cap, on your left.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

You Get Played (Classic Villa Move)

You couple with this gym bro type who talks like he’s serious, but starts flirting with other girls behind your back.

The classic "I'm just keeping my options open" guy. When the truth comes out during a challenge or truth/dare night? You serve face, roll your eyes, and say, “I knew he was full of it, but I wanted to be wrong.”

Bucky sees it all. He’s been lowkey watching you the whole time, sending little comments like:

“That guy’s a fool, y’know. I wouldn’t’ve let you out of my sight.”

But he’s still with his OG girl, so you brush it off. Maybe he’s just being nice. (He’s not.)

The Twist Coupling 💞

It’s recoupling night. Everyone’s paired. You and another girl are the only ones left. You’re resigned to going home — standing there with your arms crossed and chin high, trying not to show you’re mad that your guy played you and Bucky’s still with the other girl.

But then.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s fiery, honest, and doesn’t take anyone’s crap. She’s been through it this week, and I think she deserves someone who actually sees her worth... So the girl I’d like to couple up with is—”

Cue dramatic pause. Camera on shocked faces.

When Bucky says your name, the villa goes SILENT. Literal gasps. Even the producers are gagged.

His original girl looks like she’s been slapped.

You blink. You squint. You’re convinced you heard wrong.

You walk over in pure shock, and when you stand next to him, instead of giving a sweet line, he hits you with:

“Don’t get excited, doll. I just flipped a coin.”

Confessional (cut to you, wild-eyed):

“Everyone’s lookin’ at me like I Jedi mind-fucked this man into saying my name. Meanwhile, if they took one look at my face they’d see I was just as gagged. You're confused? I'm fucking confused, bro. I mean, I'm standing there rehearsing my ‘fuck y’all, it’s been real’ speech and then—boom. My name. From him. What the helly?”

Post-Coupling Confrontation 👀

You pull Bucky for a chat after the coupling, already skeptical.

He’s relaxed on the beanbags like he didn’t just blow up the villa dynamics.

“I didn’t pick you to be a hero, sweetheart. I picked you ‘cause I wanted her gone. Clingy’s cute for five minutes—then it’s just loud.”

You laugh, a little surprised by the honesty, and nod.

“So what, you picked me to prove a point?” “Nah. I picked you ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t throw herself at me or cry when I don’t cuddle. Plus, we’d make a solid team.”

You stare at him for a moment, annoyed but impressed.

“So, we’re friends now?” “Friends who don’t get dumped from the villa. Unless you’ve secretly been in love with me this whole time.”

You flip him off.

Platonic Coupling Agreement 🤝

You both agree to couple up "strategically" — a villa alliance. You tell each other it’s platonic while secretly spending way more time together than necessary.

You lounge together, nap together (strictly no cuddling — at first), and throw sarcastic comments from the daybeds like the villa’s own Statler and Waldorf.

“She’s doing her baby voice again,” you mutter during a convo across the pool. “Should we start placing bets on who cries in the next 10 minutes?” Bucky adds.

But the chemistry? Dangerously high. And the longer you stay in this “platonic” couple… the blurrier the lines get.

Bucky in the confessional: “Nah, she’s just my emotional support chaos gremlin.” You in yours: “He’s like a sexy golden retriever who talks like he’s from the 40s and can’t stop winking. It’s actually like seriously annoying.”

────────────

You and Bucky become the commentary couple. Always on the daybed, sunglasses on, whispering into each other’s ears like you’re the villa’s own messy podcast.

“Why is she acting like they’ve been married ten years? They’ve been coupled up for four days.” “It’s the delusion for me.” “She’s already picked out baby names and I don't even think he knows her last name.”

You have a routine: share breakfast, roll your eyes in sync, and deliver savage but accurate commentary during firepit chats. Viewers are OBSESSED.

New Bombshell Enters 🔥

Tall, charming, with perfect teeth — he immediately clocks you as the villa’s "hard to get" girl and makes a beeline. Starts flirting. You’re flattered but playfully skeptical, throwing jabs but keeping it light.

Across the villa, Bucky watches with way too much interest for a “platonic partner.” Crossed arms. Jaw ticking. He will not stop glancing over.

Later, he corners you with a smirk.

“So, Mr. Model’s your type now?” “Didn’t know I had a type.” “Yeah, apparently it’s ‘generic charm and hair gel.’”

You raise a brow, amused.

“Are you jealous?” “What? No. Just saying—he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.”

Jealous. Absolutely jealous.

He Falls First ❤️

He starts doing little things bringing you coffee the way you like it, staying up late to talk about random stuff, getting defensive whenever a new guy even talks to you. But you don’t catch it. You’re convinced he’s playing the long game — riding your partnership to the finals.

You in confessional:

“Bucky’s a good partner. Strategic. Smart. Kinda hot when he’s not being annoying. But I know his game — he’s making sure he gets to that 100k. I’m not an idiot.”

Meanwhile, Bucky’s lying awake next to you, staring at the ceiling like:

“How the hell did I fall for the one girl who thinks I’m just in this for screen time?”

Casa Amor🏖️

The girls stay in the main villa, while the boys head off to Casa Amor. Before Bucky leaves, things are… weird. Tension’s been building. He’s been acting almost like he wants to say something, but never does. And you?

You in confessional:

“He’s not mine. He’s free to explore, obviously. I’m not gonna be the girl who waits around and gets played. But also… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care.”

And yet — when temptation arrives in the form of gym-honed muscles and cologne that smells like deception, you hold your ground. Flirty convos? Sure. But when it comes time to choose, you say:

“I’m staying single. My connection with Bucky might be confusing, but I’m not ready to throw it away yet.”

Meanwhile at Casa Amor 🔥

Bucky’s spiraling. He misses you. Constantly thinking about your jokes, the way you roll your eyes, how you always call him out. But… he also believes you don’t feel the same.

Bucky in confessional:

“She’s never shown me more than friendship. And I— I need to protect myself. I can’t come back single and get humiliated on national TV.”

So, he couples up with a new girl. Not because he wants to. But because he thinks he has to.

The Recoupling — THE Scene 💔

The villa is silent as the boys walk back in. Bucky’s holding hands with his Casa Amor girl. Cocky smile. Trying to convince himself this was the right call.

And then—he sees you.

Standing alone.

Single.

Waiting.

Not even crying — just staring at him like he’s a complete stranger.

Camera cuts to everyone’s shocked faces.

Ariana: “You’ve decided to remain single. Can you explain why?” You (calm, almost nonchalant): “Because I thought what we had was worth waiting for. (you shrug your shoulders) Guess I was wrong.”

Bucky’s face drops. He’s instantly sick. Guilt. Regret. That look of someone who just fumbled the person who was actually real.

The new girl’s smiling awkwardly. The silence is deafening.

Post-Recoupling Fallout 📽️

You’re sitting in the confessional chair, body stiff, hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are glassy, rimmed with red — but no tears fall. You’re holding them back with everything in you.

The producers ask how you’re feeling.

You take a shaky breath, force out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, and say:

“I wanna go home. I’m actually being so for real right now. Please, someone get my suitcase. Because I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

You glance away from the camera, blinking fast. Your jaw tightens like you’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep it together.

“I stood there, alone, in front of everyone. Looking like this dumbass while he walks back holding some other chick's hand. Like I’m the fucking idiot for having feelings. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

You shake your head, voice cracking:

“And the worst part? I didn’t even expect him to come back single. I just— I thought maybe he’d show me I mattered. But I guess I’m not worth that.”

Cut to Villa 🎬

You’re sitting alone, sunglasses on at night, hoodie pulled up — doing your best to disappear on the beanbags while Bucky’s across the firepit, staring at you like he knows he ruined everything.

Bucky in confessional (head in hands):

“I thought she didn’t feel the same. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt her. But when I saw her standing there all alone… I’ve never felt more like a loser in my life.”

Confrontation Scene 💥

It’s late. Most islanders are inside. You’re sitting outside by the pool, arms crossed tight over your chest, hoodie still up, knees drawn in. Silent. Closed off.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

“Can we talk?”

You don’t even look at him.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Pause. Tension thick in the air. He doesn’t move.

“Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to you.”

You stand up fast, like your body can’t sit through this conversation. Still not facing him.

“What, so you can make me feel even more shitty than I already do? Newsflash, Buck, you nailed that one already.”

He takes a step closer. Carefully.

“No. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I need you to hear me.” “I heard you. Loud and clear. You walked back holding her hand. That said everything.”

You try to walk past him — but his hand reaches out. Not rough, not forceful. Just… steady. He catches your wrist, and when you try to pull away, he doesn’t let go. Gently, but firmly, he keeps hold.

“Please. Just let me explain.” “Why? So you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? That you ‘didn’t know how I felt’? You knew. You just didn’t care.”

You’re standing there, body tense, wrist still in his grasp. You’ve tried to push him away. He won’t budge. Not with force — just that stubborn, aching softness that says he’s still clinging to hope.

“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out when I finally got the guts to admit I messed this up. I chose wrong. And I regret it every second I look at you.”

That’s when your voice drops to barely a whisper.

“Why didn’t you just pick me?”

His eyes meet yours — red-rimmed, tired, exposed. And when he answers, his voice cracks open.

“Because I didn’t think you’d pick me.”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Everything in your chest lurches forward and backward at the same time. You can’t tell if you’re about to scream or cry — maybe both.

“Are you serious?” “You were always laughing with other guys. Saying we were just friends. I thought… I thought I was just someone you could lean on. Not someone you’d actually want.”

Your eyes well up. You take a shaky step back, pulling your wrist from his grip — and this time, he lets you go.

“You thought I wouldn’t pick you, so you didn’t pick me. And now we’re both here. Hurt. For what, Bucky?” “For being two idiots who couldn’t say how we felt.”

You’re shaking your head now — furious, exhausted, and done holding back.

“You don’t get to stand here acting like the victim, Bucky. You chose her. You didn’t even hesitate. And I stood there — in front of everyone — like a fucking joke.”

He stays quiet. Still. Just watching you with those ocean-deep eyes, face full of regret. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.

“You made me feel like I was nothing. Like everything we built meant nothing. And now what? You want to fix it? With what, exactly? A sad little speech and puppy blue eyes?”

Still no response. He just lets you speak.

“I was loyal to you. I waited. I trusted you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself not to catch feelings for you, I still—”

Your voice breaks.

You turn away. Take a breath. Hands clenched at your sides.

And he still says nothing.

Not because he doesn’t have anything to say — but because he knows this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you.

“You didn’t even fight for me, Bucky. That’s what hurts the most.”

He finally steps forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I know.” “That’s all you’ve got? ‘I know’?” “Yeah. Because there’s nothing I can say that makes it okay. I fucked up. I didn’t trust what we had. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was hurt you.”

You look at him then. Eyes still glassy. He’s not defensive. He’s not deflecting. He just stands there, open and raw, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. And if there’s anything I can do to make this better — I’ll do it. Even if it means walking away.”

You’re quiet now. Too quiet. Hands trembling slightly as you bring them up to your face, fingers pressing under your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over.

You don’t look at him when you speak again — your voice is soft, but it cuts sharp:

“You made me feel really fucking dumb.”

That’s the one that almost takes you out. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.

“Like I was some naïve little girl, thinking the guy I joked around with every day — the one who brought me coffee, made me laugh, looked at me like I mattered — was actually choosing me.”

You pause, breathing ragged. You wipe at your face again, but it’s useless now. A tear slips down anyway.

“I stood there thinking, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it hurt.’ But it did, Bucky. It fucking hurt.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I know it did.” “And I hate that I’m the reason. I hate that I made you question something that was real — something I felt every damn day.”

You finally glance up, just in time to see him take a step forward.

“I didn’t think I deserved you. But I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.”

He’s closer now. Slow, careful steps. Like he’s giving you a hundred chances to pull away. But you don’t.

“You were always enough. I just... didn’t think I was.”

And when he’s close enough, he pauses for half a second — eyes searching yours, hand hovering like he’s waiting for permission.

Then he pulls you in.

Arms wrap around you, steady and strong. Not desperate — grounded. Like he’s trying to hold in all the pieces he broke.

And this time… you don’t fight him.

You bury your face in his chest, fists clinging to his shirt, and finally let yourself feel it. The ache, the betrayal, the hope you tried to kill off.

“You’re such an asshole.” “I know. But I’m your asshole… if you’ll still have me.”

Night After the Recoupling 🌙

The villa’s quiet. Everyone’s in bed. Except you.

You can’t do it — sleep in that room while Bucky’s still sharing a bed with her. Even if nothing happens. Even if he’s trying to make things right. It still feels like betrayal just breathing the same air in that space.

So you grab your blanket, slip outside, and curl up in Soul Ties — the same place where you two used to whisper jokes and throw shade. The place that used to feel safe. Now it just feels cold.

You try to sleep.

You don’t.

Later That Night ✨

Bucky stirs. Looks across the room.

Your bed? Empty.

He checks the patio door and sees you — curled up alone, hood pulled over your head, blanket tight around you like armor.

He waits. Watches the others settle. Listens to the breathing shift from restless to deep sleep.

Then he slips out of bed.

Soft steps. Quiet hands as he opens the door.

He walks outside, crosses over towards Soul Ties, and pauses — just watching you.

Then, gently, carefully, he climbs in behind you. Doesn’t say anything. Just slides in slow, his chest pressing to your back, arm coming around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

You sighed softly, not even bothering to turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here.” “Don’t care.”

His voice is low, honest. No bravado, no teasing — just a quiet ache. His arm tightens just slightly around you. You don’t pull away. You don’t even breathe for a second.

Then, slowly, you turn in his arms.

Now you're facing him. Just inches apart. His eyes searching yours in the dark, moonlight casting soft shadows over his face.

“She’s still your girl. You’re still coupled.” “She’s not you.”

His hand slides up, knuckles grazing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you realize it.

“I couldn’t sleep. Not with you out here thinking I didn’t mean what I said.” “And what did you mean?”

He leans in closer — forehead almost brushing yours.

“That I’d choose you. Every time. I was just too much of a coward to do it when it counted.”

The air thickens. His gaze flicks between your eyes, then to your lips — slow and deliberate, but not assuming. Waiting. Giving you the chance to back away.

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie, anchoring yourself there. A silent yes.

He moves first — barely.

His nose brushes yours. Then his lips hover just over your mouth, not quite touching. Close enough to feel the heat, the need, the way he’s holding himself back like he’s afraid if he takes too much, he won’t be able to stop.

Then finally — finally — he closes the space.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s slow, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing you with every second. His lips part against yours in a careful pull, then press in deeper, surer, like he’s been aching for this and never let himself believe he could have it.

You respond instinctively — your hand sliding up into his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck. You tilt your chin slightly, meeting him with just as much intensity.

He groans softly into your mouth — barely audible, but there. It makes your heart stutter.

The kiss turns messier for a breath, more urgent — like the both of you are falling into something you’ve been holding back for too long. But even in the tension, it never loses the softness — like you’re trying to comfort each other in the only language you both understand now.

Camera zooms in — soft lighting, silence but for the wind — the kind of moment the audience screams over.

When you finally break apart, lips swollen and foreheads pressed together, there’s no sound but the whisper of wind and the ragged way you’re both breathing.

He doesn’t let go. He just holds you tighter — like letting go now would undo all of it.

And you stay there. In that tiny, stolen piece of peace. Just you, him, and a kiss that changed everything.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.

---

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”

“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”

“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”

He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.

“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”

“Lucky me.”

You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”

“Thought you were off tomorrow.”

“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”

He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.

---

Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.

A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.

There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”

He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.

He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.

---

The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.

Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”

You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”

“Growing on me.”

A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”

“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”

You made a face. “Orders?”

“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”

You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”

He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”

Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.

When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.

He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.

Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.

Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.

And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.

He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.

---

When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”

You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”

“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”

Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”

You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.

He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”

“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”

Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”

“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.

The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”

“I’m not pale,” he muttered.

You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”

Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.

Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”

You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”

“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.

Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.

Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.

You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.

Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.

Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”

Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”

“Anything good?”

He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”

Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”

Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”

The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.

---

Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.

“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”

Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”

You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.

---

You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”

He stilled. “You remembered that?”

“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.

He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”

You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.

He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.

---

Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”

He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”

“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”

A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.

You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”

You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.

He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.

He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.

He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.

But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

---

The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.

You weren’t saying anything.

That was the part that made him nervous.

You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.

“I’ve had worse,” he offered.

Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.

He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”

“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.

---

Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered.

You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.

“No peppers?” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “I learn.”

He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.

Just you, making an entire meal—for him.

“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”

That was all.

No smile, no brag. Just facts.

He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.

And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked.  You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.

---

“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.

Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.

“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.

You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”

“Not really.”

You held out your hand. “Knife.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”

With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.

“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”

“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”

“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”

You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.

Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.

---

He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.

A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.

“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”

Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.

You were everywhere, quietly.

In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”

You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.

And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.

You weren’t just being kind.

You were being kind to him.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.

And suddenly, all he could think was: When did I start needing her?

Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.

But you.

All of it.

He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.

Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?

He didn’t mind at all.

---

You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.

The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.

“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”

You were already standing. “What happened?”

There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”

Not great.

Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”

“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”

You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.

A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.

He’s still with us.

But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.

You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.

You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.

---

The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.

And there he was.

Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.

You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”

Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.

“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”

“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”

The room cleared fast.

You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.

---

He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.

You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.

“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.

You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.

You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”

You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”

His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were crying.”

“No, I—”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.

You tried to resist, just a little.

“C’mere.”

You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.

He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.

“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”

“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”

His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”

You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.

---

The med bay was quieter than usual.

Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.

He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”

“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”

“Worth it.”

You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.

Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.

You shrugged. “Easier target.”

That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.

You blinked. “I did.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N.”

You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”

“You stayed with me. Again.”

“I always stay with patients.”

“No, you don’t.”

Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.

“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”

You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.

“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”

Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”

Your breath caught.

And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.

When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”

You arched a brow. “Liar.”

He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Stay a little longer?” he asked.

"About?"

You wanted to end it there, but Bucky had to chime in, of course. "Let's just say, this dusty old apartment was getting to see some action for the first time in a few decades," he informed Zemo proudly, who smiled knowingly and continued his walk to the kitchen.

"Ah," Zemo nodded, "I see."

"I swear, I've never had a dream about you like that before," you explained to Bucky.

"I wouldn't take it too personally, James," Zemo suggested as he poured himself some tea. "The subconscious is a completely unpredictable place. We can dream about almost anything, whether or not we desire it in waking life."

"Well, see, that's the weird part," you admitted, shifting nervously in the chair as Bucky stared at you. "You were there, too."

That took his attention away from the tea, certainly; he set down the kettle and came back into the sitting area, leaving his cup behind. "Still, many people believe dreams have meaning... I happen to be one of those people," he added.

"You didn't mention that before," Bucky frowned at you.

"Well, I was going to..."

"I was there, doing what?" Zemo pressed.

"Sitting in the corner reading Machiavelli," you joked. "No, you were, you know... part of it..."

"How was it?" Zemo asked instantly, getting yours and Bucky's eyes on him then.

"Huh?"

"In the dream, having both of us," he clarified, "did you enjoy the experience?"

"U-um, I mean, I don't really remember..." you coughed.

"I don't think that's true," Zemo grinned. "You're wearing it on your face now— is that why you couldn't look at me this morning in the hallway?"

Your face got warmer. "Do I normally look at you?" you deflected.

"More than you realize," he answered cryptically.

"So, it was good," Bucky assumed. "It's obvious, you can just admit it."

You did hesitate, biting on one of your nails, but you nodded, and they both smiled. "Yeah, it was... it was really good..."

"Which one of us was better?" Bucky wondered. "It was me, right?"

"You were... I don't know, you were just different," you shrugged.

"Ugh, that's such a cop-out," Bucky rolled his eyes. "Don't be afraid to hurt his feelings."

"No, really— it's hard to compare," you insisted. "You were sort of, you know, sensitive and... patient, and you—" you looked at Zemo— "were kind of... intense."

Zemo smirked. "I've been told that before, actually. I mean, by people who got the real experience."

Bucky looked with a concerned expression over his shoulder at Zemo. You found yourself biting your lip for a moment.

"I know you won't answer this question, but I have to ask," Zemo began, "did you climax?"

"Oh god," you whined, hiding your face behind your hands.

"See? She did," Zemo smiled, maybe wider than you'd ever seen. "Perhaps even more than once."

"Please shut up," you groaned.

"Holy shit," Bucky smirked, "you really liked it, huh?

"What do you say, James?" Zemo prompted, looking at Bucky, and making you get a little wide-eyed. "Shouldn't we give the girl what she wants?

"Isn't that, uh— I mean, wouldn't that be... weird?" Bucky stammered, cheeks flushing.

"You're so sheltered," Zemo mocked with a small laugh. "Sharing a partner is very thrilling when the correct amount of trust is involved."

"Wait, wait— it was just a dream, I wasn't, you know, suggesting it," you explained nervously.

"I know," Zemo replied, "I am."

There was a tense pause, where all you could hear was your own beating heart.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Zemo offered, “I know it’s a strange thing to say.  Just come here, darling.”

Though your legs were shaking, you got up off the chair and approached him slowly.  He met you in the middle, reaching up to quickly caress your jaw when you were close enough.  Bucky seemed to watch the whole thing in disbelief.  “I-I’ve never—” you began.

“It’s alright,” Zemo assured you softly, “I won’t judge you, or mock you— there’s nothing wrong with what you want.”

You nodded slightly, another form of silent permission, and he leaned in to kiss you— gentle at first, but strong enough to make your knees feel a little weak.  He deepened it quickly, putting a hand at your waist as his tongue began to tease your lips… but just when you pressed into him, ready for more, he pulled away.  He smirked at the way you leaned forward for a moment, but then he looked over at Bucky— you couldn’t quite read his expression, perhaps a bit of disbelief and… more than a decent share of arousal.

He stood up, and stepped up to you two, and you could tell he was in over his head— but you pulled him closer by his shirt, sighing as your hand felt his chest through the black fabric.  “I— I’m not sure how to—” he mumbled.

“Me either,” you smiled, “just kiss me, Bucky…”

He did, though he seemed slightly less confident about it.  What started as a shy and soft kiss turned into something more almost instantly— something hungry.  He pulled you closer by your waist, he slipped his tongue into your mouth; it was clear, somehow, that he had been waiting for this chance for longer than you realized.

You gasped into Bucky’s kiss when you felt Zemo’s lips on your neck.  There were four hands on you, running over your body, and you were struggling to keep track of which belonged to who…

Zemo pulled you off of Bucky and spun you around, kissing you roughly again.  He was less careful this time, and he was reaching up under your shirt as well; you whimpered a bit, arching your back instinctively and pushing your ass into Bucky’s— oh fuck, he was hard.  You couldn’t believe how worked up you were already.

Zemo groped at your chest, purring as he tweaked a nipple between his fingers.  You whined and pressed your legs together, feeling him smile before he broke away to look at you with a sparkle in his eye.

“So sensitive,” he praised as he pushed your shirt up to get a good look at you; he sighed at the sight, both hands cupping your breasts and massaging them carefully.  “You’re so beautiful…”

When his hands moved down, Bucky’s took their place; you shivered a little at the metal hand’s cool touch, but it was actually more of a relief than anything considering how hot you’d become.  He was a little more aggressive with the way he touched your tits— if not quite rough.  He was panting in your ear as he held and rubbed them; and Zemo was already pulling your pajama shorts down, exposing you even further… god, why did it turn you on so much.

“Look at you,” Zemo praised with a sigh, running his hands up and down your body.  “I know you must be so wet already, darling, look how desperate you are… you’ve been wet since you woke up from that naughty dream, haven’t you?”

You didn’t have to answer— he was already putting his hand between your legs, exploring your folds, both of you groaning at how slick and sticky you were.  “Fuck, I can hear it,” Bucky noticed, and you clenched inside as he said it.

Zemo gently pushed a finger into you— but you were so wet it didn’t even feel like a push, it felt like your hole just sucked him in.  He was looking right into your eyes as he did it, but that was a little too much to handle for you, mentally, so you let your eyes fall shut just before he slipped the finger back out again.

"Feel inside her, James," Zemo encouraged, "she's so warm."

Bucky sighed, rubbing his fingers around your entrance. "I-I'm going to," he mumbled in your ear, "but... not 'cause he told me to or anything."

You whined when two vibranium fingers pushed inside you, making you lean back against Bucky while Zemo’s hands pushed your shirt up even higher, giving him better access to put his mouth on your tits.  “F-fuck,” you sighed, putting a hand on the back of Zemo’s head as he swirled his tongue around your nipple— he was incredibly, annoyingly good at that, but then again, so was Bucky with the way he gently opened you up with his fingers.  “Oh my god, just like that,” you panted.

“Who are you talking to?” Bucky wondered.

“Both of you,” you whined, “fuck, don’t stop.”

Zemo moved his mouth to your other nipple, suckling harder at it, making your hips rock on Bucky’s fingers; and Bucky growled approvingly, starting to thrust them a little more confidently inside you.  “I can’t believe you didn’t soak through those shorts, doll,” Bucky whispered in your ear, “you’re drenched.  You wanted this that bad?”

You could only nod dreamily, too lost in the feeling.

Though you weren’t sure how they coordinated it, they both stopped touching you at the same time; you whined quietly, clenching inside as you longed for either of their fingers to fill you again.

“Take the rest of it off,” Zemo instructed you— but it wasn’t too firm, more just a… friendly suggestion.  “Let us see all of you.”

Stepping out of your shorts that had fallen to the floor and pulling your shirt up over your head, you tried to fight the urge to cover yourself— after all, here you were naked in Zemo’s living room, with two fully clothed men eyeing you up and down.  It was hard not to feel… scrutinized.

"What happens next in your fantasy?" Zemo purred.

"I-it's not my fantasy, it was just a dream," you insisted.

"Then let me ask you another way: what happens now?"

Instead of answering with words, you simply sank down to your knees in front of them, keeping eye contact with Zemo as you started to open his belt.

The smug look on his face should’ve driven you crazy, but it only pushed you further; Bucky, thankfully, seemed to get the idea of what was going on and began to open his belt and jeans for you.  You loved his eagerness, even if the way Zemo seemed content to just let you do all the work was a turn-on, too.

Soon enough, there were two hard cocks in front of you.  Just the idea of that was already intimidating— but both of them, at eye-level, was actually nearly overwhelming.  You took hold of them both, stroking slowly to try to wrap your head around this as easily as you could wrap your hands around them.

Not sure where to start, you did a mental coin toss and found yourself leaning towards Zemo first, wrapping your mouth around his tip and letting your eyes fall shut.  Zemo hummed, pushing your hair back as you bobbed your head. You only sucked him for a few seconds before switching over to Bucky, though you tried to keep a hand stroking each one while you moved back and forth.

It felt filthy and strange and surreal, but your biggest concern was that you were going to get so wet you’d start dripping onto the floor or something.

Yes, you’d watched porn like this before, but you never really thought you’d end up doing it— especially with these two.  You felt pretty comfortable assuming they never thought this would happen, either… but they got into it shockingly quickly: soon, you weren’t even the one deciding where you went, they simply got more and more impatient and began to guide you back and forth.  You blinked your eyes open a few times to look up at them, but in the end you found yourself totally lost in it, just leaving your mouth open them and letting them take turns fucking it until you weren’t sure who was who anymore.

Not much was said (least of all by you, with your mouth full) aside from a few mumbled curses here and there— except for one moment, where Zemo seemed to mutter to Bucky: “I don’t think she expected to like this so much.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.  You were drooling, with tears striping your face— a side effect from repeatedly choking on both of them— and you were nearly desperate enough to rub yourself

Though you weren’t sure how or when Zemo had gotten in your head like this, you had to admit it was convenient right now; “You want more, don’t you?” he noticed, and all you had to do was nod before they pulled you up to your feet.  Zemo bent you over quickly, before you’d even really found your balance, and stood behind you.

You gasped as Zemo’s cock slid inside you suddenly, holding on tight to Bucky’s arms for balance— immediately you were rocked forward with hard, needy thrusts.  

“God, she’s so fucking wet,” Zemo hissed.  You hadn’t really heard him talk quite like that before…

You groaned at the feeling, amazed at how easily he fit inside, but clearly all the anticipation had prepared you well.  Bucky only let you have a second to adjust before he shoved your head back down and pushed his cock into your waiting mouth.  You were happy to oblige, though, and sucked him even more eagerly than before with fast bobs of your head and more pressure from your tongue.

Bucky’s fingers tangled into your hair, and his hips pushed forward to fuck deeper into your throat; you heard him groan, but it was muffled as he bit his lip.  You gagged, and they both moaned lowly.  “I can feel when you choke on him,” Zemo informed you with a grunt, “your little cunt squeezes me tighter.”

It must have been Zemo’s hand that slid up your spine and held onto your shoulder— it must have been Bucky that reached down to feel your tits— but if was your hand that ended up between your legs, rubbing your clit quickly simply because you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore.

“So desperate,” Zemo mocked— or praised, maybe?  The difference was hard to define.  “You want to come?”

You hummed in agreement around Bucky’s cock, before he forced you to choke on it again.  You never expected him to be so aggressive, nor how much it would make you crave even more.

“If you want a turn with her, James, you’d better take it now,” Zemo offered, voice thin as he tried to catch his breath.  “Any more of that and I won’t be able to stop myself again.”

Bucky roughly pulled you off of Zemo and sat back on the couch, turning you around to face away from him and pulling you into his own lap; that doll nickname felt a bit more literal when he tossed you around so easily.

You gasped as Bucky slid inside, and moaned as you realized you could so easily feel the difference between them.  “Fuck!” you cried out loudly, louder than you really meant to, as Bucky instantly began bouncing you on top of him; you were trying to move with him, but he was so much stronger and basically just using you however he wanted… it made you moan even more and roll your eyes back in your head as you realized that.  “Fuck, Bucky, oh my god—”

“See how much louder she screams for me?” Bucky grinned.

“That’s because her mouth isn’t full this time,” Zemo countered with a laugh.  “That can be corrected.”

Bucky was certainly much more… impatient in the way he fucked you; Zemo, meanwhile, was as controlled as ever as he guided you to lean forward, gently opened your mouth, and slid just his leaking head inside.  He purred as you suckled at the tip, looking up at him with watering eyes.

“Can you taste yourself?” Zemo asked you with a smile, humming when you nodded around him.  “You really soaked me, darling— I expect you to be a good girl and clean all that off.”

You moaned at the praise and took him deeper into your mouth, using your tongue to lick up every drop of your own wetness off of him.  You surprised even yourself with how shameless you were, pulling your mouth off to run your tongue over him instead, moaning as you licked him clean.

Bucky fucked up faster into you until you could barely focus on the task before you, but you still found a way: you kept Zemo’s cock in your mouth and let him hold your head, keeping you steady while Bucky moaned louder and thrusted harder.

You moaned more and more around Zemo until he pulled you away and you gasped instantly.  “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded harshly, holding your head up by your hair.

“So good,” you yelped, “it’s so fucking good!”

He surprised you with a slap across the face, but you moaned right away.  “Fucking whore,” he spat.  “Look how badly you need to be treated.  You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, “yes, fuck, please—”

“Well, James,” Zemo hissed, “aren’t you going to help her?”

Bucky sighed and moved one of the hands on your hips down between your legs, rubbing you quickly and harshly.  Your thighs were shaking instantly; actually, pretty much all of you was shaking.

“She’s coming, James, don’t stop,” Zemo barked out another order, holding you tight by the jaw and looking right into your eyes.  “I want you to come until you can’t possibly take it anymore,” he explained with a growl, “don’t tell me to make him stop until then, is that clear?  Show us how much you can take, nothing less.”

You nodded as best you could with him holding onto your face, and tried to lean in to put your mouth on his cock again, but he held you there.

“No,” he corrected, “I’d rather get a good look at this.”

Bucky’s hand on your clit was relentless, the pressure almost too intense for you to take— but you had to take it, you had no other choice.  It started off almost slowly, a gradual descent into the numbing pleasure of your orgasm, but it didn’t stop; Zemo already made it clear he wasn’t going to let it stop until you were at your limit.  Your moans were shaky and broken from how hard Bucky was fucking you, and your eyes were rolling back already but you could’ve sworn you heard Zemo chuckle at the sight of you.  Did you really look that fucked up?

“Good girl,” he purred, “keep going.  You can take more.”

You whined louder, higher, sharper; you weren’t sure how much more you really could take of this, but you wanted to do as you’d been told and not tap out until the absolute last second.

You knew you were crying, only because you felt the hot tears running down your cheeks.  You heard Zemo encouraging you distantly, but you couldn’t quite make out any words, just the dark and sweet tone of his voice.  You heard Bucky, too, groaning deeply while you felt his fingers digging tighter into your hips.  Could he feel everything he was putting your body through?

“Fuck, stop!” you heard yourself blurt out, and instantly Bucky’s hand moved away— but his thrusts didn’t slow down.  It was just the right amount of relief, and you blinked the blurriness out of your vision.  It was almost like part of it didn’t even really hit you until then, until the aftershocks reverberated through your body.

“That’s it,” Zemo praised, “you’re alright, we’ve got you.”

“Oh god, o-oh god,” you sobbed, shaking uncontrollably— they were both holding you up, you would’ve toppled to the floor if it weren’t for them

“Fuck, m’gonna come,” Bucky groaned.

“Inside,” you gasped, even with how little mental clarity you had in that moment.  “I want it inside.”

“Fuck,” he said again.  “That’s so— god, baby, look what you fuckin’ do to me… I’m gonna come inside you.”

“Yes,” you begged with a sob, Zemo grinning as he watched you.  

Still numb and clenching uncontrollably inside, you felt the way he pumped harder and harder and harder— until it slowed down and he let out the most delicious, long groan.  You whined, but smiled, as he loosened his grip on your hips and relaxed under you, his moans and heavy breaths seeming to drip with satisfaction.  “Fuck,” he said, one more time, deeper than ever, before falling back on the couch limply.

Zemo lifted you off of Bucky— apparently a little sooner than he was ready for, because you heard him hiss as he slipped out of you— and guided you with him onto the couch, pulling your back into his chest.  He knelt behind you, kissing the back of your shoulder as watched you try to come back to reality.

“I should let you rest for a moment,” he noticed, “but you don’t want me to, do you?”

Weakly, you shook your head.

He moved in closer to you and you felt his cock, still wet with your spit, rub against the inside of your thigh— and even after all that, you arched your back deeper in invitation.

It made you blush when Zemo slid into you again, thinking about him filling you alongside Bucky’s load, especially with the way he groaned lowly into your ear.  “You want me to fuck his come even deeper into you?” he taunted, and you whined but nodded.  “I thought so.”

Everything felt so… sticky, in a disgusting but sexy sort of way; you were overly-sensitive inside, each thrust feeling so good with the fading sensitivity of your orgasm still present.  You leaned back against Zemo with a sigh, letting him hold you close and fuck you however he wanted, more than happy to just be his toy now.

“Look how cute you are when you give in to me.  You want me to use you, don’t you?” he noticed with a groan, and you whimpered but nodded ‘yes.’  “Of course,” he growled, kissing along your neck with more and more of his teeth each time.  “You want me to fuck you however I want?”

“Yes,” you sobbed.

“But this isn’t about what I want,” he explained.  “This is what you wanted.”

“Oh god…”

“You wanted us both to fuck you, at the same time.  One cock isn’t enough to satisfy you?” 

“Not anymore,” you admitted with a sigh, and he started to thrust faster and harder into you.

It turned very quickly from slow and sensual to rough and ruthless; he wrapped a hand around your neck to keep you close as you moaned and cried, anxious already to come again.  “Touch yourself,” he ordered with a hiss in your ear, “make yourself come around my cock.”

“F-fuck,” you choked out, but slid a hand over your body and between your legs to obey him quickly.  You were already so fucking close, and you knew you shouldn’t go so hard on yourself when you were so sensitive, but your desperation made you really rub hard and fast in search of that growing tension.  “Yes, fuck, m’gonna— oh god—”

“I know, darling,” he cooed, “just let go.  It’s alright, I’ll hold you— come for me.”

You didn’t literally black out, but you did sort of… lose time, in that moment.  It was like you were just floating in pleasure for a while and then all of a sudden you were laying back on the couch and you weren’t even sure where Bucky had gone and Zemo was proudly holding your legs open.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he informed you, and you blinked back at him shyly.

You expected the warm, sticky feeling as their come leaked out of you… what you didn’t expect to feel was Zemo’s mouth on your pussy, eagerly lapping it up and sucking on your clit as your eyes shot open and you gasped and moaned with surprise.

“Dude,” Bucky grimaced, “that’s fucked up…”

Zemo just hummed and took his mouth off of you, giving Bucky a confused look.  “She tastes amazing,” Zemo defended, “maybe even better after our… contribution.”

You laughed a little at the description, until he leaned down and latched onto you again, making you gasp and run your fingers through his hair.  “Fuck,” you whined, bucking your hips against his face.  Your clit was already overstimulated, and the way that he flicked it with his tongue made you shiver all over.  

Your hold on his hair made it a little easier to push him away when he sucked too hard on your sore clit; he was more than strong enough to keep going, but he stopped anyways and let you push him back with a smug, slickened smile.  “You really should try it, James,” he encouraged, “you’ll only want more once you do.”

Sighing in relent, Bucky knelt down in front of the couch— yes, at some point he’d gotten off of it, and you were too high on orgasm dopamine to notice it— and Zemo helped you adjust your hips towards him so he could just dive right in.

He gave one long lick over you first, making you shudder, and seemed to get more excited and aggressive quickly as he held onto your thighs and started to push his tongue inside you.  “Oh god,” you whimpered, and Zemo watched proudly for a moment before turning his head to kiss up your leg.

“Poor thing,” he cooed between gentle presses of his lips to your skin, “you probably thought we were done with you, didn’t you?”

~

You were on the couch nursing a cup of tea, your feet resting in Bucky’s lap on top of the pants he’d changed into after his shower; Zemo was on the balcony having a cigarette.  That was the scene Sam came back to, and he seemed to notice something was off just by the way he raised an eyebrow as he entered the living room.  “Hey guys,” he greeted.  “What did I miss?”

“Shit, shit, shit!” He slams the accelerator to the floor and the car gives a sickening lurch. Beside him, you crack your head on the window, trying to buckle your seatbelt and swearing at the top of your lungs. 

“Bucky what the hell’s the matter with you? Just drive.” 

“I’m trying,” he snaps. He can feel the flushing prickle of sweat beading down his neck. Rubbing a shaking hand down his face, he blows out a harsh breath. “Why in god’s name is the heater on? Turn that shit off, I’m burning up over here.”

Craning your neck, you watch the headlights gaining. Fumbling for the Glock taped under the seat, you shoot him a confused look. 

“The heater isn’t on, it’s freezing in here. I told Steve to fix it and he ignored me because he's a giant asshole.”

Eyes locked on the road, Bucky reaches blindly for the window handle, hurriedly rolling it down. A blast of cold air rushes through the car and he gulps in relief.

“Better, much better,” he mutters. He squints into the rearview mirror again, mentally calculating the time between headlights and taillights, when he feels a twisting wrench in his chest. It sends bursts of heat skimming under his skin, snagging every nerve along the way. A panicked whine slips through clenched teeth. Alarmed, you turn back and meet his wild eyes, sweat now pouring down his face.   

“What the - what’s wrong? Bucky? Talk to me!” 

When you grab his arm, he visibly recoils. 

“No no no, don’t touch me, don’t - ah holy fuck, don’t touch me. If you do, I can’t - I’m gonna put the car in the ditch.” 

“You’re scaring me Bucky, what is this?”

He says nothing, deep in thought as his brain runs through the mission on warp speed, trying to identify something, anything, that could possibly -

Wait.

Oh.

Crap.

It's like a sucker punch when he realizes.

“The gold dust that flew out of that container, did any of it touch you?”

“You mean the one I told you not to open but you did it anyway because you can’t follow directions? Bucky what is wrong, you need-“

“Answer me,” he snarls. In the dashboard glow, you see his face pale. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. “Sorry, sorry, just - please answer. Did any of it get on your skin?”

Baffled, you shake your head.

“No. None of it touched me, it just hit you.” 

Bucky nods, relieved. 

“Good, okay. Okay. Think I know what this is,” he grits out. Another shudder wracks his body and he grips the steering wheel so hard it squeals in protest. “HRNE-75.”

Your response is a blank stare.

“Am I supposed to know what random letters and numbers mean?”

“It’s a stimulant.” 

“Like caffeine?”

“No, like a drug.” You can hear him breathing faster. “Like a - like an aphrodisiac.”

Still a blank stare.

“What kind of aphrodisiac?”

“People call it sex pollen,” he says flatly. “It makes you horny. Like - really fucking horny. And it hurts like hell unless you do something about it.”

“Well, okay. We’ll figure that out when we get home, but for now - “

“I can’t - I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” he interrupts. Sweat soaks the collar of his shirt and he shifts uncomfortably, glancing down. Following his gaze, you can see his cock straining against his jeans. 

“Jesus Christ. Bucky if you’re in pain, just pull over and let me drive, you can jerk off in the backseat.”

“We don’t have time to pull over, that fucker’s right behind us and if we don’t get us past Steve’s stupid check point, we’re gonna lose him and then the whole mission is wasted and I got sprayed by some bullshit horny dust for no reason and I’m sweating so much right now and I think I’m going to throw up, my dick hurts so fucking bad!” 

His voice reaches an hysterical pitch and you press your lips together, choking down the laughter. 

“Okay okay, I got it. So if you come, does that stop the pain?”

“Yeah, but doesn’t matter,” his shoulders slump miserably. “We can’t stop yet and I can’t jerk off and drive at the same time. Maybe under normal circumstances I could do it, I mean sure I have done that before because sometimes I get bored driving, but I just don’t have that kind of focus right now baby, I don’t.” 

Tremors are rattling through his entire body now, as he fights for control. As he shifts his hips, unconsciously searching for some kind of friction to offer relief, an idea pops into your brain.     

“Hey. Let me give you road head.” 

His hands slip on the wheel and he double-takes. 

“Wha - road head? Like - what does that mean? Like you’d give me a blow job? While I’m driving?”

If this were any other situation, you would tease him mercilessly for the way his voice squeaks, but you smother the urge. Plenty of time for that later.   

“Of course. If it helps.”

“But you mean, you’re going to suck my dick? While I’m driving?”

“Love the emphasis on the important words. Yes, I’m going to suck your dick, while you’re driving.”

Bucky bats the idea around, debating whether you’re actually serious and whether he is probably definitely going to drive down a highway at - he checks the speedometer - 145 miles per hour, while you suck his dick. Another wave of heat roils through him and he stifles a groan. Glancing at your expectant face, he gives a shaky nod.

“You’re sure?”

Rolling your eyes, you unbuckle your seatbelt and scoot closer to him.

“It’s not a hardship Buck. You know I’m your dick’s number one fan.” Carefully popping the button on his jeans, you tug down his zipper and he pushes up his hips, struggling to help. The slight pressure on his aching cock already has him whimpering. “Just drive careful, alright? If I die because you wreck Steve’s car while I’m sucking your dick, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Bucky breathes. “Careful. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Grasping him firmly, you lower your head and take his dick all the way down in one smooth move.

“Oh my fucking god,” he shouts, eyes fluttering. “Sweet shit that’s good!” 

He keeps one hand in a death grip on the wheel, while he places the other against the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place. Bobbing up and down, your tongue strokes along the ridges of his cock and you feel him swelling impossibly thicker. Tightening your lips, you suck hard, dragging slowly up  and he croaks out a garbled plea.   

“Keep going, keep going, please keep going.” Beneath your practiced mouth, his entire body begins to vibrate and he grips the back of your neck tight, chanting desperately. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, holy fuck, I’m gonna come.”

He thrusts up, holding your head tight as he comes down your throat. When your fingers scratch along his thigh, his foot inadvertently pushes the accelerator harder. The car climbs to 155 miles per hour and above you, the sound of ragged panting fills the car. 

Releasing his dick with a soft lick, you look up and Bucky chokes at the sight of your spit slick, swollen lips curving into a smile.

“That was fast. Feel better?”

He breathes a whispered yes, but you can still see the red flush still spreading down his neck. He swallows hard and grimaces.  

“Helped. Definitely helped. Still hurts, but better,” he says faintly and you see his cock is still rock hard. “It’s okay, it’s enough for now, I appreciate the - “

Rolling your eyes, you lean down and take him back in your mouth. Slipping a hand between his legs, your fingers carefully cup the heavy weight of his balls, squeezing gently. The rest of his sentence fades, melting into a rush of fervent praise.

A luscious ache settles in your belly, feeding off the hot desire you feel sparking through him, at the filthy words you hear him whispering above you. If you weren’t driving down a pitch black highway at a completely inappropriate speed, you’d consider reaching down to take care of yourself, but since you’re already flouting the most basic rules of automotive safety, you figure you should keep your hands on Bucky’s balls instead.

Of course, that doesn’t stop you from rubbing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the pressure. 

Bucky glances over at your movement, a deep growl rumbling in his chest at the sight. He didn’t think anything could make him harder at this point, but the image of you so turned on by giving him a blow job, does the trick. He grinds his teeth, dangerously close to just pulling over and saying fuck this ridiculous mission. Rubbing his hand between your flexing shoulder blades and slowly bobbing head, his rasping voice carves into you.

“Does this make you feel good? Doin’ this for me? Fuck me, wish I could help you out right now. You’re so damn good to me baby. Moment we stop this car, I’m gonna fuck you so good.”

With his dick buried deep in your throat, your enthusiastic hum of agreement vibrates deliciously and he struggles to keep his eyes on the road. Everything feels incredible. Your tongue curling around the head of his cock, sucking gently on the tip, before sliding back down. The way you swallow around him, the squeeze of your throat, so hot and slick and tight. It feels so god damn good and he’s close again, one more second - 

The transmitter sitting in the console squawks to life, an ear piercing siren shocking you both from the lust fueled haze. You jerk off Bucky’s dick in a panic and he nearly screeches at the loss. Scrabbling with the device, he smashes the green TALK button.

“What?! What the fuck do you need, I’m busy.”

“Calm down there, speed racer,” comes Steve’s breezy voice. “Just letting you know we pulled the guy over. Turn around and come back so we can - “

Steve’s voice is abruptly silenced when Bucky crushes the transmitter with an easy squeeze of vibranium fingers. He flings the shattered splinters of plastic into the back seat and slams both feet on the brakes. The car fishtailes across the road, before skidding to a stop in a spray of gravel. Throwing it into park, he flips the lever under his seat and slides back with a mechanical thunk. Scrambling to pull his pants down all the way, he spreads his legs wide and takes his dick in hand. His eyes are dark, blown black when he turns to you.

“We’re safe. Get your pants off and get over here. Now.” he barks. 

Grinning at him, you tug on your tac pants, shimmying easily from the stretchy black fabric and clambering into his lap. There is no pretense. Bucky lines himself up and yanks you down, filling your cunt in one rough thrust. You’re so wet, he slides in easy. 

“God, Bucky,” you hiss. “That feels so good.”

He tugs on your shirt, pulling everything off until your breasts are bared. His mouth finds a nipple, teeth gently scrapping and tugging, greedily sucking the sensitive peak between his lips. He moves your hips faster, lifting and dragging you down on his cock over and over, until he jerks you down one final time, slams his head against the seat and comes with a long, guttural moan. Deep inside, you feel him pulsing over and over, until you can feel it dripping down your thighs, hot and sticky. 

Head tipped back, he struggles to catch his breath and you can see his heartbeat jumping wildly at his throat. When he finally opens his eyes to meet your questioning stare, you can see.

His eyes are still dark. 

“Need more?” You smile gently, smoothing sweaty hair from his forehead.

He swallows hard and then nods slowly.  

Rocking your hips, you grind down on him and lean in for a deep kiss, sliding your tongue against his. Bucky gives a shuddering sigh, sinking back into the feel of your body rolling against his. Warm hands stroke lightly down your spine and you can feel the thick, heavy weight of him growing hard again between your legs. But waring with the pleasure, a nervous tension seems to grip him.

“Bucky. I’m not made of glass,” you admonish. Licking delicately along his earlobe, he mumbles a string of apologies and your lips trail down his neck, pressing a kiss against that fluttering heartbeat. “You won’t hurt me, I promise. Use me however you need. Make yourself feel good. Just make me come before you’re done. Deal?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says, shivering uncontrollably at the heady combination of your cool breath and fiery words. “I can do that. ‘Course I’ll do that.”

His hands slide up your back and hook over your shoulders, his fingers splayed over your collarbone. He holds your body firmly in place, thrusting up into you and simultaneously rocking your hips forward. The angle is perfect and you moan at the feel, dizzy with desire as his cock rubs that spot inside just right. 

The sounds filling the car are purely pornographic. Wet skin slapping, Bucky grunting with every hard snap of his hips. The feel of his calloused fingertips stroking up your belly, between your breasts, pressing divots into your skin. He stares up at you, his eyes heavy and hooded and utterly adoring, relishing the sight of you grinding your pussy against him. His hand slips between your legs, stroking over your clit, rubbing fast tight circles. He smugly drinks down the breathless gasps he coaxes from you.   

“Bucky, I think - I think I’m - ”

The words falter when your hand slams into the car roof and your head falls back, eyes drifting closed. Lust slaps him hard as he watches you come, writhing above him, your voice cracking when you moan out his name again and again.  

“That's it, there you go baby,” he whispers roughly. The vision is breathtaking. Stunning. He figures maybe he could get used to sex pollen and a perpetually aching dick if it means he gets to see you like this.

He was already close (again), but the pure pleasure in your face is enough to knock him over the edge. He buries his face between your breasts, pinching your nipple and licking over your skin and your fingers tangle in his damp hair. You hold him tight as he gasps out your name, emptying himself inside you one more time.

And this time, finally, you can feel some of the spring tight tension disappear. His skin is still hot, but the shivers begin to diminish. Rough hands still grip your hips, but it feels controlled. The manic lust begins to fade, leaving a smoldering fire in his chest.   

Bucky tips a weary head back and meets your amused expression. A smile tugs the corner of his lips and he shakes his head. 

“God damn,” he sighs.

Scratching your nails lazily along his scalp, he leans into your touch, humming like a contented, if slightly feral, kitten. 

“Feel better?”

“So much better,” he murmurs. “Sorry that went completely sideways. Wasn’t really expecting that. Obviously enjoyed it, but still. Unexpected adventure.”

Pressing a kiss to his forehead you laugh.

“Next time, maybe don’t open the can with the giant red skull on it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

A comfortable silence settles. Bucky trails his fingers down your arms and you eye him thoughtfully.

“So, do you think they’ll come looking for us?”

“Maybe. Eventually. What should we do while we wait?”

There is a moments pause. And then you begin to roll your hips against him again and Bucky feels the electricity flare to life once more.

“We keep going.”