and now i see daylight

Your entire body ached. Knees stuck firmly to the floorboards, unmoving, red raw from jagged edges poking into your skin. Your hands kept moving on their own accord, unable to stay still, flitting between staying sturdy on the floor or clenching onto the meat of Steve’s thighs where he sat on a lone dining chair.

His legs parted wide, hands clutching the underside so hard his knuckles paled. He could barely watch you work — sloppily kissing his shaft from base to tip, suckling on the sensitive underside of his head before finally warming him up in your tight throat, rendering the blond a mess of whines and debauched mumbles — nor could he look at his best friend behind you.

“Eyes open, Stevie,” Bucky grunted, “missin’ the goddamn show, look at how good shes working you.” The brunet had you clutched to his hips. His grip firm on your waist, moving you back into him as he humped his leaking dick over your ass.

His heavy balls slapped against your cunt, needy and wet as can be, a quick sting against your bundle of nerves earning a whine around Steve, making him buck up. A chain reaction that only feeds into Buck’s desires.

You turn back slightly, just enough to find him in your peripheral and keep slobbering on Steve, who’s still unable to watch.

Bucky grins, crooked and boyish, all charm yet no grace. “You love this, don’t you, sweetheart,” not a question, not even an accusation, just the full truth. “Love havin’ Stevie a mess… Love lettin’ me use you… Don’t’cha, baby? Huh?”

Ending his words with a particularly harsh thrust, his speed increased. Each slap of skin on skin stinging achingly sweet, creating new gushes of arousal. You hummed drunkenly, looking up at the blond’s heaving, blushed chest and heavy lidded eyes. Groaning, whining, any noise you could make while his thick chub snubbed your vocal cords.

“Agh—Fuck! Quit makin’ her moan around me, m’not gonna last!” Steve pleads to the sergeant, head tipped back in annoyance and pleasure, ass unsticking to the chair in a mindless attempt to fuck your throat. It gets Bucky laughing, at your submission to them both, at Steve’s whines, all big and broad, making noises that'll make his cheeks redden afterwards.

“She’s good isn’t she,” he smirks, “but I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth. No one ever taught you manners, pretty girl?”

You groan again, furiously. Irritation surging through your thighs with the want, need, to be full. But Bucky keeps playing. Sliding his palms down your hips and to the fullness of your cheeks, spreading them apart with a debauched, breathy groan, watching how his cock fits so perfectly nestled between them. He grips the flesh, hard, keeping the momentum steady and beat fast.

“Keep goin’, baby girl, Stevie can hold it in, he’s a good boy. You need to learn some manners.”

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You squinted at him, poking his cheek. “You’re so… symmetrical,” you whispered, as if it was classified information.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he chuckled.

He set you on the couch, but you grabbed his shirt and pulled him down with surprising strength. “Don't leave. You’re my emotional support super‑soldier.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he laughed.

You rested your head on his shoulder, staring up at him with the most dramatic, lovesick expression he’d ever seen. “Bucky Barnes,” you said solemnly, “you are my favorite person in the whole universe. Even more than pizza.”

“That’s a big honor.”

“And you’re so handsome it’s rude. Like…illegal. You should be arrested.”

Bucky snorted. “Arrested, huh?”

You nodded, then blinked slowly. “Bucky… my face feels heavy.”

“That’s because you’re tired, sweetheart.”

“No,” you insisted. “It’s because I have makeup on. And my lashes are plotting against me.”

He chuckled and lifted you into his arms again. “Alright, let’s fix that then.”

He carried you to the bathroom and set you gently on the counter. “Stay right here.”

You immediately leaned forward and bonked your forehead into his chest. “I’m staying. You smell like safety.”

He grabbed a makeup wipe. “Close your eyes.”

You obeyed…mostly. One eye stayed half‑open, watching him with suspicious admiration. “You’re so gentle,” you whispered. “Like a big, metal-armed butterfly.”

“That’s a new one,” he chuckled, amused, wiping mascara smudges from your cheeks and eyes.

“You’re my butterfly,” you added proudly.

“Don’t tell Sam, he will be jealous.” When he finished, he tapped your nose. “All clean.”

You gasped. “You’re a wizard.”

“Sure,” he said, lifting you off the counter. “Let’s get you into something comfy.”

“Can I wear your shirt? The soft one? The one that smells like you?”

“You always wear my shirts,” he reminded you.

He helped you into one of his long, worn-in Henleys, the one you always stole anyway, and you immediately buried your face in the collar of the shirt. “Mmm. Bucky scented. Five stars. Would recommend.”

He guided you to bed, tucking the blankets around you. “You good, sweetheart?”

You cupped his face with both hands, squishing his cheeks. “You’re my favorite person,” you said again, softer this time. “I love you in a normal, healthy, totally reasonable way.”

He kissed your forehead. “I know. And I love you too.”

You blinked sleepily. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“If you leave, I’ll riot.”

He chuckled, sliding into bed beside you. “Guess I better stay, then.”

You curled into him instantly, warm and content. “You’re my butterfly,” you murmured as you drifted off.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Your own controller’s heft is familiar, cool and smooth in your palm. Bucky bought you the new model, extra features, extra vibrations, the little motors buzzing every time the game throws a punch. You slide lower, knees drawn up, oversized sleep shirt falling open at your thighs. The shape of the controller fits just right—two thick handles, the perfect kind of leverage. You shoot him a sidelong glance, but Bucky’s still locked into the screen, knuckles white around his own controller.

You grin, shifting your weight, moving slow so the couch doesn’t squeak, and tuck one of the handles between your legs. The plastic is cold, pressure spreading where you want it, a sharp gasp slipping out as you flex your hips. You press the other handle into your palm, bracing, and squeeze your thighs tighter. The game’s sound erupts: an explosion, a crash, the controller in your hand shuddering with sudden, unexpected force—the vibration pulsing right against your clit. “Fuck—” You bite your lip, stifling the noise.

But Bucky glances over, brows pinched in confusion. “You okay?”

You smirk, rocking your hips again, the friction building, your breath getting shallow. “I’m bored, Buck,” you whine, making your voice extra sweet. “You said you’d be done twenty minutes ago.”

He makes a wounded noise, looking between you and the TV. “I—I just gotta finish this round, I promise, baby—please—‘s really important, I’m about to level up—”

“Oh?” You roll your hips, the controller’s vibrations sparking through you, heat blooming low and bright. You drag the handle in slow circles, grinding down, your movements deliberately exaggerated, eyes locked on Bucky. “More important than me?”

He flushes, mouth dropping open as he finally notices what you’re doing. The controller’s nestled between your legs, the flex of your thighs making it obvious, the tiny shudders of the rumble motor turning every few seconds. His eyes go wide, pupils blown, his fingers faltering on the buttons.

“Are you—?” He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips, his gaze flickering between your face and the place where your shirt’s ridden up, just enough to show the shadow of your underwear. “You’re really—doing that—?”

“Mmhmm.” You drag the word out, voice low and teasing. “You wanna watch, or are you gonna keep playing your little game?”

He sets his controller down without another word, hands shaking, eyes never leaving you. “I—I wanna watch. Please. Can I—?”

You laugh, letting your head fall back, rolling your hips again so the handle rubs perfectly over your clit, the vibration peaking just as the TV explodes with noise. “Good boy. Eyes on me, not the screen. You wanted to ignore me, Bucky, so now you’re gonna see what you’ve been missing.”

He whines, a desperate, needy sound, hands hovering uselessly in his lap, eyes wide and hungry. You slide the controller back and forth, slow and deliberate, grinding down as the buzz builds inside you, your thighs shaking, the edge so close you can taste it.

Bucky’s breath hitches every time you moan, every time the controller rattles against your cunt and you let yourself whimper, soft and drawn out, just for him. You spread your legs wider, shirt slipping off one shoulder, showing off, letting him see how slick you’re getting, how much you want his attention.

“Please,” he whispers, voice barely there, “please, I wanna touch, can I—?”

But you shake your head, keeping him at bay with a look, relishing the way he squirms, his own arousal obvious, cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. “Not yet, baby. You just sit there and be good, yeah? Watch me make myself come while you’re right there, too busy to even touch.”

He groans, nearly whining, fists clenched in his lap. “You’re so mean,” he whimpers, but there’s no mistaking the reverence in his gaze, the way he drinks you in, cheeks flushed and mouth wet, desperate for more.

The controller vibrates again, harder this time, the sensation pulsing through your whole body, making you gasp, your head thrown back, toes curling. Bucky’s hand twitches, aching to reach for you, but he stays in place, just as you command.

“Fuck, Bucky, feels so good—don’t you wish it was your fingers, your mouth?” you taunt, voice husky. “Bet you wish you’d paid attention to me sooner, huh?”

He nods frantically, almost whimpering. “Please, I’ll do anything, just—please let me—”

You smirk, grinding down hard, letting yourself get louder, moaning as the vibration hits just right, your orgasm building fast, sharp and bright, his name falling from your lips as you finally let yourself go, the sound echoing, filling the room, making his eyes go glassy with want.

Bucky is shellshocked, pupils blown wide and lips parted, chest heaving from watching you fall apart with nothing but a piece of plastic and his attention. His hands twitch again, craving, ready to reach for you, but you fix him with a look—a slow, satisfied smile, wicked in the neon wash of the TV. He’s aching for more, aching for you, trembling with anticipation.

“C’mere,” you order, patting the cushion between your open thighs. He scrambles forward instantly, eager, looking up at you for more instruction, as if afraid he’ll get it wrong. You grab his jaw, thumb tracing the soft curve of his lower lip, and pull him closer, relishing the shiver that runs down his spine at your touch.

“Keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart. You don’t touch unless I say. You use your mouth and nothing else—understood?” Your tone is soft but edged with authority, every word settling over him like silk shackles.

He nods, swallowing hard, eyes darting from your face to your thighs. “Yes, ma’am. I promise. Just… just tell me what to do. I wanna be good for you.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, gentle but insistent, guiding his mouth up to yours. You kiss him slow and deep, letting him taste the salt and sweetness of your earlier pleasure, nipping at his bottom lip until he whimpers. “That’s it. Good boy. Now down,” you murmur, pushing his head lower, guiding him to kneel between your legs on the floor.

He sinks down, almost boneless with need, breath warm against your inner thigh. You keep your grip on his hair, not rough but firm, keeping him exactly where you want him, in control of every movement. You pull your shirt higher, exposing yourself, spreading your knees wider. “Look at you,” you purr, tone dripping with pride and hunger, “so desperate to please. You want a taste?”

“Yes—please, please, I want to taste you, I wanna make you feel good—” His voice is ragged, hands clenching uselessly at his own thighs, fingers twitching as if it’s torture to keep from reaching up.

“Just your mouth,” you remind him, tugging his head closer. “No touching, no fingers, not unless I say so. Understood?”

“Yes,” he breathes, “yes, please, anything—”

You smile, satisfied, and drag him closer, guiding his lips to your inner thigh first. He kisses softly, reverent, working his way up with gentle, desperate attention, following every direction you give him—a hand at his jaw, tilting his face to where you want him, a tug in his hair when you want him rougher or softer. “Right there,” you instruct, pressing his mouth over your soaked underwear. He groans, tongue flicking out instinctively, tasting the damp cotton before you push the fabric aside and guide him bare against your heat.

He moans, tongue plunging between your folds, lips latching onto your clit as if he’s starving for you. Every time his mouth wanders too far, you correct him, holding him steady, making him savor every lick and suck, making him whimper with need as he tries to please you.

“Good boy, just like that,” you praise, voice thick with pleasure. “Don’t stop. No hands. You wanna make me come, you better work for it, Bucky.”

He whimpers, the sound muffled against your cunt, tongue working in slow, worshipful circles, lips soft and relentless. Your grip tightens in his hair, your other hand stroking the line of his jaw, guiding every motion, every gasp, every desperate little plea he tries to offer you between breaths.

You look down, and the sight is glorious—Bucky, your sweet, needy boy, mouth glistening with you, cheeks flushed, eyes squeezed shut in blissful submission as he eats you out like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. The only thing he needs.

You don’t let up, don’t let him come up for air until your thighs are trembling, your voice breaking on a moan that sounds almost cruel, almost loving, “don’t you dare stop, don’t you dare—fuck, Bucky, just like that—”

His whines vibrate through you, his tongue never wavering, his mouth sloppy and perfect and desperate, every bit the good boy you trained him to be, hungry for every sound you make, every praise you give. Your thighs are still trembling when you finally push Bucky away, not gently, but with a slow possessiveness that leaves him wide-eyed and glistening, mouth wet and desperate for more. You stroke his hair back from his face, fingertips tracing his cheek, and command, “couch. Now.”

He scrambles to obey, sinking into the cushions, chest still heaving. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, itching for contact, but you shoot him a look and he freezes, swallowing hard. The flush on his cheeks is bright and deep, eyes hazy and hungry, jaw slack as he watches you stalk toward him—predatory, unhurried, intent.

You climb over him, straddling his lap, the fabric of your shirt bunched high on your hips. Your knees bracket his thighs, and you’re close enough to feel every frantic, shallow breath he takes, the frantic flutter of his heartbeat under your palms as you run them slowly down his bare chest. He’s achingly hard, straining beneath his sweats, and when you tug them—and his boxers—down just enough, his cock springs free, flushed and leaking, twitching in anticipation.

You wrap your hand around him, slow and deliberate, dragging your fist down from the swollen head to the base, twisting just the way you know makes him whimper. “You remember the rules, Bucky?” you murmur, your voice silk and steel at once.

He nods frantically, hips bucking up into your palm, hands fisting at his sides. “No touching. I—I know, I promise, just—please, please, please—” His words are breathless, little more than whines now.

You hush him with a wicked smile, your thumb dragging through the precome beading at his tip, spreading it in slick, teasing circles. “That’s right. You don’t get to touch unless I say. You want it that bad, baby?”

He nods, swallowing a sob, whole body straining for more, eyes never leaving yours. “Yes. Please. I want you so bad, I’ll be good, I swear—”

You don’t give him relief, not yet. You keep stroking him, slow at first, then faster, letting him see how much you’re enjoying the way he falls apart under your hand. You grind your hips down, letting your slick center rub against the head of his cock, coating him, teasing both of you.

He moans—raw, unguarded, his head falling back against the couch, jaw slack as you torment him. “Fuck—please, please, I need you, I need to feel you—”

You line yourself up, the tip sliding just inside, and hold him there, hips rolling in slow, cruel circles, dragging out his torture as long as you can bear. “Hands at your sides, Bucky. Don’t you dare move.”

He squeezes his fists so tight his knuckles go white, shaking as he obeys, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Please—please, let me—let me touch—”

But you just smirk and, with one hard push, sink down onto him, taking him in all at once, stretching around him, the burn and fullness making you both gasp. Your nails dig into his chest, pinning him down, and you hold his gaze, riding him slow and deep at first, savoring every whimper, every broken plea.

“Oh my god—oh fuck, you feel so good, please, please—” He’s babbling now, incoherent, hips jerking up against your rhythm, desperate for more. But you control every motion, setting the pace, dragging him to the edge and pulling him back, over and over, until you’re both dizzy with it.

You lean in close, breath hot against his ear. “You want to come, baby? You want to fill me up?”

He nods wildly, sobbing out your name, every muscle in his body taut with need. “Yes, yes, please, please, I’m so close, I can’t—please—”

You rock your hips faster, chasing your own pleasure, clenching around him, your own orgasm building sharp and bright in your belly. You watch him fall apart, every sound he makes stoking your own fire, your moans mingling with his until you finally shatter, spasming around him, nails leaving crescents in his chest as you come, hard and loud, hips grinding down to take everything he gives you.

Bucky’s right behind you, a helpless, desperate sound torn from his throat as he spills into you, body arching, face twisted in bliss. You ride him through it, milking every last aftershock, holding him close, both of you trembling, panting, ruined together in the dark.

When you finally collapse against his chest, both of you sweaty and shaking, his hands finally come up—tentative, grateful, wrapping around you like you’re the only thing that matters. You let him hold you, both of you spent, tangled up and complete.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

Baring your soul to the man you shared countless nights with, stripping pasts, stories, and bodies. It felt like asking for a bandaid on broken ribs.

Father James Barnes, white collar that catches the light like a mock to your heart, a taunting reminder, sat you in the confessional, listening, enveloping. Catching how your voice wobbles, how you have to take a seconds break to gather yourself.

Only when the words 'I love you' bleeds through the curtain, does he speak.

"My child," he begins, voice low and unfavourably steady in this moment. Inevitably, the lump in your throat tightens, sinking labourously down into the pit of your stomach where it will lie for months to come.

"I..." he swallows, regaining position in amongst the crowded box and you can faintly make out the sound of the calloused skin of his palm — the same palm that once guided you as if a newborn lamb, the palm that grazed your stomach with reverence so sweet, it couldn't have been wrong — down his clean shaven jaw.

"I've never felt so... reverently... for another in my life. Since you entered these very walls, I dont believe i've ever had second thoughts as heavy as I did when I delivered that days sermon, I mean, i'm still surprised I got through it, barely. It... It—You," a strained chuckle sags his chest and you can almost see how he's talking with his hands. "You showed me true colour... adoration... and none of it, none of it, felt like a sin,"

You hold your breath. Lips pulled into a thin line, as tight as you could without having your breath stutter. But air is scarce in your lungs, and the tears unstick your mouth, forcing out a harsh sigh.

"But I... I can't just let this go."

You nod profusely as if he could see you, sniffling piteously, a shudder rattling your chest.

"Of course, Father." Whispering was all your throat could allow, and it stabbed James in the heart.

Father. He had urged you to call him James, Bucky, since your introduction, poking you playfully until it repeated out your pretty mouth. But the tether must fray.

After a minutes silence, he breathes into the frankincense filled air, "but... this, you... it feels real to me now, and it felt real to me then, sweetheart."

You hate how easy it feels. A sense of hope all to be shoved along with the nickname he'd only whisper in your ear when your knees ached and your head still rattled with yesterdays homily, holding your hands in his, kissing each fingertip.

There's another church a block or two away, regardless.

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your sweat-slicked body writhed around, your limbs tangling in the sheets. nimble fingers pumped in and out of your throbbing cunt, but never growing closer to what you craved most. release. you hovered on that edge, no matter how quickly your fingers worked.

your toy even had a mind of its own, dying on you halfway to your rising orgasm. a string of curses left your lips when the blue light on the device vanished. was your mind playing tricks on you, or was your wand edging you? banishing it to your bottom drawer, you went back to the basics.

now, your fingers were cramping, and your core was still tight with desire. you switched positions, climbing atop your fluffed pillow, hands gripping the headboard with a force that surprised even you.

grinding against the soft material already had you whining, the plush ridges creating delicious friction. your eyes fluttered closed, relishing in the way your figure felt like it was ascending. mind buzzing with a feral hunger, you rode the pillow harder, your hips rolling with intention.

one second, you were grinding onto smooth fabric. the next, you were imagining massive palms framing the dip of your waist as he guided you up and down his thick cock. your movement stuttered when you realized who was rattling around in your skull as if he'd already carved out a space there.

your stepdad.

your cheeks heated, embarrassment flooding your face with a vengeance. before you could bite your lip in an attempt to stop the words from dripping off your devilish tongue, they slipped out in soft sighs. "bucky, please."

not even a couple of beats later, you heard a set of footsteps down the hallway. damn super soldier hearing. scrambling, you tried to get under your sheets, bury the evidence that you were ever awake.

when he pushed into the room, your eyes were tightly closed, but your chest insisted on heaving. he let out a dark chuckle, "you ain't slick, sweetheart, and you're definitely not as quiet as you think."

he closed the distance, hovering over your "sleepy" form. he brushed a rogue hair from your face while his metal fingers curled under the comforter, trailing down your stomach. "you want daddy to help with that pretty pussy? i heard her callin' f'me," he rasped arrogantly.

you dropped the act when his cool digits teased the edge of your panties, eyes shooting open as you gasped. "there's my sweet girl," he cooed. "ya wanna translate what she's sayin'?"

you swallowed thickly, gazing up through your lashes. "need you, daddy."

"oh, i know. just wanted to hear those sweet lips say it," he smirked, then his hand fell straight to his belt.

“Where the fuck is the fucking tuna?” You shouted, rummaging through every cabinet with zero patience.

Bucky appears in the doorway, fresh from a shower, hair still damp, and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. The sight doesn’t distract you. Him, leaning against the frame like he owns the place (well… he does) is what does.

“Someone’s cranky,” he says, amused.

“You said you restocked. You lied.” You spin around, pointing an accusing finger. “There is no tuna. I’m going to die of protein deficiency in your apartment.”

“Our apartment,” he corrects with a smirk before pushing off the doorframe, sauntering toward you with that stupid slow stride that always makes your pulse jump. “And I didn’t lie.”

Bucky reaches past you to open the one cabinet you hadn’t checked. The highest one, the one you definitely can’t reach not even in tippy toes. His vibranium arm stretches above you, fingers bringing down two familiar blue cans and offering them up like trophies.

“Top shelf. Out of reach for short people.”

“I’m not short,” you grumble. “You’re just unfairly tall.”

Bucky’s smile only widens. He crowds you against the counter, vibranium arm locking around your body as he leans to kiss your cheek.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

And God help you, but his lips make your anger dissolve instantly.

You somehow managed not to flinch when Steve gripped your chin and turned your head. There was strength in his hold along with deceptive gentleness. The smile he gave you didn’t bring you any comfort. Neither did the hunger in his blue eyes. 

“And don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, using his thumb to wipe away a tear from your cheek. “I’m not a monster.”

You almost laughed. He made you fall for him, convinced you he was a good guy, and then he kidnapped you. He locked you in his basement in the middle of nowhere. And he made it clear that he had no intention of ever letting you go. 

If he wasn’t a monster, then what was he?

Your heart pounded in your chest when a sharp cry rang out in the next room, and you willed yourself not to get sick when you heard the deep grunt that followed. You weren’t sure how many other girls were down there, but they were suffering, too, at the hands of Steve’s friends. It was awful.

“They won’t touch you,” Steve reminded you, your chains rattling as he pulled you close. “You’re off limits.”

“Small blessings,” you muttered. 

He chuckled quietly. “The sooner you learn to behave, the sooner you’ll be in my room where you belong.”

Behave. Like you were an animal who needed training. Like you were supposed to accept this new reality of captivity and depravity.

“Why, Steve?” you whimpered. 

Why keep you?

What made you so special?

Steve rested his chin on the top of your head. “Because you’re mine,” he replied, like it excused everything he did. “No more crying, okay? It’s time to eat.”

At least he was a good cook. 

Small blessings. 

I wonder who his friends are. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

The day had been a total mess. You had woken up twenty minutes late, arriving at work an hour after you were supposed to. Each hour felt longer and heavier than the last. Work had been a train wreck. Calls with arrogant, frustrated customers, emails stacking up, each small task becoming mountains of work. Endless interruptions piled up, making the day worse. As if the universe could not hear your desperate cries for something good to come your way, it started down pouring on your walk home from work. You thought you’d be able to out-walk the rain, your apartment only being a few blocks away.  You hadn't expected it to rain, and of course, you had no umbrella.

All you wanted to do was take a nap.

You slam the door shut as you come in, wincing at the sound. Kicking your shoes off at the door, you trudged to the bathroom. Clothes peeled off, hair still dripping, a small puddle of water surrounded your feet before even turning on the shower. Stepping into the warm shower water, you sighed with content. The white noise of the shower concealed you from the disasters from earlier. The warm water washed away the tension, and even as you exited, droplets still clung to your skin, the steam curling around you like a soft blanket. Slipping into pijamas for the reminder of the day, you crawled onto the couch, tiredness over taking you.

Your phone buzzed beneath you, waking you from your nap. The timestamp on your phone read 8pm. You answered the call, your voice husky from slumber, “hi, Buck,” you croak out.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m so sorry for coming home a little later today, Val made our meeting run late.” Your boyfriend says, your phone speaker is making him cut in and out a little bit. “I was probably going to pick up Chinese food on my way home for us.”

“Mhm, sounds good to me,” you mumble sleepily, wanting to close your eyes again.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” He asks, you can hear the sounds of the city through his mic. The honking of obnoxious drivers, people chatting outside, a police siren wails in the distance, because of course it does, it's New York.

“Yeah, but it’s fine, I needed to get up anyway.”

“You almost never take naps, are you alright?” He questions, voice laced with concern.

“Just had a bad day, that’s all.” You answer him honestly. He promises to be home soon and ends the call.

Bucky comes in juggling the bags of take-out while taking his muddy boots off at the door. Seeing you cuddled up on the couch, clearly fallen back asleep. He throws his keys on the counter before walking over to you. Kneeling in front of the couch, he gently wakes you. “Hey, doll. How about you wake up and we can eat some Chinese?” He whispers. You stir, eyes cracking open.  “There she is.” He says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re already home?” You rasp, a confused look on your face. Had you not known you’d fallen back asleep?

“Yeah, you fell back asleep after our call. Don’t remember?” He asks, you shake your head. Still half asleep, you sit up. He helps you to your feet, leading you to the table he’s already set up. You now just realize how hungry you are, your stomach growls. A quiet chuckle escapes him, his eyes softening. He piles all your favorites onto one plate and slides it in front of you. Bucky drops into the chair next to you, finally relaxing, Val's meeting had drained him.

“So, what happened?” Bucky asks.

“What do you mean?” you question.

“Earlier you said you had a shit day.”

“Oh. Right. It was just a bunch of small things that built up during the day,” you explain, a frown forming on your face.

His brows furrow, expression thoughtful. He reaches out, brushing his thumb gently over your knuckles. “Want to tell me about it?” he asks, voice low.

“No, I’m over it honestly. Thank you though — for being there.”

After you both finish eating, he takes the plates to the kitchen to be washed later and heads to your shared bedroom to shower. By the time he finishes showering, the tension of the day has finally started to drain from his shoulders. He lets the hot water run longer than usual, head tipped forward as it pounds against his neck. He thinks about you — about the way your voice had sounded on the phone earlier, rough with sleep and exhaustion, about the way you’d barely eaten before today. He makes a quiet promise to himself to take tomorrow slower, to make sure you do too. About half an hour later, he emerges wearing nothing but pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your body. He takes the seat beside you. An arm comes around to pull you closer, and you settle against him, resting your head on his chest. You sigh softly and tuck your feet under you. Bucky reaches over the couch to grab the remote. “You want to watch a movie?” he asks. You silently nod.

He scrolls through the options before settling on something familiar, something neither of you has to pay much attention to. The room fills with quiet dialogue and soft light. Somewhere between the opening scene and his steady breathing beneath your cheek, your eyes drift closed again. This time, you don’t fight it.

As the movie plays, he absently traces patterns along your arm, thumb brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. Every so often, you shift closer, seeking warmth even in your sleep. He lets you, always. The movie becomes background noise, something familiar and unimportant, and eventually he realizes he hasn’t paid attention to it at all.

Once the movie finishes, Bucky carefully gets up, hoping not to wake you. He lifts you easily, cradling you against his chest, and carries you to the bedroom. He carries you down the hall slowly, careful not to bump into anything. The bedroom is dark and quiet, curtains drawn just enough to let in the glow of passing headlights. He lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blankets around you before climbing in behind you. The moment he pulls you back against him, you relax completely, fitting into his hold like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Even in your sleep, you curl into him like it’s second nature.

“A box,” he repeats, already stepping forward, already reaching around you with those big hands. “Then you don’t mind if I take a look?”

You whirl, clutching it to your chest. “Bucky, seriously—”

He tilts his head, eyes dropping to the box you’re guarding like national security. “Open it.”

“Buck—”

“Open it, doll.”

You give up the fight. The lid lifts.

Bucky freezes.

And then his jaw flexes hard enough to crack stone.

Inside, laid out neatly, are all your secrets—vibrators, a glass dildo, a little pink bullet, a wand, lube packets, a couple of silicone plugs. Every toy you’ve ever bought while fantasizing about him but never daring to ask.

Bucky stares for a long, lethal moment.

Then he breathes out a laugh—quiet, disbelieving, and offended in the filthiest possible way.

“You’ve been keepin’ these from me?”

“I—I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

He snaps the lid shut with one sharp movement, tucks the box under his arm, and looks at you like you just challenged his entire masculinity.

“Doll,” he says, stepping into your space, voice dropping to a dangerous purr, “these belong to me now.”

Your inhale is a squeak.

“Bucky—”

“No,” he says, backing you into the bed without even touching you. “You bought all these pretty little things to make yourself come…” His eyes drag over you, hungry and dark. “And you never thought to ask me to help?”

You feel your face heat. “I just didn’t know if you’d want to.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He drops the box on the mattress and eases you back by your hips. “You should know by now—I wanna be the one who makes you feel good. I wanna be the only thing you need.”

He opens the box again.

Chooses the small bullet first.

“Let’s see what this one does.”

You’re already breathless when he spreads your thighs, pulling your shorts down your legs like he’s unwrapping something precious. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee and then another to your inner thigh.

Then the toy clicks on.

The vibration is soft, teasing—nothing compared to his mouth—but you still gasp when he brings it to your clit.

“Oh,” you whine.

He smirks. “Feels nice?”

You nod frantically.

He moves it in slow circles, studying every twitch of your body.

But just when your hips start to lift toward him—he turns it off.

Your whole body jerks. “Bucky!”

“We’re testing them, doll. Gotta be thorough.” He picks up the glass dildo next, holds it up to the light. “Pretty. You ever used this one deep?”

Your face goes molten.

He grins. “That a yes?”

You nod, embarrassed.

He leans down, kisses your lips gently—such a sharp contrast to the heat building inside you. “Open for me.”

You do, and he slides the toy in slow, watching your breath catch. The cold glass makes you clench, and Bucky moans like he felt it himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart… look at you taking it.”

He pumps it lazily, rotating his wrist just enough to make you gasp again. When you start panting, thighs trembling, he pulls it out with obscene slowness.

And sets it aside.

“Bucky, please—”

“What’s next…” He lifts the wand, the one you only use when you’re desperate. “This one looks serious.”

Your eyes widen. “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” he says, kissing your knee, the inside of your thigh, your hipbone. “You’re gonna take every toy in this box until I know exactly what you’ve been doing to yourself without me.”

The wand buzzes to life.

You flinch—it’s strong, stronger than anything else—and your head tips back into the pillows as he presses it between your thighs.

“God—Bucky—!”

He holds it steady, not letting up for a second. “That’s it, doll. Let me see how fast this one gets you close.”

Too fast. Way too fast.

You can hear yourself begging, incoherent and desperate, but Bucky just watches with molten eyes, the vibration roaring through your whole body.

Just as your orgasm hits the edge—he pulls the wand away.

Your cry is pure heartbreak. “BUCKY—”

He climbs over you immediately, caging you in with his body, kissing you until you’re dizzy and gripping his shoulders.

“You don’t come,” he murmurs against your lips, “until I know you’ll fall apart for me.”

“I’m already—”

He hushes you with his thumb on your swollen bottom lip. “One more, sweetheart. Last one.”

He digs into the box again and pulls out the silicone plug—the small one, the one you bought on a lonely night but never used.

He holds it up, eyes gleaming.

“This ever been inside you?”

Your throat goes dry. “N-no.”

He kisses you once, slow and filthy. “It will be.”

You’re shaking by the time he slicks it with lube, by the time his fingers circle your entrance, by the time his voice drops to a whisper:

“Relax for me. Lemme open you a little. Just want you full.”

You gasp when the tip slides in—just the tip—and Bucky groans like he’s the one being stretched.

“Fuck, doll… you’re gonna kill me.”

When the plug finally settles inside you, you can’t breathe. Everything is too much.

And Bucky?

Bucky looks ruined.

“That’s it,” he rasps, leaning down to kiss you breathless. “You’re done with this box.”

He grabs your hips, pulls you flush against him, your thighs around his waist.

“These toys?” he growls against your neck. “They’re mine now. And from now on, if you wanna come—”

His hand slides down, presses your plug deeper, making you sob.

“—you ask me.”

He’d never seen Brooklyn Stadium so alive.

Ten years under his belt for the Soldiers and though he adored his team’s fervent fans, nothing compared to the energy he was experiencing this night as he made his way to the centre-most VIP tent.

The biggest pop sensation of their time, playing your final show of the American leg of your ambitious career-high tour, all right here on his home ground.

He nodded a greeting at the security guard as he stepped into the private tent, shaking hands with one person he knew and smiling politely at another he didn’t. Coach Fury stood in the back, his aide and girlfriend Maria Hill at his side.

“You’re late, Barnes.”

“Sorry, sir,” he replied automatically, turning to take in the view from their position.

The entire stage lay before them, a writhing river of excited, dressed-to-the-nines fans the only thing separating them from what was about to be a mind-blowing performance.

“Becca called out last minute.”

“She’d be devastated to miss this,” Maria smirked.

“Trust me, I’m on strict instructions to describe every detail the moment I’m back.” He waved his phone in the air. “And gotta gather evidence.”

‘Don’t you dare go all moon-eyed and forget to take photos, James!’ she’d tried to yell at him as he left her door, her throat raw from sickness making it sound more like a banshee wail.

Truthfully he was pleased his sister couldn’t make it. She’d teased him mercilessly for his love of your music for years, he didn’t want her stepping all over this moment too.

The countdown flashing on the big screen dropped sub one minute and the excitement of the crowd grew to a fever pitch. He separated from Fury and Hill quickly, taking up a spot at the front of the booth so he could watch and enjoy unimpeded.

Blood was thrumming in his veins, adrenaline pumping like this was pregame and he was about to run on field. All in preparation of seeing you.

Twenty seconds.

He pushed up the sleeves of his Henley, nodding and smiling brightly for some guy who swung their camera in his direction, posing goofily with his prosthetic for another who leaned over the partition to get as close as possible. He enjoyed his small slice of fame amongst the chaos that was everything you.

Ten seconds.

Bucky joined in on the countdown, shaking his head in wonder at the booming sound of the combined force of the crowd.

Three.

Two.

One.

The lights died off, the music track began, and Bucky gripped the metal ledge.

Let’s go.

A single spotlight shone through the darkness, illuminating your sequinned figure on stage, and the entire stadium somehow dialled it to eleven. He hollered and cheered with them, ears ringing, smile wide across his face, until your perfect, gorgeous voice broke the storm of anticipation into a tsunami of lyrics and dancing.

He was a goner. The way your legs went on and on and on in the sparkling bodysuit, your voice pure and powerful with every word, toying with the crowd and bouncing with your dancers in perfect formation.

And that was just the first song.

“Hello Brooklyn!”

You waved with more enthusiasm than the entirety of the ecstatic crowd, your smile lighting up the stadium brighter than any spotlight there.

Bucky laid a hand over his chest, grinning down at you stupidly. This was everything he’d hoped it would be.

“You know,” you began, slowly circling the stage, “this is the last show before we take a small break.”

The crowd’s response was immediate, screams and shouts and declarations of love filling the air.

“I know.” Your eyes shone brightly as you looked out at the stadium of thousands, your gaze somehow touching every single person there. You raised a hand to your heart. “Me too.”

“So!” You skipped a little to the side, fluttered a hello with your fingers to a stranger in the sea of people, and asked boldly, “Who wants to help me make this a night to remember?”

The stadium erupted, the music took off, and for three hours Bucky danced, smiled, clapped, and wolf whistled to your every move, delighting in the opportunity his vantage point gave to drink in the sight of you and sing his full heart out.

His only distraction was the arrival of your manager joining the tent in the later half of the show, and he risked it all to beeline straight for her.

“Yelena Belova?” He wasn’t breathless, he wasn’t nervous. He was cool, calm, and collected. Or, that’s what he told himself when the small blonde looked him over.

“Yes?”

He extended a hand. “Bucky Barnes, Brooklyn Soldiers.”

“I know who you are. You were very good last season.” She looked pointedly at his arm. “You are the Tinman.”

He chuckled at the nickname. “That’s me, ma’am.”

Deep breath. Come on, Barnes, you got this.

“Is there any availability for a meet backstage after the show?”

Apparently that was the exact moment you reappeared on stage, because the instant the crowd cheered he lost Yelena’s reply in the cacophony of sound. But she was smiling, clapped a hand against his arm with a power that landed as hard as any footballer’s, and walked away before he could figure out the answer.

You stepped off stage a final time, the last performance of the weekend, of August, but not of the year, and you longed for the moment you could relax.

That moment was not now.

Your dancers crowded around you, cheering, and you laughed, jumping for joy with them as you all navigated the paths behind the stage screens.

“You guys were incredible!” You told them breathlessly. “That was incredible, oh my…”

Your eyes locked with Peter’s whose lopsided smile had you grabbing him by the shoulders and looking him up and down.

“Petey! Are you okay?”

“Yes, boss.” He shook off your hands with a self deprecating laugh. “I swear, it was nothing.”

“No, I saw how you landed in that last sequence, that did not look okay.” You tried to crouch down to inspect his leg yourself but he took your hand with a laugh and pulled you forward, herding you along with the others under the stadium floors.

You waved distractedly up at the fans who stayed to spy on your exit backstage, but quickly turned back to Peter once out of view.

“I just hope no one else noticed,” he was saying.

“Don’t even worry, you covered the fumble so well, you were perfect. We just make sure you get it checked out, okay?”

You were running out of time, the buggy already parked and waiting to ferry you back to the locker-room-turned-green-room.

“Do you need ice for your ankle? Who can get you some ice? You know what, I’ll do it—“ You turned to find Yelena, your lifeline in this chaos, already at your side, but Peter and the other dancers were walking away to their own vehicles, waving you off and promising reassurances as they departed.

“You’re sure?” But they were already ushering you up into the buggy. You twisted in the seat to call out as they whisked you away, “I swear Peter if this is adrenaline talking and you’re limping tomorrow I’m gonna be so mad!”

“He’s fine,” Yelena told you, her tone brooking no argument. “Now, look here at this.”

She shoved the tablet into your hands and you look down at a web search of a football team. “What am I looking at?”

“There is a football man from VIP who wants to come to the green room to meet you.”

You sighed, closing your eyes for just one second, and tried to pass the tablet back to Yelena, who only accepted it long enough to tap away at the screen. “I’m really tired, Lena, and I’d really like to just…”

Your eyes opened, then widened, as she pushed the screen back at you.

You’re too busy staring and scrolling to notice your best friend’s smirk.

“James Barnes. I’ll tell them to send him down, yes?”

You tried to clear your throat to say something sensible, but when nothing came you simply nodded.

You had never paid attention to sports. Not really. You say you have a favourite team because that’s what you’re supposed to say, and a little hometown pride has you cheering for them when you hear they’ve performed well.

But even the barest of knowledge in your arsenal disappeared as you stared down at picture after picture of this man.

You clicked through social media pages, fingers hovering idle as you take it all in.

Brooklyn Soldiers.

Number seventeen.

Eyes cold as ice but hot as hell.

The brief perusal of photos and research online did not compare to the man who entered the green room once you had freshened up.

His six feet of height stood tall against you and Yelena, and even Banner guarding you from the side of the room. But James Buchanan Barnes stepped inside with such an open air about him, all smiles and crinkled eyes, and a soft sheen on his forehead that told you more about how he’d spent his time in the audience than anything else.

You found you were a little breathless and so very glad you could blame it on the show. That also meant you were still clad in only a bodysuit, tights and sky-high heels, and he became adorably more flustered at the sight of you.

“Big fan.” He flashed you a winning smile, leaning in to shake hands. Hands that dwarf yours easily, and you belatedly noted one was completely metal.

“Oh, thank you so much! You’re …” you trailed off, honestly a little embarrassed with just how distracted you were by his presence.

“Bucky Barnes,” he supplied, grin turning sheepish.

You had written lyrics once about the magnetic force of a man, that man being an action movie star, but that paled in comparison to what stood before you.

“Yes, of course! So good to meet you, Bucky. I promise we’ll have this all cleared up for your games,” you heard yourself saying, a hand waving around at the transformed locker room. Not to mention the devastated grounds of the stadium. “I’m told they have tens of thousands feet of grass to fix the field right up again.”

Grass? Really? You shoved your embarrassment so far down it sat warm and trembling in your stomach. Nothing like butterflies. Definitely not. 

His smile widened again and he ducked his head. “Good to hear, ma’am. I’ll try to make sure we do you justice when September rolls around.”

But from behind him you could already see Yelena motioning at her watch. Time to wrap it up.

Bucky managed to drag his gaze away from you to follow your gaze over his shoulder to the fierce blonde, resisting the urge to gulp at the way she smiled archly back at him.

“Did you want a photo?” He heard you say, and his head snapped back instantly. “Or anything signed?”

Hell, he’d give you his heart if you wanted. 

“Oh, um,” his ears turned pink and he scratched at the back of his neck.

He had half a mind to write his number on your arm like he did for the Soldiers fan at the start of the show, only this time it wouldn’t be the one printed on his jersey.

“No,” he relented. “Just… you have a good night.”

“I will.” That smile that dazzled from stage lit up his whole life from a mere foot away. “You have a great night, Bucky. And good luck with your next season!”

“Thanks, doll. Get some rest, yeah?”

His kind words sank in as he walked out, and you allowed yourself a moment to admire the back of his disappearing form. Until your eyes snagged on something curious.

His back pocket looked suspiciously like it was stuffed full of the confetti shower from your final number.

In the car back to your hotel, you let out the breath you felt like you’d been holding for four months.

“That was fun,” you murmured, looking out the window as the city rushed by.

At your side you could hear Yelena tapping away at her phone, already checking in with your publicist and monitoring the reaction from the night. “The show or the man?”

“Lena!” You huff, turning further toward the window to hide your smile. “The show. Obviously. That was nothing, just another handshake done and dusted.”

“He is a big puppy dog and you’re the juicy bone.”

You slapped a hand at her arm, then sighed and settled back into the seat of the car.

“Tonight was …” another sigh.

“Killed it,” Yelena replied, a rare soft smile on her face.

You hum in agreement. Palming your phone you found yourself opening social media, distractedly typing in a certain athlete’s name.

Finally spotting the notification that your account had followed his moments before had broken his brain as he weaved his way through the crowds leaving the stadium grounds. Bucky felt drunk on life the moment he saw it, wondering which of the six words he’d spoken had made any kind of impression on you to warrant a connection.

He knew how notoriously private you were, and your account only followed forty-five other people. Whatever he’d done, he must’ve played it right.

Which was why, back in the quiet safety of his apartment, he stared down at his sent message with disgust.

I had an incredible time and it was an honour to meet you.

That’s the best he could come up with? Really?

He brought up the option to unsend multiple times, uncomfortable with the wording. It was true, no doubt about it, but sounded more like some hallmark card or carefully arranged press script than anything he’d actually say. It was almost robotic and clinical which was a far cry from the indecently heated thoughts that had run laps through his mind since meeting you.

It was the bodysuits. And those legs. Plus your gorgeous smile that knocked it out of the park.

 Without pausing to rethink—because clearly thinking was getting him nowhere fast—he fired off a second message and set his phone down as far away from himself as possible.

In the dark of your hotel room, the sound of the bath running distantly while you gently removed your makeup, you felt relaxation slowly cloak around you.

So much so that when the alert sounded you thought nothing of it as you picked up your phone. But seeing his name almost made you drop it again.

This was fine, everything was fine. You were sure he was just being polite. Tapping open the message, you read carefully.

Twice.

Huh. How … perfunctory. You frowned, wondering why you felt a lick of disappointment at what was really a perfectly polite and kind sentiment.

Until the next message dropped with the chat still open.

‘Sorry I got tongue tied.’

The embarrassment you had felt earlier rose again until it broke out of you in a surprised snort.

He was tongue tied? You couldn’t remember half the words that fell from your mouth when you spoke to him. All that lingered in your mind was a warm smile, glacial blue eyes, and the biting feeling of foolishness. Add to that, according to your publicist you had accidentally followed the Brooklyn Soldiers’ team page as well as his personal one while drooling mindlessly over Yelena’s tablet, and you wished you could wipe the whole thing from your memory.

Except you didn’t really wish that at all.

Regardless, you stared at Bucky’s messages for the longest time, knowing on his side was a very clear read notice.

The hesitation brewing inside you was the first sign of something terrifying.

You never answered private messages. That you wanted to had a shiver running down your spine that settled warm and low in your stomach.

There was nothing quite like the typically nervous air of Phil Coulson’s smile as he introduced him and Sam to the show.

“Good evening and welcome to Friday Nights With Phil. Joining us tonight, fresh from a break after their outstanding championship game last season, Brooklyn Soldiers stars Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes!”

The camera panned and the studio audience clapped and cheered as both men waved at their introduction.

“Great to have you boys with us tonight, so great.” Phil settled into his seat, readjusting his suit jacket. “Sam, looking good. Barnes, polished to a nice shine, son.”

Bucky laughed, tucking his prosthetic tighter against his side. “Great to be here again, Phil.”

‘Friday Nights’ was definitely the most laid-back and least sports-focussed of talk show interviews on his horizon as the preseason kicked off.

“How has the off-season been treating you both?”

“Well,” started Sam dramatically, hands landing heavily on the seat arms like he was about to take off.

The quarterback was always brimming with energy just below the surface, and it’s what made him so deadly on field.

“I flew home to Louisiana, to the family, you know, for a little R-and-R. But boy, did they put me to work.”

Looking on indulgently as his friend told the room all about crawfishing and helping his sister with the family boat back home, Bucky laughed along at the tales and leaned in toward his teammate.

“You have a sister?”

That earned him a smirk. “You didn’t know?”

“I think I’d remember if you had a sister.”

“Why do you think I never introduced you, huh?”

Any chance to interview with Sam, he took it, because nothing compared to the easy camaraderie they shared. A fact not lost on most hosts who often struggled to keep them in check.

“And how about you, Bucky?” Phil cut across their banter. “Spent some time enjoying music, we hear?”

Just the mention of it had his face lighting up in a way he knew was too raw for television.

“Oh man, what an event. That woman puts on a better performance than we do.”

“Rumour is you tried to get backstage after the show.”

He’d prepared for this, had actually phoned up Becca and asked for her honest opinion on how much he should reveal. In the end, based on your non-reaction to him, he and sister agreed on one thing.

“After three and a half hours of dancing and singing in heels, you think she’s got any energy left for meet-and-greet?” He shook his head and chuckled. “I’m on the field that long and I can barely catch my breath to talk to you fine people.”

Sam, who knew more than he was letting on, cut him a quick glance that he completely ignored.

“No, she doesn’t meet many or any people after her shows, apparently. Or maybe,” eyebrows raised, Bucky spiked the lens of camera two, “she just didn’t want to meet me.”

He shrugged with what he hoped was the right amount of self pity when the studio audience reacted with compassion.

This was such a stupid game he was playing. What the hell was he doing? Even Sam shot him another look, tongue in cheek, before laughing at him.

“Online sleuths discovered she followed the Soldiers account after the show,” Phil went on to say. “And yours.”

When he had no control of the flush that rose all the way to his ears, Sam turned on him with glee, delivering a soft blow to his arm. “Hey, your girl’s got taste!”

His lips kick up and eyes crinkled in a cheeky smile. “She could be checking out the Falcon too,” he nodded at Sam, “you don’t know.”

“Nah all the ladies fall for those wintery Soldier eyes.”

Bucky batted his eyelashes dramatically at his friend, Sam fanning himself at the attention.

“Did you go with an intention in mind?”

He stifled the frown that wanted to form at the question. His intention was to enjoy the concert. Why couldn’t a footballer just enjoy pop?

“I took a book with me actually,” he briefly leaned into the idea, and the audience tittered with laughter so he flashed them a grin, “and I didn’t have to pick it up once. I was spellbound. She took my heart and danced all over it on stage in front of sixty thousand people.”

“Sounds painful, son. You got anyone in your life at the moment to mend that heart for you?”

Always with the dating angle. He shook his head, mostly to himself, and searched for camera two again.

“You can mend it, doll, if you’re watching.”

He added a wink for good measure and Sam was clutching his side in stitches at his pure nerve.

“So the rumours—“

“Nah. After that performance I have a big fat reserved sign over my heart with only one name.”

A soft blur of flashes set stars in his eyes as photographers captured the moment he formed a heart with his hands over his chest.

“That’s your heart taken care of, how’s your arm, Bucky?”

Right. Back to business.

“Finely tuned.” He flashed his state-of-the-art metal prosthetic arm for the studio. “Got my new season foam sleeve ready to catch anything thrown my way.”

“Need some extra foam to cover up that pretty face of yours.” Sam leaned over to pinch Bucky’s cheek affectionately. “That jawline is a sharp weapon, damn!”

Becca had accused him more than once of leaping before he looked, Steve’s girlfriend usually chiming in with a ‘cocky bastard’ for good measure.

Small wonder then that Bucky was glad he was alone in his apartment on Friday night after the episode aired. He regretted all of the bravado that got him so far in his career. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

He had to put his phone on silent with all the damn notifications he was receiving. If Sam sent him one more clip of the blushing “your girl” moment he was going to tackle him right into their endzone, consequences be damned.

But it wasn’t just Sam.

Tweets and photos and texts from people he’d barely spoken to plus damn strangers from all corners of the internet drove him absolutely up the wall.

All he wanted to do was have five seconds to send one single message of his own.

He drafted a million words that didn’t hit right.

‘Don’t mind the attention.’ Of course you wouldn’t, you’re far more famous than he is.

‘The balls in your court.’ Wrong sport.

Bucky swiped a clammy hand down his face and huffed. He could do this.

Simple. Keep it simple.

‘Mic check?’

An hour later, beer in hand and the last quarter of a Washington Shields exhibition match winding down, Bucky nearly rolled off the couch fumbling for his phone when he saw whose name lit up the screen.

Yours.

‘Mic drop. Wasn’t expecting to be put on blast like that’

He had no idea how to read the tone of your reply. Blowing out a heavy exhale he scratched his head and went with his gut.

‘Had to get your attention somehow doll’

‘And yelling ‘go on a date with me’ on tv was the obvious solution.’

That sounded mad. You were mad, right? You had every right to be mad. Wow he was screwing this up hard. 

If only he could see the delighted smile blooming hopefully on your face as you pushed him, lip caught between your teeth at his second use of the pet name doll.

‘I didn’t yell. Did lie though. Didn’t know what kind of attention admitting to the meet would bring you.’

He hesitated, leg bouncing on the couch as he debated every word.

‘Not sure if you know this about yourself, but you’re a tough nut to crack’

No answer. Not for ten minutes. Bucky’s head dropped onto the couch, his arm raised to fall over his eyes. Until the vibration beside him had him sitting up again.

‘It’s designed like that’

He slumped back in the couch. Yeah. Yeah he got that. Whether he’d misunderstood before and you were mad at him or not, that break in the conversation with a response like that felt like rejection.

His eyes nearly bulged out his skull when your next reply followed soon after.

‘So what’re you going to do about it?’

He nearly dropped his phone. He wanted to unsend the message. He wanted to eat glass. What? What was he going to do about it? He was about ten seconds from combusting.

‘Coffee?’

You’re early.

You sent your driver around the block, eyes habitually on the lookout for any cameras.

After your panicked phone call late Friday night Yelena had come through for you, though not before giving you hell.

“A cafe in Brooklyn?” She’d asked. “Why Brooklyn?”

The gleeful tone of her no doubt shit-eating grin came through clearly over the line.

“The football man. It’s the football man isn’t it?”

But of course she had found you a tiny cafe tucked into a quiet neighbourhood around the boroughs, and you trusted her to ensure it was a place neither of you would be spotted.

But you were so early.

Oh what did it matter anyway? Bucky would never know.

You had your driver pull over a few doors down from the cafe, and his instruction were he’d wait down the block until you advised you were leaving. Baseball cap pulled low, you crossed the road and ventured in.

Inside the door of The Coffee Bean the warm inviting aroma did nothing to quell the anticipating humming beneath your skin. You glanced about, getting your bearings and trying to figure out the most out of the way table to choose, when—

There was Bucky. Waving conspicuously at you from the corner table.

He was early. He’d already picked out a private seat. He was early.

You were glad your cap was pulled so low he couldn’t see how wide your eyes were as you drank in the sight of him. The seconds it took to reach the table felt at once like eternity and a mere flash, your hands growing clammy and your heartbeat racing.

He stood standing until you reached him, and slipped around to pull out your chair.

“Hi.”

He caught your shy smile. “Hi back.”

Bucky inched forward, chin raised to gauge where you reached against the full height of him, and noted, “You’re smaller than I remember.” The gravel of his voice and scent of his cologne wrapped around you, clinging like smoke.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks when you say it’s the ridiculously tall heels you were wearing for the concert. Something about that made his eyes crinkle, baby blues sparkling mischievously as he motioned for you to sit, then pushed your chair in.

Your back was to the room, the only things filling your vision the aesthetic coffee bean paintings and Bucky’s smiling face as he settled back in his seat.

Either he read your mind or was offering an apology when he said, “Figured you’d want some privacy,” motioning at your little table tucked away here in the back of the cafe.

You shook your head. “You chose perfectly.”

“Really? Because I have to wonder at this joint you picked out.” His eyes trailed about, taking in the other patrons and the general vibe of the place. “Little fancy for me.”

“Coffee too highbrow for you?” You took off your hat and gently reset your hair. “Why’d you suggest it then?”

“Seemed like the safest option, I guess.”

“You practically dared me to be here,” you pointed out, and he had the sense to look appropriately embarrassed.

“Yeah, sorry about that. My mouth started running and—“

“And you wanted my attention.” You shrugged at him, a smirk playing around your lips. “Here I am.”

A server came by just then to ask for your order but your eyes devoured the way your words turned Bucky’s ears pink and his smile wide, all while you asked for your favourite drink.

“Ok, so, I’m just gonna come out and say it.” He tilted his head and Yelena’s voice whispered big puppy dog through your mind. “Football.” You held up your hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know a thing about it.”

He snorted, lips kicking up. “Liar.”

“No, really, I don’t think I’ve watched a minute in my life.” The truth delivered with an apologetic half smile.

He stared at you, wounded. “You had no idea who I was when I walked in backstage, did you?”

“Yes I did! When you walked in I knew you were number seventeen player for the Brooklyn Soldiers.” You waited a beat. “I might’ve only learned that five minutes before though.”

His head tilted back with a deep laugh.

“Can we have a do-over?” Across the table you offered him your hand and your name. “I like singing and song writing.”

You weren’t prepared for the shock of warmth that spread through you as Bucky’s hand clasped yours.

“Hi, James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky.” He cleared his throat, stalling for how to describe his job the way you had. “I uh like to run around and play ball with my friends.”

Your hand still in his, you met his gaze directly. “May I call you Bucky?” 

His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles. “You may.”

The server returned with your drinks, and you reluctantly withdrew your hand.

He reached out and stole your teaspoon before you could pick it up.

“What—?”

He took his own teaspoon, the salt and pepper shakers at the edge of the table, and several sachets of sugar, lining them up in the space between you.

“So,” he began, motioning at the scene he’d created. “Football.”

He went on to explain the game to you. Or, tried to. You’re so befuddled with your arms crossed, watching him move the salt and pepper shakers around the sugar between the teaspoon lines like bizarre choreography.

“This is as complicated as chess.”

“You play?”

“No,” you groaned out and dropped your head into your arms, and Bucky nodded knowingly.

“It’s a lot easier to follow when you’re the pepper running from the salt.”

“Says the guy whose team won their championship last year.”

“But not the Big Game,” he said. Then his eyes sharpened. “Where’d you learn that? Though you didn’t know anything about the game?”

You shrugged, picking up your coffee. “I might’ve done some research.” You sipped carefully, eyeing him over the rim.

“I’ve got high hopes for this coming season with all the luck you’ve brought my boys. What with having your last show at our home ground and all.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so.”

“Sportsmen are nothing without their superstitions.”

“I bet you have a lucky pair of underwear,” you teased.

“Absolutely,” he said, hand over heart. “And I never wash it. Goes on like cardboard now.”

Your laughter peeled out, a truly joyful sound, heedless of patrons. It’s just you, in the moment with him, and Bucky wondered if his ribs could bruise with how hard his heart thundered in his chest.

“Something else I learned researching you—“

“Stalking me online,” he corrected.

“Researching!” You emphasised, finger jabbing into the table. “I learned you have a sister.”

His smile broke out like the sun bursting from the clouds. “Yeah, Becca. Rebecca. She’s gonna make me an uncle in the new year.”

“Congratulations!”

“She was supposed to come to your concert, you know, but the morning sickness made her bail last minute.”

You filed that information away for a future date, wondering if his sister could travel to your next show in her condition.

“It’s always been Becca, Steve and I. Just some kids from Brooklyn. Steve —that’s my best friend— kept me grounded. I looked out for him, he looked out for me.” He broke off with a laugh, saying “I got into the worst kinds of trouble but Steve was always there to real me back in. Helped me clean up the messes I’d made.”

His eyes were unfocused, drawing on some distant memory.

“He helped pull me out of the gutter after the accident,” he lifted his prosthetic with a small wave, “and got my head back in the game. Ten years with the Soldiers, and I owe them all to him for helping me stick to it.”

The love he felt for his friend coloured his tone, lit up his whole face, and it made you smile along too.

“Steve sounds pretty special. Is he in the NFL too?”

“Him?” Bucky chuckled. “Nah, though he has a good arm for it.” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “He could cover the length of the field in point-five seconds and be our new running back, I guess.”

Something about that tripped over in your mind and jogged loose a memory. You felt your jaw hang slack. “Wait. Are you talking about Steve Rogers? As in, one hundred metre gold medalist Steve Rogers?”

The way his eyes shone with pride at your deduction almost made you forget the question.

“That’s him.”

You propped your forehead up with your hand. “I can’t process this right now.”

“You think that’s impressive, what about you? Miss ‘I date movie stars in my spare time’? I never miss a John Walker movie.”

The way your smile froze and your eyes dulled at his words made something twist in his gut.

He turned his coffee cup round and round in his hands, and quietly asked, “So, that breakup I heard about a few months back…?”

He can see you hesitate. It’s in the way your eyes shift away, how you pick up your drink to give you time to formulate before answering.

“C’m’on,” he said, cajoling, his finger scratching lightly on the table like you were a cat he was trying to lure in. “You came all the way out here to see me. Let me in a little.”

“It’s a bit heavy for me.”

He shrugged, expression open and interested.

“I’m here for it.”

Meow?

Letting out your breath slowly you stared down into what remained of your coffee.

“I was busy with preparations for the tour. Rehearsal and blah blah blah, and he,” you broke off, clearing your throat, hating how the pain always caught you off guard, “he couldn’t take it. Being away from each other or me being so exhausted. I asked what he expected once the tour started, when I was locked in.”

The space Bucky was giving you felt like the most fragile breath of trust, and you couldn’t help but fill that space with your story.

“I was all in? But I had to be all in on the tour too. We fought. I cried.” You wanted to cry now.

The words dried up in your throat and you rushed through your last thought.

“And then it ended. He didn’t try. He just left.”

You shrugged like the memory of finding out your boyfriend had moved out while you were at work hadn’t shattered your world, that coming home to an apartment with half its soul packed up and gone hadn’t left you sobbing on the floor for hours.

The way Bucky looked at you, eyes focussed and brow furrowed, had you searching for the telltale signs of pity. That expression you always saw on people’s faces, like of course you’d lost another one. But you couldn’t find it there. His blue eyes weren’t cold with the reality you should’ve faced, but warm. He held you with his gaze, and you felt a little adrift.

“What did he think you did anytime he flew off to some movie location for weeks on end?” His tone was low, voice rough with something you slowly realised was anger. On your behalf.

“Well. I’ve always had my music.”

He barked out a laugh so sudden it had you falling into an easy smile again.

“At least he inspired some bangers, I suppose.”

You shrugged, tucking strands of hair behind your ear.

“Did you ever really need him?”

You looked back up, lips parting softly at the directness of his question. Your immediate reaction was an offhand comment, a deflection, maybe even indignation at the idea you hadn’t loved John.

Because isn’t that what they all said? The media always painted you as the light skirt, the girl that flitted from one love affair to the next. That you’d given any relationship years of your life didn’t matter because they all ended. 

But Bucky hadn’t asked that, not really. He’d asked if you needed John, and for the first time in your life you really considered that idea.

“I needed someone,” you said carefully. “Need, even. Someone who knew the game we played, who knew what it took to put in the time and work hard for all this to payoff.”

Your eyes dropped to your hands where you carefully toyed with the coffee cup.

“Someone who knew music is my life and could fit around that.” You took a deep breath. “I thought John understood it all. He lived it as an actor, right?”

You don’t know why you posed it as a question, why you sought validation through him, but Bucky readily nodded agreement.

“Ultimately he was chasing one thing and I guess I was looking for another.”

When the tears started, you didn’t know, only registering them when one dropped thick and heavy on your arm and he pressed a napkin gently across the table to you.

You looked up with surprise, and Bucky cleared his throat.

“I get a lot of scrutiny over my dating life too, you know. S’all so stupid. I’m just here to play football.”

The absurdity of it forced out a watery laugh. “And I’m just here to sing my music.”

Conversation turned briefly to lighter topics, coffee cups very empty when the server returned.

“Anything else?”

“Uh…” You glanced at Bucky just as he looked sideways at you, and a giggle slipped out knowing you were both trying to read each other. “No. Thank you.”

“No?” He asked when the server walked away. “Want to take a walk around the block with me?”

You stuttered through several syllables at once, all vying to answer first.

Yes.

No.

Umm.

Maybe.

And his gaze dropped to the table, a quiet chuckle making his broad shoulders shake. “Sorry, didn’t mean t’put you on the spot. Uh,” he rubbed needlessly at the back of his neck, “just didn’t want today to end yet.”

You bit the inside of your lip. “It’s the logistics of it.”

“Logistics? We need a game plan for a stroll?”

You half shrug, knowing he didn’t fully understand the scrutiny that awaited if the world found them.

“We need a game plan for a stroll,” he confirmed for himself, blowing out a long breath. “Alright, here’s the play…”

And that’s how you found yourself jogging around the corner into a quiet residential street, Bucky standing a few yards ahead of you with his arms up, celebrating.

“Gonna call that one the Nemo Two Decaf!”

He fell into step beside you, beginning your slow walk down the street.

“Nemo?”

His eyes slanted to you. “‘Cause everyone’s tryna find you.”

You pass a few houses and realise how tense Bucky was growing beside you. His eyes darted around carefully, and he looked over his shoulder one too many times.

He spotted you watching and sighed. “I don’t want to alarm you but this guy’s been behind us since we left.”

You glance back, ignoring his immediate protests, and spied the familiar figure of your bodyguard trailing several yards behind.

“That’s Bruce. My bodyguard.”

“Bruce?” Bucky craned his head back to get a better look at him. “He looks like a college professor.”

You smiled. “He’s been with me for years. He’s tougher than he looks.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully, threw a little waving salute in Bruce’s direction, and focussed back on you.

“What’s something about backstage of the tour you can tell me about?”

“Hmm.” You searched around for something you could tell him, mouth dropping open in a delighted wide Oh when it came to you. “Okay so, beneath the stage is a rope drawn pommel horse contraption I use to move to different areas quickly. It’s the most exhilarating ride in such a small space. You see, to switch between songs …”

You lose yourself in telling him about all the little mechanics, the tricks you use to appear and reappear throughout the show. But even lost in the stories you don’t miss how intently he’s listening, the questions of curiosity he asks, or the way his eyes rarely stray from yours.

You do, however, lose track of time and find you’ve lapped the block very quickly.

“That’s my ride.” You pointed out the black sedan parked just ahead.

Bucky fidgeted beside you, his expression conflicted, clearly wrestling with something.

“M’just gonna lay it out there. Can I see you again?”

He’s standing before you, hands in pockets, and his sheer presence overwhelmed you all over again. In the cafe and on your walk you were lulled into a comfortable ease with him, talking and laughing and genuinely eager to answer all his questions.

Now, with nothing but air between you, you wanted to kiss him until the uncertainty in his eyes disappeared.

You stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder and stretched up to brush a kiss against his cheek, lingering a second longer as his musky scent trapped you there.

You felt his breath hitch, the sound feathering the hair by your neck and sending a shiver over your whole body.

You drew back only to see him wetting his lips as he watched you pull away, and that decided for you.

Your hand on his shoulder drew him halfway, and his lips meet yours ever so softly. It’s tentative, uncertain, full of questions neither of you are ready to ask.

You’re about to draw away again when his hand slid behind your back, pulling you in completely against him, and you’re gone.

Melting into his kiss like sugar into coffee, completely enveloped in his lips, his arms, his scent, everything Bucky.

It’s over as quickly as it began, and he let out a shaky exhale as he very properly untangled himself and shuffled back.

You felt the loss of it immediately.

He couldn’t stop staring at the high colour in your cheeks, the way your breath panted out of you, or the slow shadow of uncertainly that clouded your expression at his withdrawal.

“I wanted to do that when you walked in the cafe,” he confessed, embarrassingly pleased at the quirk of your eyebrow and the shy smile that transformed your features back into something almost too perfect to look at.

But he couldn’t look away.

“Actually.” Here goes his mouth again. “I wanted to do that in the green room but I think Bruce would’ve flayed me alive.”

Your laughter is the sweetest song you’ve ever sung. “Yeah they don’t look too kindly on that behaviour.”

Bucky raised his eyes past your shoulder at the man hovering nearby, calling out, “We good, Bruce?”

Bruce waved a hand dismissively at the two of you, and Bucky felt mildly like he just gained access to a national treasure.

“So, can I see you again?”

A/N: I am blown away by the support this idea received before I’d even posted a word of it. All I hope now is I do it justice 🫶 hit me up anytime you spot a reference heheheee

Tags: @sassandscribbles @jadefornini @sunday-bug @kileyking @stanmarvelous @perdidosbucky-yyo @phoenix-in-writing @salty-tang

It's your fourth date, and you're thinking of inviting him up to your place after the date if the night goes well. He's waiting on his bike by the curb, extra helmet in hand. "Hello beautiful," he greets you, planting a soft kiss to your lips. "I missed you.”

"You missed me?"

"I did," he says, putting your helmet on and buckling it under your chin. "Are you ready?"

"Yes!" You say, letting him help you onto the back of the motorcycle. You wrap your arms around his waist and press your head against his back. He smells amazing per usual, like leather and that peppery cologne he often wears. Yeah, you're definitely inviting him up later.

Bucky drives down several city blocks before turning onto a street you've never been down. He didn't tell you where you're going tonight, saying "Let me surprise you."

He parks the bike as you look around, taking in your surroundings. A few of the storefronts are closed up or for sale on the other side of the street, but the shop next to you has a large, smiling cat as the sign—no words, just a grinning kitty. You take off your helmet and look at him questioningly. "Where are we going?"

"Cat cafe," he says nonchalantly, pointing to the sign and mimicking the smile.

"A cat cafe?!" You exclaim, trying not to see too over-excited.

He chuckles and takes your hand in his, leading you through the front door. It's a coffee shop with literal cats roaming around.

"They're up for adoption," he explains calmly as he waves to the barista.

"Hi Bucky," the young man waves back.

"Oh, so you're a regular here?" You ask, beaming at him.

"… maybe," he replies, blush painting his cheeks. "Plus, I figured you'd love it."

"Oh, why's that?" You ask, biting your lip and assessing your sweater for missed cat hair.

"Hmm, let's see," he teases. "A literal cat toy fell out of your purse on our first date. You have a key chain of Grumpy Cat that says 'Paws off our laws'. And when I mentioned Alpine on our second date, your eyes lit up like fireworks."

You laugh and shrug, "I didn't want you to think I was a crazy cat lady."

"Honey, I am a crazy cat dad. How many do you have?" He asks as he pulls out a chair for you.

"Just one," you reply. "My apartment complex only allows one pet. Her name is Delphine, and she's a white Ragdoll. I call her Delphi. She's my fuzzy menace."

"She has to meet Alpine," he says with a smile. "They'd get along great… or try to kill each other, but we have to find out at some point."

You laugh and settle into your chair, more relaxed than you were a moment before. "I've been carrying around a lint roller lately to make sure to hide the evidence."

Bucky laughs softly and shakes his head. "You should see some of my sweatshirts at home. The white cat life chose us, didn't it?"

You nod, happy that he understands. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Let me order us some drinks. I'll be right back," he says.

You nod and watch him walk to the counter. This tall, broad man bringing you to a cat cafe that he frequents makes your chest do the tight-excited thing, and you force yourself to breathe. It's too early for… whatever this feeling is. An elderly white cat with a magnificent belly pooch saunters over to you and walks between your legs, nuzzling at your ankles. You bend down and offer your hand, which she sniffs and rubs her head on before hopping into your lap. You let her settle in and start making biscuits on your legs, looking down at her with affection. Bucky turns at the order counter and watches you with the cat—he knows her name is Plum. She's been up for adoption for a few weeks. Most people want kittens or younger cats. An elder is a tough sell, but you seem to be into the elderly. He smiles at his own joke and shakes his head as he gets that fluttery, floating feeling in his belly that he hasn't felt in decades. Oh boy.

"Two dirty chais," the barista says, scooting the mugs to the edge of the counter. Bucky thanks him and leaves a generous tip in the jar before walking back to your table. The foam on the drinks has tiny cat faces and your face lights up when you notice.

"Thank you," you say, petting the cat as you take a sip.

"You're welcome. That's Plum," Bucky says, nodding to the cat in your lap. She's dozed off. "I guess we really do attract white cats."

"She's so calm," you say, letting the white cat hair settle onto your sweater now without worry.

"She's an angel," he replies. "And she likes you, so she has good taste."

You smile and shoot him a playful wink. "I wish I could bring her home with me. She's just an old, sweet girl."

Bucky drinks his chai and you both talk for about an hour—work, life, his last mission, the last book you read. It's all so easy, comfortable, and perfect, even covered in a layer of cat hair. As you're getting ready to leave, Bucky heads to the counter and slyly asks for an adoption application for Plum, pocketing it in his jacket. He feels good about this one.

The End

Bucky Masterlist

Several months later….

Since he became a Congressman, Bucky Barnes had never had a moment of peace.

He had to follow a rigid schedule every day: alarm set at 6 AM, arrival at his office in Washington, D.C. at 8 AM, reading and rereading files and bills until 4 PM.

Then erase and repeat again.

When he found out that Congress was suing Valentina for impeachment, Bucky felt an additional burden of work and stress looming over him.

That was why you were summoned in his office, obediently sat on his lap, cock buried inside your velvet folds. His vibranium hand gently traced the contour of your jaw as he forced you still, the other hand covering your mouth as he was talking to Congressman Gary over the phone.

"Yeah, I know how crucial this impeachment could be, but you are too cautious," you heard him talk, his voice calm despite your warmth surrounding him. It was relaxed, at least. A good thing.

You, on the contrary, were overwhelmed.

The involuntary twitch of his cock made you whine under his palm, and your hips moved slightly. You felt his hand squeezing your hip, the grip bruising but not too much to hurt you.

"Stay still," he whispered gently, "You make it very hard to think if you start to move. Be good and you'll have what you want."

And so you obeyed, swallowing every moan as you stood still, listening to the back-and-forth between them. Luckily for you the call ended soon after, and when Bucky removed his hand from your mouth, a groan escaped from your lips.

"Mr. Barnes, please-"

"Shh, I know," he whispered, his lips kissing your throat in a sweet apology when his hips started to move. You immediately rolled your head back, whimpering and moaning as your hips jerked against his.

"How lucky I am to have you as my secretary," Bucky mused, before leaning back and kissing you slowly.

The engine of the jet whined loudly as the ramp of the hanger lowers. You and Bucky move in sync out of habit, shoulder to shoulder, exhaustion hanging heavy from your limbs.

Your boots hit the floor of the tower and your chest tightens, sharp and familiar.

The tower still smells the same. Polished metal. Pine. Coffee that’s been sitting too long. You swore that you could still catch a trace of Tony's favourite bourbon. Steve's leather jacket. Natasha's perfume.

"Nice work out there." John says, clapping his hand onto your shoulder once. "Whole mission went clean."

Ava snorts. "Because she got what we needed quickly enough so that none of us could screw it up."

"Like always." Yelena adds.

You offer a tired smile, shrugging off the compliment in the way you’ve learned to. You weren't anything special, you'd been raised to be lethally efficient. It was what you were programmed for.

You knew Bucky would kill you if he knew you thought that way.

His eyes were on you as you pulled ahead of the others to join him. Sometimes you felt like he could read your mind. Maybe he could, you wouldn't put it past Hydra.

You both collapse onto the couch in the living room without a word. Your heads leant against one another automatically like magnets, eyes fluttering shut.

Peace and quiet, a brief respite from the endless noise.

Your moment of peace shatters as the door bursts open and the rest of your team spill inside.

"I definitely had the most take downs today." John boasts.

"Excuse me, did you see me take out those guards? I saved your stupid butt." Yelena retorts.

"No. I was too busy taking out a whole floor of them." John replies flatly.

You hear Bucky exhale through his nose.

Yelena kicked off her boots, moving to walk away but pausing when she noticed your eyes on her. She lets out of a huff of defeat and toed them inline with the other shoes by the door.

John followed suit with Ava and Alexei not far behind.

"Yeah well while you two were out playing whack a mole I was busy shutting down the entire security system." Ava chimes in.

“That doesn’t sound as cool though.”

Being part of whatever the hell this new team was meant that silence was now a rarity. And moments shared between just the two of you were practically non-existent, whatever quiet space you and Bucky had spent years carving out for yourselves was now being eaten alive by your own good intentions.

It wasn’t that anyone was doing it on purpose. It was just that somehow, inexplicably, everyone ended up orbiting you.

And you couldn't say no to any of them, especially Bob.

He must have heard the ruckus of your return, now lingering near the doorway. You notice it immediately, the way his shoulders hunch over to shrink himself, his eyes flickering between everyone, like he was waiting to be told he wasn't welcome here.

You catch his eye and shift over on the couch to make room, patting the cushion beside you.

"Come on, someone needs to be the deciding vote for who was best on ground today."

His face lit up at your invitation, practically tripping over himself getting to you.

Bucky noticed too. He always did.

"Why do we need a deciding vote?" John complained.

"Because when have you guys ever not voted for yourselves?" You raised a brow.

That question set the rest of the team off again, bickering amongst themselves about who was the most biased and why.

Bucky didn't miss the way Bob leaned into you slightly as your hand rubbed small, grounding circles on his back, your attention entirely on him. His jaw tightened.

"You okay?" You murmured quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Bob nodded. His eyes darted to the others to make sure they were still distracted before speaking again, this time quieter. "My head’s just...loud."

You nodded. If only Bob knew how much you really understood.

"Okay. We can do quiet. Do you want tea?"

"I can do it-"

"I insist." You said it with that firm but gentle tone Bucky had heard you use a thousand times before.

Before Bob could protest further, you push yourself off the sofa and make your way into the kitchen.

You reach for the kettle on the counter and began grabbing mugs off the shelf. You didn't need to ask anyone if they wanted a cuppa, the answer was always yes.

That had somehow become your job too. Feeding them. Herding them. Keeping the place running when missions ended and the adrenaline wore off and everyone was left with the aftermath and left alone with their trauma.

Bucky watched you move around the kitchen with that familiar ache in his chest.

This is what the public didn't see.

They saw the former assassin turned Avenger who they accused of being a coward for retiring - even though you were grieving the loss of so many of your friends, of your family.

They didn’t see the way you put yourself between the team and the sharp edges of the world without thinking. How you sacrificed your own time to help the others, going over mission reports to learn how your team could improve, keeping everyone steady from a distance. Didn’t see how you’d quietly become the glue.

“Tea time!” Yelena announced cheerfully, flopping onto the opposite couch.

"By the way, John tried to sneak one of the good towels into the gym again on Monday." Ava grinned, kicking her feet up onto the ottoman.

“They’re towels.” John argued. “They’re meant to be used.”

“They’re for guests.” You retorted.

Bucky’s mouth twitched upwards.

"Snitch." John grumbled as sat down beside Yelena.

You dutifully hand everyone their tea, each crafted perfectly to their liking. Yelena's with a drizzle of honey, John's with no milk, Alexei's with a dash of vodka, Bucky's the exact same as yours.

The room buzzed with overlapping voices as you settled back down beside Bucky. The both of you mostly sat in silence, listening to the others bickering and laughing, yours eyes darting to Bob every so often.

He had loosened up a bit, tentatively engaging in conversation with Ava about the best way to cook eggs.

You knew it would never be the same, but in moments like these it almost felt like you were back with your team again.

"You two have been awfully quiet." Yelena observed once there was a lull in conversation.

"I think it is time we heard story." Alexei grinned, swaying slightly from his armchair, a result of the three infused teas he'd drunk at breakneck speed.

"What kind of story?"

"Like what Winter Soldier was like when you first met."

The group groaned around you, causing you to laugh. It was no secret that Alexei was obsessed with Bucky, his 'Russian brother from another mother', a nickname Bucky was of course thrilled to have.

"I don't think anyone wants to hear-"

"We do." Alexei cut you off.

You glance around at the others, surprised to not hear a chorus of protests at his suggestion.

"Honestly I kind of am interested." John shrugged.

"Me too. I want to know if he was always this emo."

You could feel Bucky's glare from behind you at Ava's words.

"Well, I guess he always has been yeah." You grin softly as you leant back to look at him, his eyes softening under your gaze.

"He was my mission. Or I guess, Steve and I's mission. Once Steve realised who he was-"

"Steve as in... Captain America?" Bob piped up beside you, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Yeah sorry, Captain America." You nodded and swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the pang in your chest at the memory of him.

You felt Bucky's metal fingers along your thigh, a discreet touch of comfort.

"Once we realised who he was, we knew that we had to get him back. Make him remember who he was. He was a bit scary - or at least he thought he was - when I first met him he was in the habit of smudging black around his eyes. A bit like a racoon."

Despite himself, Bucky smiled as the others laughed around him.

Bucky knew that you were leaving out a lot of the story, the ugly bits, the lifelong scars that both of you carried, how much of a husk of a human he had been - and still felt like sometimes. How many times he'd snapped and tried to hurt you, how despite it all, you stayed. Because you knew that it was a story only reserved for the both of you, for no one else to know.

If it was possible, he would have fallen in love with you even more in that moment.

By the time the noise died down and the team had started dispersing, it was well past midnight.

Bob was dozing, head resting on your shoulder.

Bucky waited. Listened to the sound of your breathing beside him. Listened to the quiet return in pieces.

Finally, when Bob’s breathing had evened out completely, you gently eased him sideways so his head rested on a pillow. You tucked a blanket around his small body, like you had done a hundred times before.

When you turned, Bucky was standing, his hand extended out to you in silent offering. You shot him a tired smile and took it.

The soft click of your door shutting echoed off the four walls of your bedroom.

You leaned back against it, exhaling as the silence washed over you. "Sometimes I forget what it’s like to not be interrupted every five seconds."

You glance over to see Bucky seated on the edge of the bed, his mouth drawn taught.

He watched you as you crossed the length of the room, coming to stand in front of him. You slid onto his lap effortlessly, like a puzzle piece perfectly crafted to fit in with him. His hands automatically settled on your waist, his forehead tilting up to meet yours.

"I've missed you."

You laugh softly. “We were stuck on that mission together for three days."

"That doesn’t count." His voice was rough.

You cupped his jaw, pulling away slightly to study his face, noting the faint crease between his brows. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just- I miss the silence sometimes."

"I know." You murmur. "We're both pulled in so many directions. But I do honestly think that once the team settles in things will get better. They'll be less..."

"Needy?" He suggested.

You huffed out a chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, needy."

Bucky shook his head as his hands slid under your singlet to trace circles on your skin.

"I don't think they will, they rely on you now. You keep them stable, offer them a safety net." He leans up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I'm not surprised. You're incredible. Always have been. I guess I'm just realising that I don't have you all to myself anymore, and I don't like it." He sighs. "I guess that's selfish."

"You're not selfish." You shook your head. "And even if it doesn't feel like it right now, you'll always have me just to yourself. Like in moments like right now."

You studied him for a moment, noting the way something flickered behind his features.

"Is there something else?"

He hesitated before speaking. Only for a beat. In your relationship, there was no such thing as secrets. The pair of you had done a lifetime of that already.

"You and Bob. I just-"

"-get jealous?" You tease lightly, causing his ears to tinge a shade of pink.

"Protective."

You smirk, letting your fingers twist around the dog tags dangling from his neck.

“Mmhmm.”

"I know he needs it, I get it, but he leans on you like that and gives you that puppy dog look and my brain just goes stupid because I used to give you that exact same look." He admits quietly.

“He’s a kid who’s been through hell." You murmur. "Same as us. And he sees us as safe."

Bucky swallows. "I know."

"And he reveres you. I've seen the way you are with him when you think no one is looking." You smile. "For a grumpy old man, you are extremely dad-coded."

He snorts. "Don’t ever say that to Sam."

You laugh, forehead resting against his. "I know it doesn't feel like it but we’re good, baby. We’re just...sharing. We will find time just for us, I promise."

He sighed, arms tightening around you. "Okay."

You kiss him before he can spiral further, slow and grounding, hands cupping his stubbled jaw.

"And baby?" You murmur against his lips.

"Yeah."

"Bob is so not my type."

He pulls back, brow raised at your teasing tone.

"I like my men much older. About 80 years older to be specific."

You laugh as he flips you around, pinning you underneath him on the soft mattress.

"You're lucky I love you." He warns, although the grin spread across his face reveals his true emotions.

"Shut up and kiss me old man."

And like the good soldier he was, Bucky did just that.

-

It’s early. Early enough that even New York is still half-asleep, the sun only just starting to bleed through the massive floor to ceiling windows of your bedroom.

You blink awake, becoming aware of the feeling of an arm looped around your waist, warm breath on the back of your neck.

The arm tightens around you at the sound of you stirring. "Morning."

You lean back into him with a sleepy hum. "You're not out running."

It was rare for the two of you to sleep in. Usually one of you was up exercising, or travelling, or on a mission.

"I thought we could sleep in. Enjoy some time together."

His warm hand skipped along the bare skin of your hip as he answered, his voice thick with sleep. It was enough to make desire pool deep in your belly.

"Does our sleep in have to involve actual sleep or...?"

You could feel his lips smile against your skin as he began to pepper kisses along your neck in response.

"Absolutely not."

The loud shrill of an alarm echoed throughout the tower before you could turn around to press your mouth against his.

"It might just be a test-"

Shouts echoing from the kitchen answered Bucky before he could even finish his sentence.

You both exchanged looks before hurrying out of your bedroom towards the sound. The alarm stopped as you reached the kitchen.

John was frantically waving a tea towel over the smoke alarm, Ava stood by the stove with her fingers pressed into her ears.

"What the hell is going on?" You demanded.

Ava held up a scorched pan. "John tried to cook eggs again."

"I said I was experimenting." He retorted, fear flashing across his face as he glanced behind you at Bucky.

You turned back to look at him, patting his arm apologetically.

"Okay. Put it in the sink. We’ll try soaking it."

The look on Bucky's face would stay with you all day. Not angry, never angry. Just...resigned. Defeated.

-

Later, the tower’s empty enough that you seek Bucky out, knowing he usually likes to gym at this time.

The sharp scent of metal and sweat hits you. The sound of the rhythmic thud of his fists against the bag. His eyes find you while he's rewrapping his hands.

“You done staring?” He asked breathlessly, a hint of something shy beneath the teasing tone.

“You going to tell me to stop?”

He shakes his head, a wry smile on his features as you step onto the mat.

"Need a sparring partner?"

"You think you can take me on? Aren't you a bit rusty?"

You place your hands on your hips. "I recall kicking your ass on a number of occasions."

He shoots you a smile, one that you know only a select few people on this planet got to see. Wordlessly, he wraps your hands for you, taking his time as his fingers ghost over your skin.

"Alright, let's see what you can do doll."

It's mostly half-hearted, both of you enjoying it too much to take it seriously. Although, you manage to get a few good hits in when he's distracted.

You take him by surprise suddenly, whipping out one of your signature moves, resulting in him landing on his back with a thud on the mat, your thighs wrapped around his middle - pinning him to the ground.

He lets out a huff, studying you as he tries to catch his breath.

"Got you."

"Yeah, you got me real good doll." His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, his eyes glimmering in amusement.

Your eyes narrow. "Did you let me win?"

"Now why would I do that?"

"So you could have me straddling you."

He chuckles, sliding his hands up your thighs. "Would it be such a terrible thing if I did?"

"You perv." You whisper against his lips, grinning as you lean forward to press your mouth to his.

"My oh my." Yelena tuts from the doorway.

"Are we sparring or is this some kind of weird assasin foreplay?"

Before you can stop yourself, you let out a laugh at the look on Bucky's face. He might actually commit murder this time.

Yelena's grin only widened.

-

At night, the tower is worse.

You don't have mission logs or squabbling teammates to distract you from your endless spiral of thoughts.

The halls echo differently when you know who used to walk them. Sometimes you catch yourself glancing at empty doorways and rooms, remembering voices that aren’t there anymore. Your old team, your family - scattered, gone, lost to time or choices that you still don’t fully understand. That you don't think you ever will.

Bucky finds you standing in the hallway one night, fingers brushing the wall like you’re checking if it's real.

"You okay doll?" He asks softly.

"Yeah." Your voice thick. "Just... weird being back here."

You're lying, Bucky knows that, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he slips his hand into yours and squeezes, grounding you in the present.

The sound of footsteps comes thirty seconds later.

Bob, pale and shaking, asking if you can sit with him for a bit.

Your face morphs into a kind smile, so convincing that the only person who can spot the pain swimming beneath the surface is Bucky.

You say yes. You always do.

Bucky watches you lead Bob back to his room, starting to guide him through breathing exercises with the same patience and kindness that you had once used on him. His chest aches.

He’s not jealous of Bob, not really.

He’s jealous of how much of you the world keeps taking.

-

It happens again the next night. And the night after that.

Alexei interrupting to ask Bucky which shade of red suits him best.

John knocking on your door because Ava "stole his charger" and "this is a matter of principle."

Yelena sheepishly calling you in the middle of the night after racking up a debt to some Russian mobster because she bet that she could do her nails and beat someone in a boxing match at the same time.

After a week, Bucky is visibly fraying at the edges.

He's even moodier than normal. You keep catching him staring at you from across the lounge room, expression unreadable. When you meet his eyes, he softens immediately, but there’s something else unreadable that lingers.

They notice.

Yelena and Bob first. Ava second. John and Alexei last.

They notice the way Bucky snaps more than normal, the longing looks you give him from across the gym, the tiredness so engrained into your faces that it seems that no amount of sleep could fix it.

So they make a plan.

You and Bucky are in the meeting room, pouring over one of the files for your next mission, when a throat being cleared dramatically makes you glance up.

"You and grandpa. Pack a bag."

You blink. "What?"

John slides a set of keys across the counter. "Safe-house upstate. Off-grid. No reception. Yours for a week."

Ava speaks before you can even think about opening your mouth. "Don't worry about things here. We made a chore chart. Bob even volunteered to help me cook."

Bob nods eagerly. "I learnt how to make soup."

You turn to look at him. "When on earth did you learn to make soup?"

"I watched a Gordon Ramsey video." He shrugs. "Figure it can't be that hard."

Alexei clasps Bucky’s shoulder. "Go. Be domesticated assasin lovers in peace."

Bucky's eyes scan the room, stunned. "Why are you doing this?"

Yelena smirks. "You were getting grumpy. It was affecting morale. Besides, with you two away we can throw a huge party."

You feel something warm bloom in your chest - gratitude and love for the new strange family you never meant to build.

-

Bucky sets your bags down by the door and stops.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The safe-house is more cabin than house. It's simple and small, but there's a warmth to it.

No ghosts in the walls. No memories waiting to ambush you.

You watch him take it in. The way his shoulders loosen, the faint furrow line between his brows smoothing out, a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding loosening from his chest. He turns to you, his eyes brighter than you have seen in weeks.

"No one’s going to knock." He says like he can't even believe the words coming from his lips. "Right?"

You smile. “I think they’d have to drive about four hours to do that."

After unpacking, you both lay on the plush rug in front of the fireplace. You're in between Bucky's legs, your back pressed against his chest, a half drunk glass of red in your hand.

Quietness engulfs you.

Not the hollow quiet of the tower, but the kind of quiet that settles, slow and intentional. Fire crackling softly in the hearth. Wind nudging at the windows. The low hum of electricity somewhere in the walls.

No alarms. No voices down the hall. Just you and Bucky.

His arms encircle you, cool metal pressed against your fire-warmed skin.

"I can't believe they did this."

"I can."

He looks down at you when your head tilts up at his answer.

"I see it. How they orbit you." His thumb brushes slow circles over your belly.

"How you keep track of everything and keep everyone focused without making anyone feel small. How you make them feel normal, take on some of their pain to keep them going."

You blink back tears as he continues.

"After everything we've all been through, you make this job survivable. Keep us glued together. They know that."

Your throat tightens. "They just trust us."

He hums, resting his chin on your shoulder. "It's more than that. Bob called you ‘mum’ once."

You snort. "He did not."

"Yes he did." Bucky insists. "Under his breath. Right before Yelena threw a sock at him."

You laugh, real and warm, and lean back into him. "Okay, well if I'm going to be mum, I need you to be a bit more of a hands on dad."

"Hmm I don't know, my schedule is looking a little full."

"What, have you pencilled in your wallow in self pity at four o'clock?"

"Yep and at four thirty I've got to stare into the abyss..." He shrugs. "What can I say, I'm booked."

His smile widens as you let out another genuine laugh, internally patting himself on the back for remembering that pop culture reference.

"You won't have to do much." You continue. "We can be good cop, bad cop. All you'll have to do is give them one of your signature murderous glares and that should do the trick."

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Of course, only if you can find the time."

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then the crown of your head, resting there.

"We have all the time in the world." He whispers.

Outside, the world listens to him and waits.

Silence engulfs you again - comfortable, earned.

Yours.

You sit up suddenly, your eyes wide as you turn to look at Bucky.

"You don't think Yelena was serious about throwing that party do you?"