#i am thinking about thunderbolt...................thoughts..........

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

Present:

Your post-mission debrief had somehow turned into a party—beers around a bonfire, with s’mores. Yes, someone had brought s’mores. It was Bob. You half suspected that he’d googled ‘what do friends do for fun?’ on the way back to the tower.

You were sitting on a lawn chair, mocktail one hand, the other absently rested on your stomach—the baby bump very much obvious at this point. Behind you, Bucky stood with one hand on your shoulder and his vibranium hand wrapped around a beer while he looked like he wanted to re-enter the void any time anyone got too loud.

And naturally, Yelena got loud.

“Okay, here’s the real question,” she called out, waving her beer bottle around the team like a sword. “Which one of the ‘new’ Avengers has the best suit?” 

“That’s so subjective.” Ava groaned.

“Exactly my point,” Yelena replied. “Subjectively, it’s me.”

Puffing out his chest, Alexei snapped. “I will ignore this insult and remind you of this iconic design!” 

“You literally squeak when you move,” Walker said. 

“You squeak emotionally.” Ava scoffed, taking a swig of her own beer bottle.

Walker pointed toward Bob. “What about him? Dude’s got like, three different fits.”

Bob smiled politely, yet his hand visibly trembled. “Thanks… I’m molecularly unstable.” 

Then suddenly, all eyes turned to Bucky.

Including yours. 

How could they not? The matte black suit. The red star. The arms. 

After a beat of silence, someone—you think it was Ava—looked at you and said: “What do you think of Barnes’ new suit?” 

Bucky froze. His hand tightened against your shoulder. Slowly you lowered your mocktail, raising your brows toward Ava.

“Well, Miss Starr,” you gave your swollen stomach a gentle double tap. “Does this answer your question?” 

In surprise, Yelena dropped her beer into the grass. Alexei smiled, until the realisation flashed over his eyes and he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. Bob blinked rapidly in your direction, as though he was running a diagnostics. Walker let out a bark-laugh, quickly turning it into a full wheeze. 

“No. Nooo,” He shook his head, the laughter still ringing through your ears. “Are you saying—Wait—in the suit?!” 

You smirked, and shrugged your shoulders slightly. “Didn’t even take the glove off.” 

Bucky’s eyes widened. 

Three Months Ago:

The safe house door slammed behind you. You barely crossed the entryway before Bucky had you pressed against the wall. His breath was hot, his body humming with some leftover tension from the mission.

He was still in his New Avengers suit—matte black kevlar clinging to his body like a sin, his dog tags swung with every move, and his arm plates clicked together.

You barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth crashed into yours. 

“Are you going to keep the suit on?” you murmured between kisses, fingers tracing the lining of the red star embroidered into his right arm. 

His teeth pulled at your bottom lip. “Are you complaining?” 

You weren’t.

Instead, you desperately tugged on his belt.

He growled.

And before you knew it, your legs were around his waist, his arm braced under your thighs. His vibranium hand reached up to cup your cheek, trailing his lips over your jaw with a ragged breath.

“You’ve been staring at me in this thing all damn day,” he hissed against the shell of your ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, babygirl?” 

“Maybe–Maybe I wanted you to.”

In response, he ground his hips against you—still dressed, but the feel of him had you clenching around nothing. Bucky didn’t rush. He never did. He made you feel it. He made you feel him. And every ridge of his suit, the inches of him still layered between you.

Finally, he freed himself, and you let out a sharp gasp at your underwear being shoved aside. “Don’t hold back, sergeant.” you breathed, fingers entwining in his hair, pulling the strands. 

And he didn’t.

With one hard thrust, he was buried to the hilt—dragging out a broken moan from the back of your throat. He was rough, relentless. His hips snapped into you, driving you like he was proving a point.

He let your name fall from his lips. 

The suit creaked with every movement, and his gloved right hand tightened around your thigh. His grip was bruising. His left hand found your throat—firm, grounding. Just enough to make your vision blur—not enough to lose control.

“You take me so good, baby,” he panted. “Fuck—you’re so tight, can feel you everywhere.”

Unable to form words, you gasped. High-pitched, wrecked whines of: ‘Harder—’. Pushing your chest out, you felt his dog tags swing between your breasts with every thrust.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit—still gloved, the textured leather moved over your skin toward the sensitive nub—rubbing tight, delicious circles. 

You screamed his name.

Your body shuddered against him, vision turning white at the edges as your orgasm washed over you. Bucky’s hips stuttered, groaning deep from his chest as he spilled into you. His forehead pressed to yours. 

He didn’t let you go.

Breathing hard, you clung to him.

Present:

“So, just to confirm,” Walker continued to laugh. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter freaking Soldier, turned into a thirst trap and you said ‘yes’ without any hesitation?”

“I said ‘harder’, actually,” you corrected, taking your mocktail straw between your lips.

Bucky muttered under his breath, looking up to the sky, up to the stars. “You tried to, at least.” 

Yelena collapsed into Ava’s shoulder. “I never want to see that suit again.” 

“I’ll be seeing it again, tonight,” you said sweetly, standing up to make your way toward the bathroom. Patting Bucky’s chest as you pass. “Pizza first, though. I’ll need the carbs.” 

Bob blinked. “Should–Should I get more s’mores?”

“Yes, Bob,” the New Avengers said in unison.

The Winter Soldier. The White Wolf. The man who helped save the world more times than you could count. You’d watched the congressional hearings, the interviews, the missions that played like blockbuster reels on the news. You knew every detail of his public record. You’d memorized every photo that made its way to the press: him in uniform, him with the arm, him in jeans and a leather jacket looking unfairly good for someone who’s old enough to be your grandpa.

Your crush wasn’t professional. It wasn’t even healthy.

It was a filthy, obsessive thing—sticky thoughts that slithered into your brain at night and refused to leave.

Like the way his metal arm flexed when he pushed weights in the gym—how badly you wanted it wrapped around your throat while he fucked you into the mattress. Other times, watching him spar, sweat dripping down his temples, you thought about leaning in and licking the salt from his skin, drinking it straight from his chest. Or how his voice dropped into that low growl during missions—how it would sound broken and wrecked when he was buried inside you, telling you how good you felt.

Yelena caught on first. She always did.

One afternoon during weapons training, she sidled up beside you while you held a clipboard. “Your mouth is open,” she whispered, deadpan.

You snapped your jaw shut, heat shooting into your face. “I was concentrating.”

“On his ass?” she smirked, nodding toward Bucky’s form as he ducked a punch. “I don’t blame you. Very round. Very grab-able. But you are drooling, sestra.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Ava chimed in from the other side, her tone calm but amused. “Your pupils dilated 0.5 centimeters the second he took his jacket off.”

You groaned, face burning, scribbling nonsense onto your clipboard just to avoid their stares. “You two need hobbies.”

“No, you need courage,” Yelena shot back. “Tell him. What’s the worst that happens? He says no? Then we drink vodka until you forget.”

“He won’t even look at me like that,” you muttered. “He’s Bucky Barnes. I’m…just me.”

They exchanged a look that made your stomach twist. A knowing one. But thankfully, John barged in, shirt half off, flexing unnecessarily. “Who’s ready to see a real soldier work?” he called.

“Not us,” Ava said flatly.

“Please keep your shirt on,” Yelena added, rolling her eyes. “We do not want to throw up today.”

Bob snorted from the sidelines, muttering something about secondhand embarrassment. Alexei clapped John on the back with a laugh that nearly toppled him over.

But the worst part was whenever Bucky talked to you.

Sometimes, he’d ask for your notes after a sparring session or check if you’d eaten when the day dragged too long, or tilt his head when you explained mission stats, as though your brain fascinated him.

And every single time, you felt your heart stutter. Every single time, you had to force your eyes not to drop to his mouth, or his chest, or—god help you—his hands.

You convinced yourself it was harmless. Just a crush. Just fantasies to get you through sleepless nights. But part of you was terrified—because if he ever knew the depths of the filth you thought about him, he’d never look at you again.

-----------------------------------

Valentina had stopped by one night, breezing through the tower with her sharp heels and sharper tongue, leaving behind a trail of tension thicker than smoke. “Results,” she’d demanded, eyes glittering. “Not excuses.” And just like that, she was gone again.

So, the team gathered in the dining hall, everyone buzzing with residual nerves.

Alexei piled his plate high enough to make the table creak. “This is what we should focus on,” he announced. “Protein, calories, fuel for war!”

“You’re going to die of a heart attack, old man,” Ava said flatly, sipping her water.

Alexei clutched his chest. “Blasphemy.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, snagging the last bread roll before John could grab it. “You’ll eat yourself into an early grave, Papa. And then who will annoy us at the table?”

“Bob,” John said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “He’s already halfway there.”

Bob nearly dropped his fork. “W-wait, what? No, I—I wasn’t—”

You smiled faintly at the banter, spooning vegetables onto your plate, but your attention slid—like it always did—to Bucky.

He was quiet, methodical as he cut into his steak. He didn’t join in on the arguments, didn’t add to the noise. He just… was. Solid. Present. That quiet gravity everyone else orbited without even realizing it.

You tried not to stare. Tried not to imagine leaning across the table, whispering things no one else could hear. Tried not to picture his metal hand on your thigh under the tablecloth, squeezing until you gasped.

“Hey,” Yelena’s voice broke through, low and amused.

You blinked. “What?”

Her smirk was knowing. “You’re staring again. Dangerous habit.”

Heat crept up your neck. “I was… thinking about Val’s speech.”

“Sure, you were,” she murmured, ripping her bread in two before turning back to Ava.

You stabbed your food with a little too much force, pulse racing.

Later, the team sprawled in the lounge.

“Movie night?” Ava asked, cross-legged on the couch, remote dangling from her hand.

“Anything’s fine,” Bob said quickly. “R-really, I don’t mind.”

John groaned. “As long as it’s not The Notebook again.”

Yelena smirked. “He cried last time.”

John shot her a look. “Shut up.”

You chuckled softly and curled into an armchair, tablet balanced on your lap. But your eyes betrayed you. They flicked—just once—across the room.

Bucky sat at the far end of the couch, beer in hand, gaze on the TV without really watching. The dim light caught on his jawline, on the shadow of stubble, on the casual drape of his arm along the couch back. He looked like something carved from the quiet itself.

You looked away too quickly, heart lurching like you’d been caught.

The morning of training evaluations was already chaos.

John strutted into the gym like he was walking onto a runway, barking about “real soldier discipline.” Yelena immediately bet Ava five bucks she could trip him before the warm-up ended. Alexei showed up with a thermos of what smelled suspiciously like vodka. Bob was nervously muttering his warmup mantra under his breath. And Bucky—god, Bucky—rolled in with a jog, hair pulled back in a loose tie, gray sweats hanging low on his hips.

You told yourself to be professional. Clipboard in hand. Pen ready. Just write down notes, just monitor their forms, just—

“Eyes up, sestra,” Yelena whispered as she passed, smirking.

You shot her a glare, but she was right: your gaze had been glued to the way Bucky’s shirt clung to his chest with every stretch.

The session dragged on. Sweat slicked the mats, grunts filled the room, and your pen scratched furiously as you tried to take objective notes: Good stamina. Fast reflexes. Needs to guard left flank.

But then it happened.

During a break, Bucky tugged his shirt off. Just like that.

The world stopped.

Muscle and scars, pale skin catching the light, the gleam of vibranium against flesh. And there—there, just above the band of his sweats—was a dark trail of hair running down from his navel.

Your throat went dry. Your jaw slackened. You wanted to fall to your knees and worship that line like it was holy scripture. You wanted to follow it with your tongue, slow and desperate, until he groaned your name.

And then—mindlessly, without thinking—your pen slipped.

Happy trail = happy meal.

You didn’t even notice. You were too busy watching him pin John to the mat, muscles flexing as his arm locked around John’s throat. Your stomach twisted, hot and filthy.

You just kept writing, trying to pretend your thighs weren’t pressed together.

After the training was done, you stacked the evaluation sheets neatly, paperclipped them, and handed them Mel for distribution. You had no idea the note was buried among the pages, waiting like a live grenade.

No idea at all.

-----------------------------------

Bucky sat alone in the lounge, towel around his neck, hair damp from a shower. He’d been given his evaluation packet. Everyone had. But as his eyes skimmed through the neat handwriting, one phrase caught him, circled in faint scribbles.

happy trail = happy meal.

He stared at it. Blinked. Then read it again.

At first, he thought maybe it was a joke. Some team in-joke he didn’t get. But the longer he stared, the more heat crept up his neck. His chest tightened. Because he knew what a happy trail was. And the mental image that followed—the idea of you looking at his body, salivating, thinking of him as a “meal”—it sent blood rushing straight to his cock.

He shifted on the couch, tugged the towel lower over his lap. His jaw clenched. His mind spun.

Had you meant to write it? Was it a slip? Did you…think about him that way?

He should ignore it. He should laugh it off. But the thought refused to leave. The pride swelling in his chest, the way his cock ached against his sweats, the sudden, dizzying realization that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as shy and distant as he thought.

By the time he folded the papers and set them aside, his decision was made.

He’d talk to you. Not now. Not in front of the others. But soon. He had to know.

Dinner that night was loud again, Alexei and John nearly arm-wrestling at the table. Yelena was stealing food off Ava’s plate just to watch her glare. Bob asked you about some report and blushed when you leaned in to explain.

And Bucky?

He was quiet. Watching you.

Every time your fingers brushed your hair back, his hand twitched toward his jacket. Every time you laughed, his chest tightened around the secret folded paper against his heart. He caught himself staring at your mouth too long when you licked a bit of sauce from your fork.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy trying not to notice him.

But he noticed you.

Not just the way you looked in your top that gave him a glimpse of your cleavage, or how your perfume lingered like static. No—he noticed the way you worked harder than anyone else. The way you kept this fractured team on track. The way you smiled even when Valentina’s demands wore you raw.

Bucky swallowed hard, dragging his gaze back to his plate.

The next few days were…strange.

At first, you didn’t notice. You were too busy juggling mission reports, sparring schedules, and trying to keep Valentina from barking down everyone’s necks. But eventually, the shift in Bucky’s behavior became impossible to ignore.

He lingered more.

Before, he’d nod politely, ask you for the essentials, and move on. Now? He leaned against your desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you as you typed. He sat beside you at lunch instead of across the room. He asked questions he didn’t really need answers to—what you thought of the training protocols, if the team was improving, what your weekend plans were.

And the way he looked at you—god. It wasn’t obvious. To anyone else, it might have seemed casual. But you felt it. The weight of his gaze, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloging every flicker of your expression.

It was maddening.

You told yourself not to overthink. He was Bucky Barnes. He probably just needed feedback. Maybe he was being polite.

Except then came the gym incident.

You were headed to the cardio room, earbuds in, clipboard in hand. Evaluation season didn’t wait for anyone. But when you opened the door, there he was: Bucky, alone, shirtless again, working the heavy bag.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Sweat poured down his back, muscles flexing and releasing with every hit. His jaw was tight, his hair damp, strands clinging to his forehead. Every swing of his fist looked like it could split the earth in two.

You froze. Absolutely froze.

In your head: Imagine that body pinning you down. Imagine that hand closing around your throat, not too tight, just enough to remind you of how small you are under him. Imagine his sweat dripping onto your lips as he fucks you so deep you forget your own name.

Your thighs pressed together without permission.

“Need something?” His voice cut through the haze. Low. Rough.

You jolted, eyes wide, and realized you’d been standing there far too long. Heat crawled up your neck. “Uh—” You held up the clipboard like a shield. “Nothing…just…cardio…thing.”

He smirked. Smirked. Bucky wiped his brow with the edge of the towel, the motion drawing your eyes right back to the dark line of hair trailing down his stomach. “Cardio’s yours,” he said, stepping aside. His gaze swept down your frame, lingering just a second too long. “Unless you wanted to…watch.”

You nearly dropped the clipboard. “I—uh—no. No, it’s fine. I’ll come back.”

You practically ran out of the room, heart hammering, face on fire.

-----------------------------------

The compound was quiet that night. Most of the team had turned in, leaving the halls dim and hushed.

Bucky paced his room like a caged animal. He’d tried reading. He’d tried sleeping. None of it worked. His mind kept circling back to you—the way you’d nearly bolted when he teased you in the gym, the ghost of a smile when you thought no one was looking.

And that damned evaluation note.

He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake the image of your lips following that trail, of your tongue worshipping him like he was the only thing you craved.

By midnight, he’d made a decision. He’d go to your room. He’d be honest, finally.

He just hoped he wouldn’t fuck it up.

Bucky stood in the hall outside your room, hands shoved deep in his pockets, nerves twisting his stomach. He’d paced three times already, rehearsing the words in his head.

It’s just a date. Just ask her. Be normal for once.

But when was the last time James Buchanan Barnes had been normal? Years had passed since he’d gone on anything resembling a date, and now—standing outside your door—he felt like the same awkward kid from Brooklyn who didn’t know what to say to a girl.

He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it fall. His jaw flexed. Just one knock. That’s all it would take.

But then—

A sound froze him in place.

A soft, breathless moan. Muffled, but clear.

He blinked, pulse spiking as he stepped closer to the door. Another moan followed, this one low and drawn-out, and his gut tightened when he heard your voice whisper—his name.

“Bucky…”

Every ounce of blood in his body seemed to rush south. His chest heaved, his throat dry. He hadn’t imagined it—you were moaning his name.

The doorknob glinted under the hallway light, slightly ajar. You’d forgotten to lock it.

For a long moment, he warred with himself. He should leave. Respect your privacy. But then another sound reached him—wet, slick, desperate—and he lost the battle. Slowly, quietly, he pushed the door open.

You were sprawled across the sheets, nightgown bunched high around your thighs, one hand buried between your legs. Your head was tilted back, hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted as you gasped his name again.

Bucky’s cock strained painfully against his sweats, pride swelling in his chest at the sight. You wanted him. You’d been thinking about him.

He stepped inside, silent as a ghost, until he sat down on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dipped, jolting you from your haze. Your eyes flew open—only to find Bucky Barnes sitting there, watching you.

“B-Bucky?!” you squeaked, yanking your hands away and scrambling upright, face blazing red. Horror crashed over you. He’d seen everything. He’s going to think I’m disgusting. He’ll never look at me the same way—

“I—I wasn’t—this isn’t—oh my god,” you stammered, words tripping over themselves as shame clawed up your throat.

But then he smirked. Slow. Wicked. His blue eyes gleamed under the dim light as he leaned back, spreading his thighs just slightly.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he drawled, voice low and husky. “I was enjoying the view.”

Your breath caught. Your pulse thundered. His words made heat flood every nerve in your body.

He reached out, the vibranium hand brushing your ankle, grounding you. “You were moaning my name,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You want me that bad, doll?”

“B-Bucky…” you whispered, half mortified, half aching.

He leaned closer, one hand braced on the mattress beside you, the other—cold metal—grazing lightly up your calf. His voice was molten steel.

“Go on, doll. Show me how bad you want it.”

You swallowed, trembling under his stare. But when he gave you that nod—patient, commanding, sure—you slid your hand back between your thighs. Your fingers moved, slick and needy, and his chest rose heavy as he watched.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his voice dropping so low it vibrated in your bones. “That’s it. Keep saying my name.”

Heat flushed your skin as the words tumbled out, shameless now. “Bucky… oh god—Bucky.”

His cock strained so hard against his sweats it hurt, but he didn’t move. Not yet. He wanted to burn this image into his mind—you, undone for him, trembling, begging.

But when you gasped, “Wish it was you—wish it was your hands—” something inside him snapped.

In a flash, his flesh hand was on your wrist, stilling your movements. His lips crashed onto yours—hungry, desperate, tasting of pent-up need. You moaned against his mouth, relief and fire flooding through you as his tongue claimed yours.

“You want my hands? You got ’em,” he growled between kisses.

His flesh hand traced down your stomach, fingers brushing your slit. He swore softly when he felt how soaked you were.

“All this for me?” he asked, eyes darkening.

“Always,” you gasped.

“Christ.” His metal hand pinned your thigh open while his other slipped two fingers inside you. The stretch made your back arch, a broken moan spilling out.

“That’s it, doll. Take my fingers.” He pumped them slowly, curling just right until your vision blurred. His thumb circled your clit, steady and relentless. “You’re squeezing me so tight already. Can imagine how good you’ll feel around my cock.”

You clutched his wrist, panting, begging incoherently. He smirked, kissing your throat, biting gently at your jawline.

“Wanna see you fall apart first,” he murmured. “Before I completely ruin you.”

Your body obeyed, trembling violently as release ripped through you, soaking his fingers. He groaned at the sight, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean.

“Sweetest taste,” he whispered. “Could live on it.”

He leaned back just enough to tug his shirt over his head, fabric dragging across his skin before it hit the floor. Broad shoulders, the gleam of metal, the defined lines of his chest—all of it pulled your eyes lower until you caught it.

That trail of dark hair running down from his stomach. The one you’d dreamed about, pictured in a hundred filthy daydreams. Seeing it for real made your pulse trip.

Your gaze snapped back up just in time to watch his hand slide into his sweats. He freed himself with a sharp breath—thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip. Your mouth went dry, jaw slack.

Bucky caught the way you stared, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Like what you see?”

Heat burned down your neck. “Y-yes,” you managed, voice barely there.

“Then come here, doll.” His tone was low, coaxing. “Show me.”

You crawled into his lap on shaky knees, breath catching as you got closer. His heat pressed against you, heavy and real. You tilted forward, kissing across his chest, tasting salt and skin. He hissed when your lips trailed lower—down his sternum, past his stomach, until you reached that dark line you’d been fixated on.

His breath stuttered as your lips trailed lower, grazing the line of hair on his stomach. “You really had to write it down, huh?” he rasped, a shaky laugh breaking on a groan. “My happy trail… your happy meal…”

Your tongue followed it eagerly, worshipping every inch, until you reached his cock. You wrapped your lips around him, taking him slow at first, savoring the way his head tipped back, his throat rumbling with curses.

“Fuck—just like that,” he groaned, hand threading into your hair, guiding but never forcing. “So good to me, doll. Been dreaming of this mouth.”

Your cheeks hollowed, tongue swirling around him, and his hips jerked involuntarily. The sounds he made—low, broken, needy—lit a fire inside you.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling you off just enough so you could hear him. His thumb brushed your swollen lips. “On your knees for me, makin’ me feel like a king. Didn’t know my sweet girl was so filthy.”

You hummed around him, loving the way his thighs twitched when you dragged your tongue along the underside, when you sucked his tip just right. His cock pulsed in your mouth, thick and heavy, salty pre-come smearing your tongue.

But Bucky didn’t let you have control for long. With a sharp breath, he cupped your face, easing you off. “That’s enough, sweetheart. You’re too good—I’ll finish before I even get inside you.”

You gasped when he hauled you up, kissing you hungrily, tasting himself on your lips. A dizzy blur later and you were on your back, his body caging yours, the heat of his skin radiating down.

“Ready?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, his cock nudging at your soaked entrance.

“Please,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders.

He pushed in slowly at first, then bottomed out in one devastating stroke. Your back arched, a cry tearing from your throat. “Bucky!”

His metal hand slid to your throat, not choking, just a firm weight, grounding you. His other hand clamped to your hip as he started to thrust—long, deep, unrelenting.

“Been thinkin’ about this every damn night,” he growled against your mouth. “Dreamed of how warm you’d feel, how tight—fuck, doll, you’re better than I ever imagined.”

Tears pricked your eyes from the sheer intensity, the way he filled you, split you apart. You clawed at his back, dragging red lines down his skin. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

His thrusts grew harsher, hips slamming into yours, sweat dripping onto your chest. He bent to kiss your throat, his stubble scraping your skin. “Not stoppin’. Never stoppin’. You’re mine, sweetheart.”

The pressure built fast, coil winding tighter and tighter until it snapped—your orgasm crashing over you, muscles seizing as you sobbed his name. He groaned, shuddering, but didn’t let go just yet.

He flipped you before you could recover, pressing your face gently into the sheets, your ass raised for him. You whimpered at the loss until his cock slid back into you in one rough, hungry stroke.

“God, look at this pussy,” he panted, hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise. “So greedy—milkin’ me dry.”

The angle was brutal, every thrust hitting deep, sharp bursts of pleasure that had you screaming into the mattress. His metal hand smoothed up your spine, wrapped around your throat again, pulling you upright until your back was flush against his chest.

“That’s it, doll. Let me hear you.” His breath was ragged against your ear. “Whose pussy is this?”

“Y-yours,” you sobbed, trembling. “All yours, Bucky—”

“Damn right.” His teeth grazed your shoulder as his thrusts turned desperate, chasing his own high. “Not lettin’ you go. Ever.”

The heat in your belly coiled tighter, snapping again with a blinding wave—your walls clenching hard around him. The sensation dragged him over the edge with a guttural groan of your name. He buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you as his whole body shook.

The world was quiet after. Just the sound of your ragged breaths, his heart pounding against your chest.

He stayed inside you for a moment, holding you close, then carefully pulled out and grabbed a towel from your drawer nearby. He cleaned you gently, murmuring soft reassurances, kissing your damp skin whenever you flinched.

Then he tucked you under the covers and slid in beside you, pulling you into his chest.

“You okay, doll?” His voice was tender, almost shy now.

“More than okay,” you whispered, cheeks still warm. “I thought…you’d never want me like that.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Never want you? Sweetheart, I’ve been half in love with you since the day you walked into the tower with that stubborn little smile. The more I got to know you…the harder I fell.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky…”

“Didn’t know how to say it,” he admitted, brushing your hair back. “Didn’t think I deserved to. But then I saw that note…and heard you tonight…and I couldn’t hold back anymore.”

Tears welled in your eyes. You kissed him softly, and he kissed back like it was the first and last thing he’d ever need.

When you finally curled up against him, drowsy and sated, he held you tighter, nuzzling your hair.

“Get some sleep, doll. I’ll be here when you wake up. Always.”

The world felt smaller, safer, like home—right there in his arms.

You nodded and saw him walking away to prepare his gear suit.

You sat on the kitchen bar while you continued scrolling on your phone.

This was your life. The life you had chosen to have by his side since you met. Since the first date, he told you who he was, what he had done—that he worked alone, and the only man he trusted was Sam. And then, the whole undercover as a Congressman appeared, and they drifted away, making you even more alone than you were before.

Sam always took care of you, and he invited Sarah over very often, but after that, it was only you, the neighbors who caught you on your daily walk, and that was it.

He came back to the kitchen and saw you lost in your thoughts.

“Something wrong?” He leaned, hauling you between his arms, and you shook your head.

“C’mon, sweetie. I know something is haunting your thoughts. Talk to me.”

You furrowed, “Do you think there will be a reconciliation with Sam?”

He kissed your temple and left his lips there for a minute, “Not really. He’s still very mad about this whole Thunderbolts thing. And he’s kinda right, but I need to keep an eye on them if Valentina’s still behind them.”

You turned around and hugged him by the waist, “I’m just tired of being here alone—and Sarah keeps asking to come, but I don’t want to make Sam more upset by her bringing the kids.”

His lips were resting on your crown while he furrowed.

“You know you’re not a secret just because. This is for your protection, mine, even your smelly cat. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Don’t call Alpine smelly, that’s why she hates you.”

“Well, if she weren’t smelly, I wouldn’t call her that way.”

He scooped you into his arms before you could answer.

“Now, let me have some of this before I leave to deal with those shitheads.”

He tossed you carefully in your bed and knelt between your legs, unzipping his jeans.

“Bucky! You’ll be late.”

“And what are they gonna do? Start without me?”

He lifted your dress and hooked a finger in your panties just to slide them aside. His throbbing length leaked already while he towered over you. His dog tags hanging by his neck, while he positioned himself at your entrance, his tip slowly kissed your entrance.

“Maybe when I get back, we could start planning about that baby you told me last night you wanted.”

He slid inside slowly. Your inner walls clenched at the feeling.

“I was… not serious.” You pinched your eyes closed when he started to thrust slowly. His arms now fell to your sides, and he started to peck your cheeks.

“No, you weren’t. This is the third time you’ve mentioned how much you want to be full of me. How much you would love to have some super babies…” He chuckled.

You bit your lip and grasped his hard gear suit from behind.

“What do you think? When I come back, we can talk about you getting rid of that damn birth control.”

“Not with you going on missions every week.” You scolded.

“I’ll deal with that the moment we learn you’re expecting our first child.” He rolled his hips carefully.

“First? How many does Sergeant Barnes want?”

“Old style, baby. As many as you want to give me.” You laughed and looked at him.

“You’re crazy.”

He finally spurted his seed within you and scrambled into your arms, but before even slowing his hips, he straightened out and started circling your clit, “I’m not leaving until you give me one.”

“I gave you one already in the morning,” You whined, clutching the blanket under you.

“But I need one before I leave.”

You faded as soon as the orgasm started to wash over you.

“I promise I’ll be back soon,” he said, kissing your lips. “See you tonight.”

When he finally slipped out, you missed the contact between your thighs.

“Leaving already?” You pouted, coming down from your peak.

“Tonight, I promise.”

You sighed and saw him leaving.

“Gear up,” Walker said, tossing a tablet at Bucky, “We are leaving in twenty.”

“I’m not leaving nowhere.” Bucky furrowed, looking at the tablet.

“Something came up, and unless you want us to leave alone. You’re coming with us.”

He sighed and started to read the information on the tablet.

“And what the hell are you wearing now? A woman’s perfume?”

He barely twitched a smile in the corner of his lips when he remembered the way your arms hugged him while he thrusted against you.

“Mind your damn business, Walker.”

He said, walking to the Quinjet.

It was supposed to be easy. Just some document retrieval—and somehow a one-day mission became a two-day shift he couldn’t skip.

He had been texting you, letting you know he was doing fine and we’d be home as soon as possible, but a bad manoeuvre on Walker’s side provoked a bullet to rip through Bucky’s gear suit. Alexei and Walker carried him to the car and rushed to the nearest hospital.

He was bleeding and almost unconscious—his phone kept ringing nonstop.

And then, you received the phone call.

Your last name came through the phone.

“Speaking.” You were sitting on the couch trying to get a hold of Bucky.

“Mr. Barnes got you listed as an emergency contact. Is that correct, ma’am?”

You sighed and stood up immediately. He had prepared you for this. You always knew this was a possibility.

She gave you the location, and without thinking much, you hurried yourself to the hospital where he was.

When you came into the hospital, you recognized his team there.

They didn’t even bat an eye at you. Why would they? They didn’t even know what kind of life Bucky had outside the tower.

You walked to the reception bay.

“Good afternoon,” you took out your ID and said your name, “I was called for the patient James Buchanan Barnes.”

Walker nudged Yelena’s shoulder as soon as he heard you asking for Bucky.

“Oh, you’re listed as his wife. Is that correct, ma’am?”

You nodded and smiled.

“Wait, wait, wait—” Yelena rushed, “I don’t know who this girl is, but she’s not Barnes’ wife. He’s not married.”

The nurse furrowed. He had warned you before this could happen, so you were prepared. You took your marriage certificate from your bag and showed it to the nurse.

“It looks pretty real to me,” She directed to Yelena.

“She doesn’t even have his last name!”

“Well, he’s Bucky Barnes. It was for protection—” you interjected.

Walker nodded with a thinking pout.

"I’m gonna validate this, but in the meantime, she’s got all right to be in the room with him.”

“How’s he doing?” You went back.

“He’s doing fine, his recovery is fast, and he will be out tomorrow. He just needs to rest.”

“Can I see him?” She nodded, but Yelena stopped you by your wrist.

“Are you really letting her into Bucky Barnes’ hospital room without any vigilance?”

You sighed, “Yelena, if you want, you all can come. I don’t care.”

Yelena tilted at the team, and the four of them walked behind you. The nurse escorted you all to Bucky’s hospital room. He was already awake when the nurse motioned for you to come in.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?”

“Sweetheart?!” They all shouted in unison.

Bucky sighed while you walked to his bed.

“Well, they called me. They never do, this had to be something important if I was called.” You stroked his hair, and he furrowed.

“I’m fine. Walker’s an idiot and didn’t cover as I damned asked for.”

“Stop right there. Yes. I can be the most imbecile, I can be whatever you want, but you’re not going to make it like this is nothing, Barnes.” Walker walked and motioned to you immediately.

He grunted and kissed your knuckles. “Yes, I’m married. We’ve been together for almost five years now, but we got married last year.”

“Five years?! And you didn’t mind telling us about it before?!” Yelena chimed in.

“It was better that way. I was still on a dubious legal status when we got together, and didn’t want to make such a fuss about it.”

“And he calls her ‘sweetheart’, by the way,” Bob said, shyly.

You giggled. “I told you that you needed to be kinder to them.” You stroked his hair again.

“And she’s a sweetheart!” Bob was still amused by you.

“Shoot.” Bucky sat in the armrest, and you stood up next to him, leaning on his body, his arm wrapped around your hip.

“How?!” Alexei chipped.

“We met accidentally.” Bucky answered immediately, you nudged his side, “We met at a bar, Sam pushed me to ask her for her number, and somehow she accepted it.”

“Why?!” Ava asked you directly. You chuckled.

“He was nice. He’s softer than you think.”

“No, I’m not.” Bucky mumbled. Really trying to keep his stern figure in front of them.

You rolled your eyes and motioned them to continue.

“Where do you live?!” Alexei continued the interrogation.

“Uh… Brooklyn?” You tilted your head, and Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Did you really just ask for that?!”

“Were you planning to tell us?” Bob fidgeted while he asked.

“Not really,” Bucky said shyly, and you scolded him with your eyes. “Yeah. We were planning to, but not so soon.”

You smiled.

“Is she always this sweet?”

“Don’t know how,” Bucky admitted.

“Are you planning on having kids?!” Alexei asked, and everyone scolded him immediately.

“What? We need to know if we’re having more mini winter soldiers!”

“That’s a plan, but not… in the foreseeable future.”

A ring on your phone took you out of the conversation.

‘Wilson.’

Bucy furrowed as soon as he saw it.

“Did you tell him? Did he answer you?!” Bucky was perplexed.

“Well, I was worried—and needed some help. Who do you think took me to the hospital?!”

“Wilson knows?!” Yelena seemed surprised.

“Yes. He was our witness; his best man, Sarah, his sister, was my maid of honor and witness, too. Since Bucky didn’t want a lot of people involved, we were just four and my family.”

“Does your family approve of him?” Ava really tried not to sound harsh.

“They love him. My mom loves to have him around.”

“This is too much,” Bob said and walked away, “But… I guess welcome to the family?”

“Thank you, Bob.” You smiled fondly at him, and he was pretty impressed by it.

“Now, do you have any other questions for my wife, or can we leave for home now?”

Alexei lifted his hand.

“I’m not answering any question about my sexual life to you, Alexei.”

And as soon as he lifted it, he put it down.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He mumbled in your ear, and you shook your head.

“It’s fine, honey. But I gotta go, I need to pick up Alpine, she must be ruining all Sam’s couches.”

“Who the hell’s Alpine?” Ava questioned.

“Our cat!” You took out your phone. Your lockscreen showed your courthouse wedding. Bucky was wearing a black suit, while you had a long but simple bridal dress.

“Very domestic from you, Barnes.” Walker teased, and Bucky threw daggers at him immediately.

Then you finally showed a photo of Bucky and you holding Alpine.

“She’s the cutest. I’ll bring her soon so you can all meet her!”

Bucky shook his head and guided you to the sliding door.

“See you, guys! Nice to meet you!” You said as he walked you out.

“I knew he smelled different.” Walker nodded, pursing his lips.

From the corner of his eye, he can see the way Monica and Jay look at him. Knowing glints in their gazes.

“Really?” the interview asks, “I didn’t expect that.”

“No, yeah. She’s great.” Lewis smiles.

“She’s really great,” Jay adds. Monica tries to subtly hide her smile behind her hand.

“I jam out to Bad Blood on the treadmill.” Lewis comments, cheeky smile plastered on his face before Monica changes the topic.

“Muses & Anecdotes, congratulations on the new album!” The radio talkshow host exclaims. Seated across from him, you smile. “Thank you so much!”

“It’s doing really well. All thirteen tracks on Billboard’s Top 20. How does it feel?”

“It feels amazing. I had some doubts about releasing an album entirely on my own again, but I was encouraged by some very close friends and I decided, ‘Hey, why not?’. Luckily, it’s working out so far.”

“It’s more than just ‘working out.” The host teases, and you let out a little laugh. “So, speaking of ‘muses & anecdotes’, can we perhaps have an explanation to what ‘muses’ and what ‘anecdotes’ mean? Not the Merriam-Webster definition, but the YN LN definition.”

You let out another laugh. Letting out a hum, you think of how to phrase your answer.

“When I first started to conceptualize the album, I knew that it would encompass thoughts and feelings of certain events over the course of six years. Anecdotes quite literally means an account of an event that is… amusing or interesting.”

“And what does ‘muses’ mean to YN LN?”

The host eyes you, you catch the humor on their face.

“You know what it means, Rich.”

“I don’t! Promise!” the host is laughing.

“All of the songs in this album are inspired by and dedicated to a special person in my life.”

“That person being…?”

“Oh, stop it," you joke with a roll of your eyes.

The next clip is of a red-carpet interview for the premiere of Thunderbolts. Front and center of the video, Lewis is talking into a mic, he’s grinning at the question the interviewer asked him.

“My muse is here,” he’s grinning, head turning quickly to the side, down the aisle where you’re engaged in another interview of your own.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the interviewer starts, “But is this your first red carpet together?”

“Yes, it is,” Lewis confirms, “This is… Coming to an event like this has been something we’ve always wanted to do together, but it never really worked out in the past. I’m just happy we’ve finally done it.”

“How do you think YN will react to The Sentry?”

“Oh, I think she’ll hate him. I sent her pics during filming. She absolutely hated the hair. She’s in love with the Void, though.” Lew lets out a small laugh, mind recalling the texts you sent him when the trailer released.

“That was unexpected!”

Lewis gives a wink to the camera, “She loves his hair more.”

“I’m so excited. I’m such a huge fan of everybody, and Flo is one of my closest friends in Hollywood. I just — I can’t wait to see the whole film!” The next clip is YN on the same red carpet, with the same interviewer.

“And of course, you’re here for Lewis too?”

“Yes, of course,” you cut yourself off, turning your head to look for him, “Where is he? — Oh, there.” You see him ahead of you in the press line, talking to another interviewer. “I told him the reason I came today is to see the Void. I love his hair.”

“Lewis told us awhile ago. Not a fan of the blonde?”

“I am! Just… I love the Void more.”

The next clip is a little blurry, taken under the dim lights of your most recent concert. The camera is focused on the stage, where you’re dancing to ‘Dress’.

I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side

My hands shake, I can't explain this ah, ha, ha, ha

Say my name and everything just stops

The camera turns to where Lewis is watching you from the VIP tent, it zooms in on his face, his smile, and how he whispers your name, before the beat starts up again.

I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

Take it off

“I feel so lucky to know her.”

The final clip is from a Zoom interview, Lewis is leaned toward the camera of his laptop, a lazy smile on his lips, “She’s my best friend, my biggest supporter.” This whole press junket, ever since the two of you went public with your relationship, questions about your relationship never fails to be brought up at least once. He never gets tired of talking about you.

Comments (274)

ally_browne PARENTS

falsedg0dz yn cant stop yapping abt lewis she released bonus tracks of muses n anecdotes OUT OF FUCKIN NOWHERE???

lewpulledman this is the first celeb couple where i feel like they really like each other

bobonboard girlie cant stop singing abt how in love and horny they r for one another

l0vedstory hard launching at 6 years …. we couldve had 6 yrs of them doing this

ynlewtruther I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT YN’S ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW

millsjules wait why? ynlewtruther she wrote some songs at lewis’s montana place and she said in the interview that she realized he liked her back when she walked in on him playing “snap out of it” by arctic monkeys on the drums dfhgjkdfhg milesjules WHAT???? thats hilarious