and since bucky couldn’t get drunk … tastes like shit. 

he can’t help but let out a sigh as he turns to face the crowd, the beer clutched tightly in his hands as he brings it to his lips, his eyes passing over the room. he had already taken the time when he walked in to make sure he knew where every point of entry was in case of emergency, which was good because the second his eyes land on you he’s sure he would have forgotten to check.

there you were, in the middle of the dance floor, a wide smile on your face as you swayed to the music. time felt like it had slowed as bucky zeroes his gaze in on you. it felt like a moment right out of a movie scene, your hands moving up and down your body and into your hair, the sweat on your collarbone glistening in the blu-ish purple strobe lights that line the dance floor. you looked so carefree and happy, it was breathtaking. the hairs on his arm raise, feeling the goosebumps run straight through him. 

bucky doesn’t register for a moment that his beer has completely missed his mouth, dribbling down the front of his shirt until joaquin grabs his arm.

“ah, shit.” bucky mumbles to himself, turning back around to the bar to wipe himself off. through all of it, his mind keeps replaying the moment he saw you, his body was moving on auto pilot. 

when he turns back around, you’re gone, as if you were just a ghost there to taunt him for a split second. how was that possible? how did he manage to witness the most invigorating moment of his life and then it was gone in a flash? blue eyes frantically search the rest of the bar until he spots you again, you were grabbing your friend at the corner of the bar, wanting them to come with you to dance. 

“uh oh,” bucky heard joaquin say next to him. “looks like buckster over here has his eyes caught on someone.”

“don’t call me that ever again.” bucky says, his eyes stay trained ahead of him, fixated on you. he feels joaquin hand him another shot glass, but he doesn’t bother taking a look at it this time as he downs it, the burning in the back of his throat telling him it was something a little stronger this time.

it for sure wasn’t liquid luck, maybe his brain short circuited, because soon he was pushing his away through the crowd towards you. what the hell is wrong with me? his brain was screaming at him to stop, the thoughts were loud and he felt like he’s about three seconds from a panic attack. what the fuck? what the hell am i doing? i can’t just  -

“hey.” bucky calls out to you over the music, a different song that sounds vaguely familiar but he wouldn’t be able to name. 

you’re startled slightly by the voice behind you, but by the look on your friends face whoever it is would definitely be worth your time. slowly, you turn back, greeted immediately with the chest of a man who could be a god if you didn’t know any better. your eyes painstakingly take their time to finally meet his gaze, this handsome stranger looks back at you with the sweetest look you’ve ever seen.

“hey.” you call back. “do we know each other?”

“no,” bucky says, a flicker of a smirk adorning his features. “but i’m hoping we can get the chance to.” there it was, the cog in the machine was spinning once again.

you can’t help the flip your stomach does as he speaks, the line was simple, but effective. it’s not that you hadn’t been flirted with at a club, usually it was unwanted attention. but this? this was fully welcomed. 

you give a look back at your friends for a moment, your eyes widening as your features say well damn. handing one of them your drink, you spin back around towards bucky and grab his metal hand, leading him back out towards the dancefloor you once occupied.

it takes him by surprise, he doesn’t let people touch his metal hand often nor do people seem to gravitate towards it as their initial reaction. the warmth in his body spreads at how soft your hand feels in his, like the two of you were made for this moment.

regret isn’t the right word to describe what bucky was feeling, because he didn’t regret walking up to you (even if he could see sam and joaquin pointing and talking about him from the corner of his eyes). it was more of an alarm going off in his brain that he would now have to try and dance with you, years of being an assassin definitely gave him stiff hips. 

you’re not one to judge though, instead opting to enjoy the moment as you stand chest to chest, your hands gripping his biceps as you start to sway your hips softly with the music. he looks taken aback by the forwardness of it all, the slight awkward undertones of his personality dying to get out. 

“relax! we’re just dancing” you yell over the music, your hands sliding down to grab his wrists, moving his hands to your hips, hoping it would encourage him to release a bit of this pent up anxious energy he had. 

bucky finds himself trying to move with you though it’s off beat for a moment, until a song he actually knows comes on. it has a loud bass but a slower tempo and all of a sudden the world shuts down. his eyes close as he lets the beat move through his body, his hands on your hips pulling you in closer towards him.

you can’t help it and decide to turn in his arms as he pulls you in close, so now your back is pressed against his chest. the change in song turns the fun club atmosphere into an intimate setting almost immediately. 

it’s almost as if the club is on mute, as if something shifted and time was moving so carefully that all either of you could focus on were the ways you moved together. bucky’s hands gripped your waist tightly, his flesh hand splayed across your stomach, the heat from his touch would have left burns if they could. 

your breath hitches in your throat when you feel how strong he is, the way he has the lightest touch on you but it feels like he’s enveloping your body slowly. bucky’s head bows down so his lips are level with your ear, you can hear the way his breathing hikes as you grind down on that one spot each time. 

it makes bucky’s knees want to buckle each time. he can’t remember the last time he was pressed so closely to someone like this, let alone to make his body respond. the arousal spread through his body, forcing him to remember what it was like to feel so alive again. it was electrifying.

you and bucky are hypnotized in the moment, your hand snaking behind you to rest on the back of his neck while the other rests on the metal arm he has on your waist. and despite the crowd of bodies around you, the smell of his cologne floods your senses, you were sure if you ever smelled it again he would be all you thought of.

neither of you are drunk, but both of you are completely intoxicated.

the excitement seems to run through each of you, you can feel the way he pulls you closer to him, the way your head leans back onto his shoulder. it’s all natural, happening without pressure or outside forces.

bucky’s lips ghost over your neck catching the way your pulse increases as he does so. all you can think about is ripping his clothes off, all bucky can think about is how inappropriate it would be to take you in front of all these people.

“i’m bucky.” he whispers in your ear, his nose nudging against your skin. 

fuck, he wanted you.

he listened to you breathe out your name.