Bucky Barnes Baby

So how has he become the one with the wrong idea?

Somewhere along the way, Dean caught feelings for his fuckbuddy. Friend with benefits. Whatever label you wanted to slap on it, he’d broken the one sacred rule: don’t catch feelings.

You blew into his life like a tornado.

You tore apart his carefully maintained routine and—before he even realized it was happening—made everyone else seem considerably less interesting.

At first, Dean didn’t mind. He’d found a girl who could match his energy, someone who wanted the same uncomplicated physical release he was more than happy to provide.

But then things started changing.

Sometimes, after sex, you stayed.

You’d lie in bed talking about classes, his hockey practices, your bizarre family dilemmas, campus gossip—anything and everything. Neither of you ever intended to fall asleep together, but somehow it kept happening. More than once, you woke up with Dean wrapped around you, his arm draped across your waist as if it belonged there.

Which was honestly very nice.

The problem was that Dean had always been excellent at avoiding things. Yet he’d never felt this way about a girl before.

At least not since high school, and he’d be a senior in a matter of months. The whole thing felt strange. Too serious. Too grown-up. It didn’t fit the effortless, unbothered persona he'd spent years perfecting.

You weren’t much better.

You’d tried to bring up the subject more than once, testing the waters carefully, only to abandon it whenever Dean gave you nothing to work with. Every conversation seemed to end with him brushing things off or changing the subject before it could become real.

Of course you’d caught feelings too.

Because beneath all the flirting, the confidence, and the reputation, Dean was kind. Thoughtful in ways most people never got to see. He was gentle when it mattered, attentive without making a big deal out of it, and he'd never once made you feel disposable.

Not like certain frat boys or other athletes, who only cared about themselves. 

Dean Di Laurentis is boyfriend material.

The problem is that he doesn’t seem to realize it.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it.

Which brings you to your current dilemma.

Dean is sprawled across the couch, a girl’s hand resting on his chest as she gazes up at him like he hung the stars himself. And he’s entertaining it.

You’d never explicitly asked for exclusivity, but the two of you had established one rule from the beginning: if either of you wanted out, or wanted to be with someone else, you’d say so.

For the past few weeks, you’d seen each other almost every day. You weren’t seeing anyone else, and you’d gotten the impression he wasn't either. In fact, campus gossip had been practically buzzing about the fact that Dean Di Laurentis hadn’t hooked up with anyone at a party in weeks.

It shouldn’t have made you jealous.

You weren’t together. You weren’t anything.

So why did it feel like you were everything? Why did it feel like he was breaking your heart without even realizing it?

The noise of the party faded into the background as you chugged the drink in your hand and headed for the kitchen in search of something stronger.

You wanted to curse Garrett for hosting this stupid party. For practically forcing you to come, knowing Dean would obviously be here.

Grabbing a bottle of tequila, you started pouring.

Your eyes kept flicking back and forth between Dean’s hand resting on the girl's thigh and the way their faces seemed just a little too close together.

“Whoa, there.”

A voice beside you pulled you from your thoughts.

Beau Maxwell.

Dean’s best friend gently took the bottle from your hands before you could continue.

“Rough night?” He asked, glancing at the alarming amount of tequila you’d managed to fit into one cup

“Yeah,” you said with a tight smile. “You could say that.”

His expression softened. Without a word, he grabbed a random mixer from a nearby shelf and handed it to you.

“Here,” He twisted off the cap and passed it over. “Unless your plan is to drink four tequila shots at once.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You poured some into the cup and took a sip. Immediately, you coughed.

“That bad?” Beau asked, amused, patting your back lightly as you struggled to swallow.

“It's really strong,” you managed.

“Can I try?”

You looked up at him and held out the cup. “Be my guest.”

Beau took a sip and a second later, he grimaced.

“Damn.” He lowered the cup. “Who hurt you?”

You tried to laugh but the joke landed a little too close to home.

Had Dean talked to Beau about whatever this thing between you was? Did Beau even know you'd been sleeping together?

Your eyes drifted back toward the living room.

Dean now had two girls caressing his face and chest. Logan and Tucker were sitting nearby with girls of their own, laughing about something. Still, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen.

Beau followed your gaze, understanding immediately flashed across his face.

Before you could look away, his hand settled on your waist. He gently turned you around until your back was resting against the kitchen island, blocking your view of Dean entirely.

“He's really dumb sometimes,” Beau said.

You hummed in agreement, taking another small sip.

Then, before you could think better of it, you asked, “Wanna do something maybe even dumber?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Like what?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Like helping me forget what his name even is.”

For a moment, Beau said nothing, but he didn’t remove his hand from your waist. Instead, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your top, moving back and forth.

His gaze flickered down to your lips.

“He’ll be pissed,” Beau said quietly.

“I doubt he cares.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “Just look at him. Not a care in the world.”

He glanced toward the living room before looking back at you, his jaw tightening. Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

The word barely left your mouth before the space between you seemed to disappear. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the tension hanging between you. Then Beau closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft and careful, nothing like Dean. 

Dean kissed like everything was urgent, like he was always one second away from losing control. Beau, meanwhile, seemed content to take his time.

You found yourself kissing him back anyway, driven by a messy combination of hurt, anger, and the lingering hope that Dean might finally show that he cared. 

The kiss deepened, and for a moment you let yourself get lost in it. It was nice. Beau was nice. A few weeks ago, you might’ve even considered going back to his place, letting the night unfold into something more. But now, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the boy kissing you, your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere. 

Now, all you could think about was a certain blond hockey player.

Despite the warmth spreading through your chest, despite the attention and the distraction, there was no real desire to take things any further.

Still, even if you’d wanted to, you never got the chance.

You’d barely noticed how much time had passed when a loud clearing of a throat cut through the moment. A heavy hand landed on Beau’s shoulder, the interruption sharp enough to make both of you freeze before slowly pulling apart.

And there stood Dean. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, his entire body rigid with tension. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch, blazing with a fury that left little doubt he’d seen far more than enough.

“Having fun?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Dean,” Beau said breathlessly, moving his hand away from your jaw.

You took a deep breath, glancing between the two men.

“Didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Dean said.

“Yeah, we’ve crossed paths a few times,” Beau answered. “We have a business course together too, right?”

“Yeah, right,” you stammered out, suddenly acutely aware of Beau's hand on your waist and Dean’s eyes burning into your profile.

Dean hummed, his jaw still tightly clenched.

“I think one of your teammates was looking for you,” he said to his friend.

“Who?”

“I don’t fucking know. He was just asking around for where you were.”

You knew it was a lie. You could tell by the bored tone of his voice and the way he seemed far more interested in staring at you than looking at Beau. Dean had never been a particularly good liar.

“Okay...” Beau trailed off. “I’ll see you around?”

You looked up at him and nodded, “See you.”

Dean watched him walk away to search for his supposed teammate.

“You won’t be seeing him around,” he all but growled.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the staircase leading up to his room. You stumbled after him, startled by the sudden movement.

You barely had time to process what was happening before you were standing in his bedroom, the door locked behind you while Dean paced in front of his bed.

“Dean, what the fuck?” You finally asked, breaking the silence as you frowned at the man in front of you.

“Me what the fuck?” He shot back, turning to point at you. “You what the fuck?”

“Huh?”

Your brows knitted together as you stared at him in confusion.

“Why the fuck would you kiss Beau?”

A sharp laugh escaped you, completely devoid of humor.

“You think it’s funny to mess around with my friend? That’s so fucked up.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have no right to act like this or throw accusations around when you’re not any better.”

You let out a deep breath and rubbed at your eyes, trying to gather yourself.

“You don't get to practically entertain a threesome on the couch and then get mad because I kissed someone.”

“It's not just someone. That’s my friend,” he snapped. “And what threesome? I haven’t slept with anyone since we started—”

The words died on his tongue, and you caught it immediately. The hesitation. The way he suddenly seemed unable to finish the sentence. 

Because the truth was, even Dean couldn't figure out what exactly the two of you were. Or, perhaps more accurately, what the two of you weren't.

“You’re gonna act like you didn't have two girls all over you?” You huffed. “Because you looked really comfortable.”

“All over me?” He looked genuinely offended by the accusation, as if it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“I know we’re not exclusive or anything, but really? You had to do it right in front of me?”

“I don’t know what you think happened, but I didn’t even kiss them.” He shook his head. “I mean, one of them tried, but I just didn’t...”

“Didn’t what?”

For a moment, he stayed silent.

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, dragging a hand over his face as he searched for the right words. His elbows rested on his knees, his head dipping briefly into his hands before he finally looked back up at you.

The anger had vanished, replaced by something far more vulnerable, something pained enough that it made your chest tighten just looking at him.

“I couldn’t kiss someone else.”

You let out a shaky breath at his words, watching as he waited for your reaction.

“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why?” He asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because...” Your mind flashed back to all the times you’d carefully tried to bring up whatever this thing between you was. The times he’d thanked you for being so chill about your arrangement. The times he’d said he didn't have time for a girlfriend. How much he enjoyed his freedom.

“Is it so crazy that I could feel something between us?” He asked, a frown creasing his brows.

“You told me you didn’t want a girlfriend,” You replied.

“And you said you wanted a casual relationship.”

“Yeah, because you said you didn’t want to be tied down,” you shot back. “I’m not going to ask for something serious from the same guy who’s with a different girl every night.”

“You should’ve told me that,” he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, he stood and closed the distance between you.

“I've done casual before. It wasn’t an issue for me,” you explained. “But then you started doing things… You remember my friends’ names. You cuddle me. You kiss my forehead when I leave in the mornings...”

His expression softened.

When he gets closer to you, he takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumb across your palm.

“Did you like kissing Beau?”

“What?” You asked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic when it felt like the two of you had almost finally admitted your feelings.

“Did you like kissing Beau?” He repeated, his gaze darkened now, one hand lifting to cradle your cheek.

“It was nice,” you admitted softly, watching the way he couldn't stop looking at you. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Yeah?”

His face was closer now, his breath brushing against your skin.

“It wasn’t fair to Beau, to just... use him.”

“You feel guilty, then?”

“I think he knew it came from jealousy, but it still wasn’t right.”

Dean slid a finger beneath your chin and tilted your head up until your eyes met.

“Beau can handle himself,” he said quietly. “He knew what he was doing.”

“So you're not mad?” You asked, the gentleness in his voice was making it difficult to think straight.

“I'm furious,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaped him. “But I’ll deal with him later.”

His thumb brushed across your jaw.

“You, on the other hand, are another story.”

Before you could even react, Dean slid his hand to the side of your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. The frustration that had been simmering between you all night seemed to collide at once. 

One hand settled at your waist before drifting lower to your ass, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you, hoisting you up and wrapping your thighs around his waist.

He backed you against the door, kissing you like he had a point to prove. When he finally pulled away, it was only to press a trail of kisses along your jaw, his forehead resting briefly against yours as both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His hand moved toward the hem of your skirt, brushing over the fabric of your panties and finding the evidence of just how affected you were. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze flickered up to meet yours. 

“This for him or me?” Dean asked, his voice low and rough around the edges. 

“You,” you whispered immediately, your pulse racing as his heated gaze locked onto yours. “Always you.” 

Those three words were all he needed.

Dean pulled away from the door and guided you toward the bed, dropping you on it before leaning over you. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, stripped of some of the jealousy and frustration that had fueled it moments before.

Then you suddenly broke away.

“Wait,” you gasped, catching his wrist before things could go any further. “Before we do this, I need to know what we are now.”

For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of both your breathing.

“Whatever you want us to be,” he said finally.

“Seriously? You’d just give up your womanizer ways for me?” You stared at him, a skeptical look on your face.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Baby, if you wanted to get married tomorrow, I’d do it.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you laughed, feeling him press a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Too soon to talk about children, then?”

“Take me on a proper date first.”

Dean's smile widened, “That can definitely be arranged.”

Especially the pout he got whenever he thought you were ignoring him.

So, much to your unsuspecting boyfriend’s future dismay, you decided you would be wiping off every kiss he tried to give you. It would be fun to see just how long you could keep the prank going.

A few minutes later, Dean came back upstairs, opening the door before quickly closing it behind him again. A habit your previously exhibitionist boyfriend had been forced to learn after his roommates walked in on the two of you in compromising positions one too many times, and you finally refused to endure the embarrassment anymore.

He walked in carrying two cups of coffee carefully balanced on a tray alongside eggs, fruit, and toast.

“Breakfast is served, m’lady,” he announced, setting the tray down on the bed before giving an exaggerated bow afterward.

You let out a snort, grabbing your coffee.

Dean sat down beside you, leaning over to grab a piece of toast and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in the process. Casually, you scratched at the spot and wiped the kiss away.

For a brief moment, you thought Dean hadn’t noticed. Then he frowned and pressed another kiss to the same spot.

Just like before, you rubbed it off.

He let out an offended gasp, staring at you like you had personally betrayed him, but begrudgingly let it slide. Still, he sighed dramatically while chewing on his toast and eggs, already beginning to pout.

“Are you going to the gym with Garrett later?” You asked after a moment of silence, chewing on a strawberry.

Your boyfriend only hummed in response, quietly eating his breakfast.

“Okay…” you dragged out, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the sight of his puppy eyes, like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Is there something on my face?”

You already knew there was. You could feel the strawberry juice dripping from the corner of your mouth.

It was practically catnip for Dean. He immediately leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the spot, his lips brushing yours for a second before ultimately settling at the corner of your mouth instead.

The moment he leaned away, you rubbed at the spot and simply said, “Oh, thank you.”

You caught the way his lips parted in pure disbelief, and had to fight to keep your laughter from spilling out.

This time, Dean’s response to what he clearly considered a personal betrayal was far more aggressive.

He kissed you properly, lips parting against yours, warm and insistent enough that for a brief moment you considered throwing the prank out the window altogether and spending the rest of the day hidden away in his bedroom.

But instead, you leaned back and aggressively smudged at your lips, watching his entire face twist in horror.

“Did I get all the juice?” You asked innocently, still rubbing at your mouth and the skin around it.

“Why are you doing that?” Dean asked, sounding genuinely baffled.

“Doing what?” You finally stopped rubbing.

“You’re wiping off my kisses,” he whined. “Did I do something?”

“Dean, I’m not doing anything,” you said sweetly, smiling at him. “Just don’t want strawberry all over my face, you know?”

He held your gaze for a few long seconds before standing from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

For a moment, guilt crept in. If Dean had pulled this prank on you, it would’ve earned him at least a few hours of the silent treatment.

But you were too far in now. You had to see it through.

Or maybe just until he left for the gym.

While your boyfriend sulked in the bathroom, you pulled on a pair, and then headed downstairs, deciding to wash the plates and mugs. Tucker had cooked breakfast, after all. It was the least you could do.

A few minutes later, Dean came downstairs with damp hair and a pair of low-hanging sleep pants slung dangerously low on his hips.

This was undoubtedly payback for your antics.

You kept washing dishes when he walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Done messing around?” He murmured against your ear, the deep timbre of his voice making a shiver run through you.

“I didn’t do anything.”

You turned your head to look at him, and his eyes immediately dropped from yours to your mouth. A second later, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.

You didn’t react right away.

Only once you turned back toward the sink did you bring up your driest hand and wipe the kiss away.

“There!” Dean grabbed your waist, spinning you around to glare at you. “You did it again!”

“What did she do again?” Logan asked as he strolled into the kitchen, eyes darting between the two of you.

“She’s wiping off my kisses!” Dean accused.

As if to prove his point, he grabbed your face with both hands and planted a firm kiss right on your mouth.

A second later, you leaned forward and rubbed your lips against his bare chest.

“Okay, didn’t need to see all that…” Logan muttered before setting his dirty mug on the counter and immediately leaving the kitchen again.

“Seriously, do I have some disease I don’t know about, or do you just not want me kissing you anymore?” He asked, his voice sounding more genuinely hurt this time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You continued drying off the now clean plates.

“If you say so,” he mumbled with a sigh.

You watched as he leaned forward like he was about to kiss your cheek, only to stop himself at the last second.

That was your final straw. There was no way you were making it all the way until he left for the gym.

“Dean, wait.” You quickly set the towel and plate down on the counter.

“Hm?” He turned around, leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room.

“Come here.”

“Why?” He huffed. “So you can disrespect my kisses again?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, walking over and grabbing his hands to pull him away from the wall.

“Go on,” Dean replied, though there was already a hint of smugness creeping into his tone.

“I saw a prank on TikTok,” you admitted. “I thought it’d be funny to try it on you.”

“I guess I forgive you.” He rolled his eyes, though you could already see the smile tugging at his lips. “But never do it again. I’ll have you know my kisses are a very hot commodity.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Yeah, I think half of Briar knows that.”

“Just half?” He joked, though the grin quickly faltered at the murderous look you sent him.

“I’m about to do worse than wipe off your kisses,” you grumbled.

Dean let out a soft laugh before pulling you closer, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. It was so featherlight it almost tickled.

Then you slid a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged him back in, kissing him hard enough to make him groan against your mouth.

His hand settled against your lower back before slowly trailing down until he gave your ass a firm squeeze.

You smirked against his lips, slowly lifting a hand toward your mouth again, but Dean immediately caught your wrist before you could do anything.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, pinning both of your hands in one of his before kissing you again.

Then he lifted you into his arms, your legs instinctively locking around his waist as he carried you upstairs. After kicking his bedroom door shut behind him, he tossed you onto the bed before crawling over you, pressing hot kisses along your neck until his lips finally brushed against yours again.

And as he tugged your—technically his—shirt over your head, you couldn’t help but think smugly that if all pranks ended like this, you’d definitely be pulling a lot more of them in the future.

Considering you two have been friends since you were in elementary school, she asked you right away if you would be a bridesmaid, and you agreed excitedly. You haven’t been able to see one another since you went to college on the entire other side of the country, but you were able to find time after graduation and before starting your new job to fly out to the east coast for the special event.

“Who’s Dean again?” You question as she hands her other bridesmaids flowers as well.

“He’s one of Garrett’s friends and teammates. He’s nice, but he can be a real pig sometimes,” she says, although her tone is light and loving, letting you know she was only slightly kidding. 

“In a sense of he eats a ton or he’s misogynistic?” You wonder with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, he does eat a lot, they’re hockey players, and I wouldn’t say misogynistic, but quite the opposite. He’s a big ladies man, so I’m sure he’s going to be hitting on every available woman here. But don’t worry, I warned him to stay away from you.”

“Thanks,” you chuckle softly along with the other girls. Hannah stops to look in the mirror, taking in the sight of herself in the stunning white dress. It’s simple yet so elegant, the satin material hugging her body perfectly, the A-line chest and bodice complimenting her in all the right places, the flow of the skirt not too dramatic as a ballgown, but enough to get the attention of everyone. Of course, it had to be complete with a bow on the back of the dress where the bodice meets the skirt.

You and the rest of the girls were all in dark maroon dresses, all different styles but the color staying the same. You had picked out a one-shoulder dress with rouching on the bodice and a nice flowy skirt. On the back, though, there are two straps of the fabric that lay flat against your back with a small space in it. It was breathable and comfortable, and you couldn’t be happier that she allowed different styles.

“Okay, are we ready to get married?” Hannah’s maid of honor, Allie, cheers while jumping up and down, more than ecstatic to send her best friend down the aisle.

After another emotional moment as the reality sets in for Hannah, everyone files out of the room and is lead down the long hallway by the wedding planner, who eventually leads the group down the elegant velvet green staircase, adorned with the flowers Garrett and Hannah chose to have, perfectly complimenting the gold trim of the entryway.

The place they chose is absolutely breathtaking. It’s practically a Parisian castle just outside of Philadelphia, and the entire wedding happens on site.

So much for a small wedding.

The bridal party has special suites, the cocktails happen in the entry hall, and the happy couple are getting married under a massive tree on one side of the estate.

Hannah stays inside with her father, who delicately holds her hand, wiping his tears with a tissue, which sends the photographer into a frenzy to capture the perfect photo. The bridal party is led outside to meet up with the groomsmen, and you awkwardly stand around as everyone else chats away since they all know each other.

“(Y/N), this is Dean, your buddy for today,” Garrett steps over, introducing you to a tall blond man with a perfectly sculpted face, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiles at you. Though the groom quickly disappears as he prepares the rest of the group.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” you stick your hand out for him to shake, and when he does, it feels like an electric shock goes up your arm.

“Nice to meet you as well. So you’re a friend of Wellsy?”

“Wellsy?” Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion. He just chuckles and points in the direction of where Hannah is preparing to walk out in front of the guests.

“Hannah. G used to call her Wellsy before they were dating, and it stuck with the rest of us,” he explains.

“Oh,” you nod along. “Yeah, we were friends in elementary school and stayed in touch when we both left for college.”

“Nice, where did you venture to?”

“Seattle, the University of Washington,” you smile proudly.  He offers you an impressed look, but his ability to respond is cut short when the entire party is rounded up to prepare for the ceremony to start.

Dean sticks his arm out for you to take, a cheeky smile on his face as he does.

“I’ll lead the way, m’lady,” he chuckles to himself. 

You delicately place your hand on his strong, flexed bicep, another thing that makes your heart swoon, and follow the group outside and down yet another set of steps. Your feet were already hurting from the heels everyone is made to wear, and you can’t wait until the reception to take them off and switch them for a pair of sandals or flats.

The ceremony is beautiful and exceeds the expectations of even yourself. Hannah’s family were able to make it, though only one person on Garrett’s side was able to come, and that is Cindy. Thankfully, the seating was mixed, so it wasn’t obvious that it was mainly his friends that were there. 

Since it’s supposed to be a short, to the point ceremony, the entire bridal party and groomsmen remain standing, and from across the way where Dean stands, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps giving you looks, winking at you, and biting his lip. 

You are sure that you’re the one he’s kept his focus on, seeing as everyone else in the bridesmaids have significant others, but also, Hannah mentioned that her, and even Garrett, had warned him to stay away from you, so why was he breaking that?

After Hannah and Garrett seal the ceremony with a kiss, the entire crowd erupting in cheers, throwing streamers in the air as they walk down the aisle, both of their smiles so wide that it looks painful, though it’s clear that neither of them care.

They deserve this moment after all the hurt and heartache both of them have been through their entire lives. 

Dean sticks out his arm once more for you when it’s your turn to walk back up the aisle, his head turning to look down at you; even with heels on, you’re still shorter than him.

“I saw you crying over there,” he lightly teases. “Tug at your heartstrings too much, huh?”

“It was beautiful,” you nudge him with your elbow. “I didn’t see you crying, was it not emotional enough?” Dean shrugs and his eyes kind of glaze over with a realization.

“I’m not one to cry,” he shrugs.

“That doesn’t sound healthy.” He chuckles and shrugs again in response.

“Everyone expresses their emotions differently. Like tonight, I plan on getting hammered with my boys to celebrate the fact that my man is a husband now.”

You shake your head and part from his grasp to meet up with Hannah and give her a huge hug to congratulate her, gushing about how perfect it was and how tonight is going to be even better.

While the guests venture into the hall where the cocktails and small appetizers are being served, the bridal party stays outdoors to take some photos. And thankfully, since it’s a nice spring day, it’s not too hot and not too chilly, so being outside is bearable.

Finally, when photos are finished, you are able to head back inside and take some time to relax before the reception starts. 

Which, like Dean said, was definitely a celebration.

About an hour into everyone gathering in the ballroom-like space, dinner having finished, speeches given, and the drinks flowing, it was getting rather crazy in there. Not to mention, Dean has not stopped hitting on you any chance he gets.

From comments about how he likes your tattoos and asking what they mean, to asking you to dance since you were his aisle partner and it’s only fair, and making little gestures at you from across the room when your eyes meet for a fleeting moment. 

And every advance, you brush off. Because you’re rather…socially inept at times, unable to read certain cues or intentions that someone has, you mistake his flirting for friendly banter, and find nothing more to his light teasing and small comments, compared to what he’s meaning it as.

“You know, you look like a Greek goddess wearing that,” he says to you as you stand at the bar, refilling your bottle of water. Turning to him with a confused expression, you raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that? Because it looks like a toga?” He seems taken aback by your blunt response, not understanding why you didn’t seem to accept the compliment.

“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that,” he stumbles over his words, shrugging a little.

“Greeks didn’t wear togas, those were more Roman,” you state, taking a long drink of your water to hydrate. Dean offers an interested gaze, though he doesn’t stop trying. 

“Hm, so you know a bit about Greek and Roman times, do you?”

“I studied it in college, so knowing “a bit” is slightly an understatement,” you chuckle, walking away from him to head back to your table.

He throws his hands up in defeat just as Logan walks by him.

“What’s wrong, man?” Dean points in your direction, a longing look in his eyes.

“She’s a tough cookie to crack.”

“I think the word your looking for is nut. She’s a tough nut to crack.” Dean glares at him. “That’s the correct saying. Anyways, what about her is so tough?”

“I’ve been flirting with her all night and she doesn’t seem to get it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t care and she’s not interested,” Logan shrugs, patting his friend on the back. “I thought you were warned to stay away from her? Maybe Hannah told her the same, for her to stay away from you.”

Dean thinks it over for a moment as he watches you laugh and have a good time on the dance floor with Allie, Hannah, and Grace. Sabrina isn’t here, as she and the baby are both sick, however she urged Tucker to go and have a good time, and that he is.

“Have you even had a drink tonight?” Logan questions. Dean nods and looks down at the beer bottle in his hands

“Just the one.”

“Well have a couple more, forget about Wellsy’s stuck-up friend, and mingle around! Who knows, there might be someone you can screw around with in the coat closet by the end of the night.”

Dean can’t help but laugh at Logan’s words, that’s usually what he would do at events like this, find a pretty girl to talk up before bringing her to a private area to fuck.

But tonight was different, and you were the only thing on his mind. Maybe it was because his friends had told him to stay away from you, and the fact that you’re now “off-limits” to him was enticing. Or was it the way you smile? The soft, light voice that filled his ears as you conversed during the photo session, getting to know one another better.

He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he knew one thing, he wanted to get to know you even more. And not to just get in your pants.

This is a new feeling for him, and if he admits to Hannah or Garrett what he’s feeling, they’ll say he’s lying and give him all kinds of shit for breaking his promise.

Instead, he lays off of you for a while, though he doesn’t lighten up one bit. He sits at the table that is for the bridesmaids and groomsmen, messing around on his phone. The guys are way past tipsy at this point, so none of them really notice his absence. 

The three guys are busy lifting Garrett up in the air, with the help of a few football players and the rest of the guys on the hockey team, but all Dean can focus on is you. He shakes his head, trying to rid the thoughts that were plaguing his mind, but he’s unable to.

You seem so intriguing and all he wants to do is hear more things in that silky voice of yours. Although when he does yet another scan of the place, you are nowhere to be seen. He grows slightly concerned, seeing as this place is massive and you could be anywhere on the 42 acres of land, so he stands and makes a bee-line for the large double doors, practically going unnoticed.

The music starts to grow quieter the farther he gets from the ballroom, and soon he finds himself stumbling out another set of doors just down the hall, onto a large stone balcony that overlooks the land. The sun was in the process of setting, so the sky was absolutely breathtaking.

And sure enough, there you stand, your gold heels no longer adorning your feet, replaced by a pair of black flats.

He doesn’t miss the shiver that overcomes you when a breeze whistles in the air, and before he can even think about his next move, he is shrugging his suit jacket off and placing it around your shoulders. Startled, you jump about ten feet in the air, not realizing there was someone else out here with you, but relax when you see that it’s Dean, a soft and friendly grin on his face, that little dimple making an appearance as well.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I noticed you were a little cold,” he states. “Had to escape the noise, huh?”

“Yeah,” you simply state. “It was getting a little too wild for me.” You glance over at Dean and can’t help but bite back a smile. “You’re not in there getting hammered with your buddies?”

He meets your gaze, which sends a shiver up your spine. His striking green eyes are heavenly, only enhanced with the striking colors of the sky in front of you two. He swallows thickly, knowing you’re seemingly onto something.

“I have a lot on my mind,” he shrugs.

“Isn’t that when people drink the most?” Your comment appears to trigger something in him as he shifts awkwardly and suddenly avoids eye contact with you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…upset you if I did. But you said earlier that you were excited to-”

“I know, I know. It’s not that, I…well, to put it lightly, something happened and now I can no longer drink heavily when there’s a lot going on up here,” he taps his temple. “So, I’ve had one beer. But the guys don’t seem to notice, so it’s a win-win.”

“Hm, I get it,” you murmur. “So what’s on your mind to the point where you can’t let loose and have fun?” Dean debates on just blurting out the truth, but he dances around it.

“I dunno. Maybe it’s the fact that I want to know more about why Greeks didn’t wear togas like we were taught when we were younger,” he laughs softly. You playfully roll your eyes and turn towards him a little, keeping his jacket around your shoulders.

The sweet yet musky scent of his cologne impales your senses, and sometimes you’d find this amount of cologne to be unbearable, but right now, it’s incredibly intoxicating and you want to drown in it.

“Still on that, huh?” You bounce back. “Well, you’re not wrong about the Greeks wearing something similar, but they’re very different and were worn for different occasions. The Greeks wore three different types of clothing, a chiton, a peplos, and a himation. All very similar to a toga, but the first two are rectangle, and the third is basically what goes over a chiton. A toga is more of a circular piece of cloth.”

As you go on a small lesson about history, Dean is entirely taken aback. He wasn’t expecting such a detailed and well-rounded answer.

“So stereotypically, it does look similar if you have no idea what makes all of them different. Togas were also considered formal wear and were also mainly worn by men once women moved over to what was called a stola.”

“How the fuck do you know all of this?” He questions, not even caring about his language. For a moment he regrets it, not knowing if you would be offended by such talk, seeing as how shy you have been all day, but when you let out a hearty laugh, he knows he’s safe.

“I minored in history so a couple of my classes had to do with Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome,” you state. “Plus, it’s fun having that info in my back pocket, for moments like this.”

“So what did you major in?”

“Museology. Curating and managing museums.” His eyes go wide in surprise, as if he’s never heard of such a thing. “What was your major, Mr. Green Eyes.” He can’t ignore the small flutter in his heart. Is this her flirting back?

“Political Science, and I was headed to Harvard for pre-law, but I ended up getting a cushy job coaching and being a P.E. teacher instead.”

“You gave up pre-law to be a P.E. teacher?” You question, though there’s no judgement or ridicule in your tone. Just plain curiosity.

“My dad is an attorney, my brother is a lawyer, they both went to Harvard so I was supposed to follow in their footsteps. But over the course of my last semester, I was assigned a coaching position for a middle school and I fell in love with it. I loved getting to see the kids excited to learn and better themselves, it was a lot more of a rewarding experience than I ever expected law school to be. Sure, it would have been nice to follow the family legacy, but that’s not who I am.”

“That takes a lot of strength to do something like that,” you reply. “But I can tell that you have a passion for teaching, and that’s what the world needs.”

Dean instantly swoons even more than he has been all night, in complete disbelief that this is all happening.

“Any big museum jobs lined up for you?” He questions. You nod sheepishly, staring down at your hands, slightly embarrassed to brag about your accomplishments.

“You could say that,” you murmur.

“And what does that mean, baby doll?” Dean internally curses himself for letting the pet name slip.

“Baby doll?” You wonder, holding back a laugh. His hand flies up to his neck, awkwardly rubbing at it. 

“Sorry, I uh, I call everyone that. I actually called Hannah that the first few times I saw her, when she was tutoring Garrett. She didn’t care for it at all. I’ve been trying to not use it on you because of what she told me, but it-”

“Did she really tell you to stay away from me?” You grumble.

“Oh yeah. Garrett did as well."

“She told me you were a big ladies man, but I haven’t exactly seen that tonight.” His expression softens and he takes a single step closer to you.

“That’s because I’ve had my eyes set on one girl all evening,” he whispers. Completely clueless to the situation, you blink up at him before turning to look towards the doors that were still open.

“Well, she’s probably in there looking for you.” Dean can’t keep his eyes from rolling in slight frustration, but also pure amusement.

“It’s you, ya big goof! I’ve been flirting with you all day, or at least trying to, but you don’t seem to get it, do you?” It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and then, everything hits you.

The stolen glances during the ceremony, the gentle touches to your arm or bare shoulder, passing it off as trying to carefully step by you, the compliments and slightly flirty comments…oh god.

“I’m a little dense when it comes to people flirting with me,” you admit shyly, staring down at your hands as you twiddle your fingers together nervously. Seconds later, Dean’s hands are covering yours, easing the shakiness in your limbs and the chaos of your mind.

Raising your head, you meet his gaze once more, a tight-lipped grin spreading across your lips.

“Hey, this is new to me too. I’m not used to girls being so dismissive to my advances, I’m not entirely sure how to act.” You can practically hear the sarcasm dripping from his lips, eliciting a real giggle from you, which of course leads him to follow in suit.

“Gee, it must be so hard for you. I feel for you, I do. What ever will we do?”

“I’m Dean Di Laurentis, I usually get what I want.”

“Oh yeah? What is it that you want, hm?” Based on what Hannah and the others in her friend group have told you about Dean, you’re expecting the worst and most disgusting response from him, like how he wants to take you to his room and fuck your brains out, or push you to your knees and shove his co-

“I want to take you out on a date,” he interrupts your thoughts, startling you and throwing you off entirely. So much so, that you aren’t even sure how to respond to such a thing. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a date, you’ve focused mainly on your studies in hopes of landing a good job after graduation. 

Now that that’s complete, maybe it is time to start looking again. But is Dean really the one to start with?

“You…do?”

“Yeah. You’re incredibly smart and very beautiful, any guy would be absolutely lucky to take you out. But I wanna be the lucky one.”

So many thoughts are racing through your mind, you are unable to process them all at once. It ends up leaving the two of you in silence for a lot longer than you would prefer, leading Dean to think that he’s overstepped a boundary.

“Unless you were the one to let Hannah know to stay away from you. Like…you told her that you wanted nothing to do with me. If that’s the case, then I completely understand. I know I used to have a reputation, but-”

“Do you just want to go out with me because I’m “off-limits”?” You question, insecurity rising in you. His eyes soften as he realizes that’s what’s holding you back from this.

“I mean, I won’t lie, it’s been a very enticing thought, but I do think you’re beautiful, and like I said, you’re very smart, and I would love to pick your brain on more things. And, also find out where that new job of yours is at. You never answered me on that.”

“The Museum of Natural History. In New York,” you admit. Once again, his eyes go wide in shock. One of the most well-known and visited museums in the country, and you’re working there?

“Are you serious?” He gasps in awe.

“Uh huh. I start in June, so it’s going to be crazy getting everything packed from Seattle and moving it across the country.”

“That’s fucking exciting, holy shit!” He exclaims. “What exhibits are you working with?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know yet, but I know it won’t be strictly one. I have the qualifications to work with any sort of thing, from statues, to bones, to clothing. So it’s wherever they put me.”

“I will absolutely have to come visit you at work, hell I’ll organize a field trip with my students and come visit you.”

“You’re teaching in New York?” Now it’s your turn to be gasping in surprise. What is the universe doing???

“Yep. A private school just outside of Manhattan. I start in August. Hey, look at that, we’re gonna be neighbors.”

You share a laugh, which quickly dies down, leading to silence. As you share an intense gaze, you feel your heart flutter as you prepare the words you want to say.

“How does a coffee date sound?” You offer, your cheeks turning pink as you revert back to the main topic. Dean’s entire face practically lights up at your suggestion, but he makes a slight amendment to it.

“How about we get up early, grab some coffee from the kitchen here, if we can find it, and take a stroll through the halls and gardens before everyone wakes up?” Your smile grows wider at his thought and you find yourself nodding almost immediately.

“I love the sound of that.” Just then another breeze blows over the two of you, the temperature dropping sifinicantly now that the sun is down, Dean’s jacket not providing much warmth anymore.

Dean, taking matters into his own hands, places a gentle hand on your shoulder and guides you back through the doors, shutting them behind you. Instantly, warmth surrounds you, shielded from the chilly night air that had settled outside.

Realizing that you’re alone in this empty hallway, another idea pops into your head.

“What do you say we get a little head start on our date right now?” You bite your lip, hoping he takes your offer this time. He glances around at the ornate decorations and designs of this castle-like structure. He can hear the crowd of guests still going wild. And while he’s well aware that he should get back in there and celebrate with his friends, as should you, he can’t resist your charm and kind-hearted nature.

“Shall we, m’lady?” He jokes, recalling back to earlier.

With a giggle from you, you copy your actions from earlier and place your hand on his bicep, this time squeezing it gently for good measure, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean, but he doesn’t draw attention to it.

So, for about an hour, you two walk around what feels like the entire building, chatting away about what your college life and classes were like, how he met Garrett and Hannah, how you met Hannah and when she started telling you about Garrett, everything you could possibly think of. Eventually, you come back around to the ballroom, though a majority of the guests have left.

Your main friend group is what remains, Garrett and Hannah slow dancing together alone on the dance floor, Logan and Tucker passed out in a couple chairs, Grace cradling Logan’s head in her lap, trying to get him to drink some water, and Allie taking care of Tuck since Sabrina isn’t here to do so.

Turning to Dean, you find him reluctant to go in, so he nods his head in the direction of where the rooms for the bridal party are. You guide him to the room you’re staying in, which you thankfully have to yourself, stopping right in front of the door.

“Are we still on for tomorrow morning?” You wonder, gazing up at him, still in awe of just how handsome he is.

“Of course. I didn’t get to pick your brain on the types of transit the Greeks and Romans commonly used. Were we being lied to about the Greeks using chariots too?” A short laugh escapes you, your hair falling in front of your eyes.

“The Greeks and Romans both used chariots, but for very different reasons,” you answer, even though you know he’s more than likely being sarcastic.

“Good to know,” he nods. “But I expect a full run down of particular ways they used them,” he playfully points a finger at you.

As your shared laughter subsides, the tension between you grows thick. And it gets even thicker when Dean’s hand raises to brush the tendril of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His hand lingers for longer than he knows it should, but you don’t seem upset or uncomfortable with it.

“Goodnight Dean,” you whisper. You really want to kiss him right now, but your mind is screaming at you not to. Instead, you settle for a quick kiss on the cheek, which you can barely reach due to the height difference between you.

Dean chuckles and slightly leans in so you can press your lips to his warm, pink cheek. Even though it should end there, Dean can’t help himself but to return the gesture, his lips making contact with your own blushing and on fire skin.

“Goodnight, baby doll.”

With that, Dean heads down the hall to his own room, giving you one last glance before disappearing inside, the door clicking shut and sounding through the hallway. You are finally able to relax and take some deep breaths, entirely overwhelmed with how the way this night turned out.

You have a date with Dean Di Laurentis. The famous Ladies Man of the Briar University guys, as Hannah has told you. You couldn’t believe it. Part of your mind was screaming at you that this is a bad idea, that everything your friend has told you will eventually come to light with him.

But the other part didn’t care, the other part saw this…intelligent man who hides behind a stereotype, because no one can get into Harvard on account of their good looks. Plus, he has such a kind heart, you can’t possibly believe he would lead you on after all of this talk, especially when Hannah has said he’s always been clear about his intentions with women.

As you saunter into your room and crawl into bed, you figure out if you should tell Hannah or not, seeing as you practically escaped the last two hours of her wedding to spend it with Dean. Though it’s just a simple little date, just walking around the premises while drinking coffee. It’s nothing.

But as you drift off to sleep, you can’t stop thinking about the blond man and his pretty green eyes, the way his hands feel against yours, the way his voice flows so smoothly from his lips, his genuine interest in what you have to say about your passions. All of it only excited you for the morning even more.

And, possibly for the future and seeing him much more after this. You were’t sure of many things, but you knew confidently of one thing.

Dean is a special guy, and you are sure that he’s going to become a very important person in your life in the coming months.

The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.

Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.

Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.

You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.

You were the headline.

You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.

And then there was the other layer, the internet.

The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.

And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.

Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.

“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.

Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.

Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.

His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.

Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”

Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.

It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.

The message read:

first outfit <3 u ready? :)

put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight

Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

it’s a guarantee.

Then another message:

i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.

Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”

Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”

Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.

Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.

send proof of bun.

He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P

Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”

Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”

Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”

Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.

It was TikTok.

He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”

Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.

Immediately—

A video loaded.

A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.

Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Swipe.

“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”

The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.

they’re literally endgame!

this is america’s royal couple idc

Swipe.

A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”

It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching

Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.

Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”

He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.

Another video loaded.

“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”

Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”

Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."

Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”

Swipe. Another.

This one had a million likes already.

Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.

Swipe.

Another video immediately autoplayed.

A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.

Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.

The screen went dark.

Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.

Then it lit up again.

Your name.

Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.

i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)

Bucky stared at it.

Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”

Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”

Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.

“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.

The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.

Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.

The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.

Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.

People noticed them almost instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“Is that—?”

“The avengers! They're here!”

Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.

Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.

The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.

Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.

And then he started hearing it.

“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”

“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”

“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.

“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”

“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”

“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.

“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.

“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.

“Sure,” she replied, dry.

Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.

“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”

That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.

Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.

Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.

He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”

Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.

“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”

Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”

And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.

The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.

A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.

And then you appeared.

Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.

The crowd screamed.

The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"

Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”

Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.

Bucky wasn’t speaking either.

He just watched.

Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.

Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.

A few songs later, the set started building.

The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.

The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.

You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.

Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.

This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.

The lighting softened.

The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.

“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.

You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.

“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”

The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.

You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.

“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”

A beat.

“…or someone?”

The crowd exploded.

Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.

“…cause I have.”

The scream that followed was deafening.

You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.

“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”

You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.

“You know who you are.”

The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.

Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.

Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”

Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”

The beat dropped.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”

The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.

Steve actually heard it this time.

He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.

Bucky met his eyes briefly.

A silent exchange.

Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.

Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love”

The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.

Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.

Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.

Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.

“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”

“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”

Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.

“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”

Bucky glanced at him.

Steve added, “And neither should you be.”

Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.

The music pulsed forward.

“I know you want my touch for life”

The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.

And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.

Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”

“...let you lock me down tonight”

The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.

Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.

He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.

That was it.

“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”

Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.

Scanning.

A little slower this time.

Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.

The crowd took it differently.

A ripple went through them instantly.

“Is she looking for Steve?!”

“She’s literally scanning for him—”

Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”

“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”

The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.

You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.

“Have you ever tried this one?”

You blew a kiss directly into the lens.

The screen cut instantly.

Steve.

Close-up on the jumbotron.

The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.

Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”

Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.

Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.

“You okay man?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Because you had already moved.

A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.

Toward him.

Not long, but enough.

And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.

“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”

You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.

Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.

You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.

The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.

And then—

you walked past Steve.

Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.

And then you stopped...

Right in front of Bucky.

The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.

“No way—”

“WAIT—”

“OH MY GOD.”

You continued singing.

“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”

And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.

No crowd in your face anymore.

Just him.

Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.

Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.

“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”

The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.

Bucky didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.

“...hold me and explore me”

Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.

And then your hand lifted.

Pressed gently to his chest.

The crowd absolutely detonated.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.

“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”

Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.

Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”

Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.

And you—

You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.

Then you stepped back and let go.

Turned.

And ran back toward the stage.

Still singing.

Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.

You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.

“I know you want my touch for life”

Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.

Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”

Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”

Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.

You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.

“If you love me right, then who knows?”

The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.

"I might let you make me Juno"

You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.

Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.

Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because you were still looking his way sometimes.

"Let you lock me down tonight"

The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.

“One of me is cute, but two though?”

The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.

“Give it to me, baby”

You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.

And then—

“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"

The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:

FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.

On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.

Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.

Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”

Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.

Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”

Then—

the elevator dinged.

Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.

His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.

Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.

Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”

Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.

Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.

Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”

“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.

Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”

“I’m observing.”

Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”

Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.

LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER

Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”

On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.

Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.

You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.

“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”

"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”

"WHY BUCKY?”

You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”

Silence.

Then chaos exploded.

Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”

Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”

That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.

And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.

“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”

The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.

Text overlay says:

RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Because he was already moving.

Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”

But he was already gone.

The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.

Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.

You were already inside.

Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.

“Have you ever dated both of them?”

"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”

"What happened at Coachella?”

You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.

And Bucky was there.

Ten feet away.

He stopped.

You stopped too.

Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.

You looked at him and smiled.

“Hi,” you said.

Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.

“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.

You nodded.

That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.

You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.

Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.

Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.

“You’re kinda early,” he said.

You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”

His smile softened properly now.

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

A/N: im backkk?!?! this is like a warm-up one shot cuz i haven't written in a long time lol // anw how r yall??? // will probs write again for bob just bc i kinda miss him

“You’re awfully cocky for a man who nearly passed out buying the pregnancy tests,” you muttered.

Bucky grinned without shame, broad shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “I didn’t pass out.”

“You sat on the pharmacy floor.”

“Strategically.”

“Mhm.”

The technician hid a smile behind her mask while turning toward the monitor. “Alright, let’s take a look at baby.”

Bucky’s entire demeanor softened instantly at the word baby.

God, you loved him like this.

The former assassin who could dismantle a gun in seconds and stare down world-ending threats without blinking had become ridiculously emotional the second you’d handed him a positive test three weeks ago. He kissed your stomach every morning. He downloaded three parenting apps. He’d cried in the cereal aisle because “our kid might like Froot Loops someday.”

But right now?

Right now he looked suspiciously self-satisfied.

His thumb rubbed over your knuckles. “I’m tellin’ you, doll. Barnes genes are elite.”

You snorted. “That is not how genetics work.”

“Says you.”

“Says science.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “Super soldier serum, baby.”

You laughed so hard the technician had to pause. “You are impossible.”

“No, seriously,” he continued. “Enhanced strength. Enhanced healing. Enhanced stamina—”

“Oh my God.”

“—enhanced fertility maybe.”

The technician made a tiny choking sound like she was trying not to laugh.

“You cannot be flirting with me while I have ultrasound goo on my stomach,” you informed him.

“Can and am.”

“Bucky.”

“What? You married me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Very fortunately.”

The machine crackled softly as the technician tilted the wand, eyes narrowing at the screen.

Then she blinked.

Paused.

Tilted it again.

“Oh,” she said.

You immediately went still. “Oh?” you repeated nervously.

Bucky straightened beside you. “What kinda oh?”

The technician’s smile widened slowly. “Well… there’s your baby.”

Relief flooded through you so fast your eyes burned.

Then she pointed at the monitor again.

“And there’s your other baby.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Your mouth fell open.

Beside you, Bucky whispered, “No fuckin’ way.”

The technician laughed outright now. “Congratulations. You’re having twins.”

You turned so fast to look at your husband you nearly got whiplash.

He looked stunned for exactly two seconds.

Then the most unbearable expression of triumph spread across his face.

You pointed at him immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh my God,” he breathed, staring at the screen like he’d personally accomplished the miracle of life through sheer determination. “Honey.”

“No.”

“Twins.”

“I see that.”

His blue eyes snapped to yours, horrifically smug. “SUPER sperm.”

The technician burst into laughter.

You groaned loud enough to echo through the room. “I’m divorcing you.”

---

“He can’t stop saying it,” you complained later that evening while Natasha nearly fell off the kitchen stool laughing.

Across the compound kitchen, Bucky stood proudly at the stove making grilled cheese sandwiches like a man who’d won an Olympic medal.

“Super sperm,” he repeated helpfully.

Sam looked physically exhausted already. “You’ve known for six hours.”

“And I’ve been right for six glorious hours.”

“You were not right,” you argued.

“I kinda was.”

“You made up fake science!”

“SCIENCE CAN’T EXPLAIN ME.”

Steve walked into the kitchen at the exact wrong moment. “Can’t explain what?”

Sam pointed immediately. “Don’t engage.”

Too late.

Bucky turned with the spatula still in hand. “We’re havin’ twins.”

Steve’s face lit up instantly. “Buck, that’s amazing.”

“And apparently,” Sam interrupted dryly, “the serum migrated directly into his balls.”

Steve nearly choked.

Natasha was openly crying laughing now.

Meanwhile your husband looked entirely too proud of himself.

“Look,” Bucky said, setting down the spatula. “You all laughed when I said I had enhanced fertility.”

“No one laughed,” Sam corrected. “We begged you to stop talking.”

“But was I wrong?”

“Yes,” you and Natasha said together.

Bucky ignored you completely. “Two babies at once. That’s efficiency.”

“You are never using the word efficiency about my uterus again.”

He rounded the counter immediately, grin softening as he came toward you. His hands settled carefully at your waist, all teasing disappearing beneath something warm and awestruck.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though he was clearly not sorry at all. “Just excited.”

Your irritation melted instantly because that was the real problem.

Bucky was impossible to stay annoyed at.

His eyes had gone glassy again — emotional, overwhelmed, so deeply happy it radiated from him.

“You happy?” you asked quietly.

His expression crumpled a little around the edges.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I spent seventy years thinkin’ I’d never get any of this.” One hand slid gently over your stomach. “Now I get you… and two babies?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, smiling shakily. “I’m happy.”

Natasha immediately looked away to give you privacy.

Sam pretended to suddenly become fascinated by the fridge.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours carefully. “Though,” he added, voice turning smug again, “this is historic evidence that my genes are powerful.”

You burst out laughing.

“There he is.”

“C’mon, doll,” he teased. “You know it’s impressive.”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

And he didn’t.

---

He became exponentially worse over the following months.

Every tiny pregnancy symptom somehow became proof of his “super sperm.”

Morning sickness?

“Means the babies are strong.”

Craving pickles at two in the morning?

“Enhanced babies need fuel.”

The fact that your bump got big quickly?

“Two Barnes babies. Legendary.”

“You are literally making things up as you go,” you told him one night while he rubbed lotion carefully across your stomach.

Bucky looked up innocently from where he sat between your knees on the bed.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Counterpoint,” he said, kissing your belly gently, “twins.”

You rolled your eyes.

Then he grinned against your skin and whispered toward your stomach, “Daddy’s a medical marvel.”

You laughed so hard you snorted.

Bucky looked absolutely delighted with himself.

“Did you hear that?” he asked your stomach seriously. “Your mama thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

Unfortunately, he was right about that too.

Especially later that night when you woke up half tangled in blankets and found Bucky already awake beside you, one large hand resting protectively over your stomach even in sleep.

His face looked softer these days.

Lighter.

Like every broken part of him had finally started healing the second he realized he’d get to be somebody’s dad.

Your heart swelled painfully as you watched him.

Maybe he was cocky.

Maybe he’d been insufferable for months.

Maybe if you heard the phrase super sperm one more time, you’d actually scream.

But the look on his face every time he talked about the babies?

You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.

No alien invasions.

No secret prophecies.

No world-ending catastrophe.

You’re simply very, very good at your job.

You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.

You say no.

Twice.

The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.

By the fourth offer, you finally cave.

Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.

At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.

Natasha informs you otherwise.

“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”

You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.

“…Did I offend him somehow?”

Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.

Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.

You narrow your eyes.

Neither elaborates.

You begin noticing things after that.

Little things.

Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.

You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.

You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.

The next morning it’s fixed.

No one admits responsibility.

But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.

“…Wasn’t me.”

You smile slowly.

“Okay.”

He stares at you like you’re dangerous.

Which is ridiculous.

You’re wearing bunny slippers.

The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.

You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.

Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”

“It looked good at the time,” you argue.

Bucky turns his head.

“At the time?”

You freeze.

Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”

“They are ancient history,” you defend.

Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.

“You were born after the eighties?”

“…Yes?”

“The nineties?” he asks weakly.

“Yes.”

Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”

Bucky looks like someone shot him.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”

Bucky stands abruptly.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Sam loses it completely.

After that, Bucky avoids you harder.

Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.

He watches you constantly.

Not in a creepy way.

In a protective way.

Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.

You catch it in fragments.

His eyes tracking you during missions.

His body subtly positioning between you and danger.

The way he relaxes when you laugh.

The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.

You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.

Bucky Barnes is in love with you.

And for some insane reason—

You’re falling for him too.

It happens slowly.

Then all at once.

You fall for his quietness first.

Most people assume silence means emptiness.

Bucky’s silence is full.

Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.

He notices everything.

The exact way you take your coffee.

The songs you hum absentmindedly.

Which nightmares leave you restless.

You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.

Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.

Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.

And God.

When he smiles?

Rare. Small. Crooked.

It feels precious.

Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.

The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.

The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.

You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.

It hurts more than you expect.

Because you know he feels it too.

One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.

He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His hands stop moving instantly.

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

You fold your arms.

He sighs.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Bucky—”

“You should be out with people your own age.”

The words hit like cold water.

You stare at him.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”

Anger sparks sharp and immediate.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re scared.”

That gets his attention.

Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”

His expression fractures slightly.

“You deserve someone better.”

“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”

Silence stretches between you.

Raw.

Fragile.

Bucky looks wrecked by it.

By you.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”

Your anger fades instantly.

Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.

He goes perfectly still.

“I know,” you say gently.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That’s not helping.”

Despite everything, you laugh quietly.

His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.

“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”

You crouch in front of him.

“James.”

He looks at you helplessly.

“You are not hard to love.”

Something inside him breaks.

You see it happen in real time.

Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.

His metal hand flexes once.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

Your heart aches.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

You take his hand.

Both of them.

Flesh and metal.

Equally.

“I mean it.”

Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.

Then he pulls away.

Not harshly.

Worse.

Carefully.

Like it costs him everything.

“I can’t.”

And he leaves.

You cry exactly once about it.

Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She takes the cereal from you.

“…He said no?”

You nod miserably.

Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”

A startled laugh escapes you.

Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Give him time.”

Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.

Because of course it does.

This is the Avengers.

Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.

The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.

An arms deal.

Bad intel.

Too many hostiles.

You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.

At least, that’s the plan.

Then the building collapses.

Your comms erupt with shouting.

“Medic down—”

“—need extraction—”

“Where’s Barnes?”

Dust fills the air.

You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.

And then Bucky arrives.

You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.

Cold.

Efficient.

Terrifying.

But this?

This is different.

This is rage.

Pure, horrifying rage.

He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.

Someone tries to stop him.

That person immediately regrets it.

“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.

Bucky ignores everyone.

His eyes find you.

And you swear the entire world stills.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

He drops to his knees beside you.

Hands shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.

You can see it.

Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:

Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.

He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.

The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.

Protective.

Desperate.

Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

His forehead rests briefly against your hair.

For one tiny moment, the world disappears.

No missions.

No history.

No fear.

Just him.

Just you.

Then your pain catches up.

You hiss sharply.

Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”

The quinjet ride is chaos.

You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

His head snaps up instantly.

“Yeah.”

“You hate medbays.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Still counts.”

A faint huff of laughter leaves him.

Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.

You watch him quietly.

Disheveled hair.

Blood on his gloves.

Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.

And underneath it all—

Love.

So much love.

“Bucky.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Come here.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.

“Doll—”

“Please.”

That word wrecks him every time.

He sits carefully beside you.

You lean into him immediately.

No hesitation.

His entire body locks up.

Then slowly—

Slowly—

He wraps an arm around you.

Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“I know.”

“You still think you’re too old for me?”

A long pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snort softly.

He looks offended.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”

Bucky goes still.

Dead still.

The truth lands hard.

You see it.

And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:

“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”

His breathing catches.

For a second you think he might walk away again.

Instead, he whispers:

“You make me want things.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“What kind of things?”

“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.

He laughs once.

Broken.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

His brows pull together.

You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”

The word hangs there.

Love.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.

His fingertips linger against your cheek.

Warm flesh hand.

Not the metal one.

Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds.

“Why would I do that?”

His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Then finally—

Finally—

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Tentative.

Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.

But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.

His hand slides behind your neck.

He kisses like a man starved.

Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.

It’s not frantic.

It’s worse.

Careful.

Reverent.

Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

You pull back breathless.

Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You laugh softly.

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”

Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.

You expect intensity.

Drama.

Brooding declarations in the rain.

Instead, you get:

Quiet mornings.

His hand at the small of your back.

Shared coffee.

Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”

You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.

You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.

You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.

Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.

The age gap still bothers him sometimes.

Usually in small ways.

Pop culture references.

Technology.

The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.

“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.

You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”

“So were old people in the nineties.”

“You are old people in the nineties.”

He glares.

Then kisses you to shut you up.

Which honestly feels like a win.

The real turning point comes six months later.

It’s after a mission.

A bad one.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

Nightmare.

You recognize the signs now.

Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.

His shoulders tense briefly.

Then sag.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“No.”

Honest.

Always honest with you now.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Long silence.

Then quietly:

“I saw you die.”

Your chest aches.

“In the dream?”

He nods once.

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The fear in his voice destroys you.

You turn him gently until he faces you.

“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You think loving you is a burden.”

His eyes flicker downward.

“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.

You touch his jaw softly.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

And for the first time—

He believes you.

You can actually see it happen.

The shift.

The surrender.

His walls finally lowering completely.

Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.

Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.

Necessary.

“I love you,” he says roughly.

Not tentative.

Not fearful.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.

A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.

Sam nearly drops his smoothie.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Bucky slams the laptop shut.

“Get out.”

Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely proposing.”

Bucky scowls.

Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.

“You happy?”

Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.

His entire face changes.

Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

He proposes on the roof.

No audience.

No elaborate setup.

Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.

You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:

“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You blink.

“…What?”

Bucky looks nervous.

Actually nervous.

More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He drops to one knee anyway.

“I know I’m older than you.”

You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”

“Brat.”

You grin shakily.

Bucky takes your hand carefully.

Reverently.

“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”

Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”

You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.

Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.

Pure happiness.

Unrestrained.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yes.”

Again.

“Yes.”

He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.

And this time—

“I am holding still,” you complain, though your fingers are currently white-knuckled around the edge of the counter.

His blue eyes flick up. “You just tried to crawl backwards like a spooked cat.”

“It burns!”

“That’s kinda the point of antiseptic.”

You glare at him weakly, but it loses all effect when he blows softly over the sting afterward, the cool air soothing against your skin. His large hand steadies your calf automatically, thumb brushing absent circles against your knee while he works.

The mission had been simple. Supposed to be simple, anyway. In and out. But a jagged piece of metal debris had caught your leg during the fight, slicing high enough on your inner thigh that walking afterward had become awkward and uncomfortable.

The second you’d gotten back to the apartment, Bucky had shifted into full caretaker mode.

Shoes off.

Sit down.

Drink water.

Let me see it.

Now he kneels between your legs with the first-aid kit open beside him, metal arm glinting beneath the warm bathroom light while he carefully tapes gauze over the injury like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” you say quietly.

His mouth twitches. “Can you blame me?”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. “Bucky.”

“You’re sittin’ on my counter in my shirt with your thighs spread for me, doll. I’m only human.”

“You are literally enhanced.”

“Still counts.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. His expression softens immediately at the sound, the tension lingering in his shoulders finally easing now that he knows you’re okay.

That’s always how he gets after you’re hurt.

Quiet.

Gentle.

Like if he handles you carefully enough, the world won’t dare touch you again.

His fingertips skim lightly along the skin just beneath the bandage, checking for any remaining blood. The touch sends a small shiver up your spine—not because it hurts, but because it’s Bucky. Because even after all this time, his hands on you still make your pulse flutter.

“There,” he says softly. “All patched up.”

You glance down. “Looks ugly.”

His gaze sharpens immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s a scrape.”

“Yeah, but—”

Bucky leans forward before you can finish, pressing a soft kiss just below the bandage.

The breath catches in your throat instantly.

It’s such a tender thing. Warm lips against sensitive skin. Careful. Lingering.

His stubble brushes your inner thigh as he pulls back slightly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he says simply. “Always.”

Your stomach flips hard enough to make you dizzy.

“Buck…”

Another kiss. This one slightly higher.

Your fingers tighten against the counter.

He notices immediately, because of course he does. Bucky notices everything when it comes to you.

“Tell me if I should stop,” he murmurs against your skin.

The words come out embarrassingly breathless. “Don’t wanna stop.”

A slow smile curves across his mouth.

“Yeah?”

You nod once.

His flesh hand slides carefully up your thigh—not touching the injury, avoiding it entirely—as he steps closer between your knees. The position alone makes warmth pool low in your stomach. Big hands. Broad shoulders. His body slotting naturally between your legs like that’s where he belongs.

Maybe it is.

Bucky kisses your thigh again, softer this time, lingering near the apex where your breath starts to shake. Not rushed. Never rushed with you.

“You scared me today,” he admits quietly.

Your expression softens immediately. “I’m okay.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes your knee. “Still scared me.”

There’s something achingly vulnerable in the way he says it. Like it physically pains him to imagine you hurt.

You reach for him automatically, fingers curling against the back of his neck. “C’mere.”

He rises instantly, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip while the other settles gently at your waist. The kiss he gives you is slow and warm and full of relief more than anything else.

You melt into it.

Bucky kisses like he’s memorizing you. Like every soft sound you make is something precious.

His forehead rests against yours when he pulls back.

“Need you close after days like this,” he murmurs.

“I’m literally sitting on the bathroom counter.”

“M’serious.”

You smile softly, fingertips brushing through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know.”

His nose nudges yours affectionately before he kisses you again, deeper this time. The hand on your waist tightens just slightly, enough to pull you closer to the edge of the counter.

Your thighs part instinctively around him.

A low sound rumbles in his chest at the movement, but he still keeps everything gentle. Careful of your leg. Careful of you.

Always careful with you.

“You comfortable?” he asks quietly against your lips.

“Mhm.”

“Leg hurt?”

“Not right now.”

His eyes darken slightly at that.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs.

The nickname alone nearly wrecks you.

Your hands slide beneath the hem of his tight black shirt, palms smoothing over warm muscle. Bucky shudders under the touch, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like he’s trying to hold himself together.

It makes your heart ache a little, how affected he gets by you. By simple touches. Simple affection.

“You know,” you whisper teasingly, “most people probably don’t get turned on while doing first aid.”

His laugh is low and rough against your neck. “Most people don’t look like you sitting on a counter in their underwear.”

You grin. “Fair point.”

He kisses you again before you can say anything else, smiling into your mouth when you laugh softly against his lips. The whole thing feels warm and dizzy and sweet in that way only Bucky can make it feel.

Like desire and tenderness are the exact same thing.

Eventually he pulls back just enough to tap lightly beside the bandage. “Still need this to heal, doll.”

You sigh dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m responsible.”

“You literally kissed my inner thigh five minutes ago.”

“And now I’m telling you to take it easy.”

You loop your arms around his neck anyway, pressing one final kiss to his mouth. “Fine. But you’re carrying me to bed.”

Bucky’s grin turns instantly smug.

"Well, you remember when we went to Grandpa George's ranch last month and his Mama Dog had those tiny puppies?" Bucky asks, watching Henry's eyes widen hopefully.

"Yeah," Henry replies, warily optimistic.

Bucky removes the blue-mottled puppy from his shirt and Henry jumps up from your lap with a gasp. Bucky places the squirmy pup into the little boy's arms. "Happy birthday, kiddo. She's excited to meet you."

Henry immediately sits down on the floor, still cradling the furry bundle in his arms. When he looks up at you both, tears are in his eyes. "I love her so much. Thank you, thank you!"

Bucky smiles and settles in next to you on the couch. You lean into his familiar body and rest your head into the crook of his neck.

You watch Henry nuzzle into the soft puppy. "You're welcome, honey," you say while rubbing a hand lovingly on Bucky's bicep as a silent thank you for keeping the pup fed, watered, and hidden in the barn for the past two nights.

"Does she have a name?" Henry asks, petting her gently. The puppy is standing on her hind legs and licking at the boy's face.

You look at Bucky and he shakes his head. "No, kiddo. You'd better think of one. She's going to help us keep the cattle in line, so make sure it's somethin' tough."

Henry considers this as you all hear the rooster crow outside the open window. "Rooster?"

"Yeah," you reply. "He loves to harass those hens."

"No, Mommy. I want to name her Rooster."

Bucky chuckles. "You want to name the dog Rooster?"

"Yeah Daddy! You said something tough. That rooster is tougher than nails."

You and Bucky both burst into laughter. "Tougher than nails, huh, Hen? Where did you learn that?"

"Grandpa George," he answers with a smile. "He teaches me funny words."

You look at Bucky with narrowed eyes. "I'm sure he does."

Two months later, Henry and Rooster, or Roo, as you've all affectionately nicknamed her, are inseparable. She even sleeps in Henry's bed.

"You want to go for a ride with me while your mama gets her nails done?" Bucky asks, leaning into Henry's bedroom doorway. Roo pokes her head up at his voice and cocks it to one side, recognizing the word "ride". She's graduated from riding in a saddlebag with her tiny head poking out to balancing on the horse's rear end. She licks Henry's hand to rouse him.

"Yeah!" Henry exclaims in a groggy voice. He sits up in bed, and his dark hair is sticking up in every direction.

"Okay, I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready," Bucky says. "Take your time, son."

He follows the scent of your peachy vanilla lotion to the bathroom off of the bedroom you now share together. Bucky officially moved in when Henry was almost two. Most of his stuff was here anyway, slowly intermingling with your things as the time passed - pairs of socks rolled up side by side in the top drawer, toothbrushes with the bristles touching in a cup by the sink, three sets of boots in the mudroom. The evidence of a steady migration toward normal again.

"What color should I get today?" You ask, looking down at your bare toes. You'd love to get a manicure, but the ranch doesn't allow it. It's only a matter of hours before a nail breaks or chips from doing something hardy with your hands. You always stick to pedicures, plus Bucky loves to pick out the color.

"Hmm," he considers, wrapping his arms around you from behind and admiring your reflections in the large mirror. He plants a kiss to your neck before bringing a calloused hand up and under the neckline of your dress and over your breast. Your eyes flutter closed. You don't think you'll ever get used to how good he feels, and not just sexually, although that's another level of good. Just his breath on your skin and his deep voice in your ear are enough to sustain you for days. "So sexy," he groans with a gentle squeeze.

"We can't right now," you say, biting your lip. "My appointment is in twenty minutes, Buck."

He growls and releases your breast, but keeps his arms around you.

"What color?" You ask again, this time wiggling your toes. He looks down and sighs out a laugh.

"Hmm," he hums as he turns you and sets you on the bathroom counter top before he steps between your thighs. "There's this shade of pink I can't get out of my head," he whispers as he nips at your ear. "It's becoming one of my favorite colors."

You sigh in a sharp breath as one of his hands runs up your thigh and under your sundress. He traces the lace edge of your underwear with a warm finger before pulling the fabric to the side. A delicate moan escapes you as he draws a line up the seam of your pussy. "Yeah, such a warm shade of pink. Perfect for -" he pauses as he presses in knuckle-deep, "summer."

"More," you gasp, rocking your hips into his hand, but he removes his finger and pulls your underwear back into place with a devilish grin. Your gaze widens as he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks the digit clean. He leans in and whispers. "You'd better come back with those toes painted pussy pink."

"James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper-shout in shock as you hop off the counter and adjust your dress. "You're crazy."

"Crazy for you, honey," he says with a kiss. "I'm taking Hen and Roo out for a ride this mornin'. Gonna mend that piece of fence the herd took down."

"Okay, there's breakfast sandwiches on the stove for y'all. I'll be back in a couple hours."

You finish getting ready while Henry and Bucky eat their breakfast. You give them both a kiss, pat Roo's head, and grab the truck keys from the hook on the wall.

"Pink!" Bucky shouts with a grin as you close the door behind you. Naughty, perfect man.

When you get to the nail salon, you find that you're scheduled for a manicure and a pedicure. "No, that's a mistake. I'm sorry," you explain. "I'm just here for the pedicure."

"Oh, well, your husband called earlier and added on a manicure," the receptionist says and repeats your name to confirm.

"Yeah, huh, that's me," you say with a puzzled expression. Bucky isn't your husband, but you let that assumption slide.

"It's already paid for," she explains.

"Oh, well, okay. I guess I'll do both then."

"Okay, go pick your color," she says, pointing to the wall behind you.

"Pink," you say under your breath and feel your cheeks heat. He's such a quiet man. You'd never know how deeply naughty and affectionate his is unless he was yours. You study the rainbow of shades and pick a "warm, summer pink" that you think is the closest to… well, you know.

The nail technician leads you to a chair where she gets you started with a hot, soapy soak for your feet. You show her the color you want - yes, for both fingers and toes - and she gets to work. Your eyes flutter closed and your head hits the massage chair pillow at some point during the treatment. You wake up from your semi-slumber with a soft tap on your knee. Your toes and nails are now pink and you smell like a sugar-scrubbed coconut. You admire the color - it is the perfect summer pink.

Meanwhile at the ranch, Bucky and Henry are getting back on the horse with Roo in tow.

"That's a good lookin' fence there, Hen," Bucky says, offering up his hand for a down-low high five. "Thanks for the help, buddy. And thanks for talkin' with me."

"You're welcome Daddy," he says, settling back into the saddle against Bucky's chest. As Bucky looks out over the land, he feels a slight pull at his heartstrings. He misses his brother. He wishes he could have seen his amazing little boy grow up. He didn't even get to meet him, and that's a damn shame. Fucking drunk drivers. Henry falls asleep against him as they ride slowly back to the house. Bucky spots your truck pulling up the gravel drive and his heart pulls again, but this time it's for different reasons. It's you - your strength, your beauty, that fact that you're stubborn as hell, smart as a whip, and everything he's ever needed - the fact that you helped him feel like himself again. You helped each other heal together. He's never letting you slip through his fingers again. You get out of the truck and hold a hand over your head to shield the sun. Here comes your world, all on the back of a horse. You can tell Henry is sleeping by the way he's slumped against Bucky's chest and you smile. You meet them in the barn and carefully carry your boy inside to his bed. You'll change the bedsheets later. Who knows what they got into out in those fields,but you don't want to chance changing him out of his little jeans and t-shirt.

You pour Bucky a quick glass of iced tea and walk out to the barn. He's hanging up the saddle as you round the corner.

"Hey," you say. "Thanks for the royal treatment." You hand him the glass, showing off your surprise manicure.

"You deserve it," he says, taking the glass from you with a nod before taking a long drink. "Thank ya. Lemme see 'em again," he says, gesturing to your hands.

You hold your hands out in front of you and the side of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "That's a good color," he mutters, "but I think we'd better color match 'em." Before you know it, the empty glass is on stable ledge and Bucky has you in his arms. "Hen stay asleep?" He asks, carrying you bridal style to the old desk in the corner of the barn.

"Yes," you answer through a gasp as he sets you down on the desktop and drags the fabric of your dress around your hips.

"Good. Now spread your legs," he groans, hooking his hands into your underwear and pulling them down around your ankles. He stops and runs his knuckles over the arch of your foot. "So soft." He plants a kiss there.

"Bucky," you whine, but before you can say anything else, he drags your body to the edge of the desk and kneels down, licking a broad swathe up your center with a grunt and he inhales.

"So sweet for me," he mutters as he nuzzles his nose against your clit and tongue fucks you. "Touch yourself, baby."

You comply and bring your freshly manicured nails to your swollen bud. "Perfect match," he says, smiling up at you with a pleased expression. You swipe your thumb across his glistening lower lip, and he takes your wrist in his hand before bringing it up to his mouth. He sucks your arousal off. The action makes you clench and Bucky notices with a needy sigh. He doesn't say anything, just stands up and unbuckles his belt. His eyes never leave yours as your chest heaves in anticipation. Every time with him feels like the first in the best way.

"I'll be right back," he says as he leans in to kiss you and turns on his heel toward the house, presumably to get a condom.

"Buck, don't go," you beg. "We could just…"

"What are you asking?" He presses with a raised brow.

"I'm saying I want to feel you, please."

A whimper erupts from his throat. "Bare?"

You nod, eyes pleading, and he answers you by unbuttoning those Wranglers you'll never get enough of, and putting your hand down the waistband of his boxers. He's all heat and girth and veins, and you know he's it for you. No one else could ever compare. You've done it countless times over the past few years, but never like this, and you shiver in anticipation. Something about seeing him with Henry earlier on the horse, maybe? The manicure he insisted on? No, it's nothing specific. It's all the little things - the way he lets you sleep in on the weekends while he gets up to eat big bowls of cereal and feed the horses with Hen, his strong silence that makes you feel safe and like nothing can touch you, how he understands that even in the thick of bliss and happiness together you still get hit with bouts of grief over the death of his brother, the generosity of his spirit and hands - "Oh," you moan as he lines himself up and looks at you one last time for confirmation.

"I want all of you," you whisper across his lips. He nods and swallows, pressing in slowly, carefully until he's fully inside.

"There's all of it," he rasps. "God, I love you."

"I love you, James."

He starts to move, wrapping his arms around you and keeping most of your body weight off the desk. There's a handful of positions that feel amazing with Bucky, but your favorites are the ones where you're face to face like this. Watching each other come undone - the dilated pupils, the sharp intakes of breath, the flushed cheeks, sometimes even tears - it's everything.

"Fuck honey," he groans. "I can feel everything. Fuck."

His breathing is labored and delicious and hot against your neck as he starts to move faster. He brings a thumb to your clit. It's warm in the barn already, but now you can feel sweat start to form on the back of your neck as your body heats.

"Feels… bigger," you manage to breath out, gripping at his biceps. He keeps working slow, methodical circles on that sweet spot as he fucks you a little bit rougher against the desk. The tension in your lower belly snaps.

"Mmm, can feel you squeezin' me," he grunts. "Come for me, Junebug."

He moves a hand to the back of your neck and adjusts your head so it's level with his. He looks into your eyes. "Come," he demands.

"Buck - I," is all you get out before your thighs start shaking around his hips and your orgasm takes hold.

"There you go," he encourages you, keeping your head in place to talk you through it. "Look at me when you come on my cock."

"God!" You exclaim, a groan escaping your throat.

"So wet," he gasps. "I'm so close."

You catch your breath and make him look at you this time by tugging gently on his hair. "Don't pull out," you whisper.

"Sorry?" He whines like he didn't fully hear you.

"I wanna feel you, Buck. Please."

His mouth collides with yours, tongues dancing together as he whimpers, spilling into you. You both stay where you are, breathing in tandem, coming down from your highs. After a half minute or so, he shifts his hips to pull out with a hiss. He stands back and admires his handiwork with a blush and grin. "She looks real pretty all full of me."

"You have such a mouth on you," you reply with a giggle. "But I love it."

"I love you," he blurts out again. "I-"

He looks nervous all of a sudden, then moves to you to pull down your dress. "I'll clean you up inside, but Junebug… I gotta ask you somethin' first."

"What?"

He buckles his belt quickly, takes one more glance at you like he's never loved anyone more, and kneels on the hay-laden ground.

"Will you marry me?"

"Bucky-" you start as your heart starts beating wildly in your chest.

"I have a ring, I swear," he says, eyes widening in panic.

You hop down from the desk and walk to him, kneeling in the dirt as tears fill your eyes.

"It's inside, I'm sorry, I-" he panics.

"Bucky, yes," you say, putting your hands on each of his cheeks in an attempt to calm him.

"Wait, what?" His eyes snap to yours.

"Yes, I'll marry you."

"Oh, thank God," he sighs and picks you up. "I had this whole night planned, and I don't know, I just had to ask you right now. I love you so much. I love Henry. I love our little life that we've built from the ashes. I can't imagine anyone but you guys as my forever."

"Bucky, I love you so much. I want this forever with you too," you answer.

"Wait, is this why you had me get a manicure today?" You ask through a giggle, admiring your shiny nails.

"Well yeah," he admits sheepishly. "I figured you'd want them nice for pictures."

"You're so thoughtful."

"Oh, and I already asked Henry while we were mendin' that fence earlier. He said, and I quote, "I don't know why you're askin' me for Mama's hand when you already hold it all the time anyway."

You choke up at that. Right before you walk back into the house together, a junebug lands on your sleeve and you know that one more very important person is sending their blessing down from above. Bucky notices too.

"Thank you," he says, looking up into the bright blue sky. "I'll take care of both of them. Forever."

Officially The End

Flipping over one last time, you stare into the darkness of your bedroom. Another sleepless night. With a sigh, you get up out of bed wearing only a t-shirt you stole from your roommate, Bucky. Slowly, you make your way through your dark bedroom and across the hallway to the one thing that could solve your sleeping problem.

You quietly stand in his doorway. Before you can ask if he’s awake, Bucky is already reaching for his bedside lamp turning it on. In the dim lighting, you both make eye contact. “Get up here. Hop on sweetheart,” Bucky says motioning you towards him. He knows exactly what you need, this not being the first time you’ve made your way to his room in the middle of the night.

As you reach his side of the bed, you climb on top of him straddling his torso. Before you can fully settle down, he grabs you by the waist and lifts you up with ease placing your bare cunt on his face. “You taste so good, baby,” he groans as he begins to swipe his tongue across your slit sending a shiver down your spine.

You reach down tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling his face closer to your wet pussy. His hands reach up under your- his- shirt to squeeze your breasts as his tongue begins to pick up the pace, increasing your pleasure.

“Oh fuck,” your head tilts back with a moan as he continues to taste you. You feel one of his hands pull away from your breast sliding it down your body to the top of your thigh, but it doesn’t stop there. It isn’t until you feel his fingers rubbing your clit, that you snap your head forward, your eyes finding Bucky’s. You feel your orgasm approaching. 

“Bucky don’t stop. Make me come, please,” you beg as Bucky obliges your request. The closer your orgasm approaches, the harder you find it to resist grinding your pussy against his mouth.

As your orgasm tears through your body, your eyes remain locked on each other as Bucky continues to lick your pussy intensifying your orgasm. 

When you finally come down from your high, you gather enough strength to get off of him and lay down beside him under the sheets. He turns so you are now face to face. He smiles sweetly at you. You let out a content sigh and return the smile. 

You reach out a hand to grab the back of his neck and pull him in for a soft kiss.  As you kiss his hand finds his erection, guiding it towards your aching pussy, only now realizing he was fully naked under the blankets. Your hips thrust toward him, allowing him to slip into your pussy easily. 

His hips meet yours with soft and gentle thrusts. Between breathless moans and kisses, you both quickly reach your peaks. “Can I?” Bucky asks you. You nod, “Yes, come in me Buck. I want it, I want you.” You didn’t mean to let that last part slip, but Bucky had been feeling like much more to you than just a roommate you occasionally sleep with. “Shit,” he whispers as he fills you up with his cum and kisses you. You take everything he gives you with a gasp giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue in your mouth giving you a passionate kiss. You kiss him back with just as much passion. 

Once you pull apart, Bucky rests his forehead against yours staring into your eyes. He moves to take his cock out of your pussy, but you shake your head, stopping his movements. “Stay in me,” you plead. “Don’t worry, baby. I will,” he reassures you as he slightly pulls out of you to turn to the side to shut off the light.

When he turns back toward you, he re-situates himself inside you, giving you one last kiss to your lips as you pull your bodies closer together. Bucky kisses your forehead, “Go to sleep, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Are you sure Buck?” you ask him nervously knowing it was an important conversation you had to have. “Yeah, I promise it’ll be fine, just go to sleep. Goodnight sweetheart,” he says with soft finality.

“Okay, goodnight Bucky. I love you,” you sleepily murmur into his chest. 

“I lo-,” he cuts himself off as sleep finds you first realizing what you just said. Bucky smiles softly at your sleeping form like the lovesick fool he is, replaying your words in his head. 

I want you. I love you.

He can’t believe you feel the same way. He’s practically been in love with you since you first moved in a year ago. And when you asked him for something, who was he to deny you? He’d give you just about anything you’d ask for. Recently, he found himself wanting to confess his feelings to you, but he didn’t know how or when to bring it up. He got lucky (in more ways than one) that you spilled your feelings first.

He hopes that by the end of tomorrow that you will no longer be his roommate and be something so much more special. Sighing with relief and contentment, Bucky snuggles into you some more, excited for that talk tomorrow.

“Hi, guys,” he said, voice low and warm. “Miss—uh, your teacher—says you wanted to see the arm up close.”

Twenty-three hands shot up at once.

You watched from the reading rug as he knelt, patient, letting them trace the plates and ask a million questions. One of your quieter kids, Mia, climbed right into his lap without asking. Bucky didn’t flinch. He just adjusted her carefully on his thigh and let her press every button on the arm until it whirred softly. She giggled like it was the best sound in the world.

You felt something warm bloom behind your ribs.

Bucky’s eyes kept drifting back to you. Every time you crouched beside a desk to help tie a shoe or praise a drawing, every time you ruffled someone’s hair or let a kid hug your waist while they told you about their weekend plans, you caught him staring. Not the usual hungry stare he gave you at home. Something deeper. Hungrier in a different way.

By dismissal, the kids had hugged him goodbye and you’d signed twenty-three “I met Captain America’s best friend” papers. Bucky carried your tote bag to the car like it weighed nothing, but he didn’t speak until you were halfway home.

“You’re really good with them,” he said quietly, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “Like… scarily good.”

You laughed. “It’s my job, Buck.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “It’s more than that. You light up when they need you. And they trust you. Completely.” He swallowed. “You’d be an incredible mom.”

The air in the car thickened.

You glanced over. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road like he was trying not to say the rest out loud. But you knew that look. The one that meant his mind had already left the car and was three steps ahead, planning.

Spring break started the second you walked through your apartment door.

Bucky didn’t even let you kick off your shoes.

He spun you, pressed you against the hallway wall, and kissed you like the week ahead was a mission and you were the target. Metal fingers slid under your sweater, palm hot against your stomach.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he murmured against your mouth. “You with those kids. You with our kid.”

Your breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, blue eyes dark. “Tell me you want it too.”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

The next seven days became a blur of skin and sweat and Bucky’s single-minded focus.

He woke you every morning with his mouth between your legs, slow and thorough, until you were shaking and begging. Then he’d slide into you in one smooth thrust, hips rolling deep, whispering filthy promises against your ear.

“Gonna fill you up, doll. Keep you full all day. Want you dripping with me when we go get coffee.”

You’d come with his name on your lips and his hand splayed possessively over your lower belly, like he could will it to happen right then.

Mornings turned into lazy afternoons on the couch. He’d pull you into his lap while some mindless show played, hands guiding your hips as you rode him slow and deep. The metal arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you down so every thrust pressed right against that spot that made you see stars. He never pulled out. Not once. He’d stay buried inside you after, kissing your shoulder, murmuring, “Good girl. Keep it all in.”

Evenings were softer—until they weren’t.

One night you tried to make dinner. Bucky came up behind you at the stove, hands sliding under your oversized t-shirt (his t-shirt), and suddenly the pasta was forgotten. He bent you over the counter, thick cock stretching you open while he growled, “Can’t wait anymore. Need to put a baby in you tonight.”

You came so hard your knees buckled. He held you up, fucking you through it, until he spilled deep with a broken moan that sounded like your name and a prayer at the same time.

By day four you were sore in the best way, thighs sticky, a constant low thrum of want humming under your skin. Bucky noticed. He drew you a bath, climbed in behind you, and fucked you slow in the warm water, one hand between your legs, the other cradling your stomach again.

“Imagine it,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “You, round with my kid. Tits full. Still teaching those little monsters while I bring you lunch and rub your feet.” His hips snapped up, hitting deep. “Gonna keep you like this every spring break from now on.”

You laughed breathlessly, then moaned when he ground against your clit. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you.” He kissed the side of your neck. “Insane for our family.”

The last night of break you were both exhausted and glowing. Bucky had you on your back in the middle of the bed, legs over his shoulders, driving into you with deep, deliberate strokes. The kind that said he meant every word.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You did. His hair was messy, chest flushed, dog tags swinging between you with every thrust. He looked wrecked and reverent all at once.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough. “Love how you are with those kids. Love that you’re gonna be the best mom on the damn planet. And I’m gonna spend every day making sure it happens.”

He pressed his forehead to yours as he came, hips stuttering, flooding you so full you felt it spill out around him. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, breathing hard, hand stroking your stomach like he could already feel the change.

You carded your fingers through his hair, smiling up at him.

“Spring break’s almost over, Sergeant.”

He kissed you slow and sweet, hips giving one last lazy roll that made you whimper.

“Good,” he murmured against your lips. “Means we get to start practicing for summer break next.”

You laughed, but the sound melted into a sigh as he started moving again—slow, purposeful, already hard inside you.

Because Bucky Barnes didn’t half-ass missions.

And getting you pregnant?

Still single, according to the tabloids.

If they only knew about you two.

He ended things amicably with Natasha Romanoff months before he even met you, but his agent insisted it would tank his image to be seen with someone new too soon. He hates it. Says you deserve to be seen with him in the light and not behind closed doors. But you both get it and play along after people trashed his ex for dating another guy.

So, you arrive separately to the screening, keep your distance, and remind yourself to act like nothing more than acquaintances. No slip-ups. No lingering gazes that the cameras might catch.

But the second Bucky spots you, his eyes sweep over you in a slow and claiming stare, and you forget how to breathe.

The man has never been good at pretending you’re not his.

He looks good, of course, looking every bit like a man on top. Confident, perfectly styled hair and suit, his beard growing out just enough to still look put together. He even has a slutty chain to compliment his panty-dropping smirk.

Everyone sees a star while you see the man who had you in his bed last night.

He’ll have you again before the night is over.

“Love falling asleep and waking up beside you.”

You should be good. You should stay away. But you decide you want him then and there when he gives you that look.

It isn’t your fault he follows and corners you when you manage to slip away from the crowd and noise for a few minutes. It’s not like you purposely flash your leg through the slit of your dress when you walk past him. And you don’t mean to look over your shoulder and give him those “fuck me” eyes.

Okay, maybe you do.

Still, it’s all his fault.

Because you’re just a woman who knows what it feels like to have Bucky Barnes inside you and you can’t help wanting him.

“Hey you.”

“Hey,” you breathe, thinking how lucky you are to know the man beyond the glamour.

“We don’t have much time,” he says, the intoxicating scent of his cologne filling your nostrils once he has you where he wants you.

“Still enough time for you to get me off,” you reply sweetly.

He isn’t fooled by the innocent look you give him when he shoves your dress up enough to get his hand between your thighs. It’s not like he needs to feel the fabric barely covering your pussy to know you’re wet. He knows.

He always knows.

He knows what you taste like and how his name sounds on your lips when you come. He knows how to make you beg for more even if it feels like too much. He knows how good you are for him but not-so-secretly loves when you tease him.

Bucky also knows how to make you smile and stop your tears.

“Like I didn’t get you off this morning?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Your face gets hot as you remember falling apart in his arms. He held you like you were something precious after. It almost brought tears to your eyes.

“You did, but that was hours ago.”

“Needy girl. Can’t even wait ‘til later,” he taunts in your ear, his hand simply resting there when you grip his wrist, heating seeping through with your wetness. “Say ‘please’, sweetheart.”

The endearment sounds condescending and intimate all at once and you whimper, your hips shifting. “Hurry up,” you snarl.

He presses his palm closer, but nothing more. “That doesn’t sound like ‘please’, does it?” he asks, his lips ghosting yours as you tremble. If you two were truly alone, he’d put you over his knee and spank you. “Be good and say ‘please’.”

There’s a slight growl in his demand and you narrow your eyes. You need to get off and he knows it. There’s also satisfaction in his steel eyes that you don’t beg for any other man.

Only him.

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper.

“Please what?” he asks casually, pulling the flimsy fabric aside.

You gasp when his fingers move along your center slowly, like he has all the time in the world. “Please, Bucky, touch me. Please, get me off,” you beg, wishing he could fuck you but knowing you’d have him later. “I need you.”

You need all of him.

He chuckles, lazily moving through your slick folds. “I do love you desperate and dripping for me. Love it even more when you ask nicely.”

He swallows down your gasp when he suddenly shoves two fingers inside, curling them and making your back arch. His tongue moves against yours frantically and you know he wants to get you off quickly since there’s a chance someone may catch you. That only fuels your desire for him more.

You try to grip his hair, but he swiftly pins your hand above your head. You whine at being denied. He better feast on your pussy later so you can pull it all you want.

“Such a good girl for me,” he praises when he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he draws pleasure from you. His fingers drag in and out in time with your breaths and you feel your orgasm building fast. “Gonna smell you on my fingers the whole night. It’ll hold me over ‘til I fuck you.”

Heat coils. Your legs tremble. It’ll be torture for both of you to wait, but at least you’ll get to come.

Who says Bucky isn’t a giver?

“And guess what? I’m finally gonna fuck you raw.” He smirks as you teeter on the edge, seconds away from falling. “That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

His mouth covers yours again when you cry out, your body tensing before melting. Ecstasy flows through you like lava and his fingers work you through every second of your climax. He doesn’t stop until you whimper, your heart pounding as you register the words.

“I’m finally gonna fuck you raw.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he sighs.

You always feel beautiful with him.

“What…” you breathe once he removes his fingers and licks them clean with a smile, like a cat who got the cream. “What… did you say?”

He tilts his head. “You heard me.” Instead of merely smoothing out your dress, he tugs your underwear down and makes you step out of them. “I’m gonna fuck you raw,” he says again, tucking them into his pocket.

Your mouth parts, your pussy throbs, and he takes advantage of your stunned silence with another deep kiss.

Bucky always uses a condom. Neither of you are seeing anyone else, so there’s no risk of diseases, but birth control isn’t full proof. The extra layer of protection helps.

But both of you want your wet pussy around his bare cock.

“Maybe I’ll even fuck a baby into you,” he whispers, something dark and tender in his gaze before pulling you away from the wall. “Finally show everyone you’re mine.”

Your eyes widen.

Is he serious?

“Really? You’ll knock me up at the height of our careers?” you tease, trying to keep your voice light to hide how your pulse is jumping.

“Yes,” he replies with such conviction that it makes you pause.

He’s dead serious.

“Bucky, the public doesn’t even know we’re a couple. Your agent’s call, remember?” you remind him gently. “We’re supposed to be careful.”

You wish it didn’t have to be that way, but you get the timing and optics. You understand the game. Fooling around seconds ago was risky enough.

Thankfully, the paparazzi has never spotted you near either of your homes.

He steps close enough that you almost take a step back, but you remain rooted to the spot. “He doesn’t get a say anymore,” he says, his voice steady and territorial in a way that makes your knees weak. “I’m done sneaking around. I’m done pretending you’re not mine.”

Your heart stutters because he really isn’t kidding.

“Are you sure?” You swallow, trying not to let tears fill your eyes. “This is your career we’re talking about.”

You don’t want to contribute to tarnishing his image, especially after seeing Natasha put through the ringer for moving on.

Then again, men and women aren’t always held to the same standards, which isn’t at all fair.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” His eyes lock with yours and he smiles, your heart melting. “I want everyone to know you’re my girl.”

His girl.

All you want is to be his. You want to walk down the street with him and hold his hand. You want date nights and vacations together between filming. It isn’t too much to ask.

You two waited long enough.

You can’t stop yourself from smiling back and sneaking in a kiss that ends far too soon. “I do, too.”

“Good.” He licks his lips, like he’s fighting the urge to push you against the wall. “Now go before I practice breeding you right here.”

You shiver at the combination of warning and want in his tone.

“But don’t stray too far,” he adds softly. “I need at least one photo with you at the after-party.”

Your heart skips a beat. “I won’t stray too far,” you promise.

There’s no more flirting or teasing when you walk away, his eyes on you until you’re out of sight. Your head is still spinning from it all. And then you let yourself laugh.

Bucky wants to fuck you raw and breed you? He wants everyone to know you’re together? He wants to go against his agent?

Jesus, he wants a future with you. A real one. One without secrecy or careful distance or agents dictating the terms. He wants to stop hiding.

So do you.

And when he gives you that look later at the after-party and beckons for you to join him, you know he’s thinking about what transpired and what’s to come.

“You sure?” you ask again, wanting him to be certain.

“I’m sure, sweetheart,” he murmurs, spotting a photographer nearby before kissing your lips. “I’m sure.”

Bucky hopes his agent loses his shit.

Serves him right for making him sneak around with you like a dirty little secret when you deserve more than that. He’s done letting someone else decide what the two of you are allowed to be. He’s done pretending.

And he’s counting down the seconds until he gets you alone and convinces you to throw your birth control out. He’ll fuck you with nothing between you this time. He isn’t going to let you leave his bed. Not until you’re pumped nice and full of him.

Not until the whole world knows you belong to him.

Just the way it should be.

Who wants to get bred by Bucky? And maybe his agent wants you for himself. 😏 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️