I don't know if I'm worth all this to you

The elevator doors yawned open at street level, that clever hydraulic hush swallowing the city noise. He stepped in first, pivoted, and held his forearm against the doors so they couldn’t close on you. It was such a small thing—anyone could have done it, you had done it for strangers—but it was Bucky, and he had the sort of steady attention that turned small things into spells. The edge of the box braced against his shoulder. His flesh hand came out, palm up, waiting for you to hand him your keycard instead of letting you contort around your own parcels.

“Card,” he prompted, voice low enough to be private.

You passed it over, and the pads of his fingers brushed yours, warm and careful, like you might bruise if he hurried. Your stomach did the traitorous little drop it had been practising for months. The elevator blinked to life and climbed with that clean, expensive glide, numbers ticking up and up until you reached the residential floors.

“Still time to back out,” you said, because teasing was your life raft when the world tilted toward earnest. “You could come back to the apartment. You don’t have to be a… New Avenger, is it?” The name tasted slightly bitter on your tongue, and judging from Bucky’s wince, you figured it probably made him uncomfortable, too. 

He glanced sideways. “It’s okay. I’ve got to do this. It’s… the right thing to do.”

You smiled at the elevator doors. “I’m proud of you, Bucky.”

The doors opened to an echo of hallway and new paint smell. Somewhere deeper in the tower, you could hear the skeleton noise of HVAC and Ava’s footsteps-that-weren’t-footsteps when she phased through a wall and startled the building into humming differently for a second. You nudged the apartment door open with your shoulder, half-expecting the worst, which made the room itself almost funny.

It wasn’t empty because emptiness implied intention. It was an almost-room, a blueprint, a place that would eventually learn his shape. The window spilled city into it. The bed was a mattress on the floor, neatly made—of course it was neatly made—with a plain grey duvet. A single chair, borrowed from a conference room, sat obediently in a corner. Two mugs on the counter. A box labeled BOOKS in tidy block letters sat next to a box labeled KITCHEN, same handwriting, same small patience.

“You weren’t kidding,” you said, setting the lamp gently onto the empty nightstand that wasn’t there. You settled for the floor. “Barnes, you moved into a concept.”

He set the box down with soundless control, then straightened. He always moved like the room might break if he didn’t respect it. “I figured I’d start simple. See what I actually use.”

“And what if what you actually use is a couch?” you asked. “What if your destiny is a rug?”

He made a show of considering. “I could be a rug guy.”

“Stop. That’s too much change at once.”

You peeled tape from the BOOKS box and found a few history texts, the kind with footnotes that knew their own weight, and a battered copy of something Russian you’d seen him read when the night got bad. You lifted it free and slid it onto the windowsill because there were no shelves yet, no furniture that could take on the solid trust of keeping someone’s words safe.

Bucky took the smaller boxes like a gentleman and the larger ones like a foregone conclusion, lining them up in thoughtful rows along the wall. He didn’t comment when you rearranged the lines so the labels faced outward, and he didn’t let the door swing closed behind you even once. He left it propped with his boot, a quiet little statement about how the next hour would be easy.

“Barnes!” The voice arrived before the person did. Yelena breezed into the doorway with a tiny potted plant as if she’d materialised out of thin air. She wore sunglasses inside and a grin that promised violence on your behalf if anyone made you carry something heavy. “We bring gift. A living thing. For the concept of your room.”

“It’s a pothos,” you said, delighted despite yourself. “It’s basically unkillable.”

“Like him.” She passed it to you. “He needs colour. And a rug.”

“I am right here,” Bucky said, which only made Yelena aim her smile at him like a laser measuring tool. 

“You are very here,” she conceded. “But your room is not. We fix it.”

Behind her, Alexei stumbled in with the fragile care of a bull in a porcelain store, arms full of something that clinked. “I brought plates,” he announced proudly. “All the plates.”

“They’re bowls,” Yelena said, leaning sideways to see around him.

“They are plate-bowls,” he insisted. “For stew. A man needs stew.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, perfectly sincere. “I like stew.”

Alexei preened. “He likes stew,” he stage-whispered to you, as if you’d been skeptical about the concept.

John Walker arrived next, because of course he did, because the universe loved a comedic beat. He shouldered in with three boxes stacked to his chin like a cartoon mailman, strides wide, expression set to This Is Nothing, I Am A Mountain. “Where do you want—” he began, and then his foot clipped the doorstop and the top box slipped, and the bottom box tried to emulate the top, and the middle one decided to become confetti, which is how John ended up with a lapful of Bucky’s socks.

Silence. Then Yelena’s laugh, bright and merciless. “Very graceful, Johnny. Like ballerina cow.”

“I meant to do that,” John said, which only made it better.

“Leave the heavy lifting to the professional,” Ava murmured, her voice arriving from above before her face did. You tipped your head back and found her peering down from an open vent, chin on forearms like a cat poking through a stair railing. “Hi.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, pretending your pulse wasn’t a drumline. “Have you been in the ventilation system this whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” she said, unapologetic. “I get bored.”

“She gets bored,” Yelena echoed. “Come down, ghost. Help with plate-bowls.”

Ava eased herself out of the vent like gravity was a rumour and landed lightly. She took in the mattress, the chair, the tidy rows of boxes, and then flicked her gaze to Bucky, the tiny quirk of a smile you only got if you knew to look. “Minimalist chic. I approve.”

“Please stop enabling him,” you said, hugging the pothos to your chest. It looked very small and determined. “We’re going to IKEA.”

Bucky made a noise that was almost a groan and almost a laugh. “We could start with shelves.”

“We will,” you promised, and it felt strangely like promising something larger, like promising that the next hour would be easy, and the next day would be kinder, and that you would be there for both. “And a couch. And a rug. And forks that match.”

“I have forks,” he protested.

“Four,” you said. “And two are technically camping utensils.”

“They fold,” he defended, which made Alexei look personally offended on behalf of stew.

“We go to IKEA,” Alexei declared. “We test sofas. We eat meatballs.”

“Please don’t make the meatballs a test,” John muttered, gathering socks with as much dignity as a man knee-deep in a stranger’s laundry could manage.

You moved through the next hour like you’d rehearsed it: you opened boxes, Bucky opened space, Yelena narrated, Alexei attempted to hang a clock without a clock to hang, and Ava vanished and reappeared with stray screws she found in the hallway as if the building shed hardware like hair. Whenever something needed a knife, Bucky handed you one handle-first. When you lifted anything heavier than your lamp, he simply appeared at your elbow, asking nothing, offering everything, and what were you meant to do with a man like that except fall in love exactly as slowly as you had been, one immaculate courtesy at a time.

At some point, you stood at the window with the pothos, trying to decide how close to put it so it could taste the light without burning. Bucky’s presence found the space behind you the way water found the low places—inevitable, quiet. He didn’t crowd. He set a box down and, without comment, reached past you to right a crooked outlet cover with his fingers, the softest pressure, the metal of his left hand catching sun and throwing it across the floor in a bright coin.

“You good?” he asked, that soft preternatural awareness he carried for other people’s thresholds. It was half question, half calibration.

You nodded. “Just figuring out where he’ll be happiest.” You stroked a leaf. “He looks like a Stanley.”

Bucky leaned in, considering the plant with the same seriousness he’d given a mission brief last week. “Stanley the pothos,” he said. “Sounds like a union man.”

“Solidarity,” you intoned, then laughed at yourself.

Bucky’s mouth softened again, that almost-smile. He reached up—slowly enough you could stop him—and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone, catching a pale stripe of dust you hadn’t noticed you’d collected from the BOOKS box. The pad of his thumb dragged gently over skin, and the world went brisk and high-definition, the way it did when you were about to tell the truth or run from it. He didn’t push; he let his touch be a question.

“You had a… streak,” he said, as if the words were shy and needed coaxing.

“Occupational hazard.” Your voice came out lightly enough to pass for fine. Inside, your heartbeat went to your mouth and back again.

He swept the dust off his thumb on his jeans and took a polite half step back, that little movement he did that said I’m here and I’m listening and I won’t take more than you offer. You wished, briefly, fiercely, that he would be careless just once. That he would misjudge a distance and bump your shoulder with his own and then forget to move away. That he would let himself want openly. But he was Bucky—he wanted cleanly, and privately, and with reverence, and you loved him for it and it made you feral.

“Thank you,” he said, as if you’d done something other than exist next to his window and name his plant.

“For what?”

“For this.” He tipped his chin at the boxes, the dust, the sunlight warming the metal plates along his forearm. “For making the first hour easy.”

The thing behind your ribs unfolded like a careful animal. “Anytime,” you said, and meant it too much.

Yelena called your names from the kitchen—“Come, come, I have arranged the plate-bowls in order of usefulness: very useful, less useful, and John”—and you laughed. You watched Bucky watch you for one heartbeat longer than usual. Then he asked, like a man asking if you wanted to step outside to breathe: “IKEA?”

You pretended to weigh it like the fate of nations. “I suppose. If we must.”

He picked up his wallet and the keycard he’d had the sense to put on a lanyard (of course he had), then offered the lanyard to you without looking like he was offering anything at all. “You drive,” he said. “You know the shortcuts.”

“You just don’t want to parallel park.”

“I don’t,” he agreed, unashamed. “Also, I like when you tell me where to go.”

Your pulse rang once, bright and foolish. “Careful,” you said lightly. “That sounded like a line.”

“If it was,” he said, meeting your eyes with something steady enough to be courage, “it would be a true one.”

Ava had already disappeared back into the vents by the time you made it to the door, because of course she had. Yelena pressed you into a hug that felt like she was checking your bones for integrity and then smacked Bucky on the bicep like she was seasoning him for good luck. Alexei insisted on giving you a twenty for meatballs. John, still scooping socks back into a box, said, “Get a couch you can actually nap on, Barnes,” in the tone of a man conceding defeat to both gravity and your competence.

“I have it handled,” Bucky said, which, coming from him, was a peace treaty and a promise.

In the hallway again, the elevator dinged open and you stepped in first this time. You put your forearm against the doors exactly the way he had and held them while he maneuvered the last of the emptiness out of the way for your life to fit. He looked at your arm and then at your face, something like warmth throwing a reflection across his features. He didn’t say thank you again, because he didn’t have to. The elevator closed, and the city spilled its music at your feet, and the afternoon bent forward into the kind of errand that would look ordinary from the outside and feel like a hinge from the inside.

You checked your pockets for lip balm, for your phone, for the crumpled list you’d made at three a.m. when he texted you I’m moving in, finally and you’d answered, without thinking, I’ll be there. He beat you to the lobby door, palmed it open, and stood there, waiting, until you passed under his arm and into the heat that tasted like a beginning.

He didn’t touch your lower back when you stepped into the sun. He didn’t need to. You felt it anyway: the ghost of his palm, the way he made space feel safer by standing in it with you. The street flavoured the air with car exhaust and the corner bodega’s fresh cilantro. Your car blinked at you like it had missed your chaos. You got behind the wheel and he buckled up without being asked, settled his hands in that ten-and-two that made your chest ache with the memory of him, wild and cornered and unseatbelted in a past that didn’t have room for breath.

“Ready?” you asked.

He looked out at the city he was trying on again, the reflection of summer and possibility on the windshield, then back to you. “Yeah,” he said, quiet and certain. “Take me where I should be.”

You did. And if your fingers trembled just a little on the gearshift when his knee brushed yours as you pulled into traffic, well—no one had to know except the sun, and the pothos named Stanley, and the man who had remembered his seatbelt without prompting.

The ride over felt like the kind of ordinary you wanted to bottle. The city hummed outside your windows, the radio played something low and wordless, and Bucky’s elbow rested against the frame like it belonged there. He didn’t fidget, didn’t fill the silence with needless words. He just let you drive, gave the occasional glance at the map on your phone, and hummed once when you turned down a street he didn’t know but trusted you to.

When the bright blue-and-yellow IKEA sign came into view, you felt a grin slip onto your face before you could stop it. “Prepare yourself, Barnes. This is no ordinary store. This is a labyrinth.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been through worse,” he said, though the way his brow furrowed as he eyed the massive parking lot full of families and shopping carts suggested otherwise.

You grabbed a cart at the entrance and shoved it toward him. “Your noble steed.”

He caught it without looking, metal hand curling effortlessly around the bar, and began to push like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, though? Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip at the sight. Something about him—this man who could dismantle a room full of armed enemies without breaking a sweat—calmly steering a squeaky-wheeled cart through a store that smelled faintly of cinnamon buns? It was…devastating.

The first section was living rooms, endless staged apartments that made you both pause at the thresholds. You flopped dramatically onto the first couch you saw.

“This one,” you announced, sprawling across the cushions. “Perfect. We’re done.”

Bucky arched a brow, cart parked neatly to the side. “That’s the first one.”

“First one’s always the best.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s how I work.” You stretched like a cat, trying not to watch how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—over the shape of you against the cushions.

He shook his head, but you caught the ghost of a smile as he offered you a hand up. His palm was warm, calloused, the pressure precise as he pulled you back to your feet.

The aisles went on forever. You stopped to poke at throw pillows you knew he’d never buy, admired lamps shaped like abstract sculptures, and tested every chair that looked remotely comfortable. He humored you through all of it. Every time you looked up, he was already watching—not impatient, not exasperated. Just there.

When it came time for the heavier lifting, Bucky didn’t even blink. Flatpack after flatpack stacked onto the cart, and he pushed it like it weighed nothing. Other shoppers strained under a single box while he maneuvered three at once, metal arm steady, flesh hand steadying the top. You caught yourself staring and had to cough into your sleeve just to break the spell.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing at you with those steady blue eyes.

“Fine,” you said quickly. “Just…thinking about meatballs.”

“Right,” he said, lips twitching, but he let you have your deflection.

The cafeteria was crowded, a blur of families and couples and kids with ice cream cones melting down their wrists. You snagged two cones after your tray of meatballs and lingonberry jam, sliding one across the table to him.

“You’re gonna love this,” you promised.

He eyed it like it was a mission brief, then took a bite that left a perfect crescent missing from the top. His brows lifted, almost boyish. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you gasped, hand over your chest. “That’s high praise from you, Barnes.”

He smirked into his cone, quiet and devastating.

You were halfway through yours when disaster struck—one drip of soft serve melting down the side, quick and traitorous. You swiped at it with your tongue, missed, and felt the cold smear at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky leaned forward without hesitation, thumb brushing gently against your lips. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as he wiped the streak away. For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move, his thumb lingering at the edge of your mouth. Your breath caught, your pulse thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“There,” he said finally, withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean against a napkin like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just set your entire body on fire.

You blinked at him, words gone. So you laughed instead, awkward and breathless, and shoved the rest of your cone into your mouth before you could humiliate yourself further.

Bucky just watched you, expression unreadable except for the faintest, softest curve at the corner of his lips.

When you left the cafeteria, the weight of the moment hung between you like the faint smell of cinnamon rolls that lingered in the air. He didn’t comment, didn’t make it strange. He just held the cart steady while you loaded the last box, brushed his knuckles against your shoulder to guide you around a crowd, and walked beside you like he always had.

You thought, not for the first time, that you’d drown yourself in ordinary errands for the rest of your life if it meant he’d keep doing things like that.

By the time you both returned, your arms aching from carrying bags of throw pillows you swore were necessary and Bucky insisting on stacking three flatpacks across his shoulders, Avengers Tower was already buzzing.

Not the kind of buzz you got from civilians or official meetings—it was Thunderbolts buzz. The low-grade chaos of people who had no business living together yet somehow did.

Yelena was the first to notice the haul, popping her head out of the kitchen with a spoon hanging from her mouth. “Finally! I thought maybe Barnes got lost in big-box store and needed rescue mission.”

“Didn’t get lost,” Bucky said, deadpan, maneuvering through the door with all three boxes balanced like they weighed nothing. “Didn’t need rescue.”

“Mm,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “We take poll later.”

Alexei trundled in behind her, eyes widening at the sight of the furniture. “Is this…bed?” He pointed to one of the boxes.

“Bedframe,” you corrected. “We’re upgrading him from mattress-on-the-floor chic.”

Alexei clapped Bucky on the back so hard you winced in sympathy. “Very proud. A man deserves bed with legs! Mattress only for prison or camping.”

From the corner, Bob perked up from where he was inexplicably sprawled on the couch with a game controller in his hand. “Or a futon,” he offered.

“No futons,” you said immediately.

Bucky glanced at you, lips twitching. “No futons,” he echoed solemnly.

John appeared then, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting all along. He crossed his arms, posture all cocky bravado. “So, Barnes finally getting civilized? I’ll admit, didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You don’t have it in you to carry three boxes at once without tripping,” Yelena shot back before Bucky could open his mouth.

John’s jaw tightened, but he covered it with a smirk. “I was…pacing myself.”

“Sure,” you said, unable to help yourself. “Very strategic.”

Bucky didn’t add to the pile-on. He just set his boxes down neatly against the wall, then straightened to his full height, calm as still water. His lack of effort was louder than any insult. John went quiet after that.

A soft whoosh above your head made you startle, and then—of course—Ava phased straight through the ceiling vent, dropping lightly onto the arm of the couch. “You’re back,” she said casually, as though she hadn’t just startled years off your life.

“Do you—” you gestured upward, exasperated, “—live in the ventilation system?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, smirking. “Better view.”

“She’s rat,” Yelena said affectionately. “A little phantom rat.”

“I prefer ghost,” Ava said, rolling her eyes, but you caught the small smile.

Meanwhile, Alexei had already started unpacking one of the boxes without asking permission. He squinted at the instruction sheet, turning it upside down, then sideways. “It says here we need…allen key?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Don’t worry, IKEA provides.”

“Good,” Alexei declared. “Allen will help.”

Yelena groaned.

Bucky didn’t even blink, just crouched to tear open another box with practiced efficiency. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, veins standing out against the strong curve of his forearm as he sorted screws into neat little piles. You watched him work, struck silent for a moment by the sheer calm competence of it—by how he didn’t rush, didn’t sigh, didn’t make it harder than it needed to be.

Beside you, John muttered something under his breath. Louder, he said, “Bet he needs someone to hold the manual for him.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Don’t need it.”

And he didn’t. In minutes, he had the frame parts aligned on the floor, bolts organized, the whole thing ready to be assembled like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You crouched to help, more for your own sanity than his. “At least let me do something.”

His gaze flickered to you, softer than you were ready for. “Keep me company,” he said simply.

Which you did. Sitting cross-legged across from him, passing screws when he reached for them, pretending not to notice when his knee brushed yours more than once. The others provided background noise—Alexei arguing with Bob about the strength of futons, Yelena threatening to strangle John with a tape measure, Ava disappearing halfway into the floor just to make you yelp—but for you, it was only Bucky.

Every careful movement of his hands. Every time he shifted the instructions just slightly closer to you like he wanted you included. Every small thing.

And you thought: God help you, you were going to fall apart before this bed was even built.

The apartment floor became a landscape of wooden slats, metal brackets, and little plastic bags of screws that looked identical until you were squinting at them in frustration. Alexei had already wandered off muttering about stew, Yelena had confiscated the instruction manual to doodle moustaches on the stick-figure diagrams, and Ava had vanished into the vents again. John was pretending to supervise from the couch while Bob scrolled idly on his phone.

Which left you and Bucky in the middle of it all—cross-legged on the floor, pieces of a bedframe laid out between you.

“Alright,” you said, picking up one of the planks. “This one goes…here? Or maybe there.”

“Here.” His voice was steady, certain. He reached across and slid the piece into position, aligning it perfectly with another. His flesh hand brushed against your wrist as he steadied it. “Like that.”

You swallowed, hard. “Right. Like that.”

The air between you seemed to thicken, full of things unsaid. His focus was absolute—on the task, on the alignment, on making sure the structure was sound. But every time your fingers grazed, every time your knee bumped against his, it felt deliberate, electric.

You tried to follow the instructions, really, you did—but the stick figure with a wrench might as well have been written in code. Bucky didn’t even glance at the manual. He lined up the planks with measured precision, screws sorted into neat little piles at his side. Each twist of his wrist was efficient, exact, the muscles in his forearm tightening just slightly with the motion.

It was ridiculous, how hot that was.

You passed him a screw. He took it with a murmur of thanks, the words warm enough to lodge under your skin. Watching him work was unfair. The way he braced the pieces together with one hand, then drove the screw in with the other, movements precise and unhurried. He wasn’t just building furniture—he was anchoring something. Rooting himself.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

Bucky’s voice broke your cover. “What?” he asked, faint amusement curling the word. He didn’t look up, just slid the next piece into place like he could do it blind.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

He smirked, tightening another bolt. “You like watching me work?”

Your face went hot. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, lips twitching as he drove the screw in with one last, perfect twist. “But I get the job done.”

Your breath caught. He’d said it so casually, like it was nothing, but it set your whole chest buzzing.

You ducked your head and reached for another bolt, trying to disguise the way your hands trembled. “Here,” you said, handing it over.

“Thanks.” His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time. You felt the callus at the pad of his thumb, the faint scrape of skin against skin. He didn’t move away immediately. Neither did you.

For a heartbeat, it was just the two of you on the floor, surrounded by half-built furniture, staring at each other like the world might split open if either of you looked away first.

Then John cleared his throat obnoxiously from the couch. “You two gonna build the bed, or just eye-fuck over the screws?”

Your face went nuclear. You snapped your head toward him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Not really,” John said, smug.

Bucky didn’t rise to it. He just gave John one of those flat looks that carried the weight of entire wars, and John promptly shut up.

But the moment had shifted. You leaned back on your heels, trying to steady your breathing while Bucky drove in the last screw on that side of the frame. He was unbothered, composed—at least on the outside. But you noticed the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders had tensed ever so slightly.

He felt it too.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back a smile.

The bedframe came together faster than you expected. In under an hour, the skeleton of it stood solid, sturdy, waiting for the mattress. You brushed your hands against your thighs, dusting off the phantom sawdust. “Well. You did it. You’re a real boy now.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, standing and offering you his hand. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

You took it, let him pull you to your feet. His grip lingered a second too long, warm and steady, before he released you.

Yelena reappeared just then, balancing the plant she’d gifted him earlier on her hip like a baby. “Good! Now his room looks less like prison, more like sad bachelor. Progress.”

“Thanks, Yelena,” you said, unable to help your grin.

Bucky just shook his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath. But when he caught your eye again, that faint, private smile was back. The one that made your heart ache with the possibility of more.

The mattress settled into the new frame with a muffled thunk, the springs groaning once before quieting. Bucky smoothed his hand over the blanket, neat as ever, like he was cataloguing its shape.

“There,” he said, voice low, certain. “Bed.”

“Wow. Really outdone yourself this time,” you teased, flopping down across the middle with deliberate drama. The frame gave a little bounce, solid enough to hold you. You spread your arms wide. “Congratulations, Barnes. It’s officially sleep-worthy.”

He gave you one of his looks—half exasperation, half indulgence—and sat carefully at the edge, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “You’re supposed to test it by lying down, not—”

But then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he stretched out beside you. Boots still planted on the floor, head tipped back against the headboard, arms loose at his sides. His eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheek, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time all day.

Your chest squeezed.

You rolled onto your side, watching him. He looked…younger like this. Softer. The sharp lines in his shoulders seemed to ease. A strand of hair had fallen over his temple, and before you thought better of it, your hand rose to brush it back.

He caught your wrist gently, fingers circling like a band of warmth. His eyes flicked open, startlingly blue this close. His thumb traced your skin, absentminded, like he didn’t know he was doing it.

The silence was heavy with all the things you’d never said.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmured, voice unsteady in a way you rarely heard.

“Like what?” your whisper came out shaky, your breath catching in the tiny space between you.

His lips curved faintly, sad and sweet. “Like I’m something good.”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe you are.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. His forehead tilted closer, almost brushing yours. His nose nudged against yours—barely, just enough to make you tremble. You inhaled sharply, and he matched it, shaky breath mingling with yours. The tiniest shift and you could’ve kissed him, could’ve drowned in him.

But then you moved at the same time, too fast, and suddenly the mattress betrayed you both. He leaned one way, you leaned the other, and with a startled laugh you ended up rolling—half on top of him, palms braced against his chest.

For a second, you just froze. His heartbeat thudded under your hands. Your knees bracketed his thighs. His flesh hand gripped your waist instinctively, firm but careful, like he was afraid you might slip right through him.

And then you both laughed—helpless, breathless, ridiculous. You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling until it shook through you, and he chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your palms.

“Graceful,” he teased, voice roughened by amusement.

“Shut up,” you muttered, still laughing.

When you lifted your head again, your laughter died in your throat. Because you were close—so close—your faces inches apart, your breaths mingling. His hand was still on your waist, steady and grounding, and you felt impossibly small beneath the weight of his grip. His gaze dropped again to your mouth, lingered, and this time…he didn’t pull away.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned up to close the last sliver of distance. His nose brushed yours again, your breath stuttered out, and when his lips finally pressed to yours—soft, tentative—it felt like falling into something you’d been reaching for forever.

Your hands fisted in his shirt. His grip on your waist tightened just enough to hold you there. And for a moment, the laughter, the chaos, the world itself—all of it disappeared, leaving only him.

The first kiss was barely there, a brush, a tremor—like he was testing the air between you. You chased it instinctively, your lips catching his again, and this time he didn’t hold back. The second kiss carried weight. Years of careful friendship pressed into the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale you made against him, the groan he swallowed before it could escape.

His hand slid from your waist up your ribcage, fingertips skimming your side through your shirt, steady and grounding even as everything else in you reeled. You felt small under the span of him, anchored by the weight of his touch.

The mattress creaked when you shifted, pressing closer. His metal arm braced beside your head, cold and immovable, caging you in without crushing you. You tilted up into him, lips parting, and his tongue brushed against yours with such careful hesitation you nearly sobbed from the gentleness of it.

The kiss deepened, grew hungrier, and then he broke away—abruptly, like he’d scared himself. Both of you were panting, noses brushing, foreheads pressed together.

His voice was ragged. “We…we can’t…” He trailed off, thumb stroking your jaw even as his words tried to pull away.

Your chest heaved. “Can’t what?”

“This,” he said, the word hoarse. “Friends don’t do this.”

The ache in your chest sharpened. You searched his face, eyes wide, heart hammering like it wanted to tear out of you. “And what if I don’t want to be just your friend anymore?”

For a moment, silence hung heavy, his thumb frozen against your cheek. His jaw worked, eyes flickering between yours like he was trying to find the trap.

“You don’t mean that,” he murmured finally, so quiet it nearly wasn’t there.

“I do,” you said, fierce despite the tremor in your voice. You were trembling all over, but you held his gaze. “God, Bucky, I’ve wanted this for so long. I thought you…didn’t.”

His breath shuddered out of him. His grip on your waist tightened, like he needed the anchor as badly as you did.

“You think I don’t?” His laugh came out cracked, disbelieving. He nudged his nose against yours again, shaky and tender. “I’ve been trying not to want this. Not to ruin us. Not to ruin you.”

The confession stole your air.

“You couldn’t ruin me,” you whispered.

That undid him. His mouth crashed back to yours, deeper, rougher, teeth catching on your lower lip before his tongue slid past. The kiss was messy now, frantic, both of you chasing the inevitability of it, trying to make up for every moment you’d held back.

You whimpered into him, hands fisting in his shirt, tugging until he groaned against your mouth. His body shifted, rolling you with him, and suddenly you were on your back, his weight braced above you. The bed dipped under him, solid, steady, a frame you’d built together holding both of you now.

He kissed you until you were dizzy, until your lips were swollen and your breaths came out in desperate little gasps. When he finally broke for air again, he stayed close, forehead against yours, voice wrecked.

“Tell me this isn’t just a moment,” he said. “Tell me you’ll still want me tomorrow.”

Your heart cracked wide open. “I’ll want you every day after this,” you said, no hesitation, because it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.

Something desperate flickered across his face—relief, hunger, longing all tangled together. And then he kissed you again, like he believed you.

The kiss had tipped from hesitant to desperate so fast your head spun. One moment you were still laughing into his mouth, foreheads bumping clumsily as you tried to steady yourselves, and the next you were clutching at his shirt like a lifeline, kissing him harder, deeper.

Bucky made a sound—low in his chest, almost a growl—and shifted his weight over you. The bed dipped under his knees, his body caging yours. His flesh hand cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking once against your cheekbone before sliding into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. His metal arm braced steady on the mattress, cold and immovable beside your ribs.

You arched into him, hips brushing, and he froze for half a second. The accidental friction pulled a ragged groan out of him.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth.

Your pulse leapt. You did it again—on purpose this time, tilting your hips to grind up against the hard line you could already feel straining against his jeans. The sound that tore from his throat was guttural, broken.

“Sweetheart—” he warned, though it came out more like a plea than a boundary.

You couldn’t stop, not now. Not after years of pretending you didn’t want this, not after nights lying awake imagining what his weight would feel like pressing you down. “Please,” you whispered, your breath shaky against his lips. “Bucky, please.”

His control snapped.

He surged down to kiss you again, hungrier this time, all teeth and tongue, his breath harsh through his nose as his hips rolled into yours. The denim of his jeans ground against the thin barrier of your leggings, the friction sweet and maddening. You gasped into his mouth, clinging to him as your body sparked under every press of him.

His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. You felt the breadth of his palm spanning your side, anchoring you, holding you still as he rutted into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Each grind sent a jolt of heat shooting through you, your head falling back against the pillow with a broken moan.

Bucky’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and desperate. “Christ,” he muttered, voice rough, “you’re shaking.”

“I can’t—” you gasped, arching into him again, your thighs falling open to give him more space. “Bucky…”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild. His lips were swollen from kissing, his breath ragged. His gaze dragged down your body, then back up to your face, lingering on your mouth like he couldn’t decide which part of you to worship first.

“You’re soaked,” he said hoarsely, the words half wonder, half tease. His hips pressed harder, grinding right against your clit through the fabric, and you cried out. His mouth curled in the faintest, filthiest smirk. “All this…just from me kissing you?”

Your cheeks burned, embarrassment and arousal crashing together, but you couldn’t deny it—not when your body was betraying you with every roll of his hips. “Yes,” you whispered, breath breaking. “God, yes.”

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing. He kissed you again, rougher this time, swallowing your moans as he rocked against you. His weight bore down on you, solid and overwhelming, and you felt so small under him—helpless in the best way, pinned between his body and the mattress you’d built together.

Every drag of his cock against your cunt had you gasping, clutching at his shoulders, your hips canting up to meet his rhythm. The friction was relentless, sharp and sweet. Your thighs trembled around him, thighs opening wider with each thrust, and his hand slid down to grip your hip, guiding you against him.

“Look at you,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. His nose brushed yours, breath shaky. “So fucking desperate for me.”

You whined, the sound catching in your throat as you ground up into him harder. His hips stuttered once, like he hadn’t expected it, and a string of curses spilled from his lips.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, until his chest was pressed to yours, his heartbeat slamming through his ribs. He kissed you like a man starving, breaking only to breathe raggedly against your lips. His hips kept moving, unrelenting, grinding you closer and closer to the edge.

“Bucky,” you gasped, nails scraping lightly against his back through his shirt. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, rocking harder, his voice wrecked. “You gonna come for me like this? Just from me fucking grinding against you?”

You moaned helplessly, head tipping back. “Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

He groaned low, hips snapping into you once, hard enough to make you cry out. His grip on your hip tightened, holding you to him as he ground down again, perfectly against that spot that had you trembling.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged, voice low and commanding, but laced with awe. “Wanna feel you soak right through these jeans.”

The filthy words tipped you over. Heat crashed through you, your body locking up before shuddering apart. You clung to him, gasping his name against his mouth as your orgasm tore through you, the friction still sparking against your clit until you were shaking all over.

Bucky groaned at the feeling of you thrashing under him, his hips rolling slow and deliberate to draw it out, like he wanted to wring every last tremor from you. He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your waist even as he kept you pinned.

When you finally collapsed back against the mattress, trembling, his lips brushed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His voice was soft, ragged, reverent.

“God, you’re perfect.”

Your body was still trembling when the aftershocks ebbed, breath catching on each exhale. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, before Bucky’s face filled your vision again. He was braced above you, flushed and breathing hard, eyes dark but soft as they searched your face.

“Never seen anything like that,” he murmured, brushing your damp hair from your temple with careful fingers. His voice was husky, awed. “Didn’t even touch you under your clothes and you…”

Heat burned through your cheeks. “Bucky—”

“Shh.” He kissed you quick, reassuring, before shifting his weight back. “I wanna take care of you.”

The way he said it made your chest ache—like he wasn’t just talking about tonight, like he meant every part of your life.

Before you could respond, he was tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Can I?”

You nodded, wordless, and raised your arms. He peeled the fabric over your head, slow and careful, like he was unwrapping something precious. His gaze swept over you reverently as he tossed the shirt aside, calloused fingers tracing along your sides before he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin.

You shivered, already squirming as he trailed lower, kissing the curve of your breast over your bra, down your stomach, across your hip. When his fingers hooked into your leggings, he paused, glancing up.

“You sure?” His eyes searched yours, raw and earnest. “I don’t need more than what we just did. I’d be happy to stop here.”

Your heart clenched. God, he meant it. Even with his own arousal straining visibly against his jeans, he’d stop if you asked. He’d tuck you under the blanket, let you sleep, and never mention it again.

“I want this,” you whispered fiercely, reaching down to thread your fingers through his hair. “I want you.”

Something flickered in his expression—relief, hunger, tenderness tangled together. He kissed the inside of your thigh once, sealing your words like a vow, before tugging your leggings and underwear down in one smooth motion.

Cool air hit you, making you gasp. His eyes dropped between your thighs, and his breath caught audibly.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself, half in wonder. “You’re soaked.” He glanced up, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Still can’t believe I did that to you just from grinding.”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Don’t—”

He chuckled low, prying your hands away gently. “Don’t hide from me. You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are like this.”

And then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue over your clit made you arch clean off the bed. He held your hips steady with his broad hands, anchoring you as he licked slowly, deliberately, savoring. His stubble scratched faintly against the tender inside of your thighs, the contrast only making you whimper louder.

“Fuck, Bucky—”

He hummed, the vibration buzzing against your clit, before sucking gently, teasingly. Your back bowed, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “That’s it. Let me hear you.” Then he dove back in, tongue circling, flicking, stroking until your thighs were trembling around his head.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging helplessly. He groaned into you, the sound raw, like your desperation only spurred him on. He mouthed at your folds, tongue dipping lower to taste everything, then sliding back up to focus on your clit with maddening precision.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh before pressing his mouth to you again. “You taste—fuck, I could stay here all night.”

You were incoherent, babbling his name, gasps breaking between moans. The coil in your stomach wound tighter with every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck. His hands never left you—one holding your thigh open, the other stroking soothing circles against your hip like he was reminding you he had you, he’d never let you go.

“Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured against your clit, his voice wrecked. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you shake for me again.”

It was too much. Your thighs clamped around his head as the orgasm hit, white-hot, tearing through you. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his scalp. He groaned, devouring you greedily, tongue working you through it until you were thrashing, begging for mercy.

Finally, he pulled back, lips slick, face flushed. He kissed your trembling thigh tenderly, then your hip, then worked his way back up your body. By the time he kissed you again, you were still panting, dazed, and the taste of yourself on his tongue made your head spin.

“See?” he whispered against your mouth, pressing his forehead to yours. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

You could only nod weakly, fingers clutching his shoulders, your whole body humming with the aftershocks. He kissed you again, slow and deep, as though he had all the time in the world.

You were still reeling, body humming and limp against the mattress, when Bucky kissed you again. His mouth was slow now, reverent, like he was savoring every second. You clutched at him anyway, greedy, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss with a ragged groan, forehead pressed to yours, his breath harsh against your lips. “If I don’t stop now…” His voice cracked. “I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, without a shred of hesitation. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders. “Don’t stop, Bucky. Please.”

His jaw clenched, torn between restraint and need. His hand stroked along your cheek, then down your side, trembling just slightly. “You know what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” you said fiercely. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

That undid him. His mouth crushed to yours, desperate and messy, while his hands moved to your hips, tugging your leggings the rest of the way off. His jeans followed—clumsy, hurried, shoved down just far enough. The weight of him pressed against your thigh, heavy and hot, his cock dragging against your skin.

You gasped at the size of him, at the sheer heat. He cursed softly, head dropping to your shoulder as he ground against you once, helpless. “Christ—you’re so warm. I don’t even…” He cut himself off with a shudder.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him. His hips bucked at the contact, a guttural sound torn from his chest.

“Wait,” he rasped suddenly, pulling back enough to search your face. His thumb stroked your jaw again, frantic tenderness pouring out of him. “I don’t have—anything. No condom.”

Your heart slammed. You knew this mattered, knew it was reckless, but every nerve in your body screamed for him. “It’s okay,” you whispered, steady even through your shaking. “I’m clean. I’m on the pill. Just—please, Bucky. I need you.”

He groaned like he was breaking, like the last thread of restraint had snapped. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky. “I’ll pull out,” he promised, voice rough. “I won’t risk you.”

You nodded, clutching at him. “I trust you.”

That was it. That was all he needed.

He kissed you once more, slow and deep, then angled his hips. His tip slid through your folds, catching at your entrance. You gasped at the stretch already, at the anticipation.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice wrecked but soothing. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your lip. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed in.

The stretch stole your breath, made your nails dig into his back. He groaned low, burying his face against your neck, body trembling as he eased deeper, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kissing the line of your jaw, his voice almost reverent. “So tight. So warm. You feel…you feel like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed, but clung tighter. “Don’t stop,” you begged, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

He stilled when he was fully inside, chest heaving against yours. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach, murmuring softly. “I’ll give you a minute. Breathe. Just breathe for me.”

The gentleness almost undid you more than the stretch. You nodded shakily, letting your body adjust, letting the sharp ache melt into fullness. Into him.

“Okay,” you whispered finally. “I’m okay.”

His mouth hovered over yours, his hips rolling slow. The drag of him inside you pulled a moan straight from your throat. His face crumpled, like the sound broke him open.

“Sweetheart…” His thrusts were deep, unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His metal arm held him steady above you, his flesh hand cradled your face like you were fragile glass. “You’re so perfect like this. So wet for me.”

Your body clenched around him at his words, and he groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck—you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Can’t believe this is real.”

You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “It’s real. It’s always been you.”

He kissed you like that shattered him, thrusts growing rougher, needier. Each roll of his hips pressed deeper, harder, until you were gasping into his mouth, your nails raking down his back. The sound of your slick filled the room, obscene and beautiful.

“God, I could lose myself in you,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t ever let me go.”

You were close again—could feel it building, hot and sharp in your stomach. You moaned into his mouth, clinging tighter. “Bucky—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, his thrusts snapping harder now, ragged. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

His words tipped you over. Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot, your body clenching hard around him. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs trembling around his waist.

He cursed, head thrown back, hips stuttering as he pulled out just in time. Hot release spilled across your stomach as he groaned, broken, bracing himself above you with a shaking arm.

The room was filled with nothing but your panting, your pounding hearts, the faint creak of the bedframe.

Bucky’s hand trembled as he stroked your hair back, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice was raw, almost a whisper. “I can’t believe you want me.”

Tears pricked your eyes, soft and aching. “I always have.”

He kissed you once more, slow and lingering, before collapsing beside you, tugging you into his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you tight, as if he’d never let you slip away again.

And for the first time, lying tangled together on the bed you’d built, it felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The room was still thick with the smell of sex, the hum of your breathing uneven as you collapsed into the dip of the mattress. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.

But Bucky didn’t let you move.

You’d started to shift, murmuring something about getting cleaned up, but he stilled you instantly with a hand against your hip. “Stay,” he said softly, already leaning over the edge of the bed to grab the towel he’d left nearby. “I’ve got it.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. His hair was mussed, damp strands falling into his face, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, gorgeous pink. The sight alone should’ve undone you all over again.

“I can—”

“Shh.” He cut you off gently, lips brushing your temple. “Let me take care of you.”

It was such a simple line, but the weight in his voice made your chest tighten. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying it to be smooth. He meant it.

And then he was easing you onto your back, careful and unhurried. The towel was warm from his hands as he wiped you down, movements reverent. He cleaned the mess between your thighs with slow strokes, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched at the sensitivity. His flesh hand cupped your knee, steady and grounding.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your thigh after each swipe. “Almost done.”

The towel was warm against your oversensitive skin, but it wasn’t the touch that made your breath catch—it was the way he handled it. Unhurried, precise, careful in a way that made your chest ache. He didn’t rush, didn’t miss a spot, didn’t falter even when you squirmed at the sensitivity.

It was intimate in a way that almost overwhelmed you more than the sex had. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just…took his time, every gesture threaded with care.

It hit you suddenly, almost embarrassingly: it wasn’t just the sex. It was this. The competence of him. The quiet way he knew what to do, how to make you comfortable, how to make you feel cared for.

Your voice slipped out before you could stop it. “You’re…really good at this.”

Bucky froze for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a kiss against your thigh. “In the 108 years I’ve been alive… guess I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

When he was satisfied, he tossed the towel aside and tugged the blanket up, wrapping it snug around your body. Then he slid in beside you, pulling you into his chest with an arm around your waist.

You melted instantly. His body was warm and solid, his heart thudding against your cheek. He smelled faintly of sweat, clean cotton, and the lingering spice of his soap. You burrowed closer, sighing as your body finally loosened.

“You good?” he asked after a moment, his lips brushing the crown of your head.

“Better than good,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his chest.

He let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. His metal arm shifted under the blanket, cold plates carefully avoiding your skin, while his flesh hand stroked your back in slow, absentminded circles.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured after a while, his thumb brushing along your spine.

“Comedown,” you admitted, yawning. “Not bad. Just…a lot.”

His arm tightened around you. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

Silence stretched, heavy but comfortable. The only sound was your uneven breathing slowly syncing to his. The adrenaline ebbed, replaced by the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that felt safe, earned.

Your eyelids drooped, the rhythm of his touch lulling you under.

“Don’t let go,” you whispered, already drifting.

“Never,” he promised, voice steady and certain, even as his own breathing slowed.

Sleep claimed you like that—tucked in his arms, warm and content, with the steady weight of him wrapped protectively around you.

The kitchen was already alive when you and Bucky slipped in the next morning. Yelena was perched on the counter with a mug of coffee, Alexei hovered over the stove with a pot in one hand, and Bob was upside-down on the couch for reasons you didn’t want to know. John sat at the table scrolling his phone, muttering into his mug. Ava phased half-in and half-out of the wall like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was chaos, and you almost turned around to go back upstairs.

Alexei was the first to notice. “You!” he barked, brandishing the ladle like a weapon. “You missed dinner! Hours I spent making stew, and you vanish like ghosts.”

You winced, sheepish, holding up your mug as a shield. “Sorry, Alexei. We were…busy.”

Yelena’s head swiveled toward you like a hawk. “Busy with what?” Then her eyes narrowed, darting between you and Bucky—his damp hair, the faint blush creeping up his neck, the way he was very deliberately not looking at anyone. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh. Busy with bed.”

You choked on your coffee.

Bucky’s ears went pink, his jaw tightening as he busied himself with the toaster like it required tactical focus. “Don’t,” he muttered.

Yelena grinned wickedly. “So. How was it?”

“Yelena!” you squeaked, covering your face with your mug.

John perked up instantly, smirk already forming. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes christened the bed,” Yelena said cheerfully.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, slamming toast onto a plate like it had offended him.

Bob groaned dramatically from the couch. “Ugh. Do not tell me I have to live with the sound effects.”

“Noise-proof walls,” Ava said blandly, phasing her head fully through the wall to smirk at you. “Mostly.”

Your cheeks burned hotter. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, half mortified, half giddy.

Bucky shot you a look, torn between exasperation and fondness, but the blush spreading down his throat gave him away.

Alexei set down the ladle with a huff. “I make stew, no one comes. But everyone comes for bed. This is disrespect.”

That broke you. You dissolved into laughter, hiding your face in your hands, while Bucky groaned beside you like he regretted every decision leading to this moment.

Breakfast carried on with relentless teasing—Yelena raising her brows at every creak of the chair when Bucky shifted, John muttering about “young love,” Bob pretending to gag into his cereal. Through it all, Bucky stayed at your side, shoulders squared like he could shield you from it, though his ears stayed red the whole time.

When you finally escaped back upstairs, both of you clutching your coffee like lifelines, you collapsed onto his still-new bed in a fit of laughter.

“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you gasped, wiping tears from your eyes.

Bucky sank down beside you with a sigh, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, grin spreading. “So…we could test the shower?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide, before a slow, boyish smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned closer, voice low. “Think the couch might need testing too.”

You laughed, pushing at his chest, but he only caught your wrist, tugging you into his lap. His kiss was softer this time, but the heat was still there, banked under the surface, waiting.

And if the rest of the Tower heard the creak of the shower pipes later that morning—well, that was nobody’s business but yours.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You walked into the rec room, and his eyes flickered to you for a moment, a moment you would’ve otherwise missed if you hadn’t walked in there on a mission to talk to him specifically. He noticed the way you were looking at him, all business and no fun. He tried to ignore you, shifting his focus back to the worn punching bag hanging in front of him.

“Alright, what’s your deal? Let’s get this over with.” You stood next to him with your arms crossed against your chest.

You weren’t intimidated by him, although the scowl on his face was begging you to be. You were aware that it was all a façade, a way to protect himself and you weren’t going to fall for it.

“Why do you hate me?”

He noticed now that you were wearing a tight tank top, and shorts, and your muscular legs were exposed more than usual. His breath hitched, and his blood went warm, he didn’t want to admit that he was avoiding you because you made his heart race and he wasn’t used to it.

“Shouldn’t you be getting your workout in?” He was avoidant, and you knew it. You usually let it fly, but not today. He brushed past you to get on a nearby elliptical machine.

“You can work in Congress but you can’t welcome a newbie with open arms? I’ve been here for months. ” Your eyes flickered to the metal arm, not intentionally, but he caught it immediately. Finally, his intense blue eyes lingered on you for longer than a moment, “Why do you care if I acknowledge you or not?”

You were caught off guard by his questioning, you really wanted his approval or at the very least a moment of his time. “You’re the only person I haven’t bonded with here, you avoid me like I’m carrying the plague or something.”

“How do I know you’re not?” His tone was so dry. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, his eyes never wavered showing any kind of emotion. You stood there, almost emotionless before you noticed the corners of his mouth starting to turn.

“Okay, progress! A smile! Let’s sit? Maybe get a cup of coffee, please?” You finally smiled at him, feeling the tension starting to shift.

“Fine but let me get a smoke break first” he walked over to the hoodie he had left lying around, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket.

You eyed him up and down, not in disapproval but more so that you were surprised he had picked up this particular habit. You quickly assumed it was to calm his nerves, PTSD will do that to you.

“We can go to the diner downstairs, I’m really not in the mood to listen to any of Alexei’s war stories today” he rolled his eyes, and you nodded following him out of the building as he held the cigarette between his flesh fingers.

“Want one?” He sucked the cigarette end hard, the menthol feeling taking over his senses as a chill went up his spine.

“I like my lungs” you teased and he only shrugged. You excused yourself to change into warmer clothes, before meeting him back outside before going to the diner.

You and Bucky sat at that diner for four hours, it was the first time you had ever had a real conversation and it felt like the words continued to flow on both sides. You realize you had a lot more in common than you anticipated, he talked about Steve a lot and about how he was really bad at online dating, and making friends apparently. He went into detail about how he never meant to make you feel slighted, he just wasn’t good with new faces. He truthfully just didn’t think you wanted to know him at all, and that confession nearly jarred you.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re by far the most interesting person in the tower.” Your eyes went wide as you motioned to the waitress for another cup of water, you had probably gone through 10 different drinks by this point.

“Interesting huh?” He tongued the inside of his cheek and chuckled, an actual laugh that made his chest vibrate and his stomach feel warm inside.

“That’s supposed to be a compliment! I swear!” You giggled as the waitress set a hot order of mozzarella sticks down in front of both of you.

“These are on the house” she winked at Bucky before smiling widely at you too.

You both took one at the same time, making eye contact as you both suddenly realized how hungry you were.

“I guess we have been here for hours huh? Do you want something else to eat? Or I can make us paninis for dinner, you like those right? ”He remembered that last time he made them you raved about them, something you thought he hadn’t noticed.

“Paninis sound good!” Your eyes flickered to the metal arm once more.

“You’ve been looking at this a lot today” he lifted it slightly before placing it back down to his side.

“Honestly I’ve always wanted to know how it works, I mean, I obviously see it in action when you guys are out there doing your thing but up close it’s different.”

“Doing our thing huh?” He chuckled, nursing his Diet Coke, which had surely gone watery and flat by now.

“You know what I mean Barnicle.” The nickname, rolled off your tongue, he had never really had a silly one like that before. He probably wouldn’t have liked it if it didn’t come from you, but the fact that it came out of your beautiful mouth well, he wasn’t going to complain.

“Is it heavy?” You sipped your water, absentmindedly, tracing the straw with your tongue, and Bucky definitely noticed.

“My dick or the arm?”

Buckys comment caught you off guard, you gasped, your entire body growing warm with embarrassment.

“Both?” You rasped, answering truthfully.

After that night, you and Bucky Barnes were pretty much inseparable, you wouldn’t say that you were dating per se, but what you would say was that most nights you slept in one another’s bed, and often times he finished inside you. The perks of super soldier serum made his sperm sterile, no worries at all in that department.

Everyone in the watchtower knew it was pretty much a don’t ask and don’t tell situation with the two of you. Walker would comment here and there about how you two were obviously flirty, but everybody else let it fly under the radar. Most people knew without being told that Bucky Barnes didn’t like too much attention, and he would prefer it if everybody minded their own business. You, however, would like to shout it from the rooftops that he made you orgasm 6 times in one night, but you respected his boundaries.

Bucky was a mess today, exhausted and full of nerves. It didn’t help that the mission briefing was taking place at 5 AM. He had just fallen asleep two hours prior and now he was sitting here with the rest of the team, who honestly looked worse for wear than he did. Some nights, like last night he didn’t want to fuck, and you understood why. On those nights you would give him space, always make sure he ate dinner, but space nonetheless.

“You okay?” You whispered as you took a seat in the rolling office chair beside him.

“Missed you last night” he avoided the question, grabbing your hand under the table and fidgeting with the ring you wore on your pointer finger.

“You know where to find me” you hummed, knowing he wouldn’t have anything to say in response.

You had gotten up an hour earlier to get ready, you hated admitting it, but you always cared what he thought of you. Especially now that you were having sex, the pressure felt magnified. You made sure to style your hair, put on makeup, and wore his favorite outfit on you. A low-cut top, and a short jean skirt. It was just a mission brief so you didn’t have to wear your combat clothes. You also knew he was extremely sensitive to smell, making sure you used the honey apricot shampoo he liked this morning.

“You smell really nice and your legs look good” he hummed, a more noticeable smile forming and a sparkle coming over his tired eyes. He started to stop and start igniting the flame with the royal blue lighter in his other hand.

Teasingly you grabbed the lighter from him, thanking his tired demeanor for being able to successfully grab it from him unsuspectingly. As he went to grab it you slipped it into your bra, a mischievous smile spread across your face as the meeting began.

“Give it to me” he whispered as he maneuvered in his chair.

“Take it” you teased back, making sure it was partly visible in your bouncing cleavage.

Bucky kept his eyes on your breasts, wanting what was his back and enjoying the view. “You’re a damn tease” he mumbled as the instructions were given to the team.

You shrugged, taking notes as you rubbed your foot on his leg, the subtle contact driving Bucky crazy. “You can’t even use it right now.”

“It’s still mine” he lightly coughed, trying to hide the fact that the two of you were wildly distracted. You liked how possessive he was over his things.

“Take what’s yours then soldier” you teased back. It wasn’t until you felt his warm hand on your leg that you realized what he was doing, he squeezed your thigh gently as a warning.

Walker was sitting across from you two, trying to drown out his own super soldier hearing as he listened to the brief.

Bucky slowly moved his hand up, halfway up your thigh. “Give it back now,” His eyes told you how serious he was being now.

You ignored him until his hands trailed up your thigh and his warm fingers brushingly teased your clit he realized immediately that you weren’t wearing underwear, a small growl coming from deep in his throat. You wondered if you should just give up and give him the lighter, worried you wouldn’t be able to control yourself.

Bucky didn’t give you time to change your mind, he took two fingers and teasingly dragged them through your slick folds, the warmth of his hand felt good against your skin, he circled your clit teasingly before pushing his fingers deep inside you.

Your eyes went wide as he hid a smile, you quickly took the lighter out of your bra sliding it to him but he kept his fingers there to show you who was really in control.

When the meeting brief was over, you quickly pushed his hand away and the two of you stood up, making eye contact with one another, it was as if you had forgotten you had company, which truthfully happened a lot.

“Are you guys okay?” Yelena interrupted your train of thought as Bucky subtly wiped his hand on his joggers.

“Never better!” You smiled and both you and Bucky blushed as he quickly followed you out of the room.

“We have to leave for the mission in an hour!” John reminded, having heard the tension between the two of you.

“Don’t you have a cigarette to smoke or something?” You knew he was hot on your trail with purpose, and you were still acting like you didn’t need him.

“Do you really want me to leave you alone?” He blinked, standing still and waiting for your authentic response.

“You know I don’t” You grabbed his wrist and the two of you eagerly slipped into his bedroom and shut and locked the door.

“That was an insane stunt to pull by the way” You smacked your lips as the two of you haphazardly threw your clothes off and onto his floor.

“Was it?” He stood there, in his briefs, his dick begging to spring free. You were in your bra, waiting for him to unclasp it. He padded over to you, taking it off with one hand as your breasts bounced free. Your nipples were hard already, and the cold air in his room didn’t help.

Bucky got on his knees, his intense blue eyes looking up at you before his mouth found your clit as you stood before him, one hand cupping your ass and the other reaching up to play with your sensitive nipples.

“Bucky, we only have an hour until we have to leave” you moaned with your eyes closed. Your body involuntarily spasmed as he pushed his tongue against your clit.

“You’re right, let’s not waste any time” he growled, carrying you with one arm over his shoulder and to his bed. He carefully put you down onto his pillows. “Eyes on me, you know what I like” he rasped and you opened your eyes, making eye contact with him. He stood at the foot of the bed, holding your legs up as he angled himself inside you. It took two pushes for you to fully take him.

He put both of your legs on his shoulders as he continued to pump into you, “How does this feel good girl?” He has his metal palm flat on your stomach so that he can feel himself twitch inside you.

Bucky kept the momentum, pushing in and out of you quickly, the rhythm would’ve given any regular person a cramp but not Bucky, it didn’t take him long to figure out what worked for you.

“I asked you a question” he moaned, he was never shy about being vocal with you.

“Holy fuck Buck- Bucky I’m not going to last- to last, long” You fought to keep your eyes open as he leaned slightly away from you he was angled right against your g-spot.

He felt your vagina tighten around him, your orgasm quickly approaching and making him gasp as he caught himself from collapsing on top of you, warm ropes of cum filled you as his hips stuttered. He stayed inside you for longer than he needed to, allowing both of you to breathe again.

When he pulled out of you, he started to look for his clothes and you stood up, stopping him with a hand on his sweaty chest.

“Don’t we still have thirty more minutes?” You winked and he threw his shirt back down to the floor and eagerly kissed you, his large hands wrapping around your face.

“Now get on the bed soldier! I want to ride!” You winked and he did as he was told.

You were leaning against the kitchen counter with your palms wrapped around your mug of hot tea when Bucky wandered in, still tugging at the sleeves of his Henley. He froze mid step, eyes flicking to the new Avenger across the room.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, lips twitching. “Reckon he can see the weather change before the rest of us.”

Bucky shot you a look, but his eyes returned immediately to the newcomer, sizing him up much like a gator does when it's being fed.

The towering Avenger noticed him, gave a cheerful wave, then ducked slightly to avoid cracking his skull on the ceiling light as he crossed the room. “Hey, man. You must be Barnes. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You saw it immediately. The way his head tipped back ever so slightly, chin lifting to meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky said carefully, shaking his hand. His metal fingers flexed just a touch too deliberately, the faintest clink sounding. “You’re… tall.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, get that a lot.”

“Oh, my God Buck,” you whispered, bringing your mug to your lips to hide your growing grin. “You actually had to look up.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, eyes still locked on the newcomer like he was assessing a hostile target.

“Well, better be going. It's the first day on the job and I don't want to be late." The man smiles, turning on his heels and ducking under the doorframe. In a few strides he's back to where he was moments before he walked over.

As soon as he left the room, you absolutely dissolved.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned without even looking at you.

“I haven’t said a word,” you said, tears already threatening.

“You’re thinking it.”

“Oh, I’m thinking loads, love,” you teased, grinning ear to ear. “Mostly wondering if you want me to buy you a little step stool so you can reach his eye level.”

Bucky finally turned, scowling. “I’m not short, doll.”

“No, no, you’re very…” you paused, pretending to think. “Compact. Fun-sized even.”

His nostrils flared. “He might be taller,” he said, with the utmost seriousness, “but I’m stronger.”

That was it, you broke. Doubled over, wheezing laughter into your sleeve, absolutely undone.

“You actually said it!” you gasped. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, reduced to playground logic. ‘He might be taller, but I’m stronger.’ Oh, love, that’s going straight in the hall of fame.”

His ears flushed pink. “What? It’s true.”

“Not arguing,” you said, grinning wickedly. “It’s just hysterical. Next time he has to duck under a doorway, you should flex your vibranium bicep at him in protest.”

Bucky stepped closer, trying to loom over you. It sort of worked, you had to tilt your head back just a little. His voice dropped, all mock-threat. “Careful, doll. I’ll prove it to you.”

“Oh, what, you planning to wrestle me?” you teased. “Or are you going to arm wrestle Jack And The beanstalk?”

His smirk said it all.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were squared off at the common room table, and you were perched at the edge, chin resting on your hand as you watched. The rest of the team had gathered too, egging them on.

“Three, two, one, go!” Sam called.

The giant’s arm shook almost immediately, muscles bulging, but Bucky was relentless. His vibranium arm didn’t budge an inch and Bucky didn't break a sweat. With a sharp slam, the bloke’s knuckles hit the tabletop.

Bucky leapt up like he’d just won a heavyweight title. “Ha! Told you. Taller doesn’t mean stronger.”

The room erupted in cheers and laughter. Even the new guy grinned, rubbing his wrist. “Fair enough Sergeant Barnes. Stronger, no question.”

Bucky’s gaze darted straight to you, waiting and needing your approval.

You just smirked. “Congratulations, love. You’ve proven you can out muscle a giraffe in boots. Truly, what an achievement.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Don’t worry,” you added sweetly, patting his arm. “You’ll always be my favourite action figure. Pocket sized and deadly.”

His laugh slipped out before he could stop it, soft and warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” you shot back.