Skittle's Sanctuary

“Call me at six on the dot.”

The text from Bucky arrives at 5:17 p.m.

No apology. No acknowledgement of the fight that left both of you bleeding the night before.

You stare at your phone for almost forty minutes. You shouldn’t call. You know you shouldn’t.

Bucky had walked out after saying maybe you were asking for something he couldn’t give.

A future.

A family.

A forever.

The words still feel lodged in your chest, but six o’clock comes.

And despite every ounce of self-respect screaming at you not to—

You call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a woman answers.

You freeze.

“Hello?”

Not Bucky. Definitely not Bucky.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I think I have the wrong number.”

“No,” she says quietly.

The voice sounds surprised, almost guilty.

“This is his phone.”

His phone.

Your heart starts pounding.

You grip the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Who is this?”

The woman exhales a long breath and says your name.

Every nerve in your body goes cold.

“How do you know my name?”

Silence.

Too much silence.

And suddenly you already know. You know before she says it. You know before the knife goes in.

“Because he’s been seeing me.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t breathe. You hear her speaking again. Words blurring together.

“I thought you two were broken up.”

“He said… he told me…”

You don’t hear the rest. Your ears are ringing. All you can think about is Bucky standing in your apartment yesterday, looking wounded as he said he couldn’t give you forever.

And all along, there was someone else.

A choked laugh escapes you. The kind that sounds nothing like laughter.

The woman repeats your name.

You swallow hard, “How long?”

“Four months.”

Four months.

Four months of kisses.

Four months of promises.

Four months of sharing a bed with a man who came home smelling like someone else’s future.

Your vision blurs. Another voice suddenly appears in the background. Too familiar.

“Who is that?”

Bucky.

The woman doesn’t answer. You hear movement and then his voice again.

“What—”

Silence.

And then Bucky says your name.

The sound of your name on his lips nearly destroys you. Yesterday you would have crossed oceans for that voice.

Today it makes you sick. Your eyes close, tears slipping free. When you finally speak, your voice is heartbreakingly calm.

“I called at six on the dot.”

The silence on the other end is immediate.

“Doll, wait—”

You hang up.

At 6:01 p.m., the love of your life becomes a stranger.

NOTES: Challenges: @star-and-shield-monthly February 2026: Tipsy and In love.

A piece of fluffy romance with Steve and an autistic female Reader (no description of appearance). Her diagnosis isn't really discussed in the fic but she's written as such by an autistic woman, and she has some accommodations and her autistic work habits are referenced. But obviously, one short fic could never cover all sides of what is a big spectrum. <3

If you can spare the time, please let me know your thoughts. Comments mean the world to me and provide the Muse with proverbial caffeine and chocolate. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Reader specific: She/her. Female. Autistic. Adult. Mentioned to be liking & wearing dresses, no other description of appearance.

Alternate Universe: The Avengers Initiative (AVIN) continued SHIELD's work after its collapse to corruption. The Avengers are living together in the Tower & Compound - Bucky has healed, and Civil War never happened because Tony and Steve worked through their differences like adults.

I do not own anything Marvel-related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Mission Preparation

As you heard the door open, you stopped rubbing your tired eyes and straightened up from where you’d been leaning your elbows on the desk. There wouldn’t have been any need to do so: if FRIDAY had let someone through the door without getting a confirmation from you, then the visitor could only be someone who had seen you in much less put-together states. But it was still considered polite, and honestly, right now, a break was a welcome thing.

A very welcome thing, you thought as you spun your chair to face the door of your lab — although you were never certain if it should be called a lab for all the high-tech computers or a library for all the shelves chock-full of books. Your space in the Avengers Compound.

“Captain Rogers,” you smiled.

Regardless of how tired you were feeling, his presence always seemed to pull an expression of genuine joy onto your face. And this time was no exception, especially since he had arrived carrying a holder that had two cardboard cups of what you presumed to be coffee, and was holding a brown paper bag in his other hand. You didn’t bother shutting down the floating hologram screens in front of you, showing various astronomical charts and data related to them. Any information there, he’d be privy to.

“I’ve told you, Doctor,” he smiled back. “Please call me Steve.”

“I do call you Steve,” you pointed out. “When we’re off duty. Is this not about the mission?”

Your brow furrowed, and you could swear that he changed the way he carried his weight, leaning more on his left leg instead of on the right. His appearance did not give you any clue about the context of his visit — he was in the usual blue button-down and charcoal grey dress pants, which he seemed to consider his uniform when he wasn’t suited up or at the gym. He cleared his throat and straightened up, impossibly appearing even taller and mightier than he already had.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked softly. “Interrupting?”

You knew from the bottom of your heart that if you told him that he was, he would apologize and turn around and leave, no questions asked, no hard feelings. He understood, among other things, how certain things required uninterrupted focus and concentration to pull off, and as much as you liked having him around, sometimes the moment just wasn’t good.

Although, more and more often, you were finding that the moment was very good, regardless of what you had been working on. There was just something about Steve’s presence that made you feel like you were floating. Appreciated. Seen. Accepted. And perhaps he’d sensed the fact that he was welcome, since he’d started stopping by at least once every day.

“You are not,” you replied, ensuring that there was a smile on your face. “I could use a break.”

He relaxed and stepped forward.

“I thought you might.”

The smile on his face made your heart beat louder, even as you weren’t certain of the physical origins of that reaction. He set the coffees and the bag on the desk after a quick look to confirm there wasn’t anything in the way, and started to unpack the paper bag, chatting away with a slightly hushed tone:

“I just wanted to check in on you. You’ve been in here for quite a while. Wanted to make sure you’d get something to drink and eat while you’re working.”

You pulled a clock up onto your hologram workstation, frowning at the numbers that had no right to have gotten away from you like this. The data on your desk had been invigorating, and you were fairly certain that you would have found yourself riding the flow of hyperfocus even without the adrenaline that came from knowing that you could do your part in saving the world.

“I was focusing,” you replied. “I actually only came back to it a moment ago. Great timing.”

He set two biodegradable-plastic cafeteria containers in front of you: your favorite salad with a little cup of dressing, and a slice of French Chocolate Silk pie that looked absolutely divine. Finally, a water bottle and a set of utensils wrapped in napkins emerged from the bag before he set it down on the floor.

“I’ve noticed this interval seems to be fairly common,” he said, reaching for his own coffee. “For you to return to the realm of us mere mortals.”

He was certainly selling himself far too short if he was calling himself a mere mortal, but from the warmth of his voice, it was obvious that you weren’t the butt of the joke. You tilted your head, looking at his profile with a question he could probably sense in your eyes, and he froze mid-movement. He cleared his throat again, and you could swear there was a little pink on his cheeks. What for, you didn’t have enough data to understand.

“I didn’t realize you have paid attention to my typical focus patterns,” you asked as you were peeling the salad container open.

“I… It’s important for me to be aware of the working patterns of my team,” he said, as if choking the words out. “Looking out for everyone’s needs so they can do their best work.”

Yes. Of course. That was all it was. You resisted the urge to shake your head to drive the small but very persistent hope out. You and Steve were colleagues. Teammates. Friends, even — definitely. It was true that he had been incredibly kind and caring towards you, but then again, he was Steve Rogers. It was physically impossible for him to be anything but. You’d just watched too many cheesy romantic movies.

And even if it hadn’t been for the fact that you worked together, and how any awkwardness between you and Steve would no doubt affect others in the team — such was human behavior after all — you were better off anyway without considering such things. It was better to stay in the realm of numbers and data, things you understood and could make sense of. While the thought of a romance wasn’t unpleasant, especially with Steve — someone like Steve — it came with far too many unknown variables. Your sorry track of attempts at online dating definitely wasn’t in any type or form encouraging. It was better, safer here, in the realm of predictable things and platonic attachment, where you could still enjoy the occasional romantic daydream in the form of a book or a film.

So you wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t read anything from Steve’s behavior. You wouldn’t embarrass him by taking his kindness and twisting it into something it was not.

It made sense. It was entirely logical.

Then why was having a perfectly logical course of action failing to soothe you like it usually did?

In the end, the world had been saved.

Again.

And according to Tony Stark, this obviously called for a celebration.

You had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. The operation hadn’t been anything like the Battle of New York; it had been a months-long, exhausting ordeal, full of all sorts of covert missions and digging for intelligence, and finally a crackdown at the Hydra cell headquarters. After it was finally done, all of you had been left with a vague sort of emptiness, the what now feeling that always followed the completion of a big project.

But by gods, Tony had made sure that you would take a moment to revel in your victory. In his books, that meant a very exclusive, high-end nightclub and bottles of champagne, the price tags of which you did not want to know.

“Of course you’ll come too, Mastermind,” he had said when you’d been hesitant about whether the invitation also concerned you. “This is as much your victory as ours. We’ll accommodate you.”

He had said it like it was self-evident, and you had to admit, the entire time you had been working for the Avengers Initiative, taking your specific needs into account had never been an issue. And while nightclubs, with loud music and bright lights and drunk people, weren’t really your comfort zone, you’d decided to tag along.

Nat had assisted you in gearing up, so to speak: she’d done your makeup — complete with sharply lined eyes, long lashes, and a red, red lip — and helped you choose an outfit. She’d casually chatted about things as you’d pulled the dress on and slipped your mission earbuds into your ears. They’d filter out a lot of the noise while allowing you to hear the conversation and participate in it.

“That’s pretty Breakfast at Tiffany’s of you,” Nat smirked from where she was lounging in an armchair in your Tower room, looking at your black fit-and-flare dress. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” you said as you ran a hand over the fluffy skirt. “Are you sure it’s a good club dress?”

“Of course,” she replied, her expression softening. “Why would it not be?”

You sighed and shrugged.

“I don’t know? But it feels like in the images I’ve seen from clubs, people usually wear more form-fitting clothes. I don’t want to stick out in a bad way. Like I can’t dress for the occasion.”

You weren’t even sure where your nerves were coming from. Granted, any human gathering came with a ton of hidden trapdoors and conflicting rules, but it wasn’t like the people you were going out with didn’t know how you liked to dress. And you were looking to spend time with them, and not make any new acquaintances. There was enough going out of your comfort zone involved without any nerve-wracking new humans.

“You won’t. You look lovely. It might be a bit different than what many wear but more in the sense of people having different personal styles and preferences,” she reassured.

It wasn’t like she was wrong. She herself was wearing a dress you associated with clubs, a skin-tight black number that looked not only amazing but her, and the same could be said about your dress. But still. Something felt like it was off, a bothersome buzzing in your brain.

Nat let the silence sit for a bit as you were still scrutinizing your expression and finally continued, very softly:

“Are you sure this is about the dress?”

You blew out a breath, doing one more spin in front of the mirror.

“I… You know things can be a bit difficult with me. That I don’t work as normal people do. I just don’t want to ruin everyone’s celebration.”

Nat snorted a laugh, and you raised your brow in question to her. She got up from her chair, shaking her head with a one-sided smirk.

“Honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you don’t exactly work with normal people. Now come on, let’s go,” she said, wrapping her arm around your shoulders in a friendly manner and gently nudging you to move. “You’re not going to ruin anything for anyone, it’s your celebration too, and the limo’s waiting.”

“Botany powers?”

You met Barnes’ doubt-filled eyes, refusing to waver despite him towering over you and the team staring.

“Yup.”

“You sure you can keep up with us?”

He probably wasn’t trying to be a dick, but he sure as hell sounded like one.

Pursing your lips together, you moved your hand just slightly. The potted Monstera plant on the edge of the hall sprung to life, shooting out as long vines.

Bucky barely had time to yelp before they wrapped around his ankles and yanked him face-first onto the floor.

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep up just fine, Sarge.”

Bucky backs you up against the wall right there in the entryway, the cool metal of his left hand sliding up your ribs while his warm right hand cups your jaw. His body is solid heat and muscle pressing into you.

Bucky’s fingers trace the expensive lace over your tits, thumb brushing your already hard nipple through the sheer fabric. His hand slides down, finding the crotchless opening immediately. He groans when his fingers meet your soaked pussy. “Fuck… already this wet for me?”

You whimper as he circles your clit slow and firm. “I don’t want anybody else.”

He drops to his knees right there in the hallway, pushing your thighs apart.

“Fuck, doll… she’s even prettier in person,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers slowly through your folds, spreading you open while he looks up at you like you’re his new religion. “Look how she’s glistening for me already.”

The first slow drag of his warm tongue through your folds makes your knees buckle. He eats you like a man who’s been dreaming about it for weeks — messy, hungry, one hand gripping your ass while the other holds one of your thighs over his shoulder.

You’re moaning loud, fingers in his hair, hips rolling against his face. “Bucky— oh my god, yes… just like that.”

You cry out, one hand fisting his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as he eats you like a starving man.

Bucky pulls back just enough to slide two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly against that spot that makes your eyes roll. Your eyes meet his as you look down. The sight is almost your undoing - Bucky’s got a filthy grin, lips shiny from your juices.

“So tight around my fingers, doll. Greedy little thing.”

He stands up suddenly, lifting you like you weigh nothing and carries you straight to the bedroom. The second your back hits the mattress he’s on you, yanking the bralette down so your tits spill out. He sucks one nipple into his mouth hard while he keeps fingering you, wet squelching sounds filling the room.

You’re writhing under him, moaning loud. “Need your cock, Bucky.”

Bucky lets out a wrecked laugh and sits back, stripping his henley off in one move. His cock springs free: thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip. He strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on your spread thighs and that soaked, pulsing pussy.

“Look at her twitching,” he groans. “She’s so fucking pretty when she’s desperate. You gonna be a good girl and let me wreck her tonight, doll?”

FIN.

Steve won't, can't look at Bucky. He remembers their tiny room, the single bed, the bathtub in the kitchen.

Eyes on Bucky? He won't have a choice. Nowhere to hide now.

Winnie ruffles Bucky's hair up; he scowls and smooths it down. "You'll both come home for dinner every Friday night."

"Yes, ma'am," says Steve, as if the thought of sharing a room, a bed, a life with Bucky doesn't scare Steve joyous.

But Bucky doesn't know.

And Steve will never tell him.

*

Steve doesn't know.

"A fine idea," says Ma.

But Pop hides behind his newspaper, silent. Bucky's stomach is in knots, waiting for certain disapproval.

The idea of Steve, alone in Hell's Kitchen, churns Bucky's stomach more. Or worse—sharing that rat-trap with any other guy.

"Home for dinner, every Friday," adds Ma.

Bucky's stare could set the paper on fire by the time George turns the page and speaks. "Stop mothering them, Win. They'll be fine."

Bucky stares in disbelief… and hope.

If George can accept this new normal, maybe…

But Steve doesn't know.

And Bucky will never tell him.

*

George doesn't know.

"It's a fine idea," says Winnie. "You can keep an eye on each other."

Not that Bucky nor Steve look at each other now; Winnie could laugh or knock their heads together. She settles with ruffling Bucky's hair; he scowls and keeps his anxious gaze on George.

They're grown, they need freedom, Winnie had said earlier. Don't disapprove just because you don't like it.

"Stop mothering them," says George. Winnie smiles, satisfied.

Alone, together, maybe Bucky and Steve will see what she has.

They don't know she knows.

And Winnie won't be the one to tell them.

“I’m Bucky,” he says, and he shows them pearly whites.

You tell him your name. The idea of being next door to an Avenger puts any anxieties of living on your own to ease. Over time, you see it all:

Bucky helps old ladies carry groceries. He fixes the war veteran’s radiator for free. He mows the lawn for the single mom who works at the hospital. The cops like him. Hell, the whole neighborhood melts for him.

Then little things go missing: A hair tie. Your pink lacy panties. The silver ring you swore you left beside the sink.

You tell yourself you’re being paranoid. You literally live next door to a superhero.

But you’ve also seen the way his eyes linger. And it’s curious how he seems to know your schedule better than you do.

Tuesday yoga. Thursday laundry. Midnight tea when you can’t sleep.

You never told him that last one… right?

One rainy night, your power cuts out. Your phone flashlight shakes in your hand as you fumble through the kitchen.

A staccato knock at your door causes you to nearly scream.

“It’s just me,” Bucky calls out. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Relief immediately washes over you as you unlock the door. He steps inside dripping rainwater and concern.

You follow his line of vision as it drifts slowly across your living room to the mug sitting beside the sink to the tiny rip in your couch cushion to the framed photo of you and your best friend.

Details nobody should know unless they’ve already been inside.

Your blood runs cold.

Because Bucky smiles softly and says, “You moved the furniture around.”

You’re in the kitchen preparing dinner with Bucky. Alpine is winding around his ankles as the record player hums softly in the background. The front door opens and your daughter calls out for the two of you. There is something in the tone of her voice that makes both of you look up immediately.

“Everything okay, doll?”

“Maybe?”

You and Bucky exchange a look. She drops her backpack by the table. “So, we started learning about the sixties today,” she replies as she pulls out her history textbook and flips through chunks of pages.

You see the page before Bucky does. There’s a grainy black-and-white photo of the Winter Soldier. Underneath, reads:

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES — Soviet operative linked to numerous assassinations during the Cold War, including the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Your daughter’s gaze bounces between the two of you. Bucky closes his eyes and you swear that you see his soul exit his body.

“Dad, you assassinated JFK?!”

“Well,” Bucky says slowly, “that’s one hell of a way to start dinner.” After a beat, he continues, “Honey, remember that my mind was controlled by Hydra at the time.”

Your daughter, your sweet, Barnes child, walks to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“She really walked us through the chapter like normal, Dad,” she mutters into his shirt. “I’m just sitting there trying to survive third period and BAM! There’s your government-issued murder glamour shot.”

You let out a snort.

“Everyone started asking me things about daddy, Uncle Steve, Sam. You may get a call from the school.”

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can I cite daddy as a primary source in my essay?”

Simultaneously you and Bucky shout, “No!”

“I can’t promise I won’t do that.”