s.r.'s recommendation blog

Spring Bingo Collection

Bucky Barnes

one shots

bucky being a mean dom when he's had a bad day. 18+

just a little horny dabble. exactly what the title says. smut, fem!reader

on the road (rockstar!bucky) 18+

what it's like being fuck buddies with rockstar!bucky. smut, fem!reader

punishments 18+

how bucky would punish you after you tease him all night. smut, fem!reader

hair

bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you. written from the pov of Sam. fluff

is this the price of freedom?

your past haunts you everywhere you go. a conversation with bucky ensues. kinda angst? kinda fluff?

red carpet (rockstar!bucky) 18+

what it's like to be Bucky's date for his first big red carpet appearance. smut, fem!reader

crush

Bucky was just trying to live as normally as he could given his history. he never thought a teenage-like crush would be part of that normalcy. fluff, fem!reader

blush

the five times Bucky made you blush and the one time you did. fluff, fem!reader

an extra hand to help you work 18+

whatever he might say, Bucky cannot share you with the world. when he wants your attention, he'll get it one way or another. smut, fem!reader

rockstar!bucky headcanons

random. fluff, fem!reader.

rockstar!bucky smut headcanons 18+

the explicit version. smut fem!reader

freebies aren't allowed (mob!bucky) 18+

pretty little thing that you are, Bucky still can't allow his debts to go unpaid. you need to find a way to pay the mobster back by midnight. dark smut, fem!reader

danger (mob!bucky)

this isn't how Bucky planned on telling you about his line of work. kinda angst, fem!reader

blurbs

Bucky with his sister

Steve Harrington

Vecna's curse

Steve makes a concerning discovery: you are Vecna's next victim. angst, so much angst

old works

Joel Miller

choking on you 18+

been obsessed w Joel so this is a little something. fem!reader, smut

TASM!Peter Parker

christmas lighting

not everyone can afford a rooftop date and first class seats to the Rockefeller Center tree lighting. fluff

random mob!Peter beadcanons I have

it's all really random. fluff

easy to love

Peter is relentlessly there to help pick you up when you are too tired to do the same. angst, whump

I hope you remember me.

a look at Peter's life after you're gone. angst

Robin Buckley

you're the only girl I've got on my list.

It all began with a hexed quill that year. You’d been furiously scribbling notes in Professor McGonagall’s class, fully aware of the mountain of homework she was due to assign that night. It was already enough, let alone the masses of homework given from the other professors. Ever since your sixth year at Hogwarts had begun, you’d been quite booked, to say the least. Each direction you leapt had yet another task asked of you. It felt never-ending, and it was only the first week of September. You’d failed to realise just how demanding this school year was going to be – and you were determined to not let him ruin it.

That was until your quill jerked from your hand and began writing on its own. The few attempts you made to snatch it back were thrown off by the quill itself– it’d move at the very last nanosecond, missing your grasp by a hair. Your cheeks burned. It kept drawing, indifferent to your endeavours. You gave up after a few tries– they only fuelled the thing to draw faster.

You stared blankly down at the parchment as it finished up its drawing and fell to the desk with a soft thud. It was of a crude caricature– you, sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, mouth wide– oh, and of course, completed with exaggerated cheekfuls of food and crossed eyes. Your eyes stung with tears, threatening to spill onto the wooden desk. Lily Evans, your best friend, took notice of the drawing before anybody else did. There was a slight frown playing at her lips as she took the scroll and ripped off the bottom portion, crumpling it up and shoving it into the pocket of her bookbag. A snort had come from two rows behind, and Lily craned her neck backwards, shooting the boy a nasty look.

“Ignore it,” she whispered as she turned back to you. “He’s just childish. Please don’t let it bother you.”

Your voice caught in your throat, forbidding you from forming words. Your lip quivered, and you blinked the tears away. Glancing backwards was unnecessary to know just who the culprit was. Sirius Black. He always sat a few rows behind you; over the years you’d come to the conclusion that it was for moments like this. He seemed to enjoy tormenting you. He wasn’t exactly your “arch nemesis”– it wasn’t outwardly established– but you were almost certain that he hated your guts. Well, why else would he torment you for all these years?

Behind you, James Potter looked across the aisle and gave Sirius a mildly disapproving look, though mostly performative, before shaking his head and going back to his textbook. He’d known what Sirius was up to– he’d told James about it ten minutes before class had started. James warned him that it probably wasn’t the best idea, but Sirius didn’t listen. He never listened. Not many people took his antics seriously anyway. He was a known prankster and mischief-maker. Why bother worrying about someone who was just that predictable? But… Sirius Black: charming, extremely clever, and loved by most in spite of himself.

But… you always wondered why it always seemed to be you on the receiving end of his mischievous behaviour. Of course, naturally, he was a prick to just about anyone he could be one to– but his most commonly occurring victim was you. Whether it was slipping magical ink into your shampoo to make your hair turn some wild colour– how on Earth he’d managed that one was completely beyond you– parchment that folded itself into a foul poem, hexed quills, tipping off Peeves to throw mysterious goo on you right before class, your school uniform magically going missing for the weekend and then turning up on Monday torn to shreds– which had caused you to have to wear muggle clothes for a day– successfully having ten points taken from Gryffindor. It was relentless. Once, he even managed to turn your entire potion kit into absolute useless rubbish, earning you a zero for that day. Another time, he’d switched out all of your textbooks for ones in Gobbledegook.

You weren’t even sure how he managed to pull off such pranks without ever being expelled. The most he was given was a week’s worth of detention– if anything. Somehow– somehow– he was able to keep it under the rug most of the time. Or… maybe, just maybe, they couldn’t be arsed with Sirius’ behaviour anymore. And by the grace of God, Sirius Black was simultaneously untouchable and unbearable. You tried to ignore it– to ignore him. You tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter. Sirius was just an arrogant, spoilt, spiteful prick. He was a trouble-making prat who got on by his charming demeanour and good looks. Unfortunately though, you knew deep down that it wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth, at least.

Sometimes you’d catch him watching you. Not in the loud and flirty way like he would with the popular ones. He didn’t undress you with his eyes, lusting over you like you were merely a piece of meat. No, no, no. It was quiet, like he was learning a new spell– observant, it was. It was as if he was trying to penetrate your mind, trying to pick through your thoughts. There was something odd about you; something different. The thing that seemed to make you so different was what he couldn’t place a finger on. You stood out from your friends, just enough to be noticed if you peered for long enough. You would never know that, though, because each and every time you managed to catch him, he’d glance away indifferently– and far too quickly to read the expression on his face.

Once class had finished, you scrambled to pack your things. You skipped lunch that day. Sirius had been the first one to notice your absence.

Later that evening, Sirius sat underneath an oak tree on the shore of the Black Lake with his sketchbook open on his knee. The summer was quickly coming to an end– it was obvious by the chill of the breeze. Sirius found the breeze to be comforting. It was a pleasurable feeling, a stark contrast to the stuffiness of his dormitory. The pages of his sketchbook fluttered in the gusts of wind, and he steadied them with ink-stained fingers from today’s lesson. The pages entailed a number of little sketches and personal messages. He skimmed through them leisurely. Charcoal smudged onto his palms, effectively making his hands look like they’d dealt with some fierce curse.

There was one thing about Sirius Black that not many people knew: he quite enjoyed solitude. Though he certainly enjoyed being the centre of attention, he also found solace in the spaces that were far from prying eyes. Being underneath that tree gave him a sense of security that no human could ever give him. It was like a warm embrace in the depths of his soul. He couldn’t really explain the feeling. So he didn’t. He just existed there for those brief moments. In the presence of others, and in daylight, Sirius Black was untouchable– sharp-witted, reckless, confident, handsome, and dazzling in the way that made figures of authority sigh and look away. Vulnerability wasn’t something that suited Sirius. When dusk swept over the castle, when he was able to withdraw from the life around him, he allowed himself to want. Wanting was dangerous. He knew that. So he forced himself to turn his desires into doodles instead.

He hadn’t meant to draw today– well, not really. He simply told himself that he was going to get some air. Of course, he never left the castle without his sketchbook. Naturally, he found himself falling into the folds of the warm pages. The events of the day replayed in his mind like a film. Whenever you were in frame, he couldn’t help but frown. Perhaps he’d gone a bit far, he thought as he replayed Professor McGonagall’s class. He studied the way your shoulders slumped down as you realised what was on your parchment. The way your arms jerked as you tried to grab your quill. He’d found it funny then, but now, as he really analysed your reaction… he wasn’t too sure anymore. And of course there was Lily’s reaction. Your best friend. But, he had to admit to himself, it was an excellent spell. He’d definitely be using that one again. Definitely not on you though. He glanced back to the castle for a moment. You were only a few kilometres away, tucked inside the walls of the castle. Sirius picked up the charcoal stick and began making shapes. Nothing in particular.

Nothing in particular.

But, in due time, you were illustrated onto the page of his sketchbook. You were looking downward, brows furrowed and lips parted ever so slightly. You were thinking about something. Probably concentrating. There was a coloured cube in your hand, one that Sirius only knew because of you. It was a Rubik's Cube. The soft curve of your cheek resembled a reflection of the light in the background. He leaned back and sighed, shutting his textbook with more force than he intended.

He hated that– how easily you could spill out of him– like he had no strength to hold you in. And there he was, pushing you away. Being a massive dick to you. He couldn’t stop himself. If he were paid for sabotaging himself, he’d be the richest person on Earth. He found it to be the easiest thing in the world when it came to others– Merlin, he was so cocky you’d think he had one lodged up his arse. But you– God, you… You made Sirius feel something he’d never felt before– perhaps it was anxiety. Or dread. Or hope. Whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t deal with it. So he didn’t. He wrapped it in cruelty and foul sarcasm, hoping that you wouldn’t look close enough to see the sheer panic underneath. Sirius continued to sit there for what seemed like hours, simply mulling in his thoughts.

James made it look as simple as breathing. He loudly stumbled his way into loving Lily. Sure, he’d had his own complications– Lily thought he was a right prat up until a few months ago. What caused her to change her feelings so suddenly? He thought as he rolled a piece of charcoal between his fingers. James hadn’t done a full 180° in his behaviour– at least not that Sirius could see. As he racked his memories, the one event that wouldn’t stop replaying in his mind was the day that Snivellus and his greasy, large-nosed self had called Lily a Mudblood. But, the more he thought about it, the less sense it seemed to be making. How on Earth did Snivellus calling Lily a Mudblood lead to Lily realising her feelings for James? It didn’t make sense. Well… it made a bit of sense… James wasn’t a prick to Lily like Sirius was to you. He didn’t thrive on seeing her with a foul glare smeared across her face. He didn’t hex her quills in the middle of class, hoping that maybe– just maybe– she’d look back at him, even if her lip was curled in disdain. He was persistent, but not in the way that Sirius was persistent in making your days at Hogwarts a preview of Hell.

James relentlessly pined for Lily since the first day he saw her flaming auburn hair and chubby smile. It never worked, of course– but… he never let up. Even when Lily told him time after time to piss off, he didn’t stop. Eventually, and to James’ surprise, his efforts worked. They had begun dating over the summer. Day after day, Sirius was subjected to listening to James babble his head off about Lily. And no less than twice a week was Sirius subjected to being dragged down to the muggle village near James’ home so he could phone Lily. Their love was messy, yes, but it was certainly real. Tangible. Sirius envied it. Jealousy tore through his veins, corroding him from the inside out.

It wasn’t Lily he envied. Merlin, was that the last thing he envied. Lily was a lovely and beautiful girl, but she wasn’t the one that Sirius surveilled. She wasn’t the one he would admire from afar as she bit her lip in frustration, muttering obscenities underneath her breath in the library. No, no, no. It wasn’t that.

It was James’ courage he envied– his ability to love something without tearing it to shreds. It was the way he never seemed to hesitate when he truly wanted something. James didn’t feel the need to hide his emotions. He didn’t bury them, so he didn’t have to hope that someone would get too close and see what was really beneath. James simply leapt. He always took the chance, even when he knew he would fail. Fuck, even when he was inevitably bound to fail, he soared. Failing wouldn’t dare stop James from trying. That’s what Sirius envied. James was so unlike him, he began to wonder how they were even friends.

Sirius never leapt. He never soared. He couldn’t. His wings were broken, somehow. Instead, he lingered. He hid. He withdrew. He buried deep what he knew he couldn’t afford to lose. You happened to be one of those things. He couldn’t afford to lose you, even if you were just an acquaintance. He’s thought about telling you before; in the late nights when he couldn’t sleep, his mind wandered. Oftentimes it wandered to you. God, it was so easy. Thinking about you was like breathing to him. It came naturally. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was autonomous. There were nights when he would imagine the conversation, and it often ended with you laughing in his face. He would pull you off into a private corner of the castle, the warm beams of sun shining down onto the two of you.

“I need to talk to you.” His statement comes out as a question. He fidgets with the ring on his pointer finger.

“About what?” You ask, crossing your legs. You can sense Sirius is nervous.

He lifts his head up, not making eye contact. He stays quiet for a moment as he chews on the skin of his lip. “Uh, well,” he begins, glancing around the corridor. “I just wanted to say that I think you’re really pretty. I know that I’m a massive prick to you and all– but, er- I think you’re pretty, and I’ve thought about us a lot– and I think I have feelings for you… Er– you don’t– have to say anything. I just wanted to tell you,”

You blink. That’s the last thing you’re expecting to hear from Sirius Black. If he means to say that he, Sirius Orion Black, has feelings for you, the one he’s tormented since his very first day at Hogwarts, then he must be ill. He must have some kind of brain malfunction. A smirk plays at your lips, and before you can stop yourself, you’re laughing. Just the mere idea of Sirius Black having feelings for you was enough to make you cry tears of laughter.

He cringed as the thought floated across his mind for a moment. No. It was certainly better to tease and harass you. He was much better off goading you into rolling your eyes or huffing out of exasperation. He was better off if you muttered some clever insult underneath your breath out of retaliation. If you wanted to tear him to shreds, that was fine. If you wanted to curse his hair off so he was forced to live the rest of his life being hairless, that was fine. He’d survive it. He was quite confident he’d survive it. But… if you ever dared to look him in the eye and say, “I don’t love you” – he was sure that would ruin him. He would no longer be whole.

So, instead, he teased you. Pranked you. Tormented you. And when that didn’t suffice enough for his liking, he took to drawing you inside of the warm safety and quiet solitude of the castle, when the moonlight poured through the stone windows and lit up the room just enough. You were safest in ink.

The next few weeks had passed by leisurely. It was growing closer and closer to November. Sirius would be turning seventeen, arguably the most important age for a witch or wizard. It meant that he would be of age. He would be able to freely use magic and apparate. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. It was a tradition to be gifted a family heirloom for your coming-of-age birthday. Sirius no longer had a family. He had been disowned over the summer. The Potters took him in, no questions asked, yet that didn’t stop him from feeling like he had no one. Sure, James was his best mate in the entire world. But just the mere thought of having been disowned—?

Sirius wasn’t exactly looking forward to the celebration that was planned. It was normal to have a large party thrown on your birthday in the common room. He’d had a “surprise” party thrown on his birthday every year. Of course, they never really were a complete surprise. He’d inevitably find out one way or another, usually by overhearing gossiping groups of girls, giggling and whispering as he walked by. Besides the booze, his favourite aspect of the parties was that he was the centre of attention– and for once, not in a negative light.

… He wasn’t entirely sure about it that year. What was all that attention to him if it wasn’t yours? You didn’t usually come to parties– let alone his– though if you did, you never stayed for longer than an hour. He wasn’t entirely sure he could handle it that year. He hated to imagine how he would feel if he scanned around the room and didn’t see you shoved into a corner with a glass of booze in your hand. He hated to imagine what he would do if he did see you. He was sure he’d venture over to you and do something quite regrettable– God, he’d probably ruin the moment with his loud mouth before his actions even got a chance to.

You were coming back from dinner still smelling slightly of burnt ink. It was Sirius’ most recent prank on you. It was delightfully infuriating how precisely he had planned for it. He’d managed to nick your inkpots from your bookbag, presumably in the library the previous evening. You spotted him with a painfully conniving grin plastered across his face, sitting only a few tables away from you with nothing but his wand and a single book lying on the table. It was late– and especially dark inside the castle. It wasn’t until half an hour later that you spotted Sirius leaving the library with an extra jolt in his step. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Right…? Extremely wrong. He’d apparently bewitched your inkpots to explode with pink glitter every few times you dipped your quill inside of them. It was only mildly infuriating, as the bursts were small and silent– sporadic, too. It wasn’t nearly enough to disrupt class. Besides, you weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten to you. By the end of the day, you looked like a unicorn had barfed all over you. Nearly all of your fellow schoolmates had chuckled at you at least once as you passed by in the corridor on your way back to the common room.

Marlene couldn’t help but let out a chuckle as you strolled past her. You threw yourself onto a couch a few metres away from her. She happened to be the most similar to Sirius in the sense of interests, and regardless, she usually took your side in situations like that. You knew she couldn’t really stand how Sirius behaved– most of the time, anyway. Had it really been that funny?

“Shut it, Marlene,” you muttered, although there wasn’t any real bite to your statement. You pulled out a thick book on defensive magical theory and slammed it onto your lap.

Across the room, Sirius began twiddling his wand between his fingers. James and Peter were spread onto another couch, absorbed into their own things. Remus was stuffed into the corner between the three of them, writing madly on a piece of parchment. Sirius glanced over to you casually with a faint glint in his eye and a smirk, the kind that expressed the fact that he knew. He knew he’d gotten to you. Again.

He always did. You knew it. And it infuriated you.

“Groovy look,” he called out lazily. “What, you lose a bet? Or are you finally admitting to your inner diva?”

“That’s funny coming from somebody who lays his eyeliner on thicker than he is,” you snapped back, your gaze unyielding to the bulky book in your lap.

Your friends snorted. James looked up from his game of Exploding Snap with a grin on his face. Even Remus looked up with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Sirius paused, his face frozen with an unreadable emotion. He liked that– the way you snapped back without a second thought. Stubbornness was often obstructive. Yours wasn’t. It made his skin crawl in all of the ways he liked. He studied the way your jaw clenched as you sat there, the way your shoulders curled slightly inwards, and the way your eyes were seemingly stuck to the page with a permanent sticking charm, mirroring the way the glitter seemed to be stuck to you with a permanent sticking charm. He knew he went too far. There was a thick red line he’d drawn in his brain. He frequently liked testing his limits, pushing a toe over the line every now and then.

“Ouch! That one hurt, Bogie Face,” he teased, his voice growing quieter.

That was it. That did it for you. It felt as though someone had suddenly blasted the heat with the way it rose in your neck. Glancing at him, you slammed your book shut, jumping to your feet with haste. Marlene flinched at the sound, not having heard Sirius’ remark. He knew how much you despised that bloody nickname. He’d dubbed you as such over an incident that happened well over three years prior. It was merely a way for him to get even further under your skin, yet that didn’t stop the blow it dealt whenever you suffered with having to hear the name.

“Piss off, Black,” you snapped, marching for the girls’ dormitories.

You couldn’t see the way his grin spread, nor the way his eyes followed you up the entire staircase. He shouldn’t have said that. But he couldn’t think of any other effective ways to grab your attention. Merlin only knew he wasn’t capable of having a regular conversation with you alone. In his mind, it was either tormenting you or dealing with the fact that he couldn’t speak to you. Surely he’d never admit it aloud, but Sirius would rather fall ill than never see your face again. God, he would never admit that aloud. Perhaps that was why he found himself drawing you more times than not.

Drawing you became like flying a broom; it was second nature to him. Staring at you when he knew you weren’t paying attention became his favourite hobby. God, that sounded creepy. Perverted, almost. He felt like an imbecile, but it was the only true way he could be close to you. He replayed your exit over and over again, shoving his wand into the pocket of his robes.

Suddenly, James cleared his throat. He didn’t speak until Sirius looked at him. “Don’t you think it was a bit far, Sirius?”

Sirius paused again, sucking his bottom lip and shutting his hand into a fist, bouncing it against the arm of the chair. He thought about answering but then obliged, as it was painfully obvious. He had gone too far, and he knew it. He shrugged, glancing over at the stairs once more.

“Come on,” James lowered his voice, pushing his glasses up.

Sirius finally spoke after what felt like ages. “No. It was funny,” he muttered, not meeting James’ eyes. “You’re just saying that ‘cos they're Lily’s mate,” he added quietly.

“Wow. Right then, mate,” James scoffed, returning to his game of Exploding Snap.

Sirius’ attention moved to Lily and Mary as they climbed the stairs two steps at a time. They had been too quick for Sirius to catch their expressions, but he was sure it had to do with you. He felt a sudden twinge of guilt creeping up on him. His body tensed up, and he moved to sit straight, fists still tightly shut. Remus finally looked up again, eyeing Sirius from the corner. Remus had never seen him in such a strained state. It was more than strange. Sirius was typically cooler than a cucumber, never shedding a worry over anything. At least that was what Remus saw, and he was particularly observant. Remus decided it wasn’t best to say anything in the common room, so he shoved his quill back into his inkpot and began working on his charms essay once again. The other Gryffindor students continued about their evening as if Sirius had done nothing at all.

Meanwhile, you slid down against the wall, tears streaming down your cheeks. They pierced your skin, dazzling in the golden sunlight that was pouring through the windows. Your glitter-stained skin shone throughout the room. It was humiliating to watch the small speckles of light dancing around the room. The more your body shook, the faster they danced. It seemed as though they were taunting you.

There was a soft yet persistent knock at the door. You tried to ignore it, but in a few moments the door was being pushed open. You saw the gleaming red hair of Lily Evans and the dark brown hair of Mary MacDonald glowing in the evening sun as they walked into the room. Silently, they sat on either side of you. You cried. You shook. You broke down like a cardboard box. You felt like a child, crying over a tosser like Sirius. Lily stared down at you, rubbing off some of the glitter while Mary held your hand softly.

“Why does he hate me so much?” Your question was sudden– Mary and Lily shared a glance of uncertainty.

Lily’s green eyes flickered from yours to Mary’s. She sat there frozen. Genuine pity was smeared across her soft features. Another emotion lay passively in her eyes– helplessness, perhaps.

Mary turned her head to you. “I don’t think he hates you, love,” she said softly. “He’s a bloody idiot, that’s for sure. But, I don’t see how anyone could hate you,” her voice swayed slightly, but you knew she wasn’t lying.“

That’s not an excuse, though,” you whined, and Lily placed her hand on yours. "He's a bully."

“No, it’s not an excuse,” Lily whispered, glancing at Mary.

“It’s not right what he does. He’s a little arsehole,” Mary said.

There was a silence after she spoke. The common room was pretty noisy for the time. Students bustling about, yelling and being rambunctious. The wind blew gently against the castle’s walls. You felt much better in the presence of your friends.

Lily spoke after a beat. “Like Mary said, I’m just not convinced that hatred is the reason behind this. Can’t be… Yeah, Sirius is an arse, but he’s got no reason to hate you, does he?”

Her question lingered for a moment until Mary spoke up. “Honestly, he seems a bit scared of you.”

You snapped your head towards her. “Me? You think I scare Sirius Black?”

Both of them nodded. “You’re the only person who snaps back at him. Everyone else just sort of deals with his shite… You, not so much. You’re stubborn enough that he can’t see you’ve gotten to him, but you’re confident enough to tell him to cut the shite. I think he finds that terrifying,” Mary said firmly.

You shook your head. “I don’t snap back at him that much.”

Lily nodded. “You told him to ‘piss off’ ten minutes ago, didn’t you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else dare to tell Sirius to piss off.”

You finally grinned. “Yeah… He’d curse their arses off, literally.”

The three of you chuckled. Your laughter resonated throughout the room. You wiped the final tear off of your cheek.

“There’s more to Sirius than he lets on,” Lily added abruptly. “James told me a wee bit about him, you know.” You briefly met her eyes.

“Like what?” Lily reached up, grabbing a strand of your hair and twirling it around her fingers.

“I don’t think that I should be the one to tell you everything. Sirius has a pretty rough home life. It’s not an excuse at all, but I feel sorry for the lad.”

You looked over at Mary for a hint, but her shrug told you that she hadn’t a clue either. “What are you saying, Lils?”

“I’m saying that you should talk to James about this. He can tell you everything you need to know about Sirius Black. After he told me, I can kind of understand why Sirius behaves the way he does.” She looked to you and then to Mary. “I wouldn’t say that he hates you.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

You went quiet for a moment, racking the thoughts swirling in your head. If Sirius really did have a rough life at home, then why was he so compelled to act like such a prat? You knew you shouldn’t compare experiences, but you had a pretty rough life at home too. Of course, Sirius wasn’t raised by two muggles. It was indeed different, but how was it different enough to cause such a difference in your behaviours? You wouldn’t dare bully someone if you didn’t like them. You would simply ignore them, like any sensible person. So if Sirius really did hate you, then why didn’t he just leave you alone? Why didn’t he just tell you to piss off and leave it at that? Why did he make it a personal goal to make your life a living hell?

You paused. Something pieced together in your mind.

“Well, this might sound a little – far-fetched – but, you know how boys will sort of bully you when they fancy you?”

As soon as the words fell from your lips, you gasped. You knew just how stupid it sounded. “No, just forget that I said that. Sirius Black, fancying me. That’s deranged, is wha—”

Mary cut you off. “I don’t think it’s deranged. Sirius is an absolute prick. Wouldn’t put it past him to bully a girl he fancies.”

Lily looked over to Mary. “You know what, Mary? I wouldn’t put it past him either. Yer onto something.”

“Err– I hate to burst that bubble, but I don’t think he does. There’s no way. Have you seen the people he’s gone off and snogged before? They’re all…” You trailed off, waving a hand in the air.

“They’re all what, exactly?” Mary demanded, crossing her arms.

You shrugged. “Y'know,” you muttered, smoothing out a wrinkle on your skirt.

“No, actually. I don’t know.” She glared down at you angrily, like she knew what you were going to say.

You rolled your eyes, sighing deeply. You hated saying it aloud. Somehow, it made it seem much more like reality and less like a twisted image burnt into your brain. “They’re all thin, Mary! Look at me!” You cried, shoving a finger into your stomach.

You were never thin, and God did you wish you were. No matter how many flights of stairs you walked up daily, and no matter how little you ate, you found it hard to lose your stubborn fat. It was almost always the first thing that came to someone’s mind when they were looking to insult you. The memory of the drawing Sirius had bewitched your quill to sketch had come flooding back into your mind like a broken levee. You felt the tears stinging your eyes once again, and that’s when Lily grabbed your arm, effectively bringing your attention back to life.

Lily’s grip on your arm was tight, but not painful. “Excuse me, but in case yer forgetting, I’m not thin either. And you remind me constantly of how amazing you think I am. So, stand up please.”

She suddenly stood you up onto your feet, along with Mary’s extra hand, and spun you over to the record player near your four-poster. You couldn’t help the feeble yet quite real grin that was spreading across your face. Lily let go of your hand and quickly popped on one of your favourite vinyls: Led Zeppelin IV. As the loud rock music began vibrating the room, she took your hand again. The three of you began dancing along to the grooves of Rock and Roll.

It's been a long time since I rock and rolled

It's been a long time since I did the stroll

Ooh, let me get it back, let me get it back

Let me get it back, baby, where I come from

It's been a long time, been a long time

Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time

Yes, it has

It's been a long time since the Book of Love

I can't count the tears of a life with no love

Carry me back, carry me back

Carry me back, baby, where I come from

Whoa, whoa, oh

It's been a long time, been a long time

Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time

Oh, seems so long since we walked in the moonlight

Making vows that just can't work right

Oh yeah, open your arms, opens your arms

Open your arms, baby, let my love come running in

Yeah!

It's been a long time, been a long time

Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time

Yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah

Ooh yeah, ooh yeah

Ooh yeah, ooh yeah

It's been a long time, been a long time

Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time

A/N: AHHHHH chapter one DONE! idk how i got this done so fast (im procrastinating on all the work i have for school.) i hope you guys like it :) chapter two coming (hopefully) soon.,, p.s. above is a playlist i made of general music the characters listen to :p

Candlelight flickers along the hallway outside, casting a golden glow under the threshold. You can almost imagine the guests shifting in their seats, whispering, wondering, maybe even judging.

You’re supposed to be out there.

Instead, you’re sitting in front of the vanity, still as a statue, staring at your hands folded in your lap. Your wedding band waits in a velvet box beside a scattered collection of hairpins you pulled out and then immediately put back.

Your reflection looks like someone else. Someone composed, someone certain, someone put together enough to marry a congressman. 

You don’t feel like her.

The door opens quietly behind you, the silence stretching on for just a second longer before:

“You look so beautiful.”

Bucky’s voice, low and familiar, grounding in ways you never could’ve expected. It cuts through everything, relieving some tension in your shoulders but making the pit in your stomach grow deeper.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“You weren’t out there when the music started playing, everybody thought you left. I knew that I’d find you here, though.” He gestures lightly to the private bridal lounge the two of you are standing in, like this was the most obvious place in the world.

You don’t turn around. You’re afraid that if you do, you might cry. Or worse, make him worry more.

“We don’t have to do this, not right now, not ever if that’s what you want,” he says after a moment, his tone careful now. “It’s okay if you’re getting cold feet.”

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze through the mirror.

The look on his face isn’t anger. It isn’t frustration. It's something pained, something with disappointment, and worry, and sorry and fear all wrapped into one.

And that nearly undoes you.

“No, Bucky, it’s not that, it’s just-” The words tangle before you can catch them, sitting tasteless on your tongue. Your fingers twist together. “I’m not…I’m not unsure about marrying you.”

He steps closer, brows knitting in the familiar way they get when he tries too hard to figure something out. “Then what is it?”

How do you explain something that sounds so small out loud but feels enormous inside your head?

You swallow.

“I’m worried,” you say slowly, “that once we actually live together… You won’t like me very much.”

Silence.

Not the shocked kind. The confused kind.

“I don’t…” He huffs out a breath, almost laughing from sheer disbelief. “Doll, we’ve spent nights together. Plenty of them.”

“That’s not the same,” you insist, finally turning to face him. “That’s visiting. That’s the version of me that cleans up before you get there.” 

“You love me now because you don’t see all of it,” you rush on. “You don’t see me when I set 10 alarms just in case, or when I leave half-full glasses of water everywhere. I’m messy. I never put things back where they belong. “

One corner of his mouth twitches.

You don’t let him interrupt.

“You haven’t seen me when I wake up cranky for no reason,” you continue. “Or when I get sick and turn into the world’s worst patient. Or when I’m on my period and get mad at you for breathing too loudly. You don’t know what it’s like to live with me when I’m not trying to be impressive.”

Your voice drops.

“What if you realize you chose wrong once you see all that?”

Bucky just looks at you.

Really looks.

Not at the dress. Not at the carefully styled hair. Not at the version of you that’s been curated for photographs. and politics, and public appearances beside a congressman who learned how to carry himself with certainty.

He steps closer until he’s kneeling in front of you, hands gently taking yours.

“You think I fell in love with the version of you that tries to impress me?”

You blink.

“I fell in love with the woman who forgot her own coffee on the roof of her car and drove away,” he reminds you softly. “The one who argues with the news reporters. The one who laughs at the wrong moments and cries during movies where the dog dies, the one who leaves her notes everywhere because she doesn’t want to forget things that matter.”

“I’m marrying you because you’re you,” he says. “Every version. The good mornings and the bad ones. The organized days and the chaos. That’s what ‘in sickness and in health’ is supposed to mean, you know. Not just the poetic parts.”

Emotion presses tight behind your ribs.

He studies you for another second, then adds, softer, “Plus, you really think I haven’t imagined all of that already?”

You hesitate. “…You have?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “I’ve imagined you sick on the couch while I try to convince you to take medicine. I’ve imagined you stealing my side of the bed. I’ve imagined arguing over where you left your shoes.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“I know you’re messy,” he says. “I know you’re human. But that’s the part I want.” 

Your throat tightens.

“But what if I’m hard to live with?” you whisper.

Bucky exhales, resting his forehead briefly against your hands like he’s steadying himself too.

“Then we’ll just have to live with each other,” he says simply. “You’ll see my bad days. God knows there are plenty. You’ll see when I get quiet. When I forget things. When I get upset over stupid things. When I wake up from nightmares and pretend I didn’t.” 

He looks up again, eyes clear and unwavering.

“That’s the real deal. Not perfection, partnership. I’ve lived more years as someone else’s weapon than as my own person. I didn’t get a name or a choice, just orders. But this is real. You’re real. And standing here with you, flaws and all, is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Emotion surges so fast it makes your eyes sting.

“In sickness and in health,” he adds, voice turning wry, “in clutter and in chaos, and in inexplicably abandoned water glasses.”

A tear slips down your cheek, followed by an embarrassed, snotty laugh.

He smiles, softer now.

“I’m not marrying you because you’re easy to live with,” he says. “I’m marrying you because it’s you. Every version. Every day. Even the ones where you threaten me over how I put my arm in the dishwasher.”

“I will threaten you,” you mumble.

“I know.”

He squeezes your hands, then says, more quietly:

“I'll make you mine forever.”

The words settle into the space between you. They’re not possessive, not heavy. They’re a promise. A choice. One he’s making with open eyes. One you’re making too.

And suddenly, as if your mind can’t help it, you picture it: 

A future night. Not glamorous. Not candlelit.

You’re sitting on the bathroom floor, exhausted and queasy from something you insisted you were “definitely fine” to eat. Wrapped in one of his shirts. Hair a mess. Pride completely gone.

And Bucky is there. Holding your hair back. Rubbing slow circles on your back. Handing you water without a word of complaint, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Not bothered. Not disappointed.

Just there.

The image is so clear that it makes your chest ache.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his, letting yourself breathe for what feels like the first time all day.

“You’re already stuck with me,” you murmur.

“Good,” he says as he kisses your knuckles. 

For a moment, neither of you moves. The world beyond the room: the guests, the ceremony, the expectations, they all fade into nothing. There’s only the warmth of him, the familiar steadiness of his hands when you finally stand, the way he looks at you like this is the only place he was ever meant to be.

His gaze lingers just long enough to make your pulse skip.

“You really are beautiful,” he says again, quieter this time.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “Careful, Congressman. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Oh, it is,” he replies. “I plan on continuing. For the next fifty, sixty years or so. Give or take.”

There’s a softness in the moment that could easily turn into something else, the kind of closeness you’ve both learned to navigate slowly and deliberately, saving pieces of yourselves instead of rushing them. His hand traces your arm, grounding rather than urgent, a reminder of all the time you’ve chosen to take.

And all the time you still have.

“You don’t have to be impressive,” he says now, like he can see exactly what you’re thinking. “You just have to come down that aisle.”

Another tear slips down your cheek. You laugh at yourself as you wipe it away.

“You’re sure?” you whisper.

“Doll,” he says, standing and helping you to your feet, “I’ve waited a long time to get this right. I’m not scared of real life with you.”

His hands settle at your waist, grounding, warm. For a moment, you just stand there together, breathing the same air, the noise of the waiting world muffled outside the door.

From the hallway comes a gentle knock. Someone is clearing their throat. A very polite, we are waiting for the bride kind of sound.

You laugh under your breath.

Bucky straightens, offering you his arm like he has a hundred times before, except this time, it means something new.

“Ready?” he asks.

You glance once more at your reflection.

You don’t look like someone perfect.

You look like someone loved.

“Ready.”

He walks you to the doorway but stops just before stepping out into view.

“This part,” he says, nodding toward the aisle glowing with candlelight beyond, “that’s yours.”

You squeeze his hand before letting go.

“Don’t cry before I get there,” you warn.

“No promises.”

When you step into the light, the music swells, and every anxious thought you had earlier feels smaller somehow, drowned out by the sight of him waiting at the altar, eyes glassy, looking like he’s been holding his breath his entire life just to see you walk toward him.

And when you finally reach him, when your hands meet again, there’s no doubt left.

Just the quiet certainty of everything ahead

The officiant says words you barely hear, something about gathering, about witness, about love that is chosen again and again. The candlelight around you wavers gently, tiny flames bowing and straightening like they’re breathing with you. You become aware of everything all at once: the warmth of Bucky’s hands around yours, the faint smell of wax and flowers, the quiet sniffle from someone in the front row, and the way the world feels both enormous and impossibly small.

Bucky doesn’t look away from you.

Not when the officiant speaks. Not when the rings are brought forward. Not even when someone drops a program, and it echoes far too loudly

It’s like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like he’s just been allowed to look now, and he never plans on stopping.

When it’s his turn, his voice is steady, but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“I didn’t always believe I’d get a life like this,” he says. “But you walked into it anyway. You didn’t ask me to be perfect. You didn’t ask me to be anything other than who I am. So I promise you the same. I promise you patience on the hard days. I promise you honesty when things aren’t easy. I promise I’ll still be there when the dishes pile up, when we’re both tired, when life looks nothing like the plans we made.”

A faint smile touches his mouth.

“And I promise to love you in all those ordinary moments. Because that’s where we get to live.”

Your own vows feel less like something memorized and more like something uncovered, like they were waiting for you all along.

“I promise to let this be real,” you say. “Not perfected, not impressive.. Just ours. I promise to laugh at all your stupid jokes, to make fun of you when things go wrong, to stay when things get hard, and to build a home with you that’s full of all the little evidence of living, mess, and all.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter through the room.

You slide the ring onto his finger. His hands are warm. Familiar already.

When he places yours on your hand, his thumb lingers there for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing that too.

The officiant smiles.

“I now pronounce you-”

But you don’t hear the rest, because Bucky is already pulling you closer. It’s not rushed nor dramatic, just certain. The kiss is soft and grounding and full of that same promise he made in the dressing room. 

Forever doesn’t have to be something curated, something that looks tough on the outside but fragile within. Forever is a series of the ordinary days you’ll share.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, just for a second, the way he did before everything began.

“Hi, Mrs. Barnes,” he murmurs.

You laugh, the sound bright and disbelieving.

“Hi, Mr.Barnes.”

The candles keep flickering. The music swells. And somewhere between the aisle and the doors, between the life you had and the one waiting just outside, you realize the storm inside your chest is gone.

In its place is the steady weight of his hand in yours and the certainty that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

Author’s Note: Fun fact, I'm an insane madalaptive daydreamer, so most of the stuff I write is actually inspired by those said madalaptive daydreams. It comes in handy since it makes writing terribly easy, but it sucks because I get distracted a lot, and most of the time the daydreams are too short to actually turn into any actual full blown fic.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this one! I'm super sad the event is ending, but this is a good chance for me to be more open with my plots, so stay tuned. Probably gonna go into a writers block after this tho...

And he didn’t know how to be alive without you.

He didn’t cry when you died.

Not at first.

There had been too much blood. Too much shock. The alley had echoed with the sound of his own voice screaming your name, but the world had just… kept moving.

As if you weren’t crumpled in his arms, your pulse fading under his fingertips.

As if the moment your eyes fluttered closed wasn’t the precise second gravity shattered.

He tried to stop the bleeding. He begged you to stay. But you didn’t even speak.

You just looked at him—quiet and soft. And then the light left your eyes.

That was the moment everything inside him split down the center.

“It feels like an eternity since I had you here with me…”

He kept your toothbrush.

He didn’t know why. He just couldn’t throw it away.

He kept your hoodie too—oversized, soft, frayed at the sleeves. He’d watched you fall asleep in it a hundred times on the couch. Sometimes now, when the nights felt like they were swallowing him whole, he’d put it on and sit in your spot.

It didn’t bring you back.

But it helped him pretend for a few minutes.

Grief came in waves. And when it came, it didn’t knock.

It kicked the door down. Flooded the apartment. Drowned him in the silence you left behind.

Some days, he couldn’t get out of bed. Others, he walked for hours in the rain, as if soaking himself to the bone would bring him closer to the part of the world where you still existed.

He listened to your voicemails on loop until his phone died.

And when he changed his sheets for the first time, he clutched your pillow to his chest and sobbed into it so hard he thought his ribs might crack.

Steve came by sometimes. Left food on the counter. Knocked quietly. Never pushed.

“She’d want you to keep living,” he said once, voice gentle.

But what did that even mean?

What did living look like when your reason for doing it was buried in a coffin three blocks from the bakery you used to love?

The dreams were the worst.

Worse than the Winter Soldier flashbacks. Worse than the blood-soaked nightmares from war.

Because in these dreams, you were alive.

And god—he felt it. The weight of your head on his chest. The brush of your fingers in his hair. The way you whispered his name when you thought he was still asleep.

“I’m here,” you’d whisper.

And every time he woke up to an empty bed, he wished he hadn’t woken at all.

One morning, he collapsed.

He’d opened your closet. Found the scarf you wore on your last birthday. The one he bought you at the flea market. It still smelled like lavender. Like you.

He fell to the floor with it crushed to his chest, rocking back and forth on the hardwood, whispering your name like a prayer.

Like if he said it enough, maybe you’d walk through the door again.

Maybe you’d smile and tease him about being dramatic.

Maybe you’d laugh and kiss his cheek and say, “You didn’t think I was gone forever, did you?”

But you didn’t.

And you were.

You used to tease him about being the one scared of forever. Until he met you. Until he realized that forever was only terrifying if he had to do it without you.

You taught him how to hope again. How to sit still without shaking. How to touch with gentleness instead of fear.

He used to wake up from nightmares drenched in sweat, and you’d already be awake, hand on his chest, grounding him.

“You’re safe,” you’d whisper. “You’re home.”

But you weren’t here now.

And he wasn’t sure this place had been home since you left.

“It’s a hell that I call home.”

He tried. God, he tried to keep going.

He walked the same path you used to take to the café. Sat in your favorite park bench. Took one of those dumb pottery classes you kept insisting on.

The instructor asked if he was making the piece for someone special.

He stared at the half-shaped bowl in front of him and said quietly, “Yeah. I was.”

But nothing helped.

Because grief wasn’t a mountain to climb. It was a sea without a shore.

People told him time would heal.

That the pain would dull.

But what if he didn’t want it to dull?

What if forgetting the pain felt like forgetting you?

So he clung to it.

Wrapped himself in the ache like a second skin. Let it bleed into everything he touched. Let it be the only proof that what you had was real.

He went to your grave once.

Only once.

The stone was small. Understated. Just like you’d want.

Your name etched carefully into marble. Two dates that sat far too close together. And beneath it, a single line you once scribbled in a letter:

“To be with you in paradise… what I wouldn’t sacrifice.”

He knelt down into the wet grass, hands shaking.

“I’d give it all,” he whispered. “You hear me? I’d give everything.”

He closed his eyes, tears falling unchecked.

“My peace. My life. My whole goddamn soul.”

He pressed his forehead to the stone. “Why’d you have to chase the light somewhere I can’t go?”

That night, you came to him in a dream again.

You were sitting on the fire escape, legs swinging, eyes on the city.

“Hey, soldier,” you said, just like always.

He walked toward you. Knelt down. Reached for your hand.

“You left me.”

You smiled, something aching and soft behind your eyes.

“I didn’t want to.”

“Then why—” His throat caught. “Why didn’t you stay?”

You reached for him. Touched his chest.

“Some light,” you whispered, “isn’t meant to stay. Some is meant to guide.”

“You were my light.”

“And you still are,” you told him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He leaned into your touch, desperate to memorize it.

“Don’t go.”

You kissed his temple.

“I’ll never really be gone.”

When he woke, he was crying again.

But this time, it felt different.

Like grief cracking open to let something else in.

Months passed.

The hoodie lost your scent.

The fridge note faded.

The world kept spinning, and he kept standing still.

But slowly—barely noticeably—something changed.

He took a deep breath one day and didn’t feel like he was drowning.

He made coffee and didn’t cry when he reached for your mug.

He saw a dog that looked like yours and smiled instead of breaking down in the street.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was something close to breathing again.

Years later, someone asked if he’d ever been in love.

He was older now. The lines on his face deeper. The sadness quieter.

“Yeah,” he said, voice distant. “Once.”

“Was it real?”

He nodded.

“Oh God… it was everything.”

Sometimes, he still talked to you.

When the nights got too long.

When the stars were too quiet.

He’d sit on the roof, hoodie still draped over his shoulders, and whisper:

“It still feels like an eternity without you.”

And every now and then, when the wind blew just right, he could swear he felt you pass through him.

Warm. Familiar.

Maybe it was nothing.

Sleep clung to you like the plague, and you yawned again, blinking against the bright lights of the bathroom. You gave yourself a few moments to unglue your eyes, and then began the slow motions of preparing for your day. Lazily, you reached for your toothbrush, pressing the minty end to your teeth. 

While you weren't really living with Steve, most of your necessities had already found a place in his bathroom. Over the past few months, he’d bought a duplicate of nearly everything you used, claiming that you were over too often to have to pack a bag every time. He hadn’t gotten around to your makeup, but you were certain he’d find a way to make a carbon copy of your cosmetics bag, as soon as he figured out exactly what you products you liked. 

You spit out the toothpaste, watching the foamy liquid rinse down the drain. 

The process was slow-going, minutes ticking by as you stumbled around the bathroom, slapping things onto your skin. Mornings were your least favorite part of the day—once you were dressed and ready to go, everything else became easy. It was the getting around that made it rough, and the lack of motivation that deemed it nearly impossible. 

Fortunately, you’d gotten it almost down to a science, something you could do on complete autopilot. 

You had plenty of time today, though you were normally rushing around, throwing your clothes all over the place while you tried to find the things you needed. 

Steve was, usually, no help in the mornings either, even if he hadn’t already left for the radio station. The two of you were an incompatible pair, when it came to getting around in the morning. He slept like the dead, and you had a habit of turning off your alarms instead of hitting snooze. 

Today, you got through your routine in a relatively efficient manner, swiping a dark shade of color over your eyes, before moving onto your mascara. 

Just as you were putting the finishing touches onto your skin, a voice—most definitely not Steve’s—caught your attention. The words were garbled as they came through the closed door, but unmistakably, a two-way conversation was happening.

You froze, throwing the tube of mascara back onto the countertop as you listened closely, trying to catch whatever was going on down the hall. 

Steve hadn’t told you anyone was coming over.

Your relationship wasn’t new, per se, but it was something delicate, soft, and you were trying not to let it interfere with the chaos that was the Upside-Down. Too much had happened over the past year that it seemed… well, silly, to draw attention to your blooming relationship. 

You pressed your ear to the door. Definitely a voice you recognized. Henderson. 

They had a brief exchange—something about Dustin’s upcoming test, another something about the crawl that had happened last week. It seemed like Dustin was in a rush, his laughter clipped, no elaboration on any of the anecdotes. Steve’s replies were too quiet to make out, save for a few words here and there. 

Then, Dustin said, “I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

Your stomach flipped. You’d been too busy eavesdropping that you hadn’t even tried to make your way out of the bathroom. Panic surged over you, as you looked back at the mess you’d made all over the counter. 

“Sure thing. I’ll just wait down here,” Steve said, heading back downstairs, a careless sound of agreement leaving his throat. 

Steve, you goddamn idiot.

Scrambling, you threw all your stuff into a bag, and tossed it in the cabinet under the sink, not caring that the door didn’t shut all the way. The few articles of clothing you’d discarded onto the floor, you hastily dumped into the bath, hid them behind the shower curtain and hoped that would suffice.

With just a moment to spare, you wiped the spot of blush you’d spilt onto the white counter, and tossed the dirty towel in the bath with the rest of your clothes.

The hair products—well, those could stay. Dustin would just think they were Steve’s anyway. 

Cursing under your breath, you straightened your clothes, grateful you, at least, looked presentable. If you were quick enough, maybe you could make it back to Steve’s—

You threw the door open, and jumped, clutching your hand to your chest. “Jesus, Henderson.” 

Dustin, already on the other side of the door, blinked back at you, eyebrows knit together. “Oh,” he said, standing a little taller. There was confusion drawn throughout his expression, but not surprise, as he gave a little wave. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” You exhaled, stiff with awkwardness as you clutched at the doorknob. “What are… What you doing here?” 

Internally, you cringed at yourself, hating how suspicious you sounded. Sure, your relationship was something of a secret, but you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were a grown adult, for God’s sake, sleeping over at your boyfriend’s house, someone you’d known for long before that. What was Dustin going to do, arrest you? 

You barely caught the first part of Dustin’s answer, too busy drowning in your own humiliation. 

“—picked me up from school yesterday, and I left my homework in his car. I had to come get it before class.” Dustin looked past your shoulder, into the bathroom, before dragging his eyes back to you in a comically slow way. “What are you doing here?” 

You were going to wring Steve’s neck out. 

“Oh.” Your cheeks grew warm, palms sweaty as you gripped the handle harder. “Well, I—”

Then, before you could finish, Dustin broke out into a small grin, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes, didn’t show his teeth. It was about all he could muster, these days—smiles that were dull, compared to the bright ones he’d once had, but soft enough to remind you he was still a boy. Despite it all, humor played in his irises, as he rocked forward onto his toes. 

“I’m just kidding.” Then, he grew serious once more, sheepishly looking back down. “I do have to use the bathroom, though. If you’re done.” 

You blinked at him for a moment, getting whiplash from the conversation. Dustin, who had never been anything but polite towards you, stared back patiently, hands tucked in the deep pockets of his coat. It was almost uncanny, how much he looked like Eddie these days. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m done. It’s all yours.” 

“Thanks.” Dustin nodded, a quick acknowledgment of gratitude. “I’ll just be a minute.” 

“No rush.” 

The door clicked behind him. You stared out into the now empty hallway, before your anger overwhelmed you once more, and you stomped downstairs into the kitchen. 

Steve was humming softly to himself, the radio at a low enough volume to talk over. Robin, who was the only one that knew about your blooming romance, had apparently given Steve the morning to himself. Normally, he would’ve been at work already, and for once, you were wishing he had been.

You crossed your arms, watching as Steve poured another round of apple juice on top of the already half-filled glass. Almost like a child, sometimes, with his antics, and though you were already starting the day off exhausted with him, you couldn’t help the fondness that tugged at your heart as you scoffed. 

“Steve? What the hell?” 

He glanced over his shoulder, looking somewhat guilty, before he shook it off and smiled, one that was full of all the adoration in the world. It would’ve melted you too easily, had you not been on the warpath already.

The person you were later would probably apologize, but you couldn’t be held accountable for your irritability in the morning. 

Steve didn’t seem to notice your foul mood, though. Maybe, he’d just grown used to it.  

“Morning. I didn’t realize you were awake.”

The radio hummed behind him. Robin finished her little spiel over the crackling frequency, the first few notes of a Bon Jovi song following soon after. 

While you were distracted, Steve made to press a kiss to your lips, but you put your hands up to your face, shoving him away. “Get off of me. Asshole.” You said, narrowing your eyes and holding your arms up like a shield. 

Steve stared back at you for a few moments, before letting out a short laugh. “Geez. What’s got you all worked up?” 

“A little warning would’ve been nice, Steve. I didn’t realize Dustin was coming over.” 

Realization dawned upon his face, and he threw his hands up in surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. He just showed up.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Besides, I thought you were still asleep. I wouldn’t have sent him into the bathroom otherwise.” 

“Yeah,” you exhaled heavily, blowing out all your steam. The anger fizzled out of you easily. “I wish I was.” 

Steve laughed, and tenderly guided your hands back down to your sides, lacing his fingers with your own. “Can I have a kiss now?” 

“No.” 

He pouted, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please,” Steve said, drawing the word out into more than one syllable. “I made you breakfast.” 

That must have been why he was late to work. 

You softened, eyes melting into puddles of affection you would never admit, but you were certain he noticed anyway. With a huff, you pulled him closer. “Fine,” you said, pressing your lips to his own. He smiled into the kiss, and though it only lasted a second, it stole your breath away. 

The moment broke soon after, with the sound of heavy footsteps heading down the stairs. You and Steve split apart, and Dustin came around the corner, wiping his still damp hands on his pants. 

“Thanks, Steve.” He looked between the two of you, and then smiled, before saying goodbye. “I’ll see you guys later.” 

You returned the sentiment, and ushered him out the door, waiting until he was half a mile down the street before you said anything else.

Steve had already gone back to his cooking, splitting the food up onto two plates. It was a bit of a disaster, but you didn’t mind.

“Do you… think he knows?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek.

Steve laughed, looking back up from the dishes. “Henderson? No way. He knows we’re friends.” 

You refrained from pointing out that you weren’t just friends anymore. 

“Yeah, but he’s not a little kid anymore, Steve. He’s more observant than you think.” A deep frown took over your features—how embarrassing. You’d wanted to wait until the right time to tell him, but it was never the right time. You still weren’t sure how he’d react to you and Steve dating. “Is he going to tell anyone?” 

Steve was about to brush past it, deeming it a much smaller issue, but seemed to notice anxiety ridden throughout your words. He sighed. 

“Listen. If he really thought—knew—we were together, he would’ve brought it up earlier. Or one of his punk friends would’ve. Trust me, they have no idea.” Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead, and clasped your hands together once more. “Come on, I only have a little longer before Robin starts getting pissed at me.”

II. Lucas (and Max)

Although you’d never been close with the girl, you visited Max as often as you could, hating the sight of her frozen body all alone in that hospital room. 

In the very brief time you’d gotten to know her, you’d already developed some sort of maternal instinct over her. She hadn’t lived an easy life—not before she came to Hawkins and certainly not after—but you were glad that there were so many people that loved her now. 

Lucas Sinclair, of course, being at the top of that list. 

He’d become a usual presence at Max Mayfield’s bedside, paired with lovesick eyes and a shield the size of a Kate Bush tape. Running Up That Hill, as always, played out from the speaker, soft undertones of melancholy seeping beneath the crack in the door. 

You almost turned away, not wanting to break the moment that was forever suspended between her and Lucas, an unfinished conversation you didn’t feel right intruding on. But Steve pushed on, knocking gently on the door, before cracking it open just enough to see Lucas. 

“Sinclair?” 

Lucas looked up, clearing his throat as he wiped his wet eyes. “Hey, Steve,” he said, and then repeated the same greeting to you, when you poked your head through the threshold. 

You gave him a small wave and followed Steve into the hospital room. Lucas had already replaced the flowers at Max’s table, so you set the fresh bouquet next to the vase, watching the leaves flutter flat against the surface. 

“How are you doing?” Steve asked quietly, not quite able to look Lucas in the eyes. He busied himself with straightening the corner of Max’s sheets, where someone had put a wrinkle in it from sitting beside her. 

“Same as always.” Lucas exhaled heavily. He mustered a smile but it was sad, empty. His eyes were hollow as he glanced back at the two of you, then down to the girl with fiery hair and skin that was even paler than before. 

Steve swallowed, his dark eyes fixated on the young teenager. Absentmindedly, he played with the loose strings of the thin sheets, twisting them around his fingertips until they turned purple. You had an itch to reach out and grab his hands, stop him from fidgeting. 

You didn’t. 

“The music helps,” Lucas said. You weren’t sure which of you he was talking to—you, Steve, or himself. He pressed a kiss to the back of Max’s hand, and then released it, leaning back in his chair. “At least, I think it does.” 

The image of his longing for her made your heart ache. 

There was something about Lucas and Max that reminded you, distantly, of you and Steve. You recognized her hardness, the walls she put up, and Lucas’s desperation to break them down, all because he loved her. 

Sometimes, it made you feel guilty for being happy, while Max withered away and Lucas yearned for a girl he might never be able to speak to again.

These kids had gone through hell—you’d never done anything half as brave as them. How were you deserving of the love that Steve gave you? 

“Max is tough,” you said, diverting your thoughts away from self-pity. “If anyone can make it back, it’s her.”

Lucas smiled, not quite believing you, but appreciative nonetheless. “She’d like the flowers. Those are her favorites.” Then, he tilted his head. “How did you know?” 

It’d come up, at one point, back when you were still getting to know one another. Max had asked you if you were the kind of girl who liked flowers. You said you supposed you were. They were pretty, they smelled nice, and Steve liked buying them for you. It made you happy when he was happy. 

Of course, you and Steve hadn’t been dating at the time, but the sentiment rang true now.

Max had made a face in return, complaining that it was a waste of money, that Lucas wouldn’t stop buying them for her, and that was annoying because all they did was sit in a vase and die. You’d let her grumble about it, nodding every once in a while to tell her you understood. 

Then, she’d deflated, changing her tune. I do like poppies, she’d admitted, they remind me of California. 

“I just had a hunch,” you smiled, shrugging as Lucas gave you a nod of gratitude in return. 

The three of you sat with Max for a while, exchanging conversation beside her. You weren’t sure how much of your words were reaching her—if any—but it felt like you were helping, in some strange way. Like it would amplify the power of the music, if the voices of you, Lucas and Steve were reaching her too. 

Maybe, you were just an optimistic fool. 

Your thoughts drifted away as Lucas and Steve’s conversation diverted to the high school basketball team. Steve asked if he was going to keep playing into the next season—Lucas said he still wasn’t sure.

Not that you could blame him. It was so hard to keep a shred of normalcy, these days. Hard to even want to try, knowing that there were bigger things at stake. You felt like you were always on your toes, waiting for the next shoe to drop, for another tear to open up in the earth, another monster to creep out of the shadows. 

Yet, you woke up every day, put on your bravest face, and kept pretending. It was nice, sometimes, to act like you were just a regular person, in a regular town, living a regular life—even if that was just a fantasy. 

You looked at the clock. 

“Oh, shit. I’ve got to get going.” The hospital chair screeched underneath you, but Lucas didn’t seem to mind, even as you cringed at the obnoxious sound. “I’m supposed to be there for Murray’s supply drop—I completely forgot. Can you give me a ride, Stevie?” 

You could still make it, if you left immediately. Otherwise, you’d have to call Robin, see if she could get there on time—or maybe Nancy. But then you’d just feel awful for dropping the ball and being an unreliable source when everyone was counting on you. 

Steve looked at his watch, already making his way to his feet. “Yeah, of course. What time was he—”

“Stevie?” Lucas perked up, the first real smile of the day, one full of mischief. “That’s cute. Can I call you that?” 

You looked over at Lucas, lips parting, before you sealed them completely. Had you really let that slip? Normally, you were so good about keeping any nicknames to a minimum. A frown started to form on your features, apologetic, as you looked back at Steve, who was pointedly not looking at you. 

“Absolutely not.” Steve rolled his eyes, pulling his sleeve back over his wrist. “She’s been calling me that since we were kids.” 

Lucas tucked his top lip under his bottom lip, cooing at Steve like he was a little puppy. “That’s even more adorable.” 

“Whatever,” Steve scoffed, though his cheeks were growing pink as his eyes darted away from Lucas, who was already laughing loudly to himself. "It’s annoying is what it is.” 

“Sure,” Lucas said, drawing at out the word. “Bye, Stevie.” 

“Sinclair, I swear to—”

“Come on, Steve.” You said, grabbing his wrist before he got too worked up about it. “We have to hurry.”

Steve huffed. “Yeah, okay.”

You apologized to Lucas for leaving so quickly and dragged Steve away, hiding your small, sheepish smile.

III. Mike and El

At some point in the past year, the basement of the radio station had gone from a professional meeting space to a gathering spot for people that couldn’t always see each other. 

With Eleven having to keep a low profile, the times that she could be with her friends were few and far between. There were only so many places that Hopper deemed safe—the radio station, under Joyce Byers’ supervision, being one of them. 

While you knew the girl was tired of all the secrecy, you couldn’t really blame Hopper for his unending concern. Even though El could take care of herself, he’d lost too much—you’d all lost too much—that nothing was worth the risk anymore.

Still, it was nice to see her lighten up around her friends, the weight of years past lifted marginally off of her shoulders. It was good for El, to be surrounded by people her age, especially ones that could understand some of the things she’d been through. Hopper was a great parent, a positive figure in her life, but he could never be a substitute for the camaraderie she’d gotten from the other children of Hawkins. 

You smiled, watching the group of teenagers excitedly talk over one another, as El leaned in with wide, fascinated eyes. Mike was regaling a story from the past week, certainly adding his own dramatic flair, while Lucas and Dustin chimed in, throwing in a few anecdotes of their own. 

They weren’t as lively as they’d once been—carefree kids who didn’t know the weight of responsibility and loss—but they were, somehow, still able to find joy in the small moments. 

And what more could any of you do, really?

You listened to them talk for a few moments more, though only a few words really sank in, your eyes already beginning to droop from exhaustion. It wasn’t horribly late, but the past week had worn you down, and your energy was draining quicker than you’d anticipated. With so many bodies in such a small space, the heat had become trapped, turning the air miserable and stuffy. 

Standing, you began to make an exit, and turned to face the rest of the adults. Nancy, Jonathan and Joyce stood on the other side of the room, deep in a conversation you didn’t feel like intruding on. 

It would have bothered you, normally, that you had been ignored, left alone while the three of them carried on. Tonight, though, you didn’t mind. The Byers and Wheelers had been living together for so long now, they were practically one big family—one you weren’t a part of. 

“Hey, Nance?” 

During a pause in the talking, you called out to your friend, trying politely to ease your way into the group. While none of them minded, guilt flowered in Nancy’s expression as she looked over, eyebrows pinching together. 

“Sorry, we weren’t trying to—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you waved off her objections, offering her a small smile. “I’m just going to go upstairs for a bit. I’m getting hot down here.” 

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but reluctantly, Nancy returned the smile and nodded. “Do you want me to come with you? We can leave soon…” 

“No, it’s okay. Really,” you said, just as Nancy was rolling down her sleeve to check the time. Lately, going anywhere alone after dark had seemed daunting, so you’d ridden over with her and her brother. “I don’t want to rush Mike. I just need some fresh air.” 

“Of course.” Nancy looked back at Jonathan and his mother, and then let the nerves wash off of her features. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

You accepted her offer and waved one last time, finally heading up to the ground floor, where it was much quieter. Over the sound of the electronics running, you couldn’t even hear the whisper of voices a few stories down. 

The station was empty, lit only by the neon signs and lamps that Robin and Steve had set up for the early mornings. It painted a calming ambience, paired with the low hum of the radio station that had otherwise gone silent. 

It had only been a little over a day since you’d seen Steve, trying to balance living your own lives, but you wished he would’ve come this evening. As much as you loved Nancy and the Byers’, you always felt a little out of place tagging along with the rest of them. 

Still, they were the only friends you had, save for Steve and Robin, who you tried not to tag along with on every one of their hangouts. Steve had promised it never bothered either of them, and that Robin was your friend too, but you didn’t want to be the type of person that couldn’t be apart from her significant other.

It was nice for him and Robin to have their own time together, too. 

They had gone to a movie earlier, plans they’d made long before Nancy had called you about the impromptu arrangements. It must have been over by now, and while you weren’t sure when Steve was planning on getting home, you decided to give him a call. 

The phone spun through a few dials, the ring on the other end sounding much louder than usual. 

Waiting patiently, you tucked the phone under your chin, flicking through the records that Steve and Robin had recently added to their collection. Most of them were the regular hits, but there were a few less popular ones—ones that you had told Steve you would’ve liked to hear more often. 

Softness seized your insides, and you smiled as you thumbed through all the new ones. Steve must have been waiting for a time he knew you’d be listening. 

The phone clicked, as someone on the other end picked it up. Steve’s voice reverberated through the line. “Hello?”

You couldn’t help it—the sound made your stomach turn inside out, melt into a puddle of something horribly sweet. God, you never wanted to let him go. “Hi, Steve.” 

“Hey, pretty girl.” Steve laughed, like he’d just been waiting for you to confirm his suspicions; he’d recognize your voice anywhere, of course. “Figured it was you.” 

Another ridiculous smile split your face. “Of course it’s me. Hope you don’t get calls from any other women this late.”

“Nope just you. And sometimes my mom.” He snorted, amused. “What’s up? You still at the station?” 

“Yeah, we—” Then, remembering you’d completely skipped over the question you’d been meaning to ask first, you let your reply die out. “Wait, is Robin still there? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—” 

“Jesus, don’t be sorry. Makes it sound like I don’t want to talk you,” Steve huffed. You could just imagine his face on the other end, more than displeased by that particular thought. “But, yeah. She just went home. Everything okay over there?” 

“Yeah. All good. El seems happier today. They all do, honestly.” You picked up a pen and spun it around on the table. The metallic clip scratched against the countertop. “I like seeing them all having fun together. They don’t get to do it enough.” 

Steve made a sound of agreement on the other end of the line. “Are you going home soon?” 

“Whenever Mike and Nancy are ready. She’s going to drop me off at home.” You yawned, midway through speaking, the last few words coming out a bit garbled.

“You want me to come get you?” Steve asked, noting your exhaustion. He’d been telling you over and over to go to sleep earlier, but sometimes, it was near impossible. The past few nights had added up, though, making you feel like you could fall asleep standing. 

“No, I’m okay. Just wanted to cool down a bit. God, it gets hot down there.” 

“Probably doesn’t help when you have a bunch of sweaty teenagers yelling at each other.” 

“They’re keeping the volume down, this time.” You laughed, shaking your head. “How was the movie?” 

Steve sighed, long and drawn out on the other end of the phone. “Robin liked it. Was a bit too on the nose for me. Bunch of kids looking for the body of a missing boy—fuck that.” He made another sound of disapproval, one that came from the back of his throat. “Next time, I’m picking.” 

“Hmm. It sounds like I would’ve liked it.” 

“Yeah, you would’ve, weirdo.” Undoubtedly, Steve was rolling his eyes. He took a short pause, before continuing. “If you want, I’ll go see it again with you.” 

The offer softened you all up inside. Steve had never really been one for horror movies, but he watched them because you liked them. It was endearing, knowing that Steve had taken down more than enough Demogorgons, but couldn’t handle a few corny jump scares. “I’m not gonna make you do that.” 

“What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t at least offer?” Steve scoffed, horrified by the notion. “You think I’m a bum?”

“Well…” You smiled, leaning into the phone. “You’re alright as far as boyfriends go.” 

“Whatever.” 

You talked for a few more minutes, already feeling yourself beginning to drift off. Steve’s voice kept you awake, but it also lulled you into a sleepy state of calm, and you lost a few of his words to your subconscious.

The watched chimed, alerting you of another hour past. You yawned again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?” Steve asked again. “It’s really no big deal.” 

“I’m fine, Steve. Nancy should be right along.” You rubbed your eyes, trying to wake yourself back up. “Do you need me to set anything up here before I leave? Anything you forgot?”

“No, I think we’re good,” Steve said, though he couldn’t have thought long enough to know for sure. “Thanks, baby. Just go home and get some sleep.” 

You smiled. “Okay. Whatever you say, champ.”

Steve laughed. “You still coming over tomorrow?” 

A noncommittal sound left your throat. “Hm. We’ll see if I feel like seeing you. Which I might not.” 

“Uh huh. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You said goodbye to Steve and hung up the phone, just as another presence crept up behind you, one you didn’t notice until they spoke. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You jumped, whirling around in the chair as the phone clattered back onto the receiver. Mike stood next to El, who was peeking her head around the corner, the two of them eyeing you curiously. Jesus, these kids were going to be the death of you, always sneaking up on you like that. 

“What?”

“A boyfriend?” Mike asked again casually, gesturing towards the phone. “It sounded like—”

“like a boyfriend,” El repeated, nodding with enthusiasm. “Do you have one?”

You forgot how nosy they could be—these two especially. Not that you blamed them, really. They were normally the ones keeping secrets, not the other way around. 

Sighing, you looked back at the phone, then at the two teenagers. Mike was looking at you expectantly, while El, with her suspicious smile, seemed to know exactly who had been on the other end of the line. 

Did her powers work like that? You weren’t exactly sure of the extent of her mind capabilities. 

“Um,” you began, wringing your knuckles together, your joints making a satisfying pop. “Well. I do, but I want to keep it a secret for now. If that’s… okay?” 

God, you had to stop letting these kids walk all over you. 

To your surprise, they just looked at each other and shared a secret grin. There was no exaggerated I knew it, no push to reveal more details, no questions about who he was.

Those were exactly the kinds of things you would’ve pried for, at their age. They didn’t seem to care. 

“Okay,” Mike said, as El nodded promptly. “Cool. We’ll keep it a secret.” 

You blinked. “Okay? That’s it?” You almost didn’t believe them. "No follow up questions?” 

“Nope, that’s it.” Mike said, just before yawning. “I think Nancy’s ready to go. Are you?” 

IV. Nancy and Jonathan

At some point, you’d drifted off, lulled into a peaceful sleep by the glow of the television screen and the hushed whispers of those speaking on it. 

You’d thought you’d be able to make it to the end of the movie, but when Steve had passed out with his head on your lap, you’d felt your eyes growing heavy too. The couch cushions molded perfectly around you, the blanket far too warm and cozy, creating a cocoon that made it impossible to stay awake. 

After closing your eyes for what had felt like a second, you’d been out like a light. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke back up—it could’ve just been a few minutes or an entire hour. The film was coming to an end, the climax already having passed and the characters sharing a few parting words before the final song played. 

Blinking a few times, you tried to clear the fogginess from your brain and orient yourself again. 

Steve was still fast asleep beside you. One of his hands hung off the side of the couch, the other squished up against your hip in an awkward position. He was too tall for the space that was left on the other side of you, and his feet dangled off the arm of the sofa, one knee slightly bent. The weight of his head on your thighs was beginning to feel like a brick. 

You’d grown stiff from sitting in the same position for an hour, your body begging you to move. With a yawn, you rolled out your neck, hearing the clicks and pops that resulted from the angle it had rested at, and looked back down at Steve. 

He was deep in sleep, his cheek squished against your leg, lips slightly parted as he exhaled softly. 

You settled your hand back in his hair, smiling tenderly as you contemplated whether or not you should try to wake him. It couldn’t have been any later than eight; still too early for you to go to bed, but Steve was normally up much earlier than you. Maybe he needed the rest. 

But before you could come to a decision, there was a sound at the front of the house, a voice calling out Steve’s name as footsteps approached.

“Steve? Are you here?” 

You froze, at first hoping it was just your imagination, but the sounds grew louder and closer. There was someone inside Steve’s house. 

“Steve?” you whispered, shaking him gently, your heart thudding in your chest. “Steve.” Despite the panic in your voice, he only let out a soft groan, and dug his cheek deeper into your thigh, swatting you away.

Just as you were about to push him off of you, find some way to defend yourself, you realized that you recognized the voices. You just hadn’t expected them to be here.

“Steve?” Nancy said, coming around the corner. Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted them to the dimness of the room, looking for him. “We just came by to—” She jumped, spotting you as you sat up taller, peering over the back of the couch.

Behind her, Jonathan slowed his tracks, stopping just a foot away, the two of them fumbling for an awkward apology. 

It must have been too dark for them to see who you were, judging by how uncomfortable they were. 

“Oh God,” Nancy said, beginning to usher Jonathan out of the room. “Sorry, Steve didn’t say he had—” 

“Nancy, wait, it’s just me,” you interrupted, voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes. Talking over her reply, you leaned over and flicked on the lamp. “I’m not going to lie though, you guys almost scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”

Nancy blinked, mouth slightly agape as her eyes darted between you and a sleeping Steve. Her expression flickered through a series of emotions, unable to settle on just one. She seemed confused—and perhaps a bit relieved. They must have thought you were some random girl Steve had brought home on a date. 

You supposed that would’ve made sense why she seemed in such a hurry to get out of there. Most women wouldn’t be happy with their boyfriend still being friends with their ex-girlfriend, but since you and Nancy were also friends, that was sort of the ideal situation. 

Jonathan visibly relaxed beside her, and the awkwardness of the situation faded away as he greeted you. You gave them both a little wave, yawning again. 

“Sorry,” Nancy shook the conflict from her face and settled on an embarrassed smile. “Did we wake you?” 

“No, no. It’s okay. I should probably get going soon anyway. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The nap had made you feel the opposite of rested, though. You could’ve fallen right back asleep on the couch. “What time is it?” 

“9:00,” Jonathan said, checking his watch, wearing something of a smile as he looked between at you and Steve. “You need a ride home? We didn’t see your car.” 

Later than you thought, but that was fine. As long as you left by ten, you’d have enough time to get ready for bed and fall asleep before midnight. 

You waved him off. “Steve picked me up, but it’s okay. I’ll just wake him up in a bit. Thanks, though.” 

“We just came by to drop off the keys to the van,” Nancy whispered, holding up the set of Squawk keys. “My mom’s getting a bit stir crazy.” A quiet laugh left her throat. “She’s been wanting to get rid of a bunch of stuff, so Steve let us borrow the van. It’s a little easier to haul things in that than any of our cars. I called him earlier, and he said he’d leave the door unlocked for us. I guess he didn’t tell you?” 

“He always forgets.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “There’s a basket by the front door, you can just—”

Of course, Steve decided on that moment to raise his head and pop one eye open. “Did you say something?” 

“Not to you, dumbass. Nancy and Jonathan are here.” 

“Oh yeah. Forgot they were coming,” Steve said, trying to crane his neck back to look at the two of them. He muttered a brief thank you, and then to your annoyance, dropped his head right back on your lap. In a few seconds, Steve was out again.

You snorted out a laugh, one filled with fondness, as you turned back to Nancy and Jonathan. There was something sappy in their faces, something that you chose not to think too deeply about. 

“I’ll tell him you came by. He won’t even remember this in the morning.” It struck you that that might be too intimate of a detail for someone who was just a friend to know, even if you had been friends for almost your entire life. 

Then again, the position you’d been caught in was probably more incriminating than anything that had come of this conversation. 

Jonathan laughed. “We’ll just put the keys by the door. He’ll figure out we were here.” He turned back to Nancy. “We should get going. Your mom’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.” 

“I told her we might be back late,” Nancy said, but sighed anyway, knowing Jonathan was right. Ever since Hawkins had blown up last year, Karen had been a bit obsessed with knowing the whereabouts of her children. Even Nancy. “The van’s back at the Squawk, but have Steve call if anything’s wrong with it. I tried not to mess with anything.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Thanks for coming by.” You yawned. “See you guys later.” 

They waved, bidding you one last goodbye before leaving through the front door. 

You dropped your head back against the cushions, closing your eyes. 

It stuck you, then, that you should’ve felt awkward about the situation, that Jonathan and Nancy should’ve been more surprised by your closeness than they were. Instead, the conversation was anything but uncomfortable. Perhaps, they’d just come to understand that you and Steve had an unconventional relationship, one that any of your potential future partners would need to understand. 

Or, maybe, they thought you were someone just hopelessly in love with her best friend—which was a mortifying thought, but one you were too tired to be embarrassed by. You’d fret over it in the morning. 

Instead, you settled back into the couch. Pushing away the humiliation and ignoring the pain in your body, you fell back asleep. 

V. Will and Joyce

Pacing back and forth across the basement of the Squawk, you wrapped an arm around yourself and held your hand to your cheek as you worried your lip. 

The crawl felt like it was taking forever.

There wasn’t even supposed to be a crawl. 

Hopper had gotten sick earlier in the week—infected with something that had him bedridden and Joyce worrying that he needed to see a doctor. Of course, since it was almost impossible to treat a man that had been pronounced dead, Hopper continued to tough it out, and the crawl had been cancelled.

That was, until your idiot boyfriend had decided to volunteer in Hopper’s place. 

Sure, Steve was no stranger to the Upside Down, the brutality of the military, or fighting off the Demogorgons, but he also wasn’t Hopper. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many that Steve hadn’t adequately prepared for. 

You’d tried to reason with him, but Steve had seen the looks on everyone’s faces—the worry that if they were to miss this crawl, it would be the time that Vecna finally decided to reveal himself. Which was certainly a possibility, but what then? They were just going to leave Steve stranded in the Upside Down to fend for himself against a creature none of you fully understood?

“Are you sure, Steve?” you’d asked him before the two of you left for the station. “Hopper wouldn’t want you to do this. It’s not—”

He’d kissed you, one that lasted just long enough to shut you up.

“Relax. This makes what? Eighteen crawls? Twenty? We’ve been doing this for months, and there’s been nothing suspicious. I’ll be in and out—you won’t even know I’m gone.” 

He was stupid—so stupid, but there’d been no talking him out of it. 

Or maybe you were the dumb one, for being so anxious about something that had become a routine in recent months. There was nothing exciting about the crawls anymore. Just in and out, with as much time as the military allowed, scouting the Upside Down before returning with absolutely nothing of note. There was a possibility the Upside Down wasn’t even a threat anymore. 

Still, you couldn’t erase that inkling of doubt. Nancy seemed so sure that Vecna was still out there, plotting, waiting… What if this was reason enough for him to return? Something changing in your routine, a sign to him that he could catch you off-guard?

Joyce called your name again, and this time, it snapped you out of your anxious pacing. Will had taken her seat manning the walkie-talkie, ensuring that Robin and Dustin still had contact with Steve, while she came over to you.

“Hey,” Joyce said, her eyes soft and full of understanding. “You doing okay, sweetie?”

You let yourself be guided away from the table, not resisting as you took a moment for a breather. Your hands were shaking, your stomach wound in a tight knot—you hadn’t realized how nervous you’d been. 

“Yeah,” you said, unconvincingly, your body language betraying you. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Joyce looked down at your hands, and then to you, a reassuring smile beginning on her face. “Everything’s been fine so far. It’ll go just as planned.”

You chewed your bottom lip, looking away from Joyce and back at Will, watching for any sign of distress on his features. There was none—nothing out of the ordinary, at least. Joyce was right. Everything would be okay.

“Yeah,” you nodded, exhaling heavily, trying to muster up a smile to give back to Joyce. Maybe if you said it enough, you’d convince yourself. “I’m sure it will. There’s just always the what if.” 

“I know how you feel.” Joyce said, squeezing your hand. “It’s never easy, but he’ll be fine.” 

You opened your mouth, then closed it, your cheeks growing warm as your realized what she’d been insinuating. “Oh,” you said, heart thudding in your chest. Had she meant it like that—that it wasn’t easy to see the person you loved putting themselves in danger? “Steve and I aren’t—” 

To your relief, Will interrupted, holding up the walkie-talkie with a smile. It didn’t feel right, lying to Joyce.

The two of you turned to face him, the start of your reply forgotten.

“He made it,” Will said, giving you a look that was so much like his mom, it was impossible to doubt that they were related. “Hard part’s over.” 

Maybe that was true, but there were still countless things—non-Vecna related things—that could go wrong. Steve wasn’t exactly know for his stealth, and the last thing you wanted was for him to be caught by the military. 

“It was really brave of him to volunteer,” Joyce said, as Will got up from the table, giving his mother her spot back.

You sighed, rolling your eyes while the two of you crowded around her, listening to the radio frequency. “It was brave. And stupid.” 

Joyce laughed, though it was hushed, just on the edge of an exhale. “There’s a fine line between the two of those things.” 

“Yeah, well. Steve’s got enough of both of them to go around.” 

Except Steve wasn’t stupid—not really. He was no genius, and there were times when he didn’t think things through, but he just wanted to be useful. He knew the he could do that by stepping into Hopper’s role, so he’d jumped on the opportunity to run head-first into danger.

“Sorry,” you said, after a brief moment of silence, the crackling of the radio your closest companion. “I shouldn’t be so worked up about this. Hopper does it all the time. I guess the rest of you have just been at this a lot longer than me, you’re probably used to it.” 

“Are you kidding?” Will looked up, a small laugh escaping him. “Do you realize it’s my mom you’re talking to? She’s never gotten used to it.”

“Oh, hush.” Joyce said, but her expression betrayed her, and you could tell you agreed with him. 

When Steve finally got in the Upside Down, left to his own devices and away from the military, he called for you over the radio. 

Joyce and Will both turned to you, knowing smiles on their features. 

Trying not to give anything away on your face, you swallowed and took over the walkie-talkie. “Yeah? What do you want, Harrington?” 

“Remember that time I spilled my blue slushie all over your mom’s new blouse?” Steve asked casually.  

You frowned, pinching your eyebrows together. That was so long ago—1974, maybe. You and Steve couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

“I remember. My mom was so pissed she didn’t say a word on the way back to your house,” you laughed, shaking your head. Steve hadn’t stopped apologizing the entire drive home, until your mom finally broke and said it’s fine, Steve, I can always get a new one. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It doesn’t.” Steve snorted, and a surge of static came over the radio, interrupting part of his speech. “I just passed the gas station and thought of it.” He paused, for just a few seconds, before continuing, “And I need you to quit worrying for a second.” 

You started to object, but you didn’t get a chance to speak before the other people on the frequency interrupted. You’d almost forgotten they were there at all. 

“Can you two quit flirting so Steve can get on with the search?” Robin said over walkie-talkie. “We don’t have all day.” 

“I second that,” Dustin followed quickly after. 

“I don’t see you—”

“Hey, Steve,” you interrupted, before him and Dustin could get bicker any further. “I’m handing it back over to Mrs. Byers. Focus.” 

“Yeah, listen to your—” Robin began, before a pained yelp left her throat—most likely Dustin—and her radio cut out. 

The crawl carried on. 

At some point, you found yourself back on your feet, pacing until Steve had successfully found his way out of the Upside Down. As expected—there had been nothing. No sign of Vecna, no unusual Demogorgon activity, hardly a trace of anything otherworldly. Another bust. 

You were relieved, though, that it had been as easy of a mission as it was. For two hours, you’d anticipated the worst, only for everything to go according to plan. You couldn’t have gotten any luckier. 

Will and Joyce stayed with you at the Squawk, waiting until the van—and Steve—returned. There was still adrenaline racing through your body, and you chewed at your nails, trying to expel the nervous energy. The evidence of it still lingered, shocks of electricity that traveled up your body, making your hair stand on end.

Finally, you could hear the obnoxious motor of the Squawk van pull into the lot, just outside. The three of you went to greet the noise, relief and love thrumming through your body. 

Steve was talking with Robin as he climbed out of the car safe and sound, not a scratch on him. When both of his feet landed on the ground, he tugged his hand through his hair, disheveling the already loose tendrils. 

Despite the low stakes of the crawl, you’d never been so happy to see him. 

Without thinking, you ran out the doors of the radio station, jogging the rest of the way to meet Steve. He turned, just as you threw your arms around his neck, pulling the two of you together in a close embrace. 

“Hey,” Steve said, sneaking a quick kiss to your temple. He hugged you back just as tightly, digging his fingers into the space between your shoulder-blades. “Did you miss me?” 

“I hate you,” you said, quietly, into his chest. “I shouldn’t be this worried for you.” 

Steve laughed, his entire face lit up with a smile. “Maybe it’s because you love me.” 

“Shut up,” you said, but your expression matched his when you pulled away—giddy and full of so much emotion. “I’m glad you made it out okay. Where’s Dustin?”

“Him and Lucas caught a ride back with Nance. I think they planned something at the Wheelers’ house.”

Before you could reply, Robin leaned out from the passenger’s side, grinning at you and Steve. “Aren’t you two cute? I wish I had a camera.” 

Jonathan, who was climbing out from the driver’s seat, came around the front of the van and grinned. “Too bad I don’t have mine.” 

“Don’t have your what?” Will asked, as him and Joyce caught up with you, the door of the station swinging shut. He glanced between you and Steve curiously, focusing on how little space there was between the two of you. 

As if on a reflex, you took a small step away from Steve. Will diverted his eyes, and glanced back at Jonathan, sharing a secret look with his brother before they both broke into smiles. 

Suddenly, you felt as if you were on the tail-end of a joke that you didn’t know the punchline to. You shifted uncomfortably, staring at Robin in a desperate attempt to diffuse the awkward tension, which Steve was none the wiser to.

“My camera,” Jonathan said, throwing an arm around Will. “Robin was saying she needed it for something.” 

“Oh, it’s not important,” Robin brushed it off, before she was struck by a hilarious revelation, and she grinned at Steve, eyes darting back and forth between him and Jonathan. “Wait. Didn’t you—”

Steve groaned, before whirling on her, his eyes narrowed. “That’s old news, Robin. No need to bring that up again.” 

“So that wasn’t just gossip then?” she asked, intrigued. “Noted. Did you ever take up photography, Steve?”

“No,” Steve’s lips pulled into a thin, unamused smile. “Any other hobbies you wanted to ask about?” 

“Well,” Robin said, leaning against the van, deep in thought. “Since you’re asking…”

Steve nudged her, just enough to knock her off-kilter, and she laughed, letting the question die. 

Joyce, who often indulged your conversations without having a clue what was going on, interjected. “Do any of you need a ride? Will and I are going back to the Wheelers’—”

“I’ll take one,” Robin said, pushing herself off the van to stand beside the family of three. “If you don’t mind. It’s a little out of the way.” 

“Of course not,” Joyce said to Robin. The six of you spoke for a while longer, before Joyce turned, once again, to face Steve, a wistful sort of smile on her face. “Hop would be proud, Steve. Although I can’t say he’ll be too thrilled when he finds out you went in his place.” 

Steve laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, now we’ve got another successful crawl in the books. That’s all that matters.” He shrugged, before sticking his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll happily go back to our original roles next time, though.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, another laugh escaping Joyce’s throat. “You two drive safe. Be careful getting home.” 

“We will.” 

You watched the four of them head towards the car and drive out of sight, before Steve turned back to you, pressing a much more passionate kiss to your lips. 

Your eyes widened, caught off-guard, before you leaned into it, lips curling into a smile as Steve cupped your cheeks. 

“What was that for?” you asked quietly when Steve pulled away, pressing another kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m glad I made it back, too,” he said softly.

+ I. Murray

As always, Murray had come with a truckload of items to fulfill each of your personal requests, which had become something to look forward to since the quarantine started.

Dustin, as usual, had a laundry list of items, and it was rare that Murray could ever find all of them. The rest of you had smaller requests, perhaps not any easier, but just a few things here and there. Sometimes they were serious, used to help you in your fight against Vecna. Other times, they were personal things the town no longer got, since the stricter laws allowed less goods to come into Hawkins. 

It was rare that you asked Murray for anything—you’d never felt entitled to it.

Which was why you were surprised when he reached in the back of the truck and pulled out a full, heavy box to give to you. 

“Here,” Murray said, dropping the box from the truck to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud at your feet. “For the love birds.” 

You looked back at the box, then at Murray, surprised to find him staring directly at you. You’d expected someone else to step forward and pick it up—Nancy, perhaps, maybe even Hopper. But when you looked around your small circle, they were all, very indiscreetly, looking at you. 

“Oh,” you said, kneeling down to flip through the contents of the box, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on your back. “But I didn’t ask for anything.” 

“It’s a gift,” Murray said, watching as you crouched down to open the flaps of cardboard. “An early one. For a birthday, or maybe an anniversary.” He shrugged, the sides of his lips curling into a grin. “Whatever comes first.”

The box contained a few stacks of books and VHS tapes, most titles that you knew well. Your cheeks burned as you shuffled through them, growing warmer as you read each one. Anna Karenina. Casablanca. The Great Gatsby. The Graduate. Romeo and Juliet. Lady Chatterly’s Lover. 

“What’s in there?” Steve asked, leaning over your shoulder as he tried to get a good look at the titles. “Books?” 

“And movies,” Murray said, sly as a fox. “Ones that fit a certain subject matter I thought the two of you might enjoy.” 

“Huh?” Steve’s posture changed, realizing that Murray was playing his typical mind games. His eyebrows knit together as he grew defensive. “Am I missing something? Why does no one ever tell me shit?”

“You don’t want to read them to find out?” Murray laughed, sharing a sideways glance with Nancy, who was biting the inside of her lip. 

“Not a huge fan of reading.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, irritated. 

“We can tell.” 

Steve started to argue, but you cut him off with a sigh, closing the box back up. The look that Murray had shared with Nancy, who certainly had read or watched everything in the box, told you everything you needed to know.

You stood, brushing the dirt off your pants. “How long have you known?” you asked, resigning yourself to your fate. If this was the moment you told everyone about your relationship, so be it. It’d been long enough, anyway.

“Wait, is there a special clue in the box? Even you understand?” Steve said to you, throwing his hands up. “What the hell. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” 

“Jesus, Steve,” you said, putting your hand to your forehead. “It’s about—”

“Steve, we all know that you two are together,” Dustin interrupted, his expression flat, as he spit the words out, hard and fast. “We’ve known for a while.” 

You and Steve were both stunned into silence, as you gawked back at the teenage boy. 

“Wait,” you said, standing straighter, the contents of the box forgotten. “All of you know?” 

None of them seemed surprised in the least, nor did they say a word as you stared at each of them accusingly. How was it that you’d been trying to keep this a secret from all of them, and yet, they were the ones keeping the secret from you?

Your shoulders slumped. “For how long?” 

“Well, I figured it out back in…” Dustin thought out loud, drumming his fingers on his chin, “December, I think. Of last year. You came to pick me up from school and Steve kissed you in the car. I walked back inside and waited a few minutes.” He laughed, like it was obvious.

You couldn’t even remember that. It’d been so long, and such an inconsequential moment in the grand scheme of your relationship, that it'd become a lost memory. Yet, it had been the first time that Dustin had any concrete proof that you and Steve were romantically involved. 

And he’d said nothing. 

“You’ve known for that long?” you asked, frowning. 

“I’d suspected it for a while,” Dustin grinned. “But that’s when I knew for sure.” 

“I’ve known the whole time,” El spoke up, shrugging. “I told Mike. We kept it a secret, like we promised. But then Dustin told us—”

“Hold on Dustin told you?” Steve said, his hands on his hips. “No one said anything to me.”

“Well, actually I told Lucas first,” Dustin interjected, laughing a little as he exchanged a look with the other boy. “He can keep a secret better than Mike.” 

“Hey.” Mike frowned. “I can too keep a secret.” 

Dustin ignored him. “Then, Lucas and I told Mike and Will, but Will didn’t really believe it at first. He was sure you were just good friends.” 

You were relieved you hadn’t been so obvious to everyone, but when you looked over at Will, he seemed a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t caught on sooner. You gave him an appreciative smile.

“Of course, Mike told Nancy, and then Nancy told Jonathan—”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, rubbing his temple. 

“I didn’t tell anyone without beating it out of Robin, first,” Nancy said proudly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, as you and Steve shot a look at your other friend. “I wouldn’t just spread a rumor without evidence, and she did say you wanted to keep it a secret, so I didn’t tell anyone besides Jonathan.” 

Robin raised her hands in surrender, “Nancy was scary. Plus, I knew the two of them wouldn’t say anything. I kept part of my promise.” 

You sighed, dropping your head, before speaking to Jonathan. “I’m assuming you told your mom?” 

Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck, a soft, sheepish laugh leaving his chest. “Sorry.” 

Before you could wrap your head around the situation, one last voice cut in. The final person of the group. 

“Joyce told me.” Hopper said dismissively, as if just to clear the air, seemingly not caring an ounce about the situation. “I think I was the last to know.” 

Obviously, you were the last to know, because no one had told you a thing. “Right…” you said, looking back at the man who had started the whole conversation. “And Murray? How long have you known.” 

He seemed pretty pleased with himself, delighted to share his deductive instincts. “It was obvious you two wanted each other, but I realized back in October you’d gotten to home base… Which I assume was the first time?”

You wrinkled your nose, not liking your personal business being discussed so flippantly. October had been when you and Steve first confessed your feelings for one another, feelings that had been building for years, but you didn’t need Murray to know that. “Everyone knew this entire year? And you didn’t say anything?” you frowned, looking at Steve, who seemed just as perplexed. “Why?” 

“We figured you had a good reason,” Mike said, tilting his head, just a hair, as he smiled. “We wanted you to tell us.” 

“Most of us, at least.” Lucas said, rolling his eyes. “Murray got tired of waiting.” 

Your heart warmed at the confession. They’d all grown up a lot, in the past year, and you’d barely even noticed. A small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, escaped your chest as you became overwhelmed with emotion.

“It wasn’t a good reason at all,” you said, quietly. “I just—it never felt like the right time to bring it up, and I’m so new to the group…” your words trickled off as you shrugged, feeling embarrassed, as a self-deprecating laugh escaped you. “Well, I didn’t know how anyone would take it. You’ve known Steve for so long, and—”

“That’s why you didn’t tell us?” Dustin said, before looking over at his friends. “Guys, we should’ve just stuck to the plan.” 

“You’re the one that told us not to, Dustin!” Mike said, throwing up his hands. 

Dustin sighed, tilting his head back to look up the sky. “Yeah, well, I was trying to be a good friend—”

“Hang on,” Steve said, and it was then that you realized how close  you were standing, drawn together like two magnets. Now that your secret was out in the open, there really was no good reason to pretend otherwise. “What plan?”

Lucas grinned. “We were planning to set you two up, somehow. You’re not exactly subtle, Steve. It was pretty obvious you were in love with her.” 

“But then, El and Dustin said you were already together, so we gave up on it,” Mike said, sharing a look with El, who seemed thrilled that this was all being revealed. You wondered if she’d carried the knowledge of your relationship for long, or if she’d told Mike immediately. You guessed it didn’t really matter, now. “We should’ve gone through with it, just to get you to confess.”

“You’re really not that great at hiding it, anyway,” Dustin said, shrugging. “It was getting hard to pretend like I didn’t know, especially since you’ve been so obvious lately. Any idiot could see you’re together.” 

You supposed you’d never really tried that hard to hide it, and these kids were much smarter than the average person. You should’ve known they’d figure it out, sooner than later.

“I can’t believe you idiots never said anything,” Steve said, pulling Dustin’s hat over his face, a gesture that was full of affection. “You’re usually much worse at keeping secrets.”

That was true. Still, some things didn’t add up. 

“Wait.” You wrinkled your brows together, looking back at Dustin. “Why did you always ask me why I was at Steve’s, then?” you said.

“I was trying to get you to tell me. I thought it’d make it obvious I knew,” Dustin laughed. “I think you were just in denial.” 

That made sense. You frowned, looking at El. “And that’s why you and Mike asked me about—the boyfriend?” 

El nodded, an affectionate, small smile plastered on her face. You hadn’t gotten to know her well, not yet, but it meant a lot, that even she welcomed you into the group. 

Relief washed over you, as you realized not a single person in your little crew of misfits was disappointed. In fact, they all seemed excited that the truth had finally been revealed, happy, even, that you and Steve were together at all. 

Which explained a few other things—it made sense why Lucas made such a big deal about your nickname for Steve, why Will and Joyce had been so understanding when Steve went on the crawl, why the two of you were always sent off on your own when you split up, why they always asked Steve where you were when he went places alone, why Nancy was relieved when she figured out that it was you at Steve’s house and not a stranger…

You felt like an idiot for not realizing it earlier.

“You really don’t care?” you asked, wrapping an arm around yourself. “I thought—”

Dustin threw his arms around you, catching you off-guard in an affection embrace. It was just a quick hug, before he pulled back, embarrassed. “You’re one of us, now,” he said, eyes crinkling around the corners with his smile. “We want you to be happy, and you make each other happy.” His cheeks grew pink, and, as if realizing he was being far too sappy, finished with, “Besides, Steve has terrible luck with girls. I was getting tired of watching him embarrass himself.”

“Shut up, man,” Steve rolled his eyes, as you began laughing, 

“It is pretty sad to watch, Steve. You’re lucky I gave you a chance.” 

You smiled.

Steve's eyes softened at the pure adoration on your features. He threw an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, I am pretty lucky, I guess,” he said, before turning back to Murray, ignoring the grins of everyone around him as he held you close. “You got anything else in there?” 

Murray went back to digging through the trunk, and the focus drifted away from the two of you, back into the contents of Murray’s haul. 

You'd never realized how heavy, sad, even, keeping your relationship from the rest of them had made you feel. Now, you felt so much lighter—the weight of a secret that never really had to be a secret lifted off your chest. The love of everyone around you took its place, warming you all over.

For all the fears you had about never being enough for the group, never valuable enough, just the girl that Steve dragged around everywhere, you should’ve realized that they saw you as much more than that. That they didn’t let him bring you around because he loved you, but because they loved you too. 

With a smile, and tears at the edge of your lashes, ones you held back, you squeezed Steve's hand, conveying all the unfiltered emotions in your heart.

And even though you'd left Hawkins once, searched for something bigger, desperate to get out and away from this town, you'd never doubt again that you were right to come back. Being here, with all of these people, with Steve, even in the middle of a quarantine—you wouldn't trade it for the world.

You were home.

“You wanna do what?” Bucky blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“I want to watch you from the crowd instead of backstage.” Y/N repeats, just as confused about why this is an insane request according to Bucky. She’d only be watching her boyfriend and her best friend's band perform from the crowd for a change. What could go wrong?

“But…you’re always side stage!” he insists. 

“Exactly my point." She shrugs. “Look, I love gigs, especially yours, and the crowds are insane. I feel like I’m missing out!” she explains. “I want to at least experience one show in the crowd before the tour is over.” 

“But-”

“Jesus, Bucky.” Natasha rolls her eyes, checking her makeup. “Being in the crowd won’t kill her. I’m sure you can manage not seeing her for a few hours.”

“She’s my good-luck charm!” Bucky pouts, his bottom lip jutting out as he pulls Y/N close for a kiss. “I love seeing her.” Y/N’s heart flutters, and she grins, leaning in for the kiss.

“Really? I thought you were equally bad, with or without her there.” Steve teases, narrowly avoiding the drumstick Bucky launches at his head. “But I agree with Nat. Let her have fun.” Y/N can see the hesitation still in Bucky’s eyes, so she takes his hand, giving it a squeeze.

“I’ll be safe, I promise.” she whispers.

"I know...I'll just miss you," he whines, feigning a sob while batting his lashes. Y/N giggles before kissing him softly on the lips. 

"You're a big boy, you'll be okay," she said, her voice filled with assurance.

“Anything goes wrong, you tell security or find Tony, okay?” Bucky says, his tone more serious now. With a soft nod, Y/N’s lips met his in another tender kiss. “Promise?”

“Promise,” she repeats, her voice soft as she gives his hand another gentle squeeze. “I’ll be fine.” 

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ 

Later that night, before The End of the Line is due to go on, Y/N heads into the crowd. The air in the venue is thick with anticipation, and the room, larger than their typical venues, is filled to the brim with excited, diehard fans. For a moment, she feels some wariness, and wonders if Bucky was right. She hasn't been in a crowd like this in ages, and the number of fans makes her feel a little claustrophobic.

But she quickly brushes off her worries. Bucky's just being overprotective; she'll be alright. She knows how supportive the fans are, and she trusts they would never put her in harm's way. As she looks for a spot in the crowd, some fans even recognise her, coming closer. “Hey Y/N!” one grins excitedly, pulling out their phone for a selfie. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you!” Y/N smiles, happily taking pictures with them and promising to say hi to the band for them. “Enjoy the show! You’re in for a great night!” As the fans depart, Y/N soon finds a place in the crowd, close to the middle for the best views… yet still close to the exit. Just in case.

Soon, the lights dim, and Y/N feels the familiar warmth of excitement pooling in her gut as the band’s intro begins to play, and as Bucky, Sam, Natasha and Steve take their places on stage.

“Are you ready to rock?!" Natasha yells, and the crowd's deafening roar fills the air. “Then let’s fucking go!” As the band launches into their first song, the crowd jumps and dances to the music, singing at the top of their lungs. Y/N beams as she dances with them and watches the love of her life and her best friends do what they love. God, she loves live music, especially from her friends. She’s been here from the beginning, and she’s so proud of everything they’ve achieved. 

From her position in the crowd, she can see Bucky looking around every so often, as if trying to spot her. His tattooed fingers push his hair out of his eyes, and her chest flutters at the sight. He looks so hot. Well, he always does. But there’s something different about seeing him like this. It reminds her of when they first met, when Bucky was a fresh-faced drummer in a local band, performing at the bar where she worked. During her shifts, she would spend her time just staring at him, her heart filled with a silent wish for him to notice her. 

And one day, he did. He sidled up to her after her shift, surprisingly nervous for a budding rockstar. He asked her if she wanted to go for a drink sometime… and the rest is history.

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ 

Near the end of the set, Natasha approaches the mic. “This next one is called The Snap. I wanna see you go wild!” she calls. The crowd parts, a huge circle being formed in the centre. Y/N grins. She’s not been in a mosh pit for ages, and despite her original anxieties, she’s been looking forward to going in one all night. With a deep breath, she jumps in, colliding with bodies and feeling the press of others against her. As the pit continues, her heart pounds in her chest, and she can't stop the grin spreading across her face. She’s never felt so alive.

Suddenly, the man in front of her collides with another, the impact momentarily throwing him off balance. Before he can stop himself, his elbow collides with Y/N's nose, and a searing pain explodes out.

“HOLY SHIT!” the man gasps. “I’m so sorry!” He pulls her out of the pit, rushing her toward the medics. “I can’t believe I did that.” All Y/N can do is hold her nose, wincing.

“Isn’t that Bucky’s girlfriend?” Someone whispers as she passes.

“Is she okay?” A hushed voice whispers. “That looks painful.”

"Ouch." another person winces.

“No, no…s’okay. I’m okay.” Y/N murmurs, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her nose. But she’s not sure if she’s trying to convince the man, the crowd, or herself of that. And given the expressions of the people they’ve passed, and the metallic taste of blood already on her tongue, she’s already beginning to doubt her words.

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ 

Later, Y/N sits on the couch in the green room, holding a bag of frozen peas on her nose. Even though she’s staring at the ceiling, she rolls her eyes as she can feel Tony's stare continuing to bore into her. “Tony, please stop hovering.” She groans. “I’m not dying. My nose is just bleeding. At most, it’ll be a cut, just like the medics said.”

“Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way.” he mutters, checking her nose yet again. “The last thing we need is Barnes getting pissed about this happening.”

As if on cue, a loud bang erupts in the room, and the door flies open, practically falling off its hinges. Bucky stands there, looking totally frazzled. He clenches his fists, his jaw tight.

“What the fuck happened?” he demands, coming to sit beside her, shoving Tony out of the way as he does.

“Nothing!” Y/N insists.

“Bullshit. It doesn’t look like nothing!”

“I’m fine, honestly!”

“Bullshit! I couldn’t find you after the gig, and then I had to hear from security that you, my girlfriend, got beaten up in the pit?! How come I'm only finding out about this now?!” 

“I didn’t get beaten up. Some guy elbowed me in the nose, that’s all. On accident.” She insists, seeing the anger that crosses Bucky’s expression. 

“It better fucking be an accident.” Bucky mutters. “Let me see.” He says, already leaning in. 

“You’re overreacting.” 

“Y/N.” he repeats, his voice low. “Let. Me. See.” Y/N moves the bag, and Bucky studies her nose. “Did the-”

“Yes, the medics already saw me.” She cuts him off. “It stings a bit, but it’s not broken, just bleeding.”

“Thank god.” Bucky breathes, gently pulling her closer and pressing a soft kiss against her cheek before holding the bag against her nose again. "...because I swear, if he meant to hurt you, I’m going to make him wish he'd never been born-"

"Jesus, Bucky!" she groans. “Would you stop? He helped me to the medics bay and was totally apologetic the whole time. It’s just what happens in the pit sometimes: people get hurt. He didn’t have a vendetta against us or anything.” When he opens his mouth again, she sighs. “If all you’re gonna do is complain, can you just go? It’s not helping.”

With a sigh, Bucky's anger fades. "I'm sorry, babe," he mumbles. “It’s just…I love and care about you so much, and I love seeing you side stage. "Not just cause you get to see my insane drum skills..." he starts, a cheeky grin spreading across his face, causing Y/N to roll her eyes, yet still chuckle. "But I want to know you're safe and enjoying yourself. And I know it’s part of moshing sometimes, and I love moshing too, but…” he sighs, pecking her cheek again. “The thought of you getting hurt tonight, even accidentally, and even something as small as this, but I didn’t even know about it-”

“Oh, Bucky.” she sighs, taking his hand and interlocking their fingers.

“-and I know you’re a real badass who's strong enough to handle anything all by yourself. But knowing I wasn't there with you when you got hurt and when you needed comfort, that I couldn’t even see you or know you were in pain….” Bucky huffs, more upset than frustrated. “It just…breaks my damn heart. In a dumb way, it makes me feel like I failed, ‌y’know? Like you deserve the world, a knight in shining armour defending your honour… not me.” 

“Hey, none of this is your fault,” she insists, her eyes filled with sympathy. "Besides, it's not like you could've stopped the show to check on me."

“Oh, I would, and you know I would.” He retorts, softly kissing her lips to not cause anymore pain. “You always come first.” She smiles, snuggling closer to him as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

“You know, knights in shining armour are boring, anyway.” she replies. “Who wants to sit in a boring castle all day with Mr. Perfect? “You’re way more fun,” she says with a grin, her eyes tracing the lines of the tattoos covering Bucky’s arms. A hint of surprise flickered across his face as he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I am?”

“Hell yeah. I’d choose you any day.” she insists as he kisses her temple, his stubble gently brushing her skin. “Being trapped in a tower and waiting for someone to rescue me, or exploring the world with the people I love. What a tough choice…” she says sarcastically, and Bucky laughs.

“Thanks babe. But you know I’d slay the dragon for you.” Bucky flexes, and Y/N laughs. “How’s your nose? Do you need meds?”

“It’s better, thanks. And nah, got some from the medics.” 

“Is there anything you need? Some water, more ice-” as Bucky rambles on, Y/N smiles. Even though she knew she was fine, his presence was already making her feel better. 

“I’m okay.” She takes his free hand, giving it a squeeze. “All I need is you beside me.” 

“Softie.” He chuckles.

“Says you.” She teases. "You pretend to be all edgy and rock and roll, but deep down, you're really just a big teddy bear."

“Only for you.” Bucky grins.

With Bucky still looking after her, the rest of the band slowly enter the room.

"You alright, Y/N?" Sam asks. “I brought you some water.”

"Thanks, Sam." Y/N smiles, taking some sips.

Steve winces, a grimace spreading across his face as he comes closer, muttering, “Jesus. That’s a lot of blood.”

“Shut up, punk.” Bucky snaps, rolling his eyes. “If you want to actually be helpful like Sam, go get a cloth or something to clean it off.” Natasha sits opposite the pair, taking a swig of her beer. 

“Want some?” she offers Y/N. “Might help numb the pain a little.” Y/N shakes her head. “Look at you, getting hurt in the pit. Very rock and roll.” She praises. 

“I don’t feel very rock and roll.” Y/N sighs. Steve passes over the wet cloth, and Bucky gently dabs it on Y/N’s nose. The others crowd around, a mix of concern for Y/N's well-being and a morbid curiosity about the injury.

“Can you all back up?” Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re making her feel worse.”

“Okay, dad.” Steve teases, sitting on the couch opposite them with Natasha and Sam.

“Nah, it’s okay. They’re helping in their own way, I guess.” Y/N chuckles softly. 

“Well, if they annoy you, say the word.” Bucky whispers, giving her a quick peck. “That’s you all cleaned up babe. Anything you need? I’ll get it, anything you want. Even if it’s kicking everyone out.” Y/N snuggles closer to him, shaking her head. 

“Nah. Just you and some ice cream would be perfect.” Bucky grins, kissing the top of her head.

“That, I can definitely do.”

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ 

You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.

"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."

"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"

"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.

"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."

"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"

Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."

"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."

Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.

His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.

And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.

"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.

"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.

"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.

You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.

"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.

The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.

"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."

With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.

"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"

"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?

His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.

Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.

You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.

It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.

Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.

Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."

While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.

Sergeant Barnes

Just landed in Croatia.

It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks

Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.

"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.

Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."

"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."

Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.

"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."

"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.

You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"

"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."

With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.

"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.

"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"

"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.

The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.

When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.

"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.

"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"

"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"

"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."

"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."

"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.

"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."

"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.

"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.

"Is she hot?" He asks.

You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."

"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.

"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."

"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.

"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.

"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.

"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."

"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.

"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."

"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."

As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.

"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."

"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."

"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.

"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.

"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.

You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."

"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"

"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.

"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."

"Sergeant Barnes!"

"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.

"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.

"Jealous, are we?"

There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.

"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."

"I don't even know what she looks-"

"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"

There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."

You sigh. "Yes, what?"

Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."

"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."

"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.

"Good night, you little shit."

Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.

While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.

"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.

"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.

Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.

"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."

With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?

Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?

"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"

Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.

When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.

"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."

"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.

"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.

"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.

"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.

"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"

"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.

"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"

While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.

"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."

"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.

"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."

"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.

Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"

"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.

"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.

Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."

"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.

"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.

A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"

"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.

"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."

"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.

"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.

"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."

He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.

"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.

Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.

You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?

You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.

This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?

"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."

You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.

"You're naked," You utter.

"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"

"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."

He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.

"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"

Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.

He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.

Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.

"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.

His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.

"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.

You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.

He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.

"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.

"It was alright," You answer with a grin.

"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"

"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."

"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."

"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"

Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.

"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.

"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"

"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."

He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"

You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.

"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.

As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.

"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.

You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."

He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.

Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.

"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.

"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.

Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.

One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).

"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."

You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."

"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.

He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.

"Bucky," You whimper.

"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.

"I'm- I'm gonna-"

All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.

The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.

"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."

You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.

"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.

"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."

"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.

"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."

"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.

"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."

She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."

"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."

Bucky hides his snort with a cough.

"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."

"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."

She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."

Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."

You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.

"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."

You say nothing, your fingers twitching.

"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"

"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.

A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.

"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.

Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"

A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."

"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"

"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."

"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.

"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."

Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."

"Will that be all?" You ask.

Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"

"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."

"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."

You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.

"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"

"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.

He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"

As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.

"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."

"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.

Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.

"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"

"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."

"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"

"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.

"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"

A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."

Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.

"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"

"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.

You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.

Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.

Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.

"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.

"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.

"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.

"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.

"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."

With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.

You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.

"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.

"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.

"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.

He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.

His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.

"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"

"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."

"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."

"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."

A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."

"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.

"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.

"Yep."

"And is probably a great kisser."

"Mhm."

"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."

You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.

"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.

This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.

"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.

Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"

Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.

"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."

"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.

"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."

"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."

He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.

He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.

That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.

"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."

With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.

"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.

Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.

The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.

"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."

You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"

He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.

"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"

You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.

"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"

"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."

With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.

"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."

"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."

Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.

"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.

From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."

Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.

"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."

"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.

"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"

The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.

"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."

"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.

"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."

"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."

You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.

"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."

You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.

"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."

Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."

He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.

Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.

You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.

Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."

With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.

Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.

Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.

When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.

His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.

With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.

He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.

"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."

"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.

"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."

"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."

"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.

"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."

Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?

"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."

Pop? That bastard.

Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.

This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.

So why aren't you waking up?

You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.

And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.

And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.

But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.

You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.

The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.

You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.

"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."

They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.

But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.

"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.

Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.

And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.

It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.

No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.

"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.

"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.

He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.

"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."

"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."

"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."

With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.

"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."

"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.

"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"

"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.

Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.

"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."

You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.

"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."

"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.

"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.

You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"

"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."

As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.

"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"

"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.

He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.

You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.

"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"

"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."

"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."

"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."

"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."

"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."

She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.

"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.

And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.

"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."

"Right," She utters.

"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.

"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.

"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"

She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."

Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.

She's the complete opposite of you.

Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.

Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.

And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.

She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-

"Hi."

Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.

"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.

You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.

So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.

It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.

She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?

"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.

You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.

"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.

"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.

"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."

"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."

"And what facts are those?" She pushes.

"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."

"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"

"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."

"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.

You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."

"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.

After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.

"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.

"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.

"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.

Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.

"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.

"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.

You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.

"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.

"I don't know," You answer dumbly.

"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"

A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.

"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.

"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."

A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.

Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.

Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.

"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.

"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.

"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.

"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.

Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.

"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.

With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.

His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.

"Neither do I," You return.

"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.

"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.

"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."

"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.

He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"

A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.

Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.

"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.

"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."

You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"

"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"

You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."

His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."

"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.

"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.

With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.

"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."

"She likes you," You tell him. "Poppy really likes you, Bucky."

"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"

You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.

Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.

The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.

"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.

"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.

"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."

He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"

"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."

"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.

"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.

The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."

"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"

"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."

He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.

"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."

You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."

He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.

"All too well," You whisper.

"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."

"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."

"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."

You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"

"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."

You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."

A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."

You smile back at him.

"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."

"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."

Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."

"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."

"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.

You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.

"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"

You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."

a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3

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He hasn’t thrown a punch in months. Not because he can’t. Because he chooses not to.

When the call comes—your name whispered through static, the broken sound of your phone being dropped—something inside him stops choosing.

“Buck,” Sam says carefully, watching him stand from the couch, voice tight. “Let’s take a second before—”

But Bucky’s already gone.

They take his girl. His soft, sunshine, laugh-like-bells girl.

The one who hums in the kitchen while she makes coffee, who writes reminders on his palm in ink, who’s never so much as raised her voice.

They take her.

And Bucky goes still in that terrifying, absolute way that only he can.

It’s not rage, not yet. Rage is human. This is the cold focus of a weapon remembering its purpose.

He tracks them easily. They’re amateurs.

The first man doesn’t even see him. One crack of bone, a hand over his mouth, and the body slumps silently.

Two more in the hallway. Bucky doesn’t bother with stealth now. He moves through them like a storm, metal and muscle and fury, the sound of breaking things echoing down concrete walls.

When one of them fires, Bucky doesn’t duck—just raises his arm, the bullet ricocheting uselessly. The man’s gun jams when he tries again. Bucky’s smile is thin and joyless as he crushes the barrel flat.

“You shouldn’t have touched her.”

The man doesn’t get a chance to answer.

By the time he finds the door, he’s breathing hard, his knuckles painted in other people’s blood. There’s a hum in his skull—mission parameters, eliminate threat—and he lets it hum.

He breaks the lock with a twist.

And there you are.

You’re on the floor. Wrists bound, lip split, one eye swelling shut. When you hear him enter, you flinch—not from fear, but from pain. Then your gaze finds him.

“Bucky.”

Your voice cracks on his name, and he thinks it might break him more than anything the Hydra chair ever did.

He’s on his knees before he even knows he’s moved. His metal hand hovers midair, shaking. He doesn’t want to touch you until he’s sure he won’t hurt.

“Hey, doll,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You okay? Talk to me.”

You blink back tears. “You came.”

That’s when the last thread snaps. The part of him that still thinks he’s undeserving, unworthy, unwanted. Because of course he came. He’d tear down cities for you.

One of the men behind him groans. Bucky rises, slow and quiet, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t stop himself.

He’s not fast about it. The Winter Soldier never is. Efficiency would be mercy, and there’s no mercy left in him for these men.

He doesn’t use a gun. He doesn’t need to. The sound that fills the room isn’t just violence—it’s justice wrapped in grief.

They die begging, voices breaking on pleas that fall on deaf ears.

When it’s done, he wipes his metal hand on his thigh and turns back to you.

And for all the blood that paints the walls, for all the ruin he’s left behind, you aren’t scared. Not for a heartbeat.

You reach for him the second he crouches beside you again. He flinches when your fingers brush his jaw, not because of what you touch—but because he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched after what he’s done.

“Hey,” you breathe, gentle even now. “You’re shaking.”

“I—” His throat closes. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

You shake your head. “I wanted you to come for me.”

Something raw flashes in his eyes. “I always will.”

He cuts the zip ties from your wrists, wraps his jacket around your shoulders. You lean into him, trembling, but it’s not from fear. It’s the crash of adrenaline, the sudden safety.

Your cheek presses to the cool metal of his arm, and you whisper, “You didn’t have to hold back for them.”

Bucky swallows hard. “You saw me.”

“I saw you,” you correct softly. “Not him.”

That’s the part that undoes him—the way you say it like there’s a difference. Like you can tell. Like you’ve always known.

He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, holds you tighter than he probably should. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For what I did.”

“For saving me?”

He huffs something between a laugh and a sob. “For what I became to do it.”

You tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. There’s blood on your face and dirt in your hair and still—still—you look at him like he hung the stars.

“You became mine,” you say quietly. “And that’s enough for me.”

Later, when backup arrives, they find the place silent. Bodies cooling, air heavy with cordite and copper. You’re curled in Bucky’s lap on the steps outside, his metal arm around you, his human hand tracing lazy circles on your knee.

He’s watching the horizon like it might judge him.

Sam crouches beside him, eyes flicking between the massacre and the way you’re tucked against Bucky’s chest. “You good, man?”

Bucky’s jaw flexes. “She’s safe.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bucky looks down at you—the way your fingers have wound tight in the fabric of his shirt, as if even asleep you can’t stand to let go. The tension in his shoulders eases just enough to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I will be.”

Later, back home, you clean the dried blood from his knuckles. He watches your careful hands, the way you touch him without hesitation.

“You should be scared of me,” he murmurs.

You smile faintly. “Then you don’t know how safe I feel right now.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Just leans forward, forehead to yours, eyes closed.

“Next time,” you whisper, “just get there faster.”

He huffs a quiet laugh against your lips. “Next time, doll, they won’t even make it out the door.”

You believe him. And you don’t mind.

Because there’s a difference between the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. The world might never see it.

There comes a point where you have to question your self-respect.

Or, better said, your lack of self-respect.

Every kid has big dreams. Take little Tommy L. for example: first day of elementary school, he got up on a chair and proclaimed to the class that he would be the first person to step foot on Jupiter. Everyone applauded his bravery, a cheerful ruckus of whiny children egging on the fantasies of a dreamer. No one dared to dampen the mood by pointing out the fact that Jupiter is made of gas and therefore cannot be stepped on — this, of course, was not out of consideration for his feelings, but out of the sheer ignorance that comes with being young and unaware.

The next person that comes to mind is Natasha R. Head-strong and confident, not once in the ten years of knowing her have you doubted her ability to make her dreams a reality. Mostly because her dreams were relatively simple, to the point, and oh-so Nat: I just want to get payed to boss idiots around.

Low and behold, you are now that idiot she gets payed to boss around.

Because only an idiot would find herself in a public bathroom, squandering her dream away for Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Christ alive,” speak of the devil, and he shall moan in your ear — or however that saying goes. It’s a little hard to remember, or care, in your current predickament. “How’s she getting tighter?”

Blunt nails dig into skin, scratching off the body glitter sprayed over you by a team of stylists. If they could see you now, bent over a sink with the frilly shorts of a matching, custom, two-piece set billowing out around your ankles, while a mirror forces you to confront the state you’re in: eyeliner smudging at waterlines, a tangled web of dishevelled extensions, and a hue of lipstick now staining the mouth of rock legend, James Buchanan Barnes… Well, they would not be surprised, but they would certainly be disappointed.

“Wider, baby. Theeeere we go,” steel-toed boots push against dainty heels, forcing you into a state of compliance in which your legs spread further apart and you feel the tip of his cock nudge a part of you that previously you had not known existed. “Need to stretch her out again, don’t I?”

The only need you should have right now is to get back to your table. To sit with Nat on your right, a labelmate on your left, and the impeccably dressed CEO of Thunderbolt Records directly across from you, hawk-eyed and waiting to see if his newest protégé takes home the award of Best New Artist.

“Figured a pretty slut like you wouldn’t have this issue,” against your own best intentions, you grind back against Bucky, walls squeezing him in a momentary vice. Worst of all, he doesn’t gasp, or groan, or giveaway the slightest sign of surprise — because he expects this, knows what kind of a reaction his degrading pet names rouse from you. “Them other guys not been fucking my girl’s pussy right, hmm?”

My.

Ownership, possessive. An object belonging to he who speaks it.

Bucky says it with conviction, no waver in the familiar rasp that takes over his voice during times of pleasure. He means it and believes it, almost in spite of the fact it could not be further from the truth. You are not his, this has been made clear more than once throughout these twisted sexcapades you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in — your better judgement has not taken the backseat but, instead, has been fully booted out of the car.

A cruel laughter rips through his chest and cuts straight into your own, a gash that threatens to bleed all over the bathroom floor. Instead of blood, a tear of arousal drips onto the ground.

“Or have you been savin’ her for me? Yeah, bet you been keeping her nice and tight. Just wanted to relive the memory of me splitting you open that first time in Paris, didn’t ya?”

Like any ego-maniac, coke-fuelled jukebox hero, Bucky Barnes is a man in love with the sound of his own voice.

“Shouldn’t you be- Aah!” Mission failed: you reach for your voice and, consequently, Bucky reaches for your hair.

His chest presses flush against your back, your head meets his shoulder, and ring clad fingers tangle themselves in the mess of your hair, tugging just enough to rouse a sting over your scalp. Liberation is found in the pain; a reminder that Bucky can hurt you, that pleasure is not the only thing his touch can bring. What is the virtue of pleasure to a thousand vices?

“You’re so stupid sometimes, you know? Can’t even finish a simple sentence once I get you all cockdrunk,” there’s an irritation in his voice that you almost believe, like he can’t stand seeing you act this way. Like he’s not the one to blame, rolling his hips slowly only to snap back into you, filling the tiled room with the squelch of your soaked walls. “Go on, finish what you started. Shouldn’t I be what?”

He’s evil.

And, sadly, you’re more than accustomed to him by now, “Shouldn’t you be saving your voice? Fans- Oh god!”

“Not quite God, baby,” something about the condescension injected into each syllable has your eyes rolling back, fingers shooting out in search of something to stabilise your sanity with. Your torturer grants you this small favour, binding his hand to yours in a collision of flesh that almost mimics a lover, so woefully contradictory to the manner in which he’s fucking you. “But if you wanna call me that, go right ahead.”

“You’re annoying,” you gasp, half in frustration and half in shock, eyes growing wider the longer you stare at your reflection.

Never once had you thought yourself a voyeur, so used to hiding from the visual un-pleasantries of sex beneath dimmed lights and bedsheets and placid lovers… Then came along the devil to drag you down a path of temptation, fucking you into the silk sheets of his bed. You had not only felt the act, but watched it too: a performance mirrored onto the ceiling, your face of ecstasy peeking out from his left shoulder while Bucky buried himself in your neck and your cunt.

The image haunted you for weeks, through rehearsals and studio sessions, the memories of your ankles interlocked at his back while his unjustly perky ass rocked back and forth with his thrusts plagued your waking hours; until, at last, your paths crossed again and he gave you a new sexcapade to reminisce over. Now here you are, months later, back in front of a mirror and dreading the fact you will never look at your reflection the same way.

A version of your name is groaned into your ear, as the mirror displays the frantic speed overtaking his hips, a final burst of energy to sprint towards his finishing line.

“Shut up,” your voice is pathetic, reducing your command to a pitiful request. The last thing you want is to be haunted by the sound of your own name tearing through his throat in a destructive crescendo of lust. “Save your voice for your- Ngh! Your performance.”

Bucky relieves your scalp of pressure, hand skirting down the length of your body, over the dips of your hips, and between the valley of your thighs. Frozen on the reflection, your eyes are entranced by how the static, overhead white-light catches on the grey steel of his rings as his fingers continue their descent. While his thumb takes to circling your clit in slow, torturous movements, his index and middle finger spread your folds apart. You try to run from the sight, from the shame of watching how he fills you so easily, how your tight opening hugs his girth, but you can’t, he won’t let you.

“Stars like me don’t perform at these things, pretty girl,” he drops your hand in favour of clutching your face, callouses built over decades of plucking strings now pressing into the soft of your cheek and holding your face in place, pinning your stare to his own in the glass. “That’s for rookies like you. Still need to sell yourself like a whore to the masses.”

Five years in the game amounts to nothing and slips down the drain. His words are a short and unsweet reminder that, despite the time and effort already put into your career, you’re still new to this part: the glitz and the glamour, the screaming fans and the intrusive paparazzi, the late-night shows and early-morning radios. A once heathen indie artist, now the gods of success have baptised you in their waters. The corporate machine of the industry treats you like a wilted flower, at last warmed by the spotlight of a main-stage and watered by the profits of a record deal.

“Need to cum.” The words are terse, not quite a request, not quite a warning. The mirror holds no secrets, laying you both bare for the other to see: the twitch of your thighs as the circles he teases your clit with grow harsher; the exertion of his body fucking into yours causing tears of sweat to run down his face, smudging the messy charcoal lining his eyes; the parting of his lips as he turns his face into yours, nose pressing into your cheek and his breath hitting your skin. “Gonna let me cum in you, hmm? Fill you up, like you deserve? C’mon, know you want it, don’t you? Wanna feel me seeping out this pussy, all sticky and warm, staining your panties while you’re up on that stage.”

What you intend to be a protest, a denial of his outlandish claims, quickly devolves into a whine of his name, hand meeting the one between your thighs. To pull him away, to hold him place, to just feel how the bones, muscles, ligaments of his fingers all work together to send you towards a maddening spiral, nirvana born only at his touch.

“Of all the pretty girls that chant my name, you’re definitely my favourite,” is Bucky’s twisted version of a compliment, something to make you swoon and weak in the knees. Instead, it makes you sick to your stomach, flash-images of every faceless body he’s taken his pent-up frustrations and post-performance high out on. Groupies and band bunnies, faceless shapes in crowds that got lucky and captured his attention from behind the drum kit. You’re no better than any of them, nor more important, yet a knife twists in your chest like you should be. You should be more than that, more than a cheap fuck in a public bathroom, more than a desperate quickie amidst the award show you’ve dreamed your whole life of attending. “‘S only fair of my favourite girl to let me cum in her. Wanna watch you doing your cutesy dancing across the stage and know your walls are wearing me like a good luck charm. Hell, you win that little award and we can make a tradition out of it, make sure I fuck you full of me every award show.”

“Do it,” your chest heaves, and you tell yourself this is you giving in, this is you letting him get his way, one last time. Not because you’re weak, and certainly not because you want him to cum inside, but because you want him to stop talking like your lives are interlinked, like any form of a future exists where you two have private pre-show rituals or good luck charms. “Fuck, James- Cum in me, please! Just get it over-”

A hand clamps over your mouth, fingers wet with you and staining your lips in the taste of lust, while Bucky’s voice hits your ear in a harsh whisper, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, you little slut. Take what I’m giving you like the gift it is, and make sure you thank me in that speech of yours, when you’re holding that award in your hands and my cum in your cunt.”

Seconds later, Bucky tips over the edge. Warmth floods your insides, melting away the part of you that can think clearly, and leaving nothing but the desperate soul that strives for some form of human connection, something a little deeper than niceties and handshakes. Your walls clamp down around his cock, a spasm creeping up the length of your spine as he continues to grind into you, feeding his cum deeper while you ride out the waves of your orgasm, head thrown back against his shoulder and eyes blinking up at the now blurry ceiling.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Time warps, bending to the will of Bucky’s existence while he holds you pressed against him. Breaths fall in sync, deep and heavy and exhausted. You faintly register the brush of his lips along your skin: your shoulder, your jaw, your cheek, your neck, your forehead. He’s relentless, smothering you in the musk of day-old cigarettes, burnt whisky, and expensive cologne.

You take the initiative to part ways, shifting forward to lean one palm flat on the sink and the other against his torso, shoving him back in a weak effort. He grants your request, slipping out of you with a hiss. Despite the shame that overwhelms your heart, you still can’t help but moan when you feel his index and middle finger swipe through your folds, collecting the spill of his own spend. He fucks it back inside slowly, rings kissing against your puffy lips.

“We can’t keep-” You pause, trying to gather all the willpower you have to inject it into your wavering conviction. “Doing this. I don’t want to. Not anymore. Please.”

“You’re pleading, baby,” he muses, fingers curling up ever so slightly just to give him the pleasure of watching you clamp down on your bottom lip, trapping a whine inside. Bucky chuckles, mockery imbued into it, and your traitor of a stomach flips. “Acting like you didn’t come running to meet me here.”

You want to tell him that it shouldn’t flatter him. That he should not mistake your eagerness for enjoyment. You come running to Bucky like a moth flies towards a flame: entranced and yet wholly unaware of its incoming destruction.

“I mean it, James.” That was good. Well done. You almost believed yourself, which means you’re halfway to convincing him too. “This is it. The last time. I don’t want to see you, ever again.”

“Ever again? ‘S a bit harsh, sweetheart. We work in the same industry, under the same record label. Gonna have to see me at some point,” his fingers depart from you, Hallelujah!

Only to shatter your joy when you spot Bucky in the mirror, wrapping his lips around them and savouring the taste of you both on his tongue. Instead of reacting how the feral animal inside of you longs to — bending over the sink and inviting him to take a taste straight from the source — you take to pulling your shorts back up, trying your best to manufacture a composed, talented, busy woman out of the wreck of a girl he’s made of you.

Bucky speaks up before your hand can hit the door handle, halting you in your tracks, “Not even gonna answer me? You’re breaking my heart here, baby.”

Your shoulders lift with a deep breath and then you’re wrenching the door open and taking a single step out into the backstage halls, not even bothering to glance back at him, “Delete my number, James.”

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, you were in a sheer dress and a state of utter panic.

Seven months have passed in the blink of an eye, yet even now you can still recall every detail.

The uncomfortable quiet of the hotel’s lobby, the blood rushing to your cheeks as you catch your heel on the carpet, the bracing for impact of both the floor and everyone’s attention. And then a grip wrapping itself around your arm, an effortless tug back against a solid figure, and a condescending laugh ringing in your ears.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t want you bruising those pretty knees,” a voice like caramel, sweet but sickly, threatening to erode not only your teeth but your mental well-being. In an act that would have the suffragettes tutting in shame, a tornado of butterflies swipes through the valley of your loins. “At least not like this. Would rather see them put to good use first.”

The last person you expect to see leering at you, as you turn to assess your dirty-minded saviour, was rock legend James Buchanan Barnes, founding member and drummer of ‘The Howling Commandos’. Unlike you, he’s far from dressed for the nines: hair an unbrushed mess, face in desperate need of a shave, sporting a miscellaneous stain on his hoodie and a pair of untied basketball shorts that, if you were looking — and you aren’t — you would notice his thigh tattoo peeking out at the bottom.

With a stuttered apology, and a glance over your shoulder to assure your nerves that no one had noticed your near-mishap, you stumble back and inflate the space between you both. Though he makes no attempt to secure his grip, hand dropping back to his side at the first sign of you fleeing its touch, his eyes pin you beneath his stare, the blue of his irises a near perfect match to the designer dress clinging to your curves.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Barely five minutes into unofficially knowing him and he has already caught you off-guard twice, a feat which should be an omen for the future trajectory of your complicated relationship. Instead of acknowledging that right now, you’re too busy feeling starstruck by the fact he possibly knows who you are. “Yeah, I do, don’t I?”

Your attempt to make eye-contact is abandoned instantly, the intensity of his stare too much for you to handle, “Uh… I don’t know. Maybe? We’ve never actually met-”

“Course we haven’t, I’d never forget meeting that pretty face of yours,” against your better nature and the voice screaming at you that a man like him flirts with anything with a pulse, you regrettably feel yourself smile shyly in his direction, fingers fiddling with the borrowed ring sitting snug around your index finger. “You’re Thunderbolt’s golden girl, aren’t you? His shiny new toy.”

Once again in retrospect, the lighting bolt of surprise that strikes through you is unjustified.

Bucky Barnes has every right to know of you and your position within the industry. And not just because you are still riding the wave of becoming an ‘overnight success’, your sophomore album hitting number 1 on the global charts and your presence in the industry suddenly becoming a lot more noticed by fans and media like. No, he has every right to know you through the simple fact that you are both under the same record label.

Half of the enigma surrounding Thunderbolt Records is focused on the matter of how, in less than two decades, they have grown from indie label to household name — the Oxford University of music labels, a company that every up and coming artist dreams of signing with.

Rumours have forever surrounded the illusive CEO; ludicrous tales ranging from him being born into generational wealth, to internet theories speculating on the uncanny resemblance between him and a high-ranking member of the Ruska Roma family. But, no matter what people believe when it comes to the company’s origins, the whole world can agree on this: the musical legacy of the company lies in the calloused hands of The Howling Commandos… A musical legacy you are now inscribed upon.

“I don’t know if golden girl is the right term,” a wolfish grin overcomes his face, tongue swiping over his bottom lip and slipping back into his mouth. He hums, pleasured, like he can taste you in the air, a snake locking onto the scent of new prey. “Rusty bucket is more up my avenue.”

There is a distorted laugh that comes with wealth and power; one that is loud, and abrasive, and shamelessly punctuates one’s presence. That’s exactly how Bucky laughs at your self-deprecating claims: head thrown back, hand splayed over his torso, nose ring shaking slightly as exaggerated humour scrunches up his face. He shows no care for the fact the clock has hardly passed ten in the morning, or that the decadently decorated hotel lobby carries an air of sophistication and library-level silence. Why would a man who’s had the whole world grovelling at his feet care for decorum?

“So, what brings you to Paris, goldie?” There are his eyes again, trailing down the length of you. As he lingers over your chest, you begin to question your stylist, Wanda’s decision to have you go bra-less, leaving the hue of your nipples perfectly visible beneath the see-though fabric. “Dressed like that, I’m guessing Fashion Week. Channel?”

A shake of your head, “Dior.”

The brand still tastes strange in your mouth. Foreign, like it belongs anywhere but between your teeth. A girlish part of you, the one that is still very much a fan in the presence of her celebrities, almost wants to ask Bucky if he had felt this way at the start of his stardom. If the sound of his name in strangers’ voices had felt intrusive, if looking up at the stage lights had felt like staring at the barrel of a gun, if the glitz and glam still felt like borrowed garments on his skin.

Somehow, you find the will to not sound like a complete loser, and instead adopted the attitude of someone speaking to just another co-worker… If you forget about the fact that said co-worker has just been announced as Sexiest Man of the Year and is known for making more than hearts throb.

“What brand are you here with?”

“Oh, me? Fashion Week’s not really my scene, too many people kissing up to Wilson for my liking.”

Sam Wilson, full-time guitarist and fellow member of  The Howling Commandos, part-time runway model. He’s become a staple figure in male fashion, one of the top-to-watch at any MET Gala or red-carpet event. With a face sculpted by the hands of angels, it’s not hard to understand why every fashion house wrestles for a morsel of his attention. Amidst all this, he’s also known as the member James Barnes shares the strangest relationship with, both forever taking harmless jabs at each other in the press, only to go for blood the minute anyone else dares to throw dirt on their names.

“This is just a little treat, a vacation before the band heads back out on tour,” Barnes explains, after assessing the confusion on your visage. At the mention of tour, his eyes light up, like he’s just remembered the most interesting story in the world. “Congrats on your album, by the way. Yelena said the launch party was quite the rager. Sorry I couldn’t make it, I was busy.”

Busy was a cute way of putting it.

Photographed on a yacht off the Canary Islands, with a hand-full of super-models and enough drugs to put a pharmacy to shame was a better reflection of the truth.

“Thanks!” Whatever demon is ruled by anxiety possesses you, forcing a burst of energy in your voice that not only has you flinching, but the rockstar in front of you too. “Uh, for the congratulations. Oh, and the flowers you sent. They were beautiful, lasted a whole two weeks before they started to wilt. I don’t know how you guessed my favourite-”

“My assistant organised the flowers, doll, I just covered the bill.” Well, that shuts you right up… And invites in another anxious demon, doubling the dose in your veins and inflicting you with an overdose of nerves. You try to exorcise it, knee bouncing the back of your heel onto the carpet in a hope to work out that nervous energy he conjures within you. “Tell you what though, why don’t you tell me how long you’re in the city and we can try organise a night where I can take you for dinner. That sound like something you’d like?”

“Oh. I don’t know if-”

“Back off, Barnes,” Natasha is by your side in the blink of an eye, smoothing out the wrinkles in her suit jacket and pinning the man with a warning stare, the kind you only ever see her shoot towards intrusive interviewers and pushy paparazzi. “Don’t you have some other innocent victim you can go harass with your presence?”

“Good to see you as always, Nat,” unfazed by her diss and her glare, Bucky renews the intensity under which he studies you, picking you apart more and more with each blink. “What’s so wrong about a senior in the industry wanting to get to know the sparkly new thing under his record label?”

“Exactly what you just said. You’re her senior. A man your age should be looking for a wife, not terrorising the youth.” With the way Nat’s talking, you’d think you were freshly eighteen and still frightened of the world, and Bucky a man twice your age. Instead, your frontal lobe is months away from full-development, with a decade or so separating you from Bucky’s life experience. “And you-” Oh no, there she is pointing fingers at you, though her eyes have softened and there’s no longer an angry wrinkle cutting across her otherwise flawless forehead. “Quit being polite and learn to tell creeps like him to shove it where the sun don’t shine-”

“For the record, I really would like to take you to dinner-”

“Uh-huh, and what were you thinking of eating for dessert? Her? Get lost, Barnes, before I call Tony and tell him to put his star on a leash.” Nat’s hand lands between your shoulder blades, guiding you away from James Barnes without so much as a goodbye. Curiosity, your greatest nemesis, entices you to glance back, only to find him doing the very same, shooting you a cheeky wink while he waits for the elevator doors to welcome him in. “You’re late. Your first big brand event and you’re about to arrive late. I swear, someone’s getting fired once I find out who fucked up the hotel pick up-”

“How do you know him?” You interrupt Natasha, head already splitting with your own stress, the ache only growing as she rambles on.

“Who? Bucky?” The Parisian wind cuts at your cheek as the two of you pour out of revolving doors onto the street. A flash of blinding lights, a handful of photographers already crowding around the hotel entrance, has you wishing your outfit came with a matching pair of sunglasses. Nat keeps a hand clasped around your elbow, guiding you towards the open door of a car before shoving you both inside, out of the chaos and onto the leather seats. “He’s unfortunately my friend. I used to babysit Yelena Belova, she’s like a sister to me. Blame it on her that I have to know that idiot.”

Maybe that’s how Bucky got your number: he called in a favour from The Howling Commandos front-woman, Yelena Belova.

However he pulled off such a feat doesn’t matter in the grand-scheme of things. What does matter is that he called you the next morning, put the dinner offer back on the table, and convinced you to meet him in the hotel lobby at eight pm.

Right where you left me yesterday, goldie. Meet me there.

Dinner winds up being drinks, and a congratulations from Bucky Barnes winds up being you spread out in the middle of his suite, your vision going blurry while his tongue worked magic against you. By the time the time morning comes, so have you… A handful of times, no inch of you left untouched by him. While he snores away on a well-fluffed pillow, you make your great escape with your heels clutched to your chest and an ache between your thighs.

What should have been a one-time thing, another notch in both your bedposts, perhaps even a flirty line for a future song, has since spiralled into a car crash; the kind you can only hope that tossing yourself out the window can save you from the impending collision.

Which is exactly why you have blocked his number.

“Helloooo, earth to kiddo!”

You snap out of the reminiscent daydream to find Clint Barton waving in front of your face, something written across his features, as close to worry as he ever gets. Thrust back into the present, the studio comes back into full-view as your eyes skirt over the soundboard in front of you before at last settling on the screen where Clint has pulled up the latest demo you’ve both been working on.

He’s watching you expectantly, on the edge of his seat and on the verge of calling out to you again, “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You lie out of pure instinct, a defensive mechanism that you sometimes forget to disengage around him. “Actually, no, sorry. Can you repeat whatev-”

“You sleeping okay, kid?”

“I- Why? Do I look like I’m not?”

“You look like you haven’t been sleeping, full stop.” Concern is customary when it comes to Clint, now more than ever since he’s become a father.

Much like Natasha, he’s been with you since Day 1 — if Day 1 began the evening you sat down and decided you were going to release your debut album, sans label and backed by nothing but a low-wage job at the local zoo, a kick-starter, and a dream. Enter stage left Clint Barton, genius producer hiding amongst the low-lives in a dive bar.

“Is that what you asked me?”

“What? No,” Clint shakes his head, head turning back to the screen after taking an extra second or two to study your supposedly exhausted features. “I was asking about your thoughts on the track. Do we like it? Are we scrapping it? Is it lead-single material?”

The questions fly at you like a checklist he’s been ordered to fill out, and you have no doubt who put him up to this.

“He’s been emailing you again, hasn’t he?” The he in question is, of course, none other than your beloved CEO.

“Him and his assistant-slash-girlfriend are currently away on a business trip,” Clint slumps back in his chair, springs screeching at the same time as your phone buzzes on the table. “We have until Wednesday to confirm a lead single. They want to announce your next album before the end of the month.”

“Already? I feel like we just put out the last one!”

“You’re a hot commodity, kid,” he nods over at the anointed trophy cupboard where, perched upon the top shelf and shining in a way that seems to be mocking you, sits your latest and greatest award: Best New Artist. “Gotta strike while the iron is hot, and all that crap they say. That’s just Hollywood!”

“Hollywood is the movie business, you idiot,” though you roll your eyes, you can’t ignore the fact he’s soothing away those beginning embers of anger in your chest.

Another buzz from your phone.

Clint is back on the screen, mouse in hand as he moves around the layering of your vocals.

“Point is,” his voice drowns out another buzz, but it does not halt you from reaching for the device. “We need to come up with something before the boss-man throws us in the capitalist grinder and turn us into minced-meat. Minced-musicians!”

Poor Clint is left high and dry, not even a pity giggle thrown at his cheesy joke.

Because your attention is glued to your phone screen, heart lurching up into your throat as you scan over the notification bar, reading and re-reading with the hope that the words on the screen will disappear if you look long enough.

instagram barnesonly: you blocked my number, that hurt me and not-so-mini barnes’ feelings.

instagram barnesonly: i’m willing to forgive you if you meet me for dinner tomorrow, 8pm.

instagram barnesonly: we can call it your early-birthday present to me.

His birthday is months away, absolutely nowhere near to passing.

You know that. You remind yourself of it by opening your browser and searching. Low and behold: James Buchanan Barnes was born 10th of March, 19… And yet, even with this staring you right in the eye, you swipe down, tap on the notifications, and open up your chat history.

Most of it features him responding to your stories with some variation of the thirsty emoji, with the occasional congratulations. Never once have you responded, leaving the infamous James Barnes to appear as nothing more than a mere fanboy, instead of a world-renowned, lady-adored musician. Before you can even dare pop your chat-cherry, he’s typing again, unknowingly answering the question you were about to ask.

barnesonly: i booked us a reservation at chateau barnes.

The restaurant is far from what you expect.

With Bucky, overindulgence is everything. No half-measures, no settling for a more palatable price, no cutting corners to get a cheap deal. Since the moment you met him, he’s tossed cash around as easily as he’s tossed you around in bed, manhandling the cards in his wallet and taking any excuse to flaunt his wealth. At first, it was attractive, a regrettable staple of his persona that only seemed to make you weaker in the knees and wetter between your thighs. Then, with time and the state of your questionable relationship, it soured and turned into something crass, a piece of him that turned your stomach.

You assumed tonight would be no different. He would take you to eat at a place where imposter syndrome would cage you in from every wall, where the menu is an amalgamation of dishes you’d sooner keel over and die than try — what is it with rich people and thinking the more obscure the food, the better it tastes?

Decadent is not the word you would use to describe Chateau Barnes. Comfy, quaint, cute all fall far more in line with the establishment, lively with customers yet not stuffy in atmosphere. This alone unwinds some of the knots in your gut, just unfortunately not enough for you to tolerate Bucky Barnes’ wandering stare.

“… Medium-rare, and d’ya think you could ask your chef to be generous with the peppercorn sauce?” He’s hardly looking the waitress in the eye, gaze flickering between the pad in her hand and the burst of cleavage peeking out the top of her shirt.

“The chef’s a bit of a grump here,” you watch the girl throw a look over her shoulder. Following her trail, you catch the back of a dark haired man through the kitchen window. Strangely, he looks like a cleaner-cut version of the man sitting across from you, whose lips are stained with red wine and eyes are widened from a trip to the gentleman’s room. “You’re in luck, though. Our sous chef is a sweetheart, I’ll ask him to pour you a little extra sauce.”

“Thanks, sugar,” with a parting wink from Bucky, the waitress almost seems to skip away to put in your order.

The glass on the table calls out to you, a siren tempting you to down it’s remnants of wine; to drown your sorrows in the aged grape juice until they are dead and gone. You give in, far too easily for a woman determined to keep her wits about her tonight, and swallow it down in one fowl gulp. Across the table, Bucky watches you attentively, like you hold the key to everything he’s been missing.

That is basically what he had said, right? When you sat down in the chair and let him tuck you in against the table, mouth dipping to press a chaste kiss on the crown of your head before a whispered confession met your ear: Missed my golden girl.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he takes the initiative of refilling your glass, the neck of the bottle hitting the rim with a soft clink as his unsteady hand hovers it over the dainty cup. “Not sure if I told you that yet.”

“You did.” It comes out colder than the late-night air blowing outside, your words clipped of any niceties as you watch him struggle to sit still. “Four times.”

“See?” Bottle back on the table, his fingers slide across the white cloth and tangle themselves in your own. Despite the nausea bubbling in the back of your throat, a part of you still wavers at his touch. “You’re just so damn pretty, I can’t get enough of telling you. Can’t get enough of looking at you.”

“Is that why you were perving on the waitresses’ tits?”

His spine straightens yet his hand does not flee from yours. Instead, it stresses its presence, pulsing a soft squeeze once, then twice, like he’s fighting to remind you that he’s here with you. It seems Bucky doesn’t realise that he is the one who needs reminding of it.

A pink tongue, now stained mauve, pokes out to wet his bottom lip, his jaw tenses and he turns his face to the left, eyes breaking away from your own to look toward a nearby table. A couple sit in a booth, impervious to the social norms of sitting across a table, and instead opting to snuggle side by side, too busy gazing into each other’s eyes to notice how their food is going cold. Bucky pulls in a breath, slow and through his nose, inflating his shoulders and, likely, his ego, before turning back to face you.

“What do you want from me?”

When you envisioned a scenario in which you wound up choking tonight, you hadn’t imagined it would be on your wine. Quelling your cough, you find the outrage in your system, “Excuse me? You invited me here, asshole.”

“Not talking ‘bout tonight,” something glassy overcomes his eyes, reflecting the twinkling of the restaurant’s low-lights. He squeezes your hand, instinctively, stabilising himself in holding you. It’s not enough to ease the shakes rippling throughout him, like wind over water. “You’re playing me like an instrument, baby. Dodging my calls, swearing you never wanna see me again, then you go and get pissy with me looking at another girl.”

“Playing you like an instrument? Quit being cryptic, Bucky, it doesn’t suit-”

“Last time I checked, it was me who was begging you for something more, something real. Practically served my heart to you on a platter,” finally, his fingers slip back over the cloth and settle at his side. A cold rushes in at the loss of contact but you tell yourself to ignore it, to clench your fist shut and sit a little taller in your seat. “Then you chewed it up, spat it out, and told me it wasn’t good enough.”

“Think you’re being a little dramatic there, Buc-”

“Am I? I told you I was serious about us and you laughed.”

You don’t mean to, you swear, but you can’t help the laugh that finds its way passed your lips this time either, “Because you’re full of shit, Barnes. You wouldn’t know serious if it slapped you in the face.”

“How do you know that? You won’t even give me the chance to take you on a proper date, and so here we are, acting like we don’t both feel this-”

“How do I know? Look at your history, James! You’re not exactly a symbol of monogamy and fidelity,” your voice attracts an unwanted amount of attention from a neighbouring table, to which you quickly dip your head and pray they don’t recognise either of you. “Remind me, how many time have you been caught cheating? Four? Five? Si-”

“That’s different. How I felt about them wasn’t this,” Bucky flattens a palm against his chest, right over where his heart lays. If you search hard enough through the archives of your mind, you can hear the beat of it beneath your ear, slowing from frantic to a steady thump, a melody played for no one other than you. “I could try, if it were us. If it were for you.”

You hate him. More than fire hates water, more than the Sun hates Moon, more than Moriarty hates Sherlock. If only you could will it, you would choose to never look him in those pathetically weepy eyes again…

Now, if you could only say all of that to him and not sound like you’re lying through your teeth, that would be great.

“I’m not a loyalty test for you to ace,” over his shoulder, you spot the waitress from earlier balancing your order in her hands, weaving past tables effortlessly. Your gaze fixates on her a few seconds longer than needed, but you’re just not quite ready to look at Bucky again. When you are, you find him scowling. “We aren’t lab partners, okay? I don’t want to be part of your experiment.”

“Stop twisting my fucking words-” His anger is intercepted by an overly joyous voice.

While you have enough etiquette in your bones to smile politely and thank the waitress as she delivers your plates and cheerfully tells you to Enjoy! Bucky remains seated and seething like a toddler, tattooed arms crossed over his chest and a damn near humph falling from his wine-sullied lips.

Even like this, looking pathetic and aggravating, something coils around your gut as you take in the swell of his biceps. Try as much as you do to fight it, your thoughts spiral down into memory after memory of watching those same arms, glistening in sweat and covered in ink, gliding over a drum kit and hitting every beat effortlessly, a man-shaped machine built for music who somehow still finds the time to wink at the audience the moment he feels the camera pointed at him. He also manages to find the energy, off stage and back in the safety of his dressing room, to bend you over a chaise lounge and smack his drum kits against something else.

Treating your brain like an Etch A Sketch, you shake it and watch the memories fade away, dragging yourself back into the present where the last thing you want is to be bent over by Bucky Barnes.

“I know this might be hard for that big head of yours to understand,” across from you, his lip teases a smile. You can practically smell the dirty joke defrosting in his brain, slowly spinning around like a dish inside a microwave, just waiting for the timer to ding and give him the go ahead to unleash it. “But not everything is about you. I wasn’t pissy at you for checking the waitress out, I was trying to defend an innocent girl from your pervy gaze.”

Steak knife in hand, he scoffs down at his plate, confirming the state of the meat before bothering himself, and subsequently you, with a response, “Innocent girl, my ass. She knows what she’s doing, practically shoving her tits in my face.”

“She’s doing her job!”

“And her job just so happens to involve slutting herself out for tips,” a splatter of watered-down blood bursts out of the steak as Bucky stabs it with his fork, crudely shoving the bite in his mouth before continuing to talk. “She was practically asking for me to look at her!”

James Barnes is such a peculiar brand of douchebag that you often forget how, beneath the layer of all his little quirks and mannerisms that make your blood boil, he is merely a man at his core. Therefore, he is bound to say something so despicable with an air of righteousness and a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

If there weren’t a table between you and a room full of people who could recognise either of you at any moment, you would reach across the table and slap the food right out of his rotten mouth.

Instead, you wrinkle your nose and stick to twirling pasta onto your fork, “You’re actually despicable.”

“Yeah, well,” he shoots you a tight-lipped smile, as fake as the ones you shoot while being hounded on the streets by strangers shoving their phones into your face. “I’d say you love it, but we both know how you feel about that word.”

He stumps you into silence.

Bucky isn’t supposed to know about that.

About the way that word keeps you awake at night, twisting knots in your stomach and choking down your breath with boulders in your throat. About how it looms over you like a cloud, drapes off of you like a shadow, sits across from you at a table-of-one every morning as you eat breakfast. About how it feels like your personal Everest, a mountain that you will either die trying to climb or, worse, you will reach its peak only to find it wasn’t worth all the hassle that went into the climb. Bucky isn’t supposed to know the things you don’t vocalise to him; he is not supposed to read you like the pages of a book that is wide open, on display for his eyes to skim over and through.

Your defences activate, a bitterness overcoming you as you drop your fork. It clangs down onto the porcelain plate and his eyes flicker down to watch, only to shoot back up to yours and find themselves caught in your vengeful stare.

“Do you want to know the real reason we’d never work, Barnes?” As expected, he nods eagerly, elbows pressing down on the table as he leans a little closer towards you, awaiting to hear what opinion of yours he has to burden himself with changing. “Because we’ve been here for less than an hour and you’ve already been to the bathroom five times.”

“Harsh, sweetheart,” his lips kiss against his teeth, before stretching into a teasing grin. He’s not taking you seriously. “Didn’t know you had a thing against small bladders.”

“Don’t try bullshit your way out of this, James.”

“Now look who’s being cryptic-”

“You’re high.”

That shuts him up instantly.

The noise of the restaurant seems to double and pops the bubble surrounding you both. Conversations bleed into an amalgamation of unintelligible voices, cutlery scrapes against plates and grates at your ears, and footsteps fall like heavy weights on the floor.

Bucky is the first to clear his throat, eyelids suddenly looking a little heavier, like he’s hoping to conceal his blown-out pupils. “Let’s not go around throwing accusations, baby-”

“Oh so I just hallucinated you wiping powder off your nostril when you came back to the table?” Though you sit taller and more confident now than you have all evening, your skin crawls and you want to erase the weight of guilt that falls over you as you watch him shrink in on himself. “Next I assume you’re going to tell me your eyes aren’t bloodshot, I’m just colour blind.”

A sigh rips itself from his soul and tears into yours — and still you refuse to dampen the faux confidence in your features.

“Look, I know I’m an…” Bucky’s confessions is lost somewhere between his tongue and his teeth, voice faltering under the pressure of his jaw clenching shut. He swallows back whatever lump fills his throat. “But I’m working on it.”

“Working on it how? By sniffing up every last morsel until your dealer’s all dried up and has no bags left to sell you?” You may as well have reached over that table and slapped him, just like you had imagined doing, for Bucky flinches like you’ve actually wounded him. Worst of all, you don’t feel satisfied, you just feel pity. For both of you. “So, yeah, forgive me for not believing you can commit to me. From where I’m sitting, you seem pretty committed to cocaine.”

The night should end there.

You should throw a wad of cash on the table, wish him a happy way-too-fucking-early birthday, and storm out of the restaurant with that little bite of dignity still in your mouth.

Instead, you both eat in silence. You both drink in silence. You both drive back to his place in silence.

Past the threshold of double doors, the barrier of sound breaks around you both as Bucky let’s you put him in his place, eyes widened and bloodstream high on you instead of those thin white lines.

A necklace made of your hand tightened around his throat, your mouth around his cock, and the echo of his moans bouncing off the walls as you curl your fingers against his g-spot.

Just like Paris, you leave before he wakes, and tell yourself it won’t happen again.

The question haunts you from your phone screen in the back of a cab, as you wait to be delivered back to your apartment building without any wandering eyes noticing you.

instagram are you sure you want to block barnesonly?

You press  ‘confirm’ and tell yourself this is the end of the story.

It takes three weeks for you to cave.

You do not do so at your own volition but, more aptly, your hand is forced. Mid-rehearsals, clothes stained in far too much sweat than the public would ever wish to see dripping off a popstar — you learned fairly quickly how pristine of an image the public expects you to have, heaven forbid you do something human like sweat!

Wiping at your brow with a towel and excusing yourself from Maria’s choreography instructions, you open up your phone to find an alarming text from Natasha.

nat-attack: What the fuck did you do? 13:17

Ominous.

Not exactly the kind of message you want to receive from your manager; even less the kind of message you want to receive from your best friend. Heartbeat in your throat, you barely register your thumbs typing out a response.

is this about the lead single? you said you liked it’s in the woods more than the other demo? 13:23

Natasha is typing before your message has even been delivered, striking another wave of panic through you. At this point, your heart is in your mouth and you are one shocking piece of news away from spitting it onto the dance-halls polished floors.

nat-attack: Barnes instagram story. Check it. 13:23

Your thumb hits N, and another chat bubble appears on the screen.

nat-attack: NOW. 13:24

So, really, you can’t be blamed for breaking your own rules. After all, Nat wanted to boss idiots around, and you are her idiot.

At the very least, you don’t unblock him, no. You do the far more mature, absolutely justifiable act of making a whole new account just to immediately type his user into the search bar. Low and behold, that familiar pink-hued ring sits snug around a picture of him behind his beloved drums, tempting you with the knowledge of whatever could possibly have Nat on the brink of killing you so early in the day. Finger shaking, you tap his icon and wait for his story to load.

Regret may be your oldest and dearest friend, for she wraps herself around you with so much familiarity, you have no choice but to embrace her back. The known discomfort is the only thing preventing you from crashing out in front of your entire team of dancers as you come to terms with the image staring back at you.

The most striking feature is the red lace. Bright and commanding attention, it sits atop a set of hips and peeks down into the space between two ass cheeks. The owner of the hips is standing out of frame, the top left corner of the screen filled with the expanse of a naked back and the tiniest hint of under-boob. That’s hardly the most eye-catching part of the image, however. The spotlight is all on him, one hand spread open along the faceless back while the other snaps the crass selfie of his bite sinking into flesh, carving out the shape of his teeth into one of the cheeks.

Jealousy is not the emotion overcoming you. It’s shame, red-hot and coursing through your veins, as you feel yourself sink back into the past.

A hotel room in London. A brand launch party you both wound up at. A bottle or two of tequila… And then the stumble through your door, his voice in your ear begging so sweetly that it eroded any willpower you possessed to say no.

Please baby, don’t get to see you enough. Want something to remember you by, while you’re off making me proud and performing for all those crowds. C’mon, lemme put you on film. Pinky promise I won’t share it. Can you do that, just f’me?

Well, Bucky Barnes is clearly a fucking liar. Because there he goes posting a screenshot of the moment right before he pulled that lace to the side and buried his tongue between your cheeks to an account of 34.8m followers. While, yes, there is not a single identifiable trace of you on the screen for any stranger to distinguish your identity, that red lace is enough for Natasha to know.

Note to self: Never buy matching lingerie with Nat. Ever again.

You push aside the voice that nitpicks, telling you it should be something more along the lines of Note to self: Never sleep with Bucky Barnes. Ever Again.

When in doubt, it’s time to pull out the tried and tested method of deny, deny, deny.

checked it. don’t see what’s so surprising about bucky barnes posting a raunchy picture. isn’t that guy forever being linked to new women? 13:31

Either you are the world’s greatest actress or Natasha Romanoff decides you’ve suffered enough for one day, because she drops the subject and never brings Barnes up again… Until a song drops.

This time, she phones you.

Three forty seven in the morning, eyes finally shut and sleep secured after a gruelling day in the studio, you’re torn from the relaxing plains of a dreamless night by the only ringtone that can strike both love and fear through your heart in as little as one ring. You pick up on the fourth, vision still blurry and mind still laying on the pillow as you shrug off the sheets and sit up in bed.

“Why am I being wakened by the woman who kicked me out the studio to get my quote-unquote much needed beauty sleep?”

“Be thankful I called,” Nat’s tone tells you she means business, clipped and entirely uninterested in the light-hearted mood you’re trying to set. Whatever has happened, you’re certifiably screwed. “Instead of breaking into your apartment and slapping you awake, like I originally planned.”

Settling in for what no doubt is about to be a long conversation, you throw your legs over the side of the bed and search blindly for your slippers. “Pray tell, what have I done this time to warrant such abuse from my best friend?”

“Oh no, don’t try sucking up to me right now, missy. Not when you’re the reason I’m about to go prematurely grey!” Oh no. Oh no. The fear of every god strikes through you, just as your feet slip into the fluffy warmth of your house-shoes. If there is anything Natasha Romanoff takes immense pride in — apart from her killer business instinct and that time she floored a man in a boxing ring — it’s the fiery shade of her beautiful hair. Heaven forbid you be the reason she looses it, you might as well start packing you bags to flee the country now. “What did I tell you about getting involved with Bucky Barnes?”

“That it would be like playing Russian Roulette but the bullet is an STD.”

“And what else?”

“That it would be a safety hazard on my image?”

You’ve made your way out into the kitchen, balancing the phone between your ear and your shoulder while two hands occupy themselves with filling the kettle. By the time you switch it on, Nat’s in your ear again.

“Oh, so you do listen when I speak!”

You wince, pulling the speaker back from your ear as she barks a little too loudly down the line. Despite the laid-back demeanour you are wrestling to uphold, an inevitable fear strikes through you. Has he posted more screenshots? The whole video? Surely not. Bucky is many things, but he’s not cruel enough to harass you with full-blown revenge porn just because you blocked him out of your life… Right?

“Nat, listen-”

“Oh! I’ve done enough listening, thank you!” You can picture her eye roll so clearly, it’s like she’s in the kitchen with you, standing by your fruit bowl and nervously peeling the skin off an orange to avoid digging her nails into something else — ie. your neck. “Barnes released a song.”

“O…Kay?” The kettle, now boiled, tilts and expels water into your mug, steeping the chamomile teabag. “I really don’t know why you’re keeping me updated on everything that guy does, I mean he’s basically a stranger to me-”

“Oh, a stranger? Is that why he tagged you as a feature on the song?”

Your grip on the mug falters and it smashes on the floor, hot tea splashing up your leg and over your foot. The reaction is instant, a slew of curses falling from your mouth as you hop over to the bathroom and throw yourself into the shower cubicle, pointing the shower head at your leg and switching on the tap. All the while Nat is in your ear, ire on the back-burner while worry overtakes her voice.

“Are you okay? That yelp was pretty loud-”

“Yeah. I think,” you hiss, the cold water soothing the burn momentarily before the sting multiplies and rouses tears in your eyes. “Maybe not? I think I might’ve just given myself a third degree burn.”

“Shit. Okay. I’ll be at yours in 10, okay? We’ll take you to the emergency room.”

“Okay. I’m sor-”

“And don’t apologise or so help me God, I’ll give you a different reason to visit the hospital”

Nat hangs up before you get the chance to apologise for apologising — a habit she might just kill you over one day. While you wait for her to arrive and let herself in, you do what you do best: self-sabotage.

By which, of course, means you open up the first streaming platform you can find, type in that bastard’s name, and click on the most recent song you can find.

The song has no real name, just a date. A date that conjures too much recognition in you to be a mere coincidence. Pair that with the way your name sits pretty next to Feat., and suddenly the pain of your leg is the least of your concerns.

After an initial listen, you feel your shoulders immediately relax: at no point is your voice featured in the track. Then, because you must have an unknown vendetta against your own sanity, you press play again and swear, up and down, that it has nothing to with the fact you’ve missed hearing his voice. On your third listen, you catch it.

Subtle, soft, smothered between layers of bass and background vocals. You swear you hallucinate it, until you slide the song back and let it replay. A familiar cry plays, one that has your thighs clenching, as it melds into words you’ve tasted one too many times.

Please… Touch me… Harder… Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to meet him at the band’s studio that day. You weren’t supposed to meet him at all, really.

A shitty day of press and a headache pounding against the walls of your skull, you shutdown his offer of a midnight rendezvous with the excuse of needing rest. Then he promised you rest and sent you the door number of his studio… What were you supposed to do? You were already in the Thunderbolt Records’ building, what difference did it really make if you went home to lay your head on a pillow, or if your went up a few flights of stairs to rest your head in his lap?

Bucky’s fingers carding through your hair while he worked away on new music had been enough to lull you to sleep. When you awoke, alone on the couch and with his jacket draped over your shoulders, you sat up to find him behind the glass of the studio, soundproofing preventing you from hearing whatever tempo he was banging at the drums. But at least you could see him.

Shirtless and sweat-slicked, the overgrown locks of his hair clung to his forehead. Transfixed by the twirling of sticks in his hand, you inched your way quietly over to the door, only to startle when his eyes found yours through the glass port and his hand beckoned you in.

C’mere, doll. Been waiting for you to wake up, got something I was hoping to give you.

Low and behold, ten minutes later you were perched in his lap, thighs brushing over either side of his waist, head resting on his shoulder while he kept you stuffed full of his cock.

Helps me concentrate better. Less likely to keep fucking up my takes if I know I get to cum in this sweet pussy as soon as I’m done.

Nothing if not helpful and desperate to aid a fellow musician in the pains of recording the same thing, over and over, it was through pure charity that you let yourself sink down atop him. He managed three failed attempts at recording, whines pouring off your lip and the clench of your cunt around him with every jolt of his foot playing the bass-drum, before he finally gave into both your debauched desires and traded banging the drums for banging you.

At the time, it didn’t seem to matter that the recording light was still on. But now, listening to the faintest layering of your own voice pleading for him, you wish you had just gone home that night.

By some miracle, you haven’t given yourself a third degree burn — it’s barely even first degree.

The miracle in question is just the fact you’re a giant baby with the pain tolerance of a thousand exposed nerves. He had made fun of you once for it, teasing you after you hit him with a million questions about all the ink decorating his arms and the countless loops of metal pierced through his skin.

You ever get the courage to get a tattoo, gonna need to make sure you take me with you, goldie. I’ll let you squeeze my hand, even if the needle’s not actually touched you yet.

While Bucky should not be at the forefront of your mind, again, life keeps finding a way to bring him forth. This time, it’s not by force of him scaring Nat into a state of panic, but by an overly-smiley interviewer bringing him up while you do your best to stand still and look pretty for the camera.

Wrapped in a dress so tight it’s hard to breath, it’s no wonder you have to ask her to repeat herself, mind numbed between trying to pose and trying not to pass out. When are they going to call lunch?

“You’ve mentioned a few times how you’re still new to fame,” her voice cuts through the sound of the head stylist yelling at an intern, a sight you’re struggling to stand idly by and watch. “You’ve been photographed with the members of Firing Stars and Umbreoni, and even the Uni! Big, big names. Most recently, James Barnes was cited claiming you two are friends. I mean, how does it feel to go from a small town artist to brushing shoulders with someone as big as James Barnes?”

The second time she says his name, it’s stressed, like she’s trying to remind you how much of a nobody you are compared to the likes of him. Maybe it’s the high-pitched voice, or the bright lipstick on her lips, or maybe it’s just the fact you’ve spent too long quietly letting Bucky prod and poke at you as you continue to ignore his existence, but something vengeful in you snaps.

“Oh, he’s not that big. Average, if I’m being generous- Oh!” The surprise on your face is disingenuous, but the interviewer’s not even paying enough attention to notice, pen scribbling away at something in her notepad. Good, let her quote you. Hopefully the magazine will land itself in Bucky’s lap and he can get a nice slice of humble pie… Even if the pie is baked in lies. “Sorry, you mean big as in famous and not… My bad!”

It’s amazing how much people are willing to dismiss if you just giggle and shoot them a ditsy smile.

Things fall into place, like puzzles pieces at last reuniting with each other, and life feels good again.

In November, you release a new single. It hits number one on the charts.

In December, you announce a new album, set to release in June, Born With Anger — though you’ve been calling it BWA for short.

In January, you bag a 2 week break. Instead of home, you head south for a girls’ trip, and drag Natasha and your new assistant, Kate, with you.

In February, you find yourself entangled in your first real scandal. Unknowingly photographed on a late night walk with an actor friend, you wind up the front page of every gossip blog and TikTok page.

And then, in March, reality finally knocks on your door.

You originally have no intention of answering, snuggled into a blanket on your couch and watching The Princess Bride for what could easily be the hundredth time in your life. The sound echoes off the oak-wood door and you sink deeper into your comfort in protest, hoping that, if you wrap the dark grey fluff around you tight enough, whoever is at your door will slip away with the night and leave you be.

But the knock comes again. And again. And again.

It does not grow more frantic, nor does it grow louder, yet it affects you more each time, grating on your ears until you’re practically slapping the pause button, tossing the blanket aside, and marching over to your apartment door with one thing in mind: a very unpleasant fuck-off.

The door handle hits the wall with a thud and you prepare yourself to chew out whatever idiot decided it would be a good idea to disturb your peace at nearly two in the morning… Only to freeze the moment he melts into you.

“There’s my golden girl.”

Throwing himself forward in a trust-fall, Bucky cushions himself in your arms as you open them for him, a knee-jerk reaction to his body barrelling towards you. It’s been months since you last saw him, and the first thing you notice is the layer of red hair peaking out beneath the usual mess of dark brown.

Actually, it hasn’t been months since you last saw him.

The last time you really saw him was two weeks ago, his sharp jaw and bright eyes projected onto a number of screens while you stood in the artists’ tent of a festival. The Howling Commandos were headlining the very same stage as you had the night before, a feat which Bucky had no problem reminding you and the crowd of as they approached the final quarter of their set, his voice cutting in over the mic for the first time all night, greeted with a wave of screaming fans.

‘Fore we close this night out, I just wanna give a little shout-out to a special someone. She was amazing on this stage last night, and I just need her to know I couldn’t be any prouder. I don’t know if she’s in the crowd tonight, so I need you guys to sing as loud as you can so we can make sure she hears it, no matter where she is. This next song goes out to my golden girl.

If you didn’t have Clint dragging you out to the Flock & Feather’s after-party, you likely would have caved and unblocked him that night. Or, worse, waited for him backstage.

But now he’s here, dripping rain water onto your doormat and hiding his face in your neck. The tip of his nose is cold as it drags along your skin, but his hands are warm as they haphazardly rub your back at the first shiver that runs down it.

“Miss you,” he speaks so softly, you’re unsure of who he’s trying to not scare away: you or himself. “So much. Keep havin’ these dreams where you’re laying next to me and I make you happy.”

Longing unloads on you with no warning. Like a soda bottle shaken one too many times, someone has at last unscrewed the lid and a mess now lies — both in it’s wake and in your arms.

You drag him inside, trying your best to manoeuvre you both while being mindful to not slam the door. It’s late, after all, and your upstairs neighbours have a kid. As soon as you twist the lock, you’re pulling back from Bucky, only for him to chase after you with immediacy, head shaking in the crook of your neck.

“James-” You try to adopt a serious tone, but it falters the moment he interrupts you.

“Please don’t,” he pleads like a man begging for life, for respite, for salvation. The hands around your back are suddenly clinging onto your shirt, pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t send me away. Just… Let me be here, be yours, for the night.”

When silence persists from you, pensive as you shuffle a few steps further into your apartment with the hunk of muscles around you matching each step, Bucky attempts one last ditched effort.

“It’s my birthday. Don’t make me spend it alone.”

Not even a man made of the mythical metal known as Vibranium — from the world renowned fantasy series, Wildflowers and Vibraniun — could resist such a request, and so you let Bucky stay.

You don’t tell him with words, opting to instead wrap your arms around him. The embrace lasts for minutes, hours, as long as he needs it to. Hearts beat towards one another, magnets at last reunited through layers of cotton and flesh. His shoulders shake, every inhale a gust of wind against his fragile hold on reality. And all the while you bite your tongue, and ignore the fact that he stinks of alcohol, that his hands are shaky against your waist, that his eyes are more pupil than iris.

“Come on,” you whisper, two hands cupping his cheeks and finally getting a proper look at his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The bathwater is warm but not scalding, the perfect temperature for Bucky to sink his aching limbs into — with the help of you, both hands holding his frame steady through his descent into the tub.

All plans of watching the rest of your movie are abandoned as you settle down on the tiled floor, back pressed against the wall and arms folded over your knees. It pains you to see him like this, as much as you try to will yourself to not care. His head is tilted back against the porcelain basin, eyes shutting out the offensively bright light, and his breathing keeps exploding out of him in heavy puffs of air, rippling the water as his chest bobs up and down.

Bucky Barnes is too beautiful for his own good, otherwise someone would have slapped him silly and told him to clean up his act by now… Or has he just not listened? God knows you tried to tell him, in your own vengeful, messy way.

“Think it finally dawned on me,” the words are soft-spoken, carefully put out into the space between you both.

“What did?” You call back to him, feet skating a little closer to the end where his head lays, hunching over your legs as your back unsticks from the wall.

“Why you don’t wanna be with me.”

Out of all the things you expected him to bring up, that was not one of them.

A part of you assumed he had moved on from his conquest of turning you both into something serious. A part of you had hoped he did, for his sake as much as your own. Months of no contact should have been enough to let the concept of you and Bucky disappear, a fantasy long faded into dust-particles and blown away with the winds of winter.

But now Bucky is inside your apartment, naked and high as a kite in your bath tub, and his eyes are reopening to pin you with a look so saturated in affection, you feel yourself ache. For him, for yourself, for both of you.

“You’re too good for me.” He doesn’t speak in search of pity, voice steadfast as he watches you from the tub, calm and collected, entirely decided in the stance he’s taken. You, on the other hand, have tears kissing your lashes and are dragging yourself a few inches further up the length of the tub. “Can’t let you be another thing I ruin.”

Whatever higher power sent him stumbling to your door tonight has not sent you the James Barnes you love to hate; the abrasive man with too many leather pants for a man of his age and an ego inflated through the roof. Instead, you sit face to face with something realer than you’ve seen of him before; a man stitched together by misery and mistakes, blinking back sadness before it can pour down his cheeks. His face is tired, his shoulders heavy, and his soul is infected with desperation.

No longer is James Barnes hungry with lust, but haunted by it. Hunted by it, prey to the very thing he predates with.

You reach for him with a sigh, only to falter and let your touch fall upon the tub’s edge, “You wouldn’t ruin me, Buck. ‘M not that fragile.”

“But you are that precious,” Bucky shifts, bending at the waist and sitting up in the bath. The movement causes a ripple effect that leads to water pouring over the the side of the tub, wetting your fingers and the floor. “Just wish I was the kinda man who knew how to treat you right.”

Then be that guy. For me. You can practically taste the words in your mouth, feel your tongue moulding to their shape, readying yourself to speak. Bucky continues before you get the chance.

“I know you don’t wanna be on my mind. I’ve tried forcing you out of it,” the bath water moves with him, dripping off the arm he reaches out for you with. Pruned fingers lock around your wrist and remind you, for the first time in months, what it feels like to be touched, handled, cradled. He guides your fingers away from the porcelain edge and over towards him. “But I don’t know how to get you out of here.”

Bucky presses your hand to his chest and it’s like a knife has been shoved in your own, twisted for extra measure before promptly being ripped out and leaving you to bleed to death. There’s insistence in the way he holds you against him, his larger hand clutching your own even tighter against him. His heartbeat dances against your palm, singing your name.

You can’t remember when you turned fully toward him, but suddenly your knees are bumping against the body of the tub.

“Can you tell me how, baby? Wanna do at least something right by you,” he’s come to you weak and defeated, a warrior trading in his sword and commanding you to drive it through him. “I thought seeing you with someone else would help. I don’t usually have the patience for jealousy. But… God, doll, when I saw those stories about you and Walker… Well, you’re looking right at my reaction, went out and got a hold of the first bag I could find.”

If you weren’t so afraid of hearing it falter, you would use your words to plead for his silence.

If Bucky were any more sober, you would slap him across the face.

The guilt unweighed atop of you is enough to suffocate, to bury you alive, six feet deep in a well of shame and blame. How dare he insinuate you are a cause of his addiction, a vehicle through which he turns to rot himself into a living corpse? Selfish, cruel, inconsiderate. All the big words one can pin onto rock legend James Barnes come flying back to the forefront of your mind, pickaxes that chip away at the empathy crystallizing around your heart.

And, then Bucky — sweet, pitiful, human Bucky — drags your hand up to his mouth and places the softest kiss against your fingers, “I love you.”

His eyes are two black pinholes, staring at parts of you that you do not even recognise, watching as you lay your head down on the porcelain edge and let the sleeve of your cardigan soak itself as you reach for his other hand. He looks at you like any ordinary man would look at the dawn, like a new day and a new life has begun simply because you have returned the light to him at last, after six months of darkness.

Beneath the buzzing of a bathroom light, with one hand pressed to his mouth and the other nestled between the spaces of his scarred knuckles, you want nothing more than to be his Sun, to soothe his worries with the warmth of rays, to truly become his golden girl. But your lips part and the words won’t come out.

“Don’t need you to say it back,” Bucky peppers a few more pecks over your palm, laying your fingers flat on his cheek. Days old stubble scratches at your skin and takes you back to simpler times between you both, where feelings had not yet been addressed and relationships had not been denied. There was no mess to be cleaned up back then; just you, perched on his bathroom sink, and Bucky standing between your legs as you dragged a razor over his cheek and left him rocking the kind of goatee only an 80s porno movie would dare curse the world with. “I’m stubborn enough to love you anyway.”

In an ideal world, you both stumble to bed that night as lovers do.

Bucky pulls you into his arms, you stake claim over his skin as a place to rest your head, while he marks his territory with a kiss to your forehead and a sigh of your name. Not even in sleep do you depart each others side, using one another as life jackets to wade through the dark sea of unconsciousness. When morning comes, eyes reopen to find one another and blink back longing stares that spill I missed yous down your features. He reminds you that he loves you, and you return the favour at last, and life is finally good again.

But, in the real world, you lay restless in your own bed while Bucky drools against your shoulder. And you wake before him to reach for his phone. And you watch him stumble out of your bedroom with Tony Stark dragging him by the scruff of his neck, cursing at him to ‘Get your act together, Barnes, or I’ll have you kicked out the band.’

By April, you no longer pay attention to the headlines you make, too busy focusing on his.

James Barnes, drummer of ‘The Howling Commandos’, checks into rehab.

The world comes crashing down on a Friday.

Or, at least that’s how it feels.

Like any and every woman in the industry, there comes a point where the general public decides they are no longer comfortable with your success. You have surpassed the sell-by date slapped onto you by them, and now it is time to tear you off the pedestal they mounted you upon.

All it takes is one post to turn the tides and, overnight, you go from most beloved to most despicable; from proof anyone can achieve their dreams to just another industry plant being shoved onto everybody’s screen.

Natasha had warned you before you even got the chance to stumble upon it.

nat-attack: Look, this happens. We were expecting it. I know it’s tempting to check, but stay off your phone while this passes. Once the album drops, they’ll be back to loving you, trust me. 07:52

Clint was next in line, not to warn you but to distract you.

clit: the barton family are heading out to a spa retreat this weekend, wanna join? we have room for one more in the car. 08:33

Even the CEO of Thunderbolt reached out to you, albeit not to comfort but inform you of news.

The Boss Man: Due to the current circumstances, myself and your team have agreed it is in your best interest to stay offline. Kate Bishop will continue to run your socials, though we have changed the passwords in an effort to ensure you do not engage in the wave of hate. Take care of yourself. See you at next month’s meeting. Kind regards, J.B.B. 08:47

When Bucky doesn’t reach out, you have to remind yourself that it’s your own doing, that his number is still blocked.

No matter how many loving messages you receive, however, that doesn’t stop you from spiralling. Now, three days after the shit-storm began, you’re sprawled over your mattress — instagram opened with the very same account you had used to check Bucky’s story — scrolling through the comments of your most recent post.

stopthepop not to be that person but i never got the hype abt her anyway

sunflowerrrs her music isn’t deep, her fans just salivate at mediocrity 😭

superbassbuck you guys are literally sheep, hating on her just because the rest of internet decided to. smh, get a fucking life.

mornpony okay so can we now address how she’s so male centred??? idk, i just find it weird that she’s always singing about a man.

opheliabbarnes @mornpony wtf do you want her to sing about, the sociopolitical state of the world? she’s a popstar! hop off her dick, you freak.

iamthatonefangirl hi, i just wanted to say i’m really looking forward to your next album. you’re amazing, please don’t let the hate get to you x

biscu1t55 idk the music’s just kind of mid, innit

lilcherubbutt cant dance, cant sing, no stage presence, body not tea, and this is who you guys stan?

54nboo @lilcherubbutt i’m exploding you with my mind rn.

juniebjonesin i have a g*n, girl. let me know if you need me to use it on any of these weirdos/j, but also srs

The phone drops out your hand as a loud noise startles you. Two seconds pass, and then it happens again, enticing you out of bed and into the living room.

Deja-vu slaps you over the head as you approach the front door, a third knock already landing against the wood as you twist the key and hesitantly open the door, expecting to meet Nat and 21 questions on why you’ve been dodging her calls.

Instead, there’s just him, carrying a smile and a bouquet of poppies.

Bucky is far from the man that left your apartment all those months ago. There is a brightness in his eyes, no longer weighed down by exhaustion nor widened by drugs. His hair is perfectly styled, not damp from rain nor messed by fingers. The clothes he wears are clean, the shoes he wears are polished, and if it weren’t for the nose ring and the lick of ink poking out from his sweater, you’d almost think this was Bucky Barnes secret, unrockified twin.

But no, it’s him, in the flesh and more present in his own body than you’ve ever seen him. Rehab has clearly served its intended purpose. Too much pride and a wounded ego intercept you telling him as much.

You settle for a question injected with sarcasm, yet fully intend for the grin you stretch across your cheeks to come off as sincere,“Did your assistant pick those out too?”

“This was all me. Had to scour through my payment history,” he waves the bouquet, too focused on you to notice the red petal falling to the floor. “Wanted to make sure I got your favourite ones.”

The admission is what undoes you.

Your lips falter, the mask slips off your face, and the dam breaks.

Like a dying star, you implode. Your arms collapse around your waist, embracing you as though they possess any chance of holding the frame of you together. You feel a sob lurch from somewhere deep within and your knees begin to buckle, only for Bucky to catch your fall.

The plastic wrapping around the flowers crinkles as he brings you in against him, enveloping you in the safety of a steady figure. The door clicks quietly shut, his foot nudging it into place while he guides you through the perilous waves of distress rolling over you, threatening to pull you under.

In the span of 3 months, nothing and everything has changed: you both still stand in the entryway of your apartment, locked in comfort, yet it is now him who has become the lighthouse, the bright light to guide you to the safety of shore.

“I got you, goldie,” you feel the unmistakable pressure of his lips meeting the crown of your head and soften deeper into his hold, nose pushing against the smell of clean cotton and fresh aftershave. Had he gotten himself all dressed up, just to see you? “Been missing you so damn much, you know that? My notebook’s getting sick of me scribbling down songs about you.”

Your unwilling response is another sob, hiccuping out of you as a hand soothes up your spine, a rhythm so gentle you feel yourself longing to sway to it.

Much to your surprise, Bucky doesn’t hush you, doesn’t tell you to bottle it all back inside.He just holds you against him and let’s you spill it all onto his sweater. The stress, the anxiety, the self-pity. Everything that has stolen bites out of your sanity these past few days is finally spewing it’s teary guts out.

“Think you can do me a favour?” Bucky asks, another kiss engraved onto your skin. This one meets the space between your eyes. You nod, voice still thick with emotion. “Pack your bag, wanna take you somewhere.”

Somewhere turns out to be New York.

A six hour flight and a cab ride spits you out onto a street in Brooklyn. You barely find the time to notice if any fellow travellers fixate a camera lens on either of you, attention placed solely in the palm of Bucky’s hand as he entwines it with yours. Clasped in his other hand is your duffel bag, packed in a blurry hurry and with no real clue of what he intended to do with you.

Even now, following him up a set of steps like a loyal disciple, you have no real clue what stands behind the door he raps his knuckles against. Like he can smell the nervous energy, he trades your hand for your jaw, cradling it in his hold and inflating his lips with a reassuring smile.

“Relax, they don’t bite,” he punctuates it with a kiss against your forehead, lips lingering long enough for you jolt back in surprise when hinges creak open.

On the other side stands an older woman, with hair a stylish shade of ash and the kind of glint in her eye that screams of a mischievous youth. She smells of plum wine and home-cooked meals, and joy pours out of her pores like a fountain, promising to drench you in the feeling.

“James!” The woman wastes no time in pulling him down into her embrace.

“Hey ma,” He hugs her back, mindful of the bag still in his grasp. “Where’s pa?”

“Kitchen,” she responds, both hands rubbing over his back with the affection only a mother’s love could possibly conjure. “I locked him in there, he can come out once he’s done mashing the potatoes.”

“We’ve been over this, you can’t keep confining him. One o’ these days, he’s gonna call the cops on you!” The laugh the pair share is infectious, seeping into you and forcing a giggle to shake through your own frame. You regret it immediately, as both faces turn towards where you stand, four eyes as blue as the ocean pinning you beneath their stare. Bucky clears his throat, “I brought a guest.”

The past two years of performing for the faceless masses, of walking down carpets in heels that threaten your balance, of ripping out the loose threads of your soul and stitching them together into music… It all amounts to nothing when you meet the spotlight of her gaze.

“I mean, if that’s okay,” squirming slightly where you stand, you shift your weight from one leg to another and give your best attempt at a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Bucky and his mother exchange a look, something unintelligible passing between them, information shared through nothing but a glance. And then, before you can brace yourself for impact, you’re enveloped in her arms.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, soothing your back with the very same affection she’d given her son. “There’s always room at our table.”

Muscles freed from a tension you’ve been holding in for who knows how long, you catch the wink Bucky shoots you over her shoulder, only for the peaceful exchange on the doorstep to be interrupted by an excited squeal.

“Uncle Bucky!”A blur of motion throws itself at him, and emerges in Bucky’s hold as a young boy — who has paired the superheroes of his Earth’s Mightiest Benders shirt with a plastic tiara.

“Well if it isn’t the birthday boy,” Bucky secures an arm beneath his nephew, letting the boy dangle his legs on either side of his waist, and straightens the crown atop the boy’s head. “D’you wanna tell my friend what big age you’re turning, Jamie?”

Made aware of your presence, Jamie takes barely a glance your way before he’s hiding his face in his uncle’s neck, the tips of his little ears blushing red.

Bucky chuckles as his nephew mumbles something you don’t quite catch, face full of affection as he looks at you, “You’re right, kiddo. She is very pretty.”

The Barneses welcome you in with open arms, full plates, and absolutely no questions. With Bucky on your right and his sister on your left, you slot seamlessly into the family. Smiles and side plates are passed over a table of seven, while music and laughter play on in the background.

Time passes slowly. Dinner transitions into a game night, hours spent with cards in hand, and Charade prompts, and the warmth of Bucky’s fingers drawing patterns over your knee. By the end of the night, your legs are sprawled over his lap alongside his nephew, who stakes claim of his left shoulder… So much so that, at one point, Bucky leans down to whisper in your ear, “Think you’re gonna have to cut this arm off’a me, goldie. Jamie’s showing no signs of letting go.”

When the wine comes out and the birthday boy begins to snore, sheltered safely beneath the blanket of Bucky’s tattooed arm, you find the courage to check your phone. Of all the missed calls and unanswered messages, the only one that captures your attention is the link to an article, sent by none-other than your endearing little stress-head.

nat-attack: www.rosesaintsnews.com/A-Pop-Rock-Romance-:-James-Barnes-Spotted-Hand-in-Hand-With-It-Girl 19:51

nat-attack: Are you being HBB? 19:52

am i what?! 22:17

nat-attack: Held By Barnes. HBB. 22:19

of all the things you decide to abbreviate in text… you choose that? 22:24

nat-attack: It irks me to type his name. 22:27

nat-attack: But I guess I have to thank him for finally getting a response from you. Have fun, be safe, use protection! Or… are you just BB tonight? 22:29

you can’t just keep inventing shit and expecting me to understand. 22:48

nat-attack: Blowing Barnes, BB. Get with the program. 23:01

It’s not until after ‘goodbyes’ are bid and you find yourself staring up at the ceiling of Bucky’s childhood bedroom, a comforter clutched around your tired limbs and the steady sound of his breathing filling the room, that your voice crawls out of your throat.

“Your mom’s really nice,” you’re hesitant to speak too loud, afraid to wake him from any possible slumber. You hear movement from the floor — despite your insistence on sharing, he had stressed there wasn’t enough space on the twin bed and took up residency atop a blow-up mattress — and use it as your queue to keep talking. “Your whole family is, actually.”

“They’re pretty great,” you can hear the smile in his voice and finally drag your eyes down from the ceiling.

Moonlight has slipped through the cracks of curtains, casting a blueish glow around the room. The walls are a mess, scrap-art in the form of magazine clippings and band posters. Not even the closet is safe, decorated with scribbled lyrics and the names of Bucky’s favourite bands. A baby-sized drum kit takes up space on the left side of the bed — where several guitars and a bass hang from the wall — while the right side sports a nightstand housing a collage of photographs from Bucky’s earliest years, and the presence of the air-mattress. Who would ever think that, tucked away in the suburbs of New York, sits a time-capsule of rock-legend James Barnes’ childhood?

Just the thought of it is enough to rouse melancholy you possess no ownership of, an imposter staking claim over somebody else’s memories.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky speaks up, tearing you away from the tears threatening your eyes. “How am I such a screw up, when I come from a family like that?”

Your thoughts sound so sinful aloud, invasive in a way you have always denied yourself of being when it comes to Bucky, “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. You deserve to know,” the mattress sighs beneath him as he rolls over onto his side, elbow digging into it as he props his head up. Shadows dance over his silhouette, mimicking the blinking of his lashes and exaggerating the sharpness of his nose. You follow suit and roll over, gazing down at him from the bed-frame. “There’s no big story, though. Just… A kid who got to live out his wildest dreams, and then crashed and burned in the middle of it. The band, we blew up so fast, so young, we didn’t really have the time to process it. One minute, we were playing for our high school prom, the next minute we’re on a world tour.”

You bite your tongue, swallow down the urge to confess how you went to one of their shows. How it was your first ever concert. How you stood in the crowd, gazing up at the man behind the drum kit, and fell in love with the thought of pursuing music.

Now is not the time.

You’ll tell him someday, in the future.

“The first time I tried it was at an after party. I was barely even drinking age, and I was surrounded by my idols. There was no hope in hell that I was about to refuse when one of them offered me a line,” Bucky laughs, like the story is funny and not devastating. Barbwire made of anger wraps itself around your heart, ripping it open with every contraction and letting the feeling fester throughout your bloodstream as you picture a bright-eyed, blank-canvas, younger Bucky being corrupted with something as rotten as addiction at the reckless hands of his heroes. “Then it just became a way to stay awake. Keep up the rockstar image, you know? Far as I was concerned, I could quit at any point… Did I ever tell you I’m an idiot?”

This time, you are the one that laughs, a choked out noise that you muffle into the pillow beneath your head, “I’ve definitely called you one.”

“‘Course you have, goldie,” he inches closer, nearing the edge of his makeshift mattress. “Thankfully I met the sweetest, smartest girl, who could knock me on my ass with the truth. Wouldn’t have wound up in rehab, otherwise… I thought about you in there.”

Head shooting up in shock, you somehow find the blue of his eyes in the unlit room, “You did?”

“Why’re you so surprised? I always think about you.”

A lump makes itself at home in your throat. Heavy, noted, emotion filled, “Oh.”

Bucky speaks so plainly, no gimmick or hidden agenda in his voice, that you have no choice but to believe him, believe that there is a tab open in his mind that forever features you, in moving colour and perfect memory. The revelation brings forth your own realisation that he is there too, in your mind, like a melody that plays on repeat in your head.

“There’s this thing in rehab, part of the road to sobriety, where you have to right your wrongs,” Bucky picks back up where he left off, distracting you before the balloon of emotions swelling in your chest gets the chance to explode. “I know I’ve given you more wrongs than you can count, so let me just start with the most recent. That night, what I told you in your apartment-”

“Don’t even mention it, Buck. Water under the bridge, okay? I know you weren’t in the right state of mind, saying things you didn’t really mean-”

“I meant it. Still do,” how is he even closer than before? If you wanted to, you could reach down and touch his face. Or his arm. Or his hand, intertwine it with yours and tug him up onto the single-bed. “I shouldn’t have told you. Not like that. It was selfish of me, knowing that you’re not- That you don’t feel that.”

You fall silent and the room fills with his breathing again.

Sinking back down onto the pillow, your eyes meet the ceiling once more. Sleep entices you, promising you safety and freedom from the pressure on your chest, the waver of your heartbeat, the ache in your soul that calls for no other but him to soothe it.

Those four letters take shape above your head, looming over you like a threat. Love. A nightmare on display in your waking hours. It terrifies you into a state of freeze, with nowhere left to run, and leaves you in the direct sight of your assailant, primed and readied to be consumed.

“It’s not that I don’t feel it, I just-” the hitch in your voice is unexpected, forcing you to pause. You find strength in the soft hum that leaves Bucky, followed by another squeak of his mattress deflating beneath his body. “I didn’t grow up in a home like yours… My parents, they, uh- They should’ve gotten divorced. But they loved me too much.”

Something cuts through Bucky’s inhale, strangling the descent of oxygen as he listens to you. In the dark of the night, you find yourself in a confession booth, spilling your guilt out your mouth for a faceless, forgiving figure by your side, who makes no attempt to interrupt yet reassures you of his presence with minute signs of life.

“They thought they were doing me a favour, keeping the family unit together, under one roof. And all it done was hurt me,” the sting in your eyes has grown too great for you to continue ignoring, and so you are forced to finally blink, only to send a tidal wave of hot tears pouring down your face and onto the pillow. “I was a kid but I wasn’t stupid. I saw it when I would sleep at my friends’ houses, how their parents looked at each other, spoke to each other, cared for each other. Then I would go home to snarky comments from my mother and lipstick stains on my father’s collar. All they wanted was to do what they thought was best for me, and even if they made themselves miserable in the process… I don’t want to end up like that. I can’t.”

Bucky cuts in, when the time is right and your voice has faltered, “What about now?”

“Now?” You echo back to him, wiping a hand over your wet cheek as a sniffle leaves your nose. “My dad passed a few years ago. My mom is getting remarried, next fall, and she’s happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

“I make a surprisingly good impression on parents,” he proclaims, so seriously that you can’t help scoffing in humour. Outside, a stranger beeps their horn, obnoxiously loud and prolonged. In the quiet of the bedroom, it feels like the firing of a starter’s gun, marking the beginning of a race — instead of running from Bucky, maybe it’s time to start running towards him. “Just, y’know, if you’re needing someone to keep you company at the wedding.”

“My mom already likes you. She’s a howler, or whatever your fans call themselves,” you sigh at the thought, turning on your side to face him again, one arm slipping under the pillow while the other drifts towards the edge of the bed. You swallow down hesitation, blink back tears, and mentally fall back into the confession booth, “I just wish my dad got that… To move on, be happy, instead of forcing himself to stay in a loveless marriage. Instead of spending the end of his life trapped and unhappy, all because of me-”

“Hey, no, none of that,” he takes the first step onto the field, it seems, his touch landing atop your outstretched hand and anchoring you in him before guilty thoughts get the chance to sweep you out to sea. “They were the adults, you were the kid. Them sticking things out for you, even if it did make them unhappy, that’s not your burden to bare. You hear me? Their misery was not your fault.”

You’ve lost all the willpower to fight off the sickness of emotions, burrowing yourself into his blankets and clutching your fingers around his own. No matter how tight you squeeze, he does not falter; he simply continues soothing his thumb over your knuckles and holding what little he can reach from mattress of the floor.

“I bet your parents woke up everyday thankful that, despite all their problems, at least you exist,” his voice delivers you into the arms of exhaustion, letting it envelop you for the night as you shift a little closer to the edge of the bed and pull your interlocked hands against your beating chest. “Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve done the same.”

The sleep is dreamless and swift; the kind that feels like a blink and then you’re awake again, eyes opening to find your hands still intertwined while he brushes an eyelash from your cheek with the other.

Fully clothed and ready for the day, Bucky leans over your sleeping figure and greets you with a smile, “Come on, sleepyhead, time to get up.”

Eyes squinting to block out the golden sun, haloing him from behind, you groan and hide your face in the pillow, “What time is it?”

“Early, but I told you, goldie,” he lands a kiss on your naked shoulder, sharing affection as casually as he had passed you the salt at the table last night. “Got someplace I wanna take you.”

“What the hell is this?”

“This,” Bucky, having almost flown over the car bonnet to open you door, slams it shut behind you. “Is the first thing I bought after the band got big.”

Stones crunch beneath feet as you both begin the ascent up a driveway. Before you lays a villa, made up of brown bricks, arched windows, and overgrown ivy. A dock sits outstretched on the left side of the house, leading out onto a lake filled with crystalline waters and a family of ducks. Up a staircase of dark wood sits a porch, circling the entirety of the house and decorated by several plant pots and a swing-chair fit for two.

In short, the building looks like something plucked right out of a fairytale or an animated movie. You half expect someone to open one of the windows and leave a homemade pie out to cool on the ledge.

Without even noticing, your jaw has gone slack, lips parting as you take in the sight of the building. Fingers, less calloused after months of relaxation and rehabilitation, draw a line over the side of your face before finding purchase under your chin and easing your mouth closed.

Out of force of habit, Bucky’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, dragging it down with just enough pressure for it to spring back into place when his thumb releases it.

The action is familiar, something he’s done time and time again in the throes of pleasure — taking you from behind with one arm hooked over your torso, pinning you flush against him and tweaking at your nipples, while the other one pries open your lips and readies you to receive an offering from his mouth, spit dripping down like syrup onto your tongue.

It lingers between you, gazes meeting with an unspoken understanding: you are both recalling the ways you used to exchange body heat, the way neither of you has touched the other in half a year. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back whatever thoughts are swirling behind the storms of his eyes, and takes the initiative to move two steps back; de-invading your space and allowing the cold breeze to fall over your skin.

“Well,” bringing his hand up, Bucky brushes back a handful of hair and devastates you with the sight of one strand falling perfectly over his forehead, framing the art that is his face. “Do you want the house tour?”

The house is more furnished than you expect.

Not with sharply cut and oddly shaped pieces plucked out of a home-decor magazine, worth so much money it feels wrong to do anything other than stare at them. No, the home is a fusion of comfort and style: a living room centred by an antique fireplace, a bathroom adorned with a row of rubber ducks along the tub, a dining room where the sun beams in and warms the table, a hallway filled with knick-knacks. Despite the dust and the cobwebs, the house feels lived in, feels like a home.

It’s in the kitchen that you’re stunned into silence, coming to a halt and forcing poor Bucky to stumble into you as a gasp tumbles out your mouth. Between the double-door fridge, the speckled marble counter-tops, the colourful azulejo designed tiles lining the wall, and the breakfast bar facing out onto the lake, you hardly know what to begin looking at first.

So you settle for none and instead spin around to face Bucky.

“Please tell me that you brought me here to hand over the keys so I can live here for the rest of my life.”

He coughs out a chuckle, taking hold of your shoulder to manoeuvre you both out of the doorway and fully into the room, explaining along the way that, “You’re welcome to stay, goldie, but that’s not why I brought you here.”

With an exasperated sigh, which you conjure up with the acting skills you honed after a 2 week stint in your school’s drama club, you cave and finally ask: “Then, why did you bring me here?”

Your question is met with a shrug, at first, as Bucky drifts away from your side. Strolling the length of the kitchen, he wipes a hand over the marble surface before finally coming to a pause, leaning back against the counter, pinning you beneath his interrogative stare, and crossing his arms over his chest.

Goddamn it, his arms look great, threatening the cotton prison of the faded Metallica shirt wrapped around them.

“Figured you could use a distraction,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if you’re making the great James Buchanan Barnes nervous. “I know things can get… Ugly, when the world turns against you overnight. Guess I didn’t want you resorting to any of my bad habits. So, when I got the approval from Nat, I decided to go fetch you and drag you away from the epicentre of the chaos, take you as far away from that part of our lives as I could get you.”

As obvious as it should have been, your mind finally begins to connect the dots: travelling to the opposite coast, surrounding you in the domesticity of his family, dragging you out to the middle of nowhere and showing you a personal gem he keeps hidden away from the public.

Every tiny action in the past twenty-four hours or so has been perfectly curated to get your mind away from the anarchy against your name taking place online.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t, cause I don’t want you to,” Bucky shifts, body turning as his eyes follow you through the room while you approach the breakfast bar. “Told you right from the start, you’re Thunderbolt’s golden girl. As much as you may want to, you can’t just let yourself rust.”

Compliments sometimes feel as difficult of a mountain to climb as that pesky L word, which is why you choose to run from the sincerity in his voice and instead turn the conversation onto him.

“How come you have this place? Is it like, a vacation home? Or-” Mock-shock in the form of an outraged cry, you widen your eyes and do your best impression of disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re the devil incarnate… Don’t tell me you’re a landlord, Barnes!”

“You’ve been spending too much time with that actor o’ yours, y’know that?” Your confusion at his statement is kicked to the curb instantly, as Bucky proceeds to explain. “Our parents told us to choose our first big spend wisely, to make it something we would remember. Where Steve bought himself a guitar, and Ava went out and spent pennies on getting her tongue pierced, I bought this place. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but I wasn’t really in a rush to move in. Now, I’m just… Waiting, I guess.”

“For what?”

“You’re not aloud to laugh, okay? You’ve given my ego enough lashings through the years,” if anyone else were to say such a thing, a sickly kind of guilt would overcome you. Instead, watching a wicked grin bleed onto his face has you matching it with your own, a girlish giggle squirming it’s way up your throat. Hands up as a quiet sign of your surrender, Bucky confesses, “A family. That’s why I bought it, wanted to find someone and spend the rest of our lives living under a roof I earned with the one good thing I’ve done in my life: music.”

Visions of a life flash before your eyes: children running through the kitchen, evenings spent curled up by the fireplace, swimming through the lake in summer and skating atop it during winter. It’s nothing you ever imagined yourself wanting, yet it clenches around your heart like an iron fist.

And then you spot the wall. A tiny bump of a foundational pillar, jutting out from beside the grandiose window.

“My dad used to mark my height against a wall in our kitchen. He said he was keeping a visual record, to remind himself one day of how far I’ve come from the little girl throwing tantrums before bedtime,” It isn’t often that you manage a full sentence about your father without a pinch in your voice, yet this time you muster a smile as you brush your fingertips against the pillar. “This would be a good spot to measure height, right? We could even-”

“No. You can’t do that.” You almost jump out of your skin, turning to find him no longer leaning against the kitchen but right at your back, towering over your figure and just about caging you between the pillar and the sunshine piercing through the glass. Bucky shakes his head, tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip, “Can’t talk about my future, goldie, like you’re going to be part of it.”

When did the sun get so warm?

It’s prickling your skin, rousing sweat between the neckline of your jumper. Not only is it heating you up, but it’s quickening your breathing, driving it from a steady inhale-exhale to an unsure waver of oxygen rolling in and carbon dioxide rolling out. And it’s turning you light headed, commanding your legs to sway forward, right into Bucky’s receiving palm, hovering over your cheek like touching you might burn.

Bucky’s face is closer than you remember, consequence of a magnet force that draws you both in. There’s a ghost of a touch when his head dips an inch, the cool metal of his nose-ring bumping against your nostril and the brush of his breath hitting your cheekbone. You watch as his eyes slip shut- No, squeeze shut, like a physical pain has overcome him and he’s fighting back a complaint.

“I’m trying real hard to be a good man, okay?” And yet he says it with all the frustration of a sinner, of someone salivating with the desire to consume. “Trying to turn a new leaf, to not force you to become the thing you criticised me for. So just… Work with me, goldie, help me be a good man.”

“What are you talking-”

“Walker,” he practically spits the name out, body slumping forward only for him to hold out a hand and catch his fall before he can fully collide against you. Which would be great, if it did not leave you now even more trapped, now between the pillar and his bicep. “John, the actor guy. I know you guys are… You know, together. And I’m trying to respect that, I really am, but baby, you’re putting me through hell here.”

Like an overheated computer, you shutdown.

It takes a minute or two for the power to come back on in your brain. For his words to slot themselves into place, for you to realise what nonsense he’s spewing, for the magazine covers and the social media comments to come flooding back in. The late-night walk, the unfounded rumours, the continued speculation…

“Bucky,” you cross the invisible threshold between you both, flattening your palm against his face and watching as you coax his eyes open with a tender brush of your thumb along his cheek. “I’m not seeing Walker. I’m not seeing anyone. Not since…” you.

Maybe saying it is too real, too close to that other word you won’t say. Despite this, you watch Bucky register the implication.

“So you’re single?” You nod as slowly as he speaks, vocally processing the news you just delivered. “Which means I’m free to…”

Whatever the end of his thought sounds like, you don’t hear it.

Instead, you find out just how much warmer the sun feels when you’re pressed up against the window.

Of all the people you’ve kissed, none have ever done so with as much hunger as Bucky.

He does not press, he tastes.

Soft lips pulling your own into an unrehearsed dance that, somehow, you both know how to move to. Thick tongue breaching into your mouth, laving over the shyer movements of your own. Sharp teeth grazing the threat of a bite over your skin, ripping an unexpected whine from you as he clamps down on your lower lip, pulling away just to dive back in with reinforcements.

The hand by your cheek has finally made contact, slipping down and around to the back of your neck, and tilting your head further back with a sharp tug at the roots of your hair. His tongues reaches deeper, savours the flavour of you as your fist balls up around his shirts and beckons him closer.

“Missed you,” he somehow finds the time to mutter, between all-consuming kisses and desperate hands scraping up all the pieces of you they can find, like you are moments away from slipping between his fingers. “Missed my golden-”

Quack.

The pair of you physically jump back from the window, lips swollen from one another and pupils dilated with horror as you come face to face with a duck, stood right at the window and staring at you both like you are today’s entertainment.

Another quack is muffled by the window.

“We should probably, uh, continue the tour,” never has Bucky sounded so sheepish, pink staining the tips of his ears as he looks anywhere but the invasive avian. “Lemme show you the upstairs.”

You don’t make it upstairs.

Not fully, at least.

“Buck-aah!” Your moan reverberates off the walls, echoing down the grand stairwell. “Oh my- Please!”

Three steps from the top is where you find yourself, one hand gripping the wooden banister and the other tangling it’s fingers in Bucky’s hair. You’re bare from the waist down, pants tossed over the side of the railing in his eagerness to get his mouth on you. A few stairs further down and sprawled upward is where he lays, a man who has ascended the staircase, parted the gates of your thighs, and is now devouring heaven with his tongue.

For all the fervour put into his kiss, it only ever seems to double once he properly gets his mouth on you.

His tongue drags up the expanse of your cunt, the velvet texture of it perfectly riling up your senses as it licks over folds. His lips pucker around your clit, giving the pearl of you just the right pressure of suction before his tongue joins the fray, tensing to a point and flicking over the sensitive nub. Tender-tipped fingers spread you open, put you on pull display to his hungry eyes and, without a doubt every time, Bucky groans as you clench around nothing and your hole winks at him, as though tempting him to dive in.

A cacophony of moans and groans are plucked from the both of you, the most sinful duet ever known to man. There’s eyes rolling to the back of skulls, breaths hitching, and a whole load of spit as Bucky watches you get wetter, shinier, a smoother yet messier surface for him to work his mouth over.

When his tongue dips in, game-over is practically hovering over you in flashing neon lights as your imminent slip and slide into an orgasm approaches over the horizon… Which is exactly why Bucky always chooses to get mouthy at this point, cutting off the high he’s building just to mutter profanities.

“‘S like drinkin’ sunlight,” Bucky’s eyes are on you. The look on him can only be described as wrecked, the lower half of his face glistening with your arousal, lips swollen from exertion, his eyes slipping back ever-so-slightly as you impatiently pull at his hair and try to drag him back down to finish his meal. “My pretty golden girl, hmm? Always so fuckin’ sweet.”

He’s barely finishing sentences, consonants slipping away as the need for propriety and enunciation disappears with your own ability to think about anything beyond the man between your legs.

“Know what she tastes like, goldie?” Whatever response you have is lost when Bucky plunges two fingers into you, giving no pause between the stretch and the way he curls them inside of you, pushing against the spongy softness of your walls. “Like she’s mine. Ain’t she?”

“Yours. Y-yeah,” you can’t get the words out quick enough, the culmination waiting far too long to just give in and lay all your cards on the table. No more hiding, no more feigning frustrations, no more pretending it doesn’t leave your pussy, your heart, and your soul aching to hear him so proudly call you his. “Yours, yours. All yours.”

You cum with the flavour of surrender in your mouth, foot accidentally kicking against his back as Bucky perches your knees onto his shoulders and dives deeper into you, unrelenting in his attention as he lets you ride out the orgasm, grinding up against his mouth and indulging in the the subtle brush of his nose against your clit.

By the time Bucky takes his mouth off of you, you’re panting with every breath, seeing nothing but stars, and trying to flea up the stairs from the overstimulation he unloads onto you.

He’s in no better state, lips parted for breath and brushing over your right thigh as he turns his head into it, staining your skin in your own lust. Like he has not savoured you enough, his tongue presses hot against you.

“James,” oh, and don’t you just sound like the most pathetic little thing? A whisper for a voice, as shaky as a leaf blowing in the destructive winds of fall. Bucky hums in acknowledgement, stormy blues flickering up to your face as he licks a strip up the length of your thigh, all the way up to your hip before he takes a bite, tattooing his teeth into your flesh. “How much is-”

You’re forced to pause, to recenter yourself and find the ability to speak while his mouth continues over your torso; one hand slipping under your sweater, fingertips slipping beneath the band of your bra and teasing himself with the promise of your soft breasts.

“How much is left of the tour?” You deserve a medal for finally getting the words right. “Can’t we just skip to the master bedroom?”

The pair of you are more tangle than tease, stumbling down the hallway and passing door after door. Hand in hand the entire journey, it only serves to complicate the attempts you both make at undressing one another. Yet, each time you pull away to slip a shirt down his arm or discard your bra on the floor, your fingers can’t find one another again fast enough.

Bucky finally comes to a halt outside a door, turning to cradle your jaw and pull you in for a kiss. Chaste yet lingering, he shoots you one of those heart-wrenching smiles right after he pulls back and twists the handle open.

While you want to take in the room — the plush carpeted floors, the vintage chandelier light, the perfect view out onto the lake — the sex-pest in your brain has you zeroing in on nothing but the four poster bed. Complete with curtains and a cushioned headboard, it is primed and ready for the upper echelons of society, aristocrats or royalty, to slumber within it.

But it’s you who crawls atop the mattress, squealing and tripping over yourself when Bucky lands a slap against the back of your thigh. You turn to face him on all fours and find him tugging down the waistband of his boxers, just in time to watch his cock spring free — literally spring up against his lower abdomen, freed from the shackles of Calvin Klein.

The sight of him alone is enough to have your thighs clenching and pussy pulsing: the vein that begs to be traced by your tongue, the almost angry red flush of his tip, the shine of precum beckoning you to taste, and the shape of him — longer than you should be able to fit inside of you, and the kind of thickness you can already imagine your walls stretching around just by looking at it. And then, waiting patiently beneath, lay two heavy balls, the weight of which you’ve memorised with both your hands and your mouth.

Unsurprised and nonchalant, Bucky welcomes you around his dick like he was expecting it, one hand sliding over your jaw to cup the back of your neck. Warm to the touch and soft against your tongue, you slip into the familiar gratification of watching how easily Bucky melts, turned to putty in your hands — well, your mouth, in this case.

“Come on, baby,” he croons from above, chin kissing his sternum as he stares down at you on the bed, lips wrapped halfway down his cock and a hand full of the rest of his length. “We both know you can do better than that. Relax that pretty jaw, and take me deeper.”

Thumb reaching over from behind your neck, he soothes the corner of your jawbone and, as you force it a little more slack, his hips jut forward to sink a further into your mouth, not hitting the back of your throat, yet still far enough for tears to sting at your eyes. You do nothing to hide them, to fight them off when the head of his dick finally breaches your throat, because you know crying won’t deter him.

No, crying will only make him…

“Fuck. Look so delicate when ya cry for me, like I could break you if I don’t handle you carefully.” He catches one of your tears, but not with his hand. Cock slipping out of your mouth, he bends down and laves his tongue up the side of your face, collecting the salted sweetness born from the mouthwatering pain he’s causing you. “Don’t need that, do you, though? To be touched gently. My good little slut likes it when it hurts.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, swallowing him back down with your mouth and relishing in how he gathers up your hair, fist clenching it into a makeshift ponytail. He pulls on it, sharply, just enough to make your scalp burn and your cunt clench around nothing, a teardrop of arousal running down the expanse of your thigh and dripping onto the bedsheets.

Reigns secured, Bucky wastes no time in pushing the boundaries of your limits and begins bobbing your head down on him, hips rocking forward just to fuck himself that little more down your throat and relish in the sickly, wet sounds of him hitting your gag reflex. Saliva spills past your lips and down your chin.

The bed is five minutes away from possessing it’s own lake, composed of all the fluids spilling out of you. Tears, drool, cum, pouring like a fountain. It’s messy, and sloppy, and exactly how Bucky likes it: when he can see just how desperate you are to get him off, to have him paint your mouth white and feed his cum down your oesophagus.

A depraved relief overwhelms your heart and a heavier set of tears spill down your cheeks as Bucky grants you your reward, balls pulling tight against him as he floods your mouth full of cum.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, pulling at your hair until you release his dick from your mouth with a wet pop. “Don’t you dare swallow, lemme see the mess I made o’ you first.”

Your lips part to his command, tongue slipping over the bottom one and putting the dirty painting of hot saliva and thick cum on display. Thighs squeezed against one another, you grind carelessly down against your own flesh, cunt drooling all over yourself as he continues to study you.

Then, with a groan of approval and a good fuckin’ girl, Bucky pulls you up for a kiss and relishes in his own taste.

It’s you who entices him onto the bed, too desperate to function without your hands shaking and too wet to wait any longer. And all the while the cruel bastard is chuckling at you, stalling the moment with tender smooches trailed over your neck and possessive bites and bruises being mapped over your breasts.

“So eager,” he muses, leaning back on his haunches and wrapping a hand around his already-hardening cock, no refractory period needed when the sight before him is his golden girl, wide eyed and cockdrunk. “Think you need to show me just how bad you want me. I deserve it, after these months of hell without you.”

Bucky guides you by the hips, helping you slot yourself atop his body, your knees indenting the mattress on either side him. Your hands curl over his shoulders, propping yourself up until you feel the head of him waiting at your entrance, pleading you to sink right down until it’s somewhere in your guts, rearranging the layout of your organs just to fit the whole length of him inside.

A light bulb goes off above your head, just as Bucky teases you both, forcing you to sit on his thighs and rolling you forward to feel the first sparks of friction, folds slipping over his hardness, “I’ve not taken my birth control. Didn’t- Aah! Didn’t think I’d need it.”

You watch the words wash over his features and swear you see more of that soul-stealing black consume the blue of his iris. His answer comes through clenched teeth and with his tip rubbing up against your clit, forcing your head to fall back and leaving your chest on display for his wandering hands.

“You already know I don’t have any rubbers, goldie,” his thumb and pointer finger take to rolling one of your nipples, while the other is greeted with the heat of his kiss, sucking the peak into his mouth. “Never want somethin’ in the way when it comes to you.”

“Me neither,” you must be truly gone, a lost cause, to so freely admit secrets you usually shove away with an eye-roll and a chastising lilt that tells Bucky to get on with it already. “But we shouldn’t…”

You trial off at no fault of your own, voice stolen from you by a gasp as he lines himself up against your hole, the tip of him knocking now at the door of heaven and begging to be let inside.

“Yeah…” He whispers, just as wrecked as you are, mouth falling open as a moan festers in the back of his throat, just waiting for a real reason to breech the surface of his lips. “We shouldn’t, should we? ‘S risky.”

And despite the fact the reply is pregnant with understanding, that sure doesn’t stop him from testing the waters. From making use of your drooling cunt to seamlessly fill you with just the tip.

Your thighs tense up as you fight the urge sit right down and let him fill you to the brim, all the while his mouth is back on your chest, mouthing mayhem into your skin in the form of sloppy kisses and desperate bites, like he cannot risk a second being wasted on inaction while you are here in his arms.

“But y’like risky,” he peers up at you, dark hair framing his eyes and forcing you to brush it out the way so you can fully relish in the sight of him mouthing at your nipples, covering them in his spit. “Like testing how good of a boy I can be for you, like seeing me struggle to not cum inside o’ her. Pretty please, sweetheart, let me show you how good I can behave, I’ll cum wherever you tell me to.”

A wiser woman would say no.

A stronger woman would send him out to retrieve condoms from the nearest gas station.

A better woman probably wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Thankfully, you are none of those things, and are instead feeling his cock split you open as you sink flush into his lap, the swell of his sack kissing against the globe of your ass as you pause and savour the fullness, mouth empty and open in a gasp. Bucky fills it with his tongue, licking into your mouth with a grunt as you squeeze around his cock.

“Well if you do that, I’m gonna paint your walls,” despite the threatening tone to his words, you feel more thrill than chill, excitement dancing up your spine as you finally start to ride him.

The rhythm is steady, your skin is sweaty, and there is a perpetual rise and fall of your body against his. Your thighs burn with every bounce, yet the pain only drives you to work harder, to wind down on him slower, deeper, pulling moans, and groans, and earth-shattering whimpers out of Bucky.

He’s more lost-cause than he is a man at this point, pawing up the length of your back, nestling his face as deep as he can in the valley of your chest, bruising his fingerprints into your hips as he squeezes and eases some of the tension from your muscles, doing the heavy lifting for you and fucking you down onto his cock.

“Buck,” you sigh, hand cupping his face. Where you mean to soothe his skin, he has other plans, tongue dragging over the pad of your thumb before his mouth envelops it, an erotic display of how far gone he is, lost in the dessert wasteland of lust and relishing in the oasis that is you. You pull out a different name, hoping to catch his attention, “Pretty boy. Are you close?”

His reaction is nearly instant: a hazy eyed nod and a cut off moan.

“Yeah?” You taunt him, even if you don’t need to, like digging for gold after already finding diamonds. “Bet you’re thinking about what it would be like to cum inside me, fill me up like only you know how to do. Have me drowning in you, no wall untouched.”

“St-op,” torture has never looked better than on James Barnes, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching in a last ditch effort to hold his focus, to not stuff you full despite how badly his body craves it. “Please, doll, be nice.”

“Be nice? I’m sitting on your dick, baby, how could I be any nicer?” You feel him press against a part of you so deep it has even you descending into chaos for a moment, jaw falling slack as you lean into the feeling and grind your hips down. “Maybe if I let you cum in her, hmm? Don’t you like reminding me how this pussy is yours? Surely a man like you, a big bad rockstar, would take what’s his and ruin it whatever way he pleases.”

His hand lands at the back of your neck, pulling your forehead down to meet his. You take in how his eyes are squeezed shut, like he can block out the feeling of you gripping the life out of him and the wet sounds of your cunt, “Christ alive, you’re mean, you know that? Evil.”

“Hmm, don’t you need me to be bad, so you can prove you’re good?” Your nails bite into his shoulder and you can feel the finish line approaching, mind threatening to fray at the edges and slip into the same wrecked nature that’s overcome him. “This house isn’t gonna fill itself with kids, Buck. And there’s no time like the present...”

“You mean it? Shit- Baby. Goldie. Don’t say that if you don’t-”

“How much clearer do you need me to be, James?” You don’t even have to ask for him to take over, he’s studied the way you move for years, knows the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and overwhelm. And so quietly, without ceremony, his touch finds your waist and suddenly he’s the one winding you down onto him, guiding you closer and closer to the cliff where, if you toss yourself over, ecstasy awaits below for you to crash into her. “Cum in your pussy.”

The final syllable has barely parted ways from your mouth when Bucky succumbs at last, his arms moulding around your body, caging you against him. Through the turbulent pleasure of his orgasm shaking him to the core, his hips keep rocking up and into you, driving every spurt of his hot, thick cum further inside.

You soothe him as best you can, palms flattened against his naked back, mouth placing kisses over the ink on his arms, chest slumping into him and bidding him to anchor himself in the rapid beat of your heart.

“Wait, wait,” he’s muttering to himself, arms sliding his grip up to slot itself in your armpits and lift you off his cock, forcing you to hover over his abs. “Just wanna- Lemme see it.”

No further instruction is needed for you to give him what he wants.

Clenching the muscles of your pelvic floor, you stave off a squirm as you feel his cum spill out of your cunt, dripping down onto his torso. Bucky is entranced, spreading your folds apart and watching the whole ordeal like you’re Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa… Only for him to smear his fingers in your masterpiece and deliver it up to your mouth.

Without a word, you open up and obey, let him lather his spill over your taste buds again. A kiss lands on your jawline, tender and careful, like he’s engraving a thank you into your flesh.

“I love you.”

Both of you freeze.

All that remains is the ragged sounds of your breaths, filling the gap of silence between you.

The words marinate in the air, swell both in weight and flavour. It reminds you of stepping off stage after a show and ripping your earpiece out, expecting silence only to find there is a persistent ringing in your ear that lingers even once your limbs find the comfort of your bed, tucked away from the screaming crowds yet plagued by more noise than ever.

Bucky is the first to move, face pulling back to find yours. To touch yours, hand falling over your cheek. His gaze assesses your features, as if scanning for signs that something is wrong, or different, or not quite real. Like, any moment now, he’ll blink and wake to find himself alone in bed, nothing but the faintest smell of your perfume on his sheet.

“D’you actually mean it?” When you nod, he forces your head to stay still. “Words. Use them, wanna hear you.”

“I love you, James,” the second time feels less scary, less like a grenade you have tossed into the air, and more like loaded gun you have pointed toward yourself. So you say it again, and hope the third time takes away even more of the threat. “I love you.”

“Huh,” despite the fact he’s not said it back, you’re not worried. You can see it, stitched into his eyes and curling over his lips, a fondness that parallels the one gripping hold of your heart and crushing it into submission. “I didn’t even make you cum, so you must mean it.”

“Aren’t you just the luckiest man?”

“Shit, I didn’t- You never came.”

And so you wind up on your back, knees pinned against your chest and Bucky smothering you from above, hips barely pulling fully back before they’re thrusting back into you, pouring noises of pleasure all over the bedroom floor.

Everything is warm, and sticky, and overwhelming, but at least you have him whining in your ear and working you towards nirvana.

“My golden girl,” just listening to him, breathy and aching from overstimulation — cock having pushed past the limits of his own biology to harden for a third time in a row — is enough to have you reaching that crescendo, one final shove all that remains to have your walls clamping around him. “Love you so much, you’ve no idea. Gonna be the man you need, okay? Keep you safe, and cared for, and satisfied, and-”

Say less, you’re already there.

You don’t even get the chance to warn him, walls clamping down on him in a vice grip as your orgasm joins the short list of things that are tearing you in two — his cock being the only other item on said list.

“God- Look at you, perfect, gonna- Fuck,” Bucky is barely intelligible, sensitive and aching, yet he continues rocking into you, shallow juts of his hips. “She’s milkin’ me, baby. I’m sorry, I need to- Aah! Fill you again. Sorry, I’m sorry, sorry-”

Bucky does not crack, he shatters completely.

The pieces of him that remain are laid bare in your arms, are filling you to the brim, are pouring out in thick rivulets with every barely-there thrust he re-burrows himself into you with.

Under the shine of a shared afterglow, limbs so light you fear they’ll float away from you, you’re more than compliant when Bucky rolls you both over, laying on his back and holding you down against his chest.

“Let’s just stay here,” he begs, fingers already playing in your hair. He’s still inside of you, plugging you full and keeping you warm. “Just want to feel you for a while. Forever.”

Morning arrives slowly.

The light of dawn washes over the room in an orange hue and teases your eyelids awake only to find Bucky wrapped around you. Dead to the world, he snores gently and holds you closer when you shift. At some point in the night, he slipped out of you and now the inside of your thighs are stained in him. Your heart is to, his name forever tattooed on it.

Your eyes slip shut for a moment, and you can picture it so easily.

A future where you wake tangled together, where you race home just to see one another sooner. Where you fill those empty bedrooms with race-car beds, and princess dolls, and the giddy laughter of a child who knows love in only the purest and truest of forms. Where you feed the ducks, and he mows the lawn, and both of you grow teary eyed, one glass of wine too deep, as you stand in front of that wall in the kitchen and come to terms with how quickly your baby has grown.

It is real, and visceral, and plausible, you know it.

But it is your future, not your present, for a reason.

Because you know the man in that bed is no doubt the closest thing to a soulmate you will ever have, but that the timing for either of you is not quite yet right.

Because you know there is still a part of you that craves the chase, that wants the excitement of running from love just to time how long it takes for it to catch you.

Because you know about the bag of white powder in his glove compartment.

In the greatest escape to date, you tiptoe away from Bucky Barnes once more, shoes clutched to your chest and an ache in both your thighs and your heart.

Sitting timid and with your head low in the back of a cab, you pull out your phone and take a deep breath.

And then you unblock his number.

i love you. 07:47

see you somewhere down the line. 07:49

+ extra hyde !

· … and with that, i am retiring my keyboard and never writing another thing. goodbye cruel world of writing, i will not miss you./j · after reading this, is it obvious that silver springs is my favourite song? · please be gentle, i really struggled to write this and idk why. maybe because it felt a little different to fics i've written before? idk, either way this fic put me through the ringer but i'm happy with how it turned out. thank you for reading <3 · a special thank you to @chateaubarnes and @blowingbarnes for helping me with a sentence i got stuck on, and to @unificsation and @flockoff-featherface and every other member of the bwamily who locked in with me on stream <3

Bucky, you’re high. And drunk.

God.

A thud in his chest. The balcony. Wind against his face. Her hands in his arms. Her frown, delicate with worry, not judgment. Not mockery.

He’d pushed. Not roughly, but insistently. Close. Closer.

Dancing.

He had asked her for something-

No. He’d asked her out.

Fuck.

Then her voice again, fragmented in his brain like broken glass.

“Not tonight.”

“You’re gonna hate them for what they did.”

“I think you’re going to remember, and wish you hadn’t.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

He rubbed a hand down his face slowly. His stomach twisted. It could’ve been the hangover. It could’ve been the shame.

He’d pestered her -like some needy, petulant little punk- and she’d indulged him. Not because he deserved it, but because that’s just who she was. Kind. The kind of person who made sure there was extra food for whoever came in late. Who patched up both bruises and egos. Who sat beside them in silence when words were too much.

Apparently, now she handled drunks too.

She’d placed her hands on his shoulders, let him sway them slowly to a tune only he could hear. 

“’Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he’d murmured, like his old self.  She’d smiled. He remembered that. Not with politeness. It was real.

And still.

Maybe it was just kindness. Maybe she figured it was the easiest way to get through to morning without a scene.

He hated that he couldn’t tell.

He splashed cold water on his face until his cheeks burned, until the headache dulled to a manageable throb. It helped, but it was not enough. His reflection in the mirror was a mess, the toothpaste tasted like chemicals and regret. He scrubbed hard, until the bitter aftertaste died under the mint.

He didn’t understand how he’d gotten there. He’d said no. He remembered that part. Had told the guys he wasn’t in the mood for their Saturday bullshit, for beer and cards and whatever else they were getting up to. He’d said it twice, even. But then… there he was. Sitting with them. Drinking something, laughing. That Asgardian stuff, probably. Someone must've brought it in again.

And then her.

She hadn’t been dressed for them. She had plans of her own. That dress hadn’t been for their circle of wrecked weirdos. It was for the outside. Somewhere she was supposed to be. With someone. Maybe Yelena, maybe not.

And he… he’d wandered in while she looked for her earring, slow and cocky with whatever-the-fuck was in his system. No idea how he got so drunk. No idea why he’d even stayed.

But he had. And when she saw him, disoriented, with blown wide pupils, she didn’t roll her eyes or brush past him. She took his arm and steered him outside.

He shoved a clean hoodie over his head, already sweating, and shuffled barefoot toward the kitchen. There was still a sour taste in the back of his throat, and his stomach turned with every step. But worse was the way his memory replayed that slow, swaying dance. His hands on her waist, the pressure of hers on his shoulders. That soft laugh when he hummed some old tune and called her sugar like he still had any charm left to wear.

She’d let him hold her. Let him pretend. Let him have it, just for a minute.

But that didn’t mean it was real. Didn’t mean she wanted it.

She was kind, that was all. She hadn’t said yes. She hadn’t said no. She’d said another time, and maybe that was just her way of making sure he didn’t unravel right in front of her.

Fuck, he hoped she wasn’t already in the kitchen. He didn’t know if he could look her in the eye yet.

----

The kitchen lights felt too bright. He squinted as he stepped inside, dragging his feet against the tiles. His mouth still tasted wrong.

Alexei and Walker were already there. Both of them looked far too upright for the shitshow he vaguely remembered from last night. Walker had a mug in hand and a smugness that hit like a brick to the face. Alexei was halfway through a carton of eggs, eating them with a spoon like pudding.

They both turned when they saw him, and not subtly.

“You look like shit,” John offered, like it was a greeting.

Bucky didn’t answer. He shuffled toward the coffee machine like it was a life raft.

“Is just a manly hangover,” Alexei added, waving his spoon in the air. “You’ll survive.”

Bucky grunted, not even dignifying that with a full sound. He grabbed the tin of grounds too hard, made it clatter against the counter. His hands were clumsy. No, shaky. He hated that. His fingers never shook.

They were watching him again. He could feel it in the silence between words, in the way Alexei slurped his eggs slower.

Walker broke the silence while still chewing his toast. “Man, you were gone last night.”

“Must’ve been the ale,” Alexei said lightly. “Is strong stuff, da?”

That pissed him off more than it should.

Because they looked fine. No bloodshot eyes, no tremor in their hands, no sour sweat on their skin. And yeah, they were supersoldiers, but so was he. His metabolism should’ve burned through that shit hours ago.

So why did it feel like his brain had been run through a cement mixer?

He pressed the brew button and leaned both hands on the counter. The silence in the room was heavier now. They knew something. That much was obvious.

He didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to.

His jaw tensed. He stared at the drip of the coffee, drop after drop after drop. His throat was dry and his patience was thinner than paper.

He didn’t speak.

But when he turned, eyes dark under the hoodie’s shadow, they both suddenly found their drinks very interesting.

He was about to say something -anything, demand an answer or just growl about the goddamn coffee machine taking an eternity- when the door creaked open behind him.

And she walked in.

Looking like… he didn’t want to say like shit, but damn close. Her eyes swept the kitchen like she wasn’t sure who she was hoping not to see, and then- there. The moment her gaze landed on him, he saw it: the flicker of recognition, the slight widening, the tension behind her stare.

But she masked it. Fast. Too fast.

“Morning,” she said, to the room, not to him.

She brushed past and grabbed a mug from the rack -a terrible one, with the team’s gaudy thunderbolt logo and a cracked rim- and stepped up beside him at the coffee machine. Their arms didn’t touch. But he could feel her, inches away. She smelled like cigarettes. Sweet perfume. Cheap cologne. And something else, club air maybe. Sweat, vodka, the sticky scent of too many bodies packed together.

She wasn’t looking at him. He hadn’t looked away since the second she came in.

Alexei broke the tension, oblivious as ever.

“Ah! There you are! I assume Yelena is still asleep. Had fun last night?”

She cleared her throat. “Yeah.”

“So… did you two engage with partying Americans?”

“Man, you can’t ask that about your daughter. That’s disgusting,” Walker interjected, frowning.

“I just want to check if-” Alexei kept going.

“She’s not a fucking teen, and if she finds out you’re asking, she’s gonna bury you alive,” John added.

“I taught her to bury people alive,” Alexei shrugged.

The bickering was a blessing.

She didn’t have to answer.

Because the real answer would’ve been… no.

No, she didn’t have fun.

Sure, she danced, with Yelena mostly. She drank more than she should’ve. Smiled for some photos, flirted a little, but-

Every song felt too loud.

Every drink too sweet or too bitter.

Every guy who tried to slide up beside her wasn’t him.

And that was a problem.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking about that balcony. That dance. The warmth of his body, the cadence of his steps. The way he held her like something valuable and breakable. The way he saw her -just for a minute- as someone he wanted.

And now here he was. In an old hoodie. Tired eyes, tight jaw, silent. Still looking at her like he was waiting for her to say something.

She blew on her coffee and took a sip, stalling. He might remember. But he might not. So-

“You look like you had a lot last night,” she offered in a light tone. No pressure in it. Just… keeping it casual. “Want me to help with the headache you probably have?”

He nodded once, slowly, before he could think twice about it.

She stepped in closer, set her mug aside, and brought both hands up to press them gently against his temples. Her thumbs brushed the sides of his face, the pads of her fingers tracing the shape like she’d done it a hundred times.

Behind her, John leaned in toward Alexei and muttered with a grin, “Maybe they could swing a little while they’re at it.”

Alexei shushed him -not exactly quietly- but her focused expression stay unchanged, she didn’t hear.

Bucky did.

His lips pressed into a flat, tight line.

Of course she didn’t hear. Focused as she was, moving her thumbs in slow circles at his temples, coaxing the pain from behind his eyes like it wasn’t even a big deal. Like this didn’t feel intimate in a way his brain didn’t know how to deal with right now.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, and he did. Mostly to block out the view of Walker’s stupid smirk. The rest because… it was easy. With her, it was always too damn easy.

A warm tingle bloomed where her fingers touched, and for a second, he almost forgot how nauseous he felt, how heavy his limbs were, how the sour taste of regret still coated his tongue.

Having her closer, he whiffed other scents he hadn’t caught earlier. He wondered if her scent had clung to whoever had dared get close to her at the club.

He hated the idea.

“You’re tense,” she murmured.

He cracked one eye open, but not to look at her, just to make sure Walker wasn’t still watching. He was. But at least now he was preoccupied with swiping toast from Alexei’s plate and getting swatted in the process.

“I’m always tense,” Bucky muttered.

“You don’t say,” she replied dryly, but there was a smile in it. A small one.

He watched her for a beat. “Did you have fun?”

She blinked. Kept her hands steady. “Yeah,” she lied.

He swallowed, stiffly. “That’s good,” he offered, “You’re always here.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was all he could manage. A lie, maybe, but one meant to sound generous. It only made the silence between them thicker.

She stepped back after a minute. The others had mostly quieted behind them, grumbling into mugs and too much food. He should have left it there.

But he didn’t.

“You didn’t have to be that kind to me,” he muttered. Still didn’t meet her eyes.

She shrugged and tried to smile. “You weren’t a burden.”

His jaw tensed. The words didn’t soothe him.

Because in his head, the whole night played back through fog and static: him, drunk. Grinning like a damn fool. Swaggering like he hadn’t in decades, like some 1940s lounge lizard with cheap charm and a good haircut. And worse, pressing himself against her in a slow dance she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted, couldn’t have enjoyed.

God, what the hell had he said to her?

He swallowed hard. “Still. I was out of line. I didn’t mean to-” He stopped short, couldn’t even say it.

His face went red. He backed away a step, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

And before she could answer -before he could see her expression- he turned and left the kitchen.

She stood there, blinking with the warm mug in her hand.

John and Alexei had the decency to shut the hell up.

She took another sip. Quietly. Careful not to let the disappointment show on her face. Not yet. Not here. Not with them watching.

He remembered. That was clear now.

And the way he ran from it made her heart shatter.

----

After the kitchen, he vanished.

Not literally, she’d catch glimpses. A duffel slung over his shoulder in the hallway. His silhouette at the far end of the gym. The sound of his voice through someone else’s comms.

But not with her.

Not like before.

He found himself missions to do -extra ones- and the shooting lessons dried up without a word.

She heard he’d checked into med bay twice after rough rides. He didn’t come to her.

And it was fine. It was fine.

Only… it wasn’t.

Because before, no matter how tired or scraped up he came back, he always stopped by.

Maybe they talked. Maybe they didn’t. But there’d be a chocolate bar shared between them that he’d insist on taking, because he worried that she could deplete herself after fixing him. Said she couldn’t keep draining herself to patch them up if she was running on fumes.

So… what now?

She had the plague?

Because she hadn’t asked for that dance. She hadn’t coaxed it out of him. She didn’t choose to be on the receiving end of whatever shit his mind was conjuring.

He’d been the one who pressed in close to her and called her sugar with that cocky grin that had no business looking so good on him.

She just led him outside to clear his head. Let him hold her after a lot of deflecting. And… let herself believe, for a moment, that it wasn’t just the ale or the drugs. Did he think she liked it too much? Had she let it show? Had she smiled too much, held him too long, said yes too easily to one slow dance, and didn’t protest as much as she remembered?

God. Maybe she had.

And now, instead of facing her, he was making it perfectly, insultingly clear: as he said in the kitchen, he didn’t mean it.

And now, she was just supposed to… take the hint.

----

The tower’s communal kitchen smelled like heaven and heartburn.

Alexei kicked open the door triumphantly with both arms full, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. The plastic bags crinkled as he dumped his haul on the central table like he’d just returned from war. The logos were all Cyrillic. The smell -grease, paprika, something with garlic- was unmistakably that of fried chicken and snacks.

“I bring gifts!” he declared. “The good kind. Babushka-style. The clerk at the corner stall? Russian. Told her who I was, and she cried. Cried, can you believe? Gave me extra thighs.”

Yelena peeked in from the hall. “Did she cry because she recognized you or because you didn’t shut up?”

Alexei gasped like he’d been slapped. “She called me a legend.”

“I accept pity chicken,” John muttered through a bite. “This stuff is insane.”

Everyone gathered quickly, half out of hunger, half because it felt good to sit at the same table and pretend they were more than what they were. A weird little patchwork family of trauma survivors and government rejects. The Tower was loud and unorthodox, but it fed them. Literally and otherwise.

She took a seat with her back to the window, scanning the spread -crispy wings, buttery rolls, sticky fried potato medallions- reaching for a drumstick like nothing was wrong. Just like always.

Bucky slid into the seat across from her.

She didn’t look at him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Because she used to. She used to glance up mid-bite and nudge the plate toward him. Used to smile.

He watched her hand pick through the rolls, avoiding the ones she knew had dill inside because she didn’t like it. Watched her keep her eyes trained on Alexei and Bob like she was hyper interested in Bob’s explanation of wing-to-thigh ratio.

Bucky bit into a piece of chicken and chewed. Slowly.

She still didn’t look at him.

And he hated it.

Not because he needed her to fawn over him. But because he was acting like a coward, and he knew it. Because after everything, after all the therapy, all the years rebuilding his brain from scrambled eggs and static, the Winter Soldier still didn’t know what to do with this type of situation.

She used to patch him up with warm fingers and a gentle scolding because he didn’t take very good care of his body. He couldn’t even offer her a proper apology. He’d just… vanished. Like a kid hiding under a bed after breaking something important.

He’d danced with her on a balcony while dosed and drunk, said things he hadn’t had the guts to say sober, then bolted like a coward.

And now, she wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

John waved a fried leg at Alexei. “Hey, how the hell did you carry all this up here?”

“I have arms. You’re not the only one with super strength.”

“You skipped leg day for two decades.”

“I skip nothing. My legs are made of titanium will.”

“I thought your knee clicked?”

“It doesn’t! tell him, Mister Soldier.” He turned to Bucky, “I’m strong as a bear!”

Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, and John chuckled under his breath.

She smiled again. Still not at Bucky.

----

He’d looked at her the whole damn lunch. Like she was the only thing in the room worth watching. And she had done everything in her power to pretend she didn’t notice. Laughed at the right times, passed the chicken, and smiled at Bob’s stupid thigh math rant.

But she’d felt it. Every second of it.

By the time her plate was clean, she slipped away with barely a word, straight to her quarters, and shut the door behind her like she could shut out the whole tower.

It wasn’t just heartbreak -she could handle that, after all, she knew Bucky didn’t see her that way-. What killed her was the absence. The way things had changed between them, the way he disappeared afterward that night, like she was something to be embarrassed about. A lapse in judgment.

She missed after-missions chocolate, his dry jokes when she missed her aim while practicing her shooting. Mis the way he used to treat her with a softness no one else ever got.

And she was tired of letting this stupid limbo steal what they had before.

So, fine.

If he wasn’t brave enough to fix it, she would.

She pulled on her sneakers, shoved her sleeves up, and marched straight to the training room.

If he wasn’t on a mission, that’s where he’d be, working out at an hour no one else wanted to be.

As she predicted, when she opened the door, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists on reinforced vinyl filled the space.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t pause. But she knew he’d heard her. Knew he’d recognized her footsteps.

So she didn’t bother pretending and walked directly to the edge of the mat where he worked. The chain creaked overhead with every hit. His hoodie was gone, white tee stuck to his back with sweat, his dark hair clinging damply to his skin. She could see the tension in his shoulders, in the form of his stance.

She stopped two feet behind him. Close enough to smell the salt on his skin and the chalk dust on his hands.

“I don’t want things to stay like this,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to… want anything. But this? Avoiding me? It sucks.”

His hands dropped from the stance, turning toward her, ready to speak, until she lifted a hand to stop him.

“I miss us,” she added. “I miss talking. Or not talking. Just… knowing I’m being iced out because I didn’t run away fast enough that night? It’s awful.”

She took a breath. Forced the words out. Forced the lie. “Don’t worry. I’m not infatuated with you. That night didn’t awaken or feed some ridiculous crush. You were drugged. Drunk. Someone had to make sure you didn’t choke on your own tongue, and I did.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“So let’s not be weird about something you did while wrecked. We’ve all had our moments. I already know you don’t like me that way, so now that things are clear, maybe you can stop treating me like I’m contagious.”

It hit harder than he expected.

I’m not infatuated with you.

She’d said it in a clean, cool, and decisive tone, like she’d rehearsed it. Like she wanted to make sure there was no room for doubt or misinterpretation.

Even if he’d told himself a hundred times that he was reading too much into things, that it was just kindness, that no one like her could ever really want someone like him, there had still been a thread of hope. Thin. Stupid. Hopeful.

The way she laughed at one of his rare jokes, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, or when her hands remained longer than they should when patching him up. The way she swayed with him on the balcony, leaning against him like it meant something.

He thought -well, hoped- that maybe there’d been something real between them.

Apparently not.

Thank God she didn’t let him speak. He would’ve embarrassed himself, because he was about to say something messy and half-honest, and made everything worse.

When she finished, he nodded once. Like he agreed. Like his throat wasn’t closed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I don-t- I don’t know how to handle these kinds of things. I panicked. Didn’t want to-” he swallowed, eyes on the scuffed mat- “break your heart. But I didn’t want to encourage anything either-”

“Got it,” she cut in. “Can we just… pretend it didn’t happen?”

He hesitated. Just a beat.

Then nodded again. “Yeah. We can… do that.”

----

After that talk in the training room, things, technically, went back to normal.

He started showing up again. Quietly. Casually. Like he hadn’t ghosted her for days. Like she hadn’t called him out for acting like she’d contracted something from one half-slow dance.

It began with a knock on her door one morning.

“Still down to polish your shooting?”

And just like that, the lessons resumed.

He stopped dodging her in the halls. Stopped pretending she wasn’t there at meals. They fell back into routine from there, coffee in the morning, her hair still damp from a quick shower, he already half caffeinated. He never mentioned that he’d been up hours earlier. That he waited for the sound of her footsteps before starting a second pot.

Sometimes, at ridiculous hours -3 a.m., 4- he’d knock on her door. Always quiet. Always short.

“It’s acting up,” he’d say, meaning the phantom burn in his shoulder or the ache on his back where the prosthesis pressed on his nerves.

She never hesitated. Never sighed or complained or asked why he waited until that ungodly hour to knock. She’d just step aside and let him in, her voice low and sleepy as she told him to sit, relaxing her hands in the dark to press the hurt away.

He lingered again. Long enough to sip the tea she made after patching him up.

They didn’t talk about those moments.

Like the morning he passed her a chocolate bar as thanks, not looking at her as he did. Or when her fingers brushed his jaw a beat too long before she realized the cut was already closed.

They joked sometimes. Bickered, too, like teammates did. But beneath the returned camaraderie, beneath the jokes during target practice and the shared glances across the kitchen table, something was living in there, waiting for the wrong -or right- moment to slip loose.

----

The meeting room smelled like burnt coffee and boredom.

Bob looked like he’d only recently rolled out of bed, Yelena was balancing a pen on her lip, and Bucky had perfected the art of glaring at nothing in particular. John was slouched, with his arms crossed, boots propped on the edge of the table like it was casual Friday in hell.

They were halfway through a dry logistics debrief when the press liaison from PR -RRPP, if you went by the internal Tower files- entered with that nervous energy that usually preceded bad news disguised as an opportunity.

She tapped on her tablet and smiled too widely. “We’ve been invited to the annual Unity for Tomorrow Gala. It’s a charity event raising money for rare pediatric syndromes. Very visible. Very positive. Very necessary.”

A groan rippled through the table.

Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “Tell me it’s at least an open bar.”

“It is,” the liaison chirped, clearly clinging to that as her sole bargaining chip. “And televised.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked.

“No,” he muttered, crossing his arms so tightly he could’ve popped the seams of his sleeves. “You want likability numbers? Stop making us pose for shit.”

“Oh, come on, Mister Soldier,” Alexei boomed from his seat, already beaming like the spotlight was his natural habitat. “This is good. Prestige! Public warmth! And the children, of course.”

“Right. The children,” John echoed flatly, already looking at the calendar on his phone like he might magically have a conflict of schedules.

Bucky leaned back in his chair. “I did my time smiling for cameras and shaking hands. I’m not in the seat anymore for a reason.”

“Exactly,” the liaison jumped in. “But public sentiment has been... declining. Slightly. Four civilian-ground missions, four major insurance claims. Some... damage.”

“There was a runaway drone with a bomb,” John muttered.

“There was a hot dog stand you threw the drone into,” Yelena corrected. “And a vintage car show. Don’t forget that.”

John waved a hand dismissively. “I tripped.”

“You blew out half a fountain,” Bucky threw him a judging glare.

“I said I tripped.”

“And that’s why this gala matters,” the liaison pushed on. “Good cause. Clean optics. Soft lighting. Humanizing. Ava’s excused, she’s three states over, but the rest of you? Required.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, and it wasn’t in English. He didn’t repeat it.

Bob rubbed his face, clearly wishing he’d stayed in the kitchen. He hadn’t done much since the Void incident besides filling out Tower paperwork and developing a fondness for infomercials. “Great,” he sighed. “So we’re the dancing monkeys now.”

Yelena exhaled slowly through her nose like she was preparing for a root canal. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want shrimp.”

John grinned. “You think they’re gonna have shrimp?”

“I need there to be shrimp.”

Everyone turned to look at her -the newest member of the team-. She didn’t speak right away.

They’d all done this before. Bucky, the campaign circuit. Yelena and Alexei, posing as diplomats or pseudo-royalty on missions. Even John had logged hours at high-profile charity events during his time as the golden boy of American exceptionalism. Bob… well, Bob wore a tux once or twice while doing catering service for a friend’s gastronomic entrepreneurship.

But her?

She had nothing in the closet that high-class. The idea of walking into a ballroom lit for PR photos, lined with champagne flutes while strangers judged the cut of her dress and the tone of her smile made her stomach twist.

Still, she knew the press team was handling the wardrobe. That was something. No need to buy a thousand-dollar dress she’d never wear again. And maybe -maybe- she could find a quiet corner, hide her heels under the hem of some tablecloth, drinking while everyone else smiled for cameras.

That sounded… survivable.

Still, she forced a tight smile. “Sure. Gala night. Sounds like a dream.”

Pathetic, really.

Alexei clapped his hands. “Wonderful! I shall wear my red tie. It brings out my legend!”

Yelena leaned toward her. “Don’t worry. Stick close to me. I’ll help you socialize with the snobs.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless they have shrimp. Then you’re on your own.”

She sighed. Gala night it was.

----

Somehow -because Alexei always managed to get his way- the Tower’s PR team agreed to let him use his recently repaired limo to take the whole team to the gala.

“It shows humility,” the PR liaison had said. “Relatable, even.”

Right.

As expected, their outfits had been taken care of ahead of time. The women were presented with three dress options each, while the men got exactly one suit. No notes. No negotiation.

In the guest wing, Yelena was adjusting a backless sapphire gown in front of the mirror when she turned to glance toward the bed. “So,” she drawled, “what’s Tinkerbell the Healer wearing tonight?”

From the other side of the room, she groaned and threw a brown slip of fabric across the bed. “I know which one I’m not wearing, if that counts for anything.”

Yelena smirked. “Lemme guess. Second-skin nightmare?”

“Exactly. I look like the before photo in one of those ‘lose 22 pounds in a month’ scam ads.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Yelena replied, tilting her head, “I wouldn’t wear it either. It’s like it was designed to highlight every part of the body a woman already hates.”

She snorted. “And the others? They fit okay, but the necklines are… aggressive. Like, museum-display levels of showcase.”

“So?” Yelena lifted a brow. “Isn’t that the point? To highlight the yummy attributes?”

She turned slowly to stare at her.

“I’m just saying,” the blonde added matter-of-factly, “if I had your tits, I’d be showing them off at every socially acceptable opportunity.”

“Oh, very comforting. Thank you for that.”

“You asked.”

“Alright, help me out, tell me which of these two is the least slutty.”

“There’s no such thing as a slutty dress for a gala. That’s just your perception. But, sure, be my guest.”

After trying both on, she stood in front of the mirror while Yelena circled her like a fashion hawk.

“My god,” Yelena chuckled. “The dresses aren’t slutty. You just have slutty breasts.”

“Oh, perfect. That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed.”

“I mean it in a good way,” she grinned. “Those necklines wouldn’t look like that on me.”

“Maybe I can pin it a little on the inside,” she muttered, inspecting the plunge of fabric. “Bring the neckline up a bit.”

“Or,” Yelena said with a wicked grin, “you could ask Bucky to be your guard dog.”

“What?” she blinked. “Why would I- no.”

“To stand there and glower at anyone with a lactation kink. Rich people, politicians, they’re the worst.”

“I’m not asking Bucky to do that.”

“Why not? I think he’d be thrilled to break a few fingers for you.”

She snorted, but her face was heating up. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

She hesitated.

Yelena tilted her head, studying her. “Because I saw your little slow dance before we went out that night.”

Her voice dropped a notch. “Yeah. Then he told me he didn’t want to encourage anything that wasn’t there.”

Yelena made a face. “Ugh. That’s such a man's way of handling things.”

“Exactly. So no, Bucky couldn’t care less about being my guard dog. He made it pretty clear.”

“Mm-hmm,” Yelena hummed, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

----

The team waited in the Tower’s underground parking lot, near the elevator bank under flickering overhead lights. Everyone looked to have different degrees of discomfort in their tailored suits and polished shoes.

Bob looked like someone had forced him into his suit at gunpoint. “Why are we even meeting in the garage? Is this supposed to feel glamorous?”

“I’m already sweating in this thing,” John replied. “If there’s no AC in Alexei’s clown car, I’m bailing.”

Bucky stood a little apart, with his hands in his pockets, leaning against a pillar like he wanted to blend into it. He was already regretting showing up.

The low ding of the elevator drew their attention, and John turned just as the doors slid open.

“Well, damn,” he said with a low whistle.

Both Bucky and Bob turned at that. Bob grinned outright. “Okay, okay, are we in a Bond movie now or what?”

Yelena stepped out first, draped in deep sapphire silk, catching the fluorescent light. She swished her hair with a smirk. Behind her, she emerged a step slower, adjusting her grip on a tiny clutch bag. Pinning the neckline had failed.

Bucky’s breath caught for a beat. Then-

“You look… good,” he said in a low voice, nearly lost in the scrape of Bob’s shoe.

Yelena scoffed. “Only good? I swear, you guys are underqualified for this kind of glamour. “We’re gonna milk a bunch of pockets tonight,” she added, lifting her chin.

John wrinkled his nose. “Okay, I don’t know how that sounded in your head, but out loud? Real different vibe.”

“You are such a pig,” Yelena snorted, swatting his arm with her clutch.

“Not my fault you phrased it like we’re hosting an adult livestream.”

As the banter escalated between them, Bucky’s eyes drifted again.

She wasn’t looking at him -not directly- but she wasn’t not looking either. He noticed the way her hand smoothed the fabric at her hip, absent-mindedly, maybe she was nervous. He shouldn’t stare. He did anyway.

She wasn’t supposed to notice him watching. He wasn’t supposed to want her to. But there it was, again. That soft, traitorous flick of her gaze that almost -almost- landed on his before skipping away like it never happened.

Bob, standing beside Bucky, caught the whole exchange. His eyes moved from one to the other, giving the faintest shake of his head, like watching a pair of teenagers.

Another moment passed before the low, growling sound of the engine echoed through the parking lot.

Then the limo appeared.

Alexei’s monstrosity gleamed in red under the lights. The paint job had clearly been touched up with more love than taste.

The window rolled down an inch.

“Get in, comrades!” Alexei hollered. “We ride with style and moral superiority!”

“Is there AC in that thing?” John asked.

“Is there honor in capitalism? No! Get in anyway!”

“Is there a minibar?” Yelena asked.

“No. But there is vodka and tiny pickles under my seat. Maybe some chips.”

John groaned. Bucky closed his eyes, cursing quietly under his breath.

----

He climbed in last, holding the door for her as she ducked inside and then followed, shutting it firmly behind him.

The inside of Alexei’s gaudy red limo smelled like cologne, vodka, and the leftover ghost of cigar smoke. The seats were soft leather, the kind that stuck slightly to bare skin. And unfortunately, there was a lot of bare skin.

Most of the ride was quiet, minus Alexei, who was thrilled to have a captive audience and launched straight into every wild tale of inebriated passengers he'd chauffeured back in the day.

Bucky wasn’t listening. Not really.

He was too busy scowling at the window. Or rather, scowling at the reflection in it.

At her.

He didn’t even know what the dress was made of -something soft-looking, but it was cut in a way that was perfect for her. And the neckline-

Fuck.

He wanted to throw his suit jacket at her to prevent anyone from looking.

He shifted, subtly, trying to sit farther back into the seat, but it brought his thigh flush to hers. Just enough to feel the warmth through the fabric. Just enough to make his pulse stutter.

She, on the other hand, was trying to be cool like she’d promised herself. Cool, like it didn’t affect her how his hair was slicked back, how the cut of his collar revealed just a little too much of his neck, or how the edge of his jawline was sharpened by the neatly trimmed scruff. That cologne he’d put on last minute -the expensive one he used once on a mission- wasn’t helping either.

She turned to him, easy and casual. Tried to make things like they were before the balcony.

“How are you dealing with the suit?” she asked.

He looked at her then and blinked.

“Fine, I guess,” he muttered. “Used to be normal attire. Back in the day.”

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Maybe that’s why it doesn’t look forced. It suits you. Really well.”

Her smile was kind. Innocent.

His heart stuttered like a goddamn idiot.

A friendly compliment, sure. But his ears burned anyway. He scrambled for something to return, anything to level the scale.

He opened his mouth and offered: “You look good, too. Very… uh. Free.”

He winced internally the second it left his mouth. Free? Really? He’d looked again, damn it. The neckline. And of course, she noticed.

She stared at him for a second before letting out a groan and tugging the fabric of her dress up. “Yeah. I know. It’s… a lot. Or not enough, depending on who you ask.”

Her fingers moved to adjust the neckline again, but it still didn’t sit the way she wanted. “I tried pinning it inside, but the damn fabric’s cut too wide-”

“No, I mean-” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again, softer this time. “You look elegant.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” he said, maybe too fast. “I just... wasn’t expecting...” his voice faded.

Now she was definitely self-conscious. Great.

He swallowed hard and looked away, resisting the urge to slam his forehead against the window.

What would that other version of him -the one that called her sugar and spun her on a balcony- would have said right now?

Probably something charming. Something bold. Something like, You look so beautiful, it makes me forget my own name.

Instead, Bucky sat there, silently, wishing the gala didn’t involve anyone else but her.

----

The ballroom was all gold and soft lighting, chandeliers glittering like a thousand judging eyes overhead. The waiters moved between tables with trays of champagne and canapés, the noise of conversation just loud enough to drown the string quartet in the corner.

Scattered across the floor, the team blended into the social chaos, some better than others.

Alexei was in his element, booming laughter as he charmed a cluster of wealthy donors with stories of selfless courage and the time he wrestled a genetically enhanced yak. He ate up the attention like breathing oxygen, even letting a local news anchor cling to his elbow for a photo op.

John gravitated near the bar, drink in hand, nodding along as a defense contractor talked too loud about privatized security models.

Bob stood near the snack table, utterly unbothered. He hid beside a fountain of something fruity, murmuring idle praises to the catering staff, casually working his way through shrimp skewers and stuffed figs while avoiding eye contact with anyone holding a wine glass worth more than a week’s rent.

Bucky camouflaged himself into the crowd like smoke. He stayed near the walls, weaving through clusters of suits and ballgowns, a full glass of champagne barely touched in his hand. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then only with short, polite nods. But his eyes were always moving, scanning, cataloguing. Watching her.

Across the room, she stood with Yelena, the two of them unsurprisingly talking to a group of old men feigning interest in the cause of the event while checking on them with poor concealed interest.

----

The woman found him before he could blend into a corner. Of course she did. She always had a nose for opportunity, and Bucky Barnes walking through a charity gala in a perfectly tailored suit was apparently still that.

He saw her making a beeline across the floor, sleek dress, high heels clicking on marble, champagne flute held like a prop she didn’t even sip from.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she greeted, voice syrup-sweet. “Too bad isn’t Congressman anymore?”

Bucky offered a stiff smile. “Well...”

“Pity.” Her hand slid into his and lingered longer than necessary. “I was hoping to see a return on my little investment.”

He didn’t pull away. That would’ve made a scene. And she had donated, fuck, more than most. Back when he was trying to convince himself that redemption could come in the form of legislation and cameras.

“Didn’t mean to waste your money,” he said gruffly.

She laughed. “You didn’t. You just didn’t spend it how I imagined.” Her fingers grazed his forearm. “But you’re still doing your good deeds, aren’t you?”

He nodded once. Kept his expression neutral. “Something like that.”

She leaned in conspiratorially, perfume heady and overdone. “Besides, I didn’t only invest in the cause. I liked the face on the posters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he let her talk. It was easier.

Her laughter was bright, echoing just enough to draw a few glances. And he chuckled, too. Not because she was funny -he barely heard the joke- but because it was easier than showing the guilt chewing the inside of his chest.

He shouldn’t’ve left the way he did back then. Should’ve written statements, closed loops, done… something.

So he took the blame and the glances, and let her flirt.

----

From across the ballroom, beneath the warm sweep of chandelier light and the low tunes of a jazz trio, she caught a glimpse of Bucky, half-turned toward a tall woman in emerald silk, her smile a blinding white.

His stance was unguarded, shoulders dropped, arms not crossed. Relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself to be in crowded spaces.

The woman -mid-forties maybe, long legs and expensive earrings- laughed at something he said and rested a hand on his bicep like it belonged there. He didn’t move away.

She tilted her head, watching.

It wasn’t the touch that got her. Not really. It was the way he responded. That faint, boyish smile she’d only seen once or twice. The kind of chuckle that didn’t come with a wince. They weren’t strangers. That much was obvious.

Then she leaned in closer, lips near his ear, murmuring something. Bucky grinned, quick and sheepish, like he’d been caught off guard.

Of course.

Well. That made sense. Why wouldn’t a woman like that be into Bucky? And why wouldn’t he welcome that kind of attention, gorgeous body, fitting dress, and clearly a past between them?

She turned away before she could watch more.

Yelena was deep in conversation with a state senator and a biotech heir, so she made her escape to the bar.

John was already there, half leaning against the counter, twirling a cherry in his drink like he was debating whether to eat it or throw it at someone.

He looked over when she dropped onto the stool beside him.

“Ditching the social circus?” he said, lifting his luridly garnished drink. “Can I interest you in a sugar-rimmed monstrosity?”

She eyed the drink. Then at him. Then, at the drink again.

“Why do you even bother drinking? You can’t get drunk with that,” she deadpanned.

John clutched his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. That’s low. Maybe I like the taste. Why do you care?”

She shrugged, signaling the bartender with two fingers. “I don’t. I’m just done smiling at men who want to know if my powers can be weaponized or monetized.”

John snorted into his drink.

She didn’t answer. Just tossed back her first shot and gestured for another.

Across the room, Bucky was still engaged in conversation, but something in his focus had started to drift. His posture stayed relaxed, but his gaze kept flicking sideways. Past the CEO. Toward the bar.

More specifically, toward her.

Perched on a barstool next to Walker.

She looked... withdrawn. Edgy. She said something, and John barked a laugh, tossing a cherry stem over his shoulder.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the donor purred, getting his attention again, “I’m here because I’ve got something for you.”

He glanced at her warily. “Yeah?”

She stepped in closer, too close. Close enough for her perfume to crowd his nose and make the collar of his shirt feel too tight.

“I wouldn’t have come to you if it weren’t worth your time,” she said, lightly brushing a hand over his forearm like it was casual. “I came across something. A leak. Internal Meditex files. R&D stuff that doesn’t match what they publish. Trial data. Failed ones. Buried.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened at that. “How’d you get it?”

“You know I have ears,” she said smoothly. “And more importantly, access. You can have it. Tonight.”

“Why not send it?” he asked, though his pulse had kicked up.

“Because anonymous tips vanish into inboxes.” Her voice dropped a register. “And because I wanted to see if the man I backed still gives a damn about the things he said he would.”

His mouth twitched. “I do.”

“Then come with me. I’ve got the flash drive in my clutch. Private lounge. No one will see. No one will hear. Unless you’d rather I slip it into your pocket in front of the cameras?”

Her eyebrow lifted, pointed. Daring.

He hesitated. Just a breath. This felt wrong, but the stakes… If she was telling the truth, he needed to see that data. Meditex had crossed his radar more than once. There’d been whispers. Rumors he couldn’t pin down.

Bucky nodded once. “Fine. Lead the way.”

She smiled like she’d already won something, trailing her fingers down his sleeve as she turned. “Try to keep up, Sergeant.”

----

The second shot burned less than the first. Probably a bad sign.

She winced, pushed the empty glass forward on the bar, and watched the bartender nod like he already knew she wasn’t done yet.

“Slow down,” John drawled beside her. He was still working on his sugar-rimmed monstrosity. “You’re supposed to sip,” he offered. “Like a lady.”

She snorted. “Please. I’ve been called many things tonight, but none of them rhyme with ladylike.”

John glanced at her neckline, purely for effect.

She stiffened a little, reaching up on reflex to adjust the top of the dress, but his grin was already in place. Teasing, not cruel.

“I’m joking, Jesus,” he said quickly, chuckling. “You look fine. Seriously, you’ve been tugging at that thing all night.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “Your chest isn’t trying to declare independence.”

“You wear the dress. Don’t let the dress wear you,” he said with a shrug.

She blinked at that. “Wow.”

“I have layers,” he said proudly, gesturing to himself.

She chuckled and stood up, “I’m gonna go pee.”

He grimaced. “Why do you all overshare? God.”

“Maybe I’m tipsy and don’t give a fuck,” she shrugged, patting his shoulder as she stood. He made a dramatic show of wiping it off with a napkin.

“You better come back. If I’m stuck talking to another golf enthusiast alone again, I swear to God-”

She flipped him off over her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd. The bathroom signs were absolutely nowhere, because of course they weren’t. Fancy places never had clear signage, as if bathrooms were some sort of secret only VIPs deserved to access.

She walked past a cluster of tall marble columns, turned left, then another left, and cursed under her breath when she hit a little room heading to more corridors. One of the hallways stretched ahead, lined with antique mirrors and gold-trimmed doors, but no helpful placard saying ladies, this way.

“Jesus. This fucking maze.”

She turned to the other, following the low sound of music deeper into the corridor, not realizing yet how close she was to something she wasn’t supposed to see.

----

She turned another corner, still grumbling under her breath, when her heels slowed on the polished marble. The corridor ahead was dimmer, lit only by antique sconces and the faint spill of light from a cracked door near the end. She was about to glance away when she saw the silhouette of a woman stepping out, tall, poised, dress shimmering dark green like serpent skin.

And then she saw him.

Bucky. Leaning casually against the wall outside the room.

The woman stepped closer.

Not close like talking close. Closer.

One hand braced her clutch while the other -those manicured fingers tipped in crimson- lifted, slowly and deliberately, trailing up his chest.

She froze. Mid-step. One foot still slightly raised off the floor.

What the hell.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step away. Just stood there, while her fingers traveled higher.

The woman said something, low and intimate, her voice too soft to hear. Then she tipped her head back and laughed, rich and unbothered, her hand still resting flat over his chest.

And then it happened in one fluid motion.

She leaned in, and her mouth found his. Then it got worse.

Because when her chest met his, the straps of her gown slid -already unclasped-. The fabric dropped swiftly, pooling at her waist, revealing skin, so much skin.

She stepped back instinctively, her heel catching the edge of a runner rug. A faint scuff of sound echoed in the hallway, and turned around.

She didn’t see him flinch.

Didn’t see him step back.

Didn’t wait to see anything else.

She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get the hell out of that hallway, away from the sight of Bucky and his beautiful, laughing companion slipping out of her dress for him.

----

She had led him down the hall, hips swaying just a little too much.

Bucky kept a polite step behind. He was only doing this because she claimed it was urgent. Sensitive information on a pharmaceutical research project that might tie back to one of Hydra’s old shell companies. Something worth following up.

They reached a tall door. Mahogany, brass knob, expensive like everything else in this damn place. She pushed it open, revealing a private lounge, low lights, leather chairs, velvet drapes, crystal decanter on a side table.

He didn’t step inside. Just folded his hands behind his back.

“I’ll wait here.”

She gave a soft, almost disappointed sound. “Suit yourself.” Then, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she stepped in, leaving the door half open behind her. The silence stretched. Then the rustling of fabric, the clink of something metallic, a clasp?

Then she reappeared.

“I figured I might as well give it to you now,” she said breezily, stepping close.

Bucky nodded once. “Alright.”

He didn’t move when her hand reached for him. He expected her to slip something discreet into his pocket, a flash drive, maybe a folded note.

What he got was her palm, gliding up the front of his jacket.

Not fast. Testing.

He frowned. Didn’t move because he thought she was aiming for his inner pocket.

Then her fingers just… stayed. Flat on his chest.

He looked down, confused, just in time for her to smile and close the last inch between them.

Then-  She kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t desperate either. It was planned, coaxing, full of intention. Her free hand slid down his side. Her body leaned fully against his, and then he felt it.

The rustle of fabric slipping low. His eyes dropped, and her gown had fallen to her waist.

Bucky recoiled instantly.

“Hey- no,” he said sharply, stumbling back a step. “I’m not-” His voice cut off, rough with shock. “Ma’am, that’s not what I’m here for.”

The woman blinked, still smiling like it was all part of a game. “Relax, Sergeant. Consider it... a way to get back some of my investment.”

He shook his head, rising one hand to put space between them. “This was a mistake.”

And then he turned, walking away so fast his shoes echoed loudly across the hallway. He was ashamed and pissed at himself. How the fuck had he fallen into that basic scheme?

----

She didn’t remember how she got there. One turn led to another, and then somehow, she was in an empty coatroom near the restrooms. The kind of place that hadn’t seen use in years. She slipped inside like a thief, closing the door behind her with a muffled click.

Faint music still drifted from the ballroom, muted by thick walls and heavy velvet. But in here, it was just her and rows of empty hangers. Her heels clicked softly on the floor before she stopped and pressed her back to the a wall.

She stared across the room. At nothing. Just the far wall. An ugly smear of peeling paint. The crooked hook of an old coat hanger. Something -anything- to focus on. Something that wasn’t the image burned into her brain.

She’d known. Fuck, she’d known. He’d said it himself, without hint of malice. Just honesty, as always. He wasn’t interested.

They’d agreed to move on. Be normal. Be okay. But there was hearing it… and then there was seeing it.

A stuttered breath escaped her lips. Then another.

And then, a sound she hadn’t meant to make, a wet, quiet sob that broke loose from her throat.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

Too late.

The tears came fast, faster than she expected. Not a trickle. A flood. Like she was finally shedding everything she hadn’t let go of after that night on the balcony. After the talk. After pretending it didn’t hurt.

It was stupid. So stupid.

She wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t some naïve intern with a crush. She was a grown-ass woman. A teammate.

And Bucky, he’d never misled her. Not once.

He’d slipped once, that night, yes. Drunk and too wrecked to know what he was doing. But after that? He’d been polite. Honest. Kind.

Pathetic. She couldn’t even blame him; all this pain was hers.

She just had to stop.

Had to stop feeling like this.

Stop wanting what wasn’t hers to want.

----

He reentered the ballroom with his jaw clenched until it hurt and a shallow breath.

Everything looked the same. Velvet shadows, too much perfume, laughter, clinking off crystal flutes. No one had seen. No one knew. He could pretend. He just had to get his footing.

But then-

“Bucky!” Alexei’s booming voice cut through the music like a war horn.

Shit.

He tried to sidestep it, melt into the crowd, but it was too late, Alexei already had a hand clamped around his shoulder, guiding him toward a semicircle of suits and gowns that reeked of cologne and generational wealth.

“Ah, here he is!” Alexei declared. “The Winter Soldier himself! We were just talking about Romania. Yes, yes, the cargo truck, remember? Tell them how you held onto the axle with one hand while I reversed at eighty kilometers!”

Bucky forced a smile, his lips barely moving.

“It wasn’t that fast,” he muttered.

“Oh, but they don’t know that!” Alexei laughed, sloshing a drink over the rim of his glass. “Come, tell it! You make the face, the brooding one- yes! that one.”

The group chuckled. Someone touched his arm. Another leaned in too close, asking if he was really out of politics.

His heart started to pound.

The laughter around him thinned, warped. The voices blurred, too loud, too wrong.

The lights above them were suddenly too hot.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, and it came out hoarse. “I need to…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t look back.

He just moved.

He didn’t know where he was going until the bar rose up in front of him like a dock in the storm.

Unsurprisingly, John was still there, a little more disheveled than when they came. His tie was crooked, the jacket unbuttoned, hair mussed in a way that said he’d run a frustrated hand through it one too many times.

He looked over when Bucky dropped onto the stool beside him and raised a brow. “You look like shit.”

Bucky didn’t grace him with an answer. He just lifted two fingers to signal the bartender.

----

After she calmed down, she took her time in the restroom, splashing cold water on her face and dabbing it dry with a linen towel. The counters were stocked with a small tray of toiletries, fancy ones. She used a bit of concealer, fixed her eyeliner, and patted her cheeks for color. In the mirror, she looked passable. Not like someone who’d just cried in a coatroom.

She let out a shaky breath.

Time to go back. Not to stay, not for long. Just to find Yelena and tell her she was leaving. Her social battery was long gone, and so was her mood. She wanted pajamas, a quiet room, and the illusion that nothing had happened.

She found Yelena roaming near one of the buffet stations, poking around at what looked like a shrimp cocktail situation. The blonde took a forkful, tasted it with a thoughtful hum, and was about to go in for a second bite when she noticed her.

Her gaze sharpened in an instant. She set her plate down on the nearest table and stepped closer.

“What happened?”

Fuck.

She really thought she’d fixed her face well enough.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m just tired.”

Yelena gave her a flat look. “You know I’m trained to read people, right?”

“I should’ve made a bet with you,” she muttered, brushing past her. “I’d be pocketing money right now.”

Yelena frowned. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated, then sighed. Her voice dropped low.

“Bucky,” she said, avoiding Yelena’s gaze. “He… he couldn’t care less about being my ‘guard dog,’ like you said earlier.”

“Why would you say that?” Yelena asked slowly.

“I saw him.” Her throat felt like it was going to close. “He was kissing that woman he’d been talking to earlier. The one in green.”

Yelena blinked. “What?”

“She was all over him.  Laughing, and then… I don’t know, I think they were going into a room or something. Her dress… she was undressing. In the hallway.”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “Pretty sure they fucked,” she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek.

For a moment, Yelena said nothing. She looked like she’d short-circuited. Then she caught herself.

“And here I was thinking he was just an old grump,” she said. “Are you- are you okay?”

“I will be,” she said, trying to smile and failing. “Just need to get out of this dress, off these fucking heels, and lie down for a decade.”

Yelena reached for her elbow, but she stepped back gently.

“So I’m going,” she added.

“I’ll go with you,” Yelena offered, already going to reach for her coat.

She huffed a tired laugh. “No, you won’t. You’re gonna eat your shrimps and hit the bar. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Yelena looked unconvinced. “How are you getting home?”

“A cab. I’ve got a vetted number saved. I’ll be fine.”

Yelena hesitated, then nodded. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will,” she promised, then leaned in and gave her a quick squeeze of the hand before turning away.

----

Yelena spotted them from across the ballroom, two familiar silhouettes slouched at the bar like disgruntled groomsmen at the wrong wedding. Both disheveled, but for different reasons.

She strolled over, shrimp cocktail in one hand, and propped her elbow on the counter beside Bucky with a dry smile.

“So, Mr. Soldier,” she drawled, helping herself to the gin bottle behind the bar like she owned the place, “seems like you're the only one -besides my father- actually enjoying himself tonight.”

Bucky frowned, knitting his brows. “And what gives you the impression I’m not miserable?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pouring the gin straight into an empty tumbler. “Don’t play dumb. Didn’t know you still had it in you, lucky bastard.”

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

She gave him a slow, knowing look and grabbed a shrimp from her plate. “She saw you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who saw what?”

Yelena arched one brow -really?- and popped the shrimp in her mouth like punctuation. “Took a wrong turn. Found herself facing you and that fancy CEO lady practically fucking in a hallway.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway to his glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stutter, but the lines of his shoulders tensed.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said carefully, voice low. “Where is she?”

“She left,” Yelena said, setting the empty plate down. “Said she was tired.”

When Bucky didn’t respond -no curse, no glare, no sudden storming off- Yelena sighed, resting both elbows on the bar.

“You know,” she muttered, “I thought you were into her. She kept denying it, and I pressed anyway. Teased her. Now I feel like shit, because turns out she was right, and I basically helped set her up for emotional disaster.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Yelena scoffed, thumping the bar lightly with her glass. “Oh my god, you’re so dense.”

Walker, beside them, made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

“She likes you, Bucky. Not like you like a buddy, or a mission partner, or some sad charity case. Likes you, likes you. And then she saw your little Casanova moment, and it crushed her. She cried.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched once, hard. Then he stood without a word and stormed off.

Walker let out a low whistle, tipping back the rest of his drink. “Damn,” he muttered, licking the sugar off the rim. “Should’ve brought popcorn.”

Yelena ignored him, following Bucky’s retreating figure with her eyes.

“About fucking time.” She muttered under her breath.

----

By the time the cab let her off outside the Tower, she felt hollow.

The lobby was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made her heels echo like gunshots on the polished floor. The security system blinked green, and the elevator ride felt longer than usual. She leaned against the mirror-paneled wall, watching her own reflection. Smudged lip gloss. Tired eyes. One earring missing.

Fitting.

When the doors slid open to her floor, she walked straight into her quarters and didn’t bother turning on the light. Moved through the dark on autopilot, shedding her clothes in soft, careless drops. The dress fell to the floor in a heap. Her jewelry clinked into the bathroom sink. The makeup wipe felt like sandpaper after the fancy towelettes in the gala restroom, but at least this one stripped the night off her face.

She dug into the bottom drawer like a raccoon looking for treasure and found her favorite pajama set: an ancient cotton thing that once had turquoise little flowers, now faded to blue-gray, with little lint balls on the most worn places.

Perfect.

There was a beat when she stood there, hair half-pinned, dressed in worn cotton and silence, and the bed called her. But no. She refused to lie down like a dejected teenager and cry herself to sleep. She wanted sugar. She wanted Jane Austen. She wanted to feel anything else.

The kitchen was dark except for the low glow of the fridge. She cut a fat slice of the leftover Black Forest cake Yelena had hidden behind Alexei’s smelly pickles and some suspicious deli meat. Sorry, Lena.

And then, barefoot and emotionally wrecked, she walked into the common room. She sank into the corner cushion, pulled the blanket over her knees, and turned on the TV.

Pressed“Continue Watching” at Pride and Prejudice, right where she left it. Mr. Darcy, in his wet shirt, awkwardly greeting Elizabeth after they converged unexpectedly on his property. She loved the scene. Not because Colin Firth, plus a wet shirt -well, maybe- but because he tried to scrape together his social skills to talk to her, failing miserably. He kept it all inside. All that repression. All that longing. She found it endearing. Maybe because she had a thing for that kind of man.

Another bite. The cherries were tart, or maybe that was just her mood. She sank deeper into the couch. Let the dialogues float over her like lullabies she knew by heart.

The guys wouldn’t be back for another two hours, at least. She had time.

Time to wallow in sugar and fiction.

Time to indulge in the self-pity she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

Time to let it all out, and tomorrow, look Bucky in the eye and act like she hadn’t seen what she saw.

----

By the time he made it to the lobby, she was gone.

He stood at the entrance, scanning the street like she might still be there, like the cab hadn’t already taken her away five minutes ago. He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered something low and obscene under his breath.

He moved outside and stood beneath the awning, teeth clenched as he waited. A few passing cars. One distant cab already occupied. Another with its light off.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. No ride. No plan.

A gust of wind rushed up the avenue. The first raindrop hit his shoulder like a warning shot.

Then the sky cracked.

A thunder rolled hard and slow across the skyline as the downpour started without gentler preamble, just a curtain of cold, punishing rain that fell against pavement and instantly soaked his suit, which got stuck to his body like wet paper. His hair, so carefully slicked back hours ago, hung heavily and stuck on his forehead and cheeks.

He stood there for a moment, water dripping from his lashes, from his jaw. One slow breath. Then he stepped back under the awning, his shoes squelching with every move. No cab would pick him up like this, looking like a drowned rat.

He shook out his shoulders, turned his face toward the street, and started walking.

After a block, he scowled. Why the hell was he walking?

“Fuck it,” he growled and broke into a run, his feet slapping puddles, water spraying off his shoulders and arms with every movement.

Ex-Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

Sprinting through New York in a drowned designer suit.

How sophisticated.

Every soaked step only pissed him off more.