#marvel au

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

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Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

There is no one on earth Rebecca Barnes trusts more than you.

You grew up together, matching scraped knees, shared bedrooms, years of knowing what the other one is thinking before it’s ever said. You’re not just her best friend; you’re family by choice, by time, by sheer inevitability. When people ask Rebecca how she knows she can trust someone, she shrugs and says, I just do. What she means is you.

That’s why there aren’t rules between you.

Just guidelines.

Don’t take my charger without bringing the box back, after the eighth time she swore she had no idea where the box went while handing you only the cord.

If you use all the shampoo, leave a note on the mirror, after one too many mornings of her standing in the shower, bottle upside down, shaking it like it might magically produce another drop.

And lastly, said once, firmly, never joking:

Don’t ever, ever flirt with my brother.

Not because Rebecca doesn’t trust you. Because she trusts you more than anyone else.

Bucky Barnes is one thousand percent off-limits. Not hypothetically. Not dramatically. Just… absolutely. You’ve watched too many girls orbit Rebecca only to angle closer to him, smiling too brightly, lingering too long, treating her like a means to an end. You’ve been there for every crash-and-burn aftermath, every quiet heartbreak, every moment Rebecca wondered why people never wanted just her.

You would never be that person.

The guideline barely registers as something you’d ever need to worry about anyway. You and Bucky hardly cross paths. Sometimes you’ll see him at her house—standing in the kitchen when you grab a glass of water, offering a polite nod, disappearing again like smoke. He’s more absence than presence. A name. A shadow. A ghost story people talk about more than they actually know.

You never understood what all the other girls saw in him. You never cared to find out.

Right before summer starts, you’re bored out of your mind.

You’re hanging upside down off your bed, hair brushing the carpet, complaining to Rebecca about how three months suddenly feels like an eternity when you don’t have a plan. No trips, no job lined up yet just too much time and a buzzing restlessness you don’t know what to do with.

“I don’t want to waste it,” you groan. “I need something.”

Rebecca leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an amused smile. “School’s doing a pen-pal thing over the summer.”

You blink. “Like… stamps? Letters?”

“Yeah. You can even be anonymous,” she adds. “They match you up with someone from a different class year. It’s supposed to be about connection or whatever.”

You think about it. About quiet afternoons. About having someone to talk to without expectations.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll sign up.”

You do.

A week later, your first letter arrives at the school mail station. No name. Just a neat, careful handwriting and a simple opening line: Hi. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I’m glad there's someone to do it with.

Something about it makes you smile. You write back. And then you don’t stop.

You stay anonymous, both of you. No names, no identifying details. Just words passed back and forth like offerings. You talk about music first, songs you play on repeat, albums that feel like home. Then movies. Then books. You tell him what you’re reading, what you love about certain characters, how stories make things feel survivable.

He sends you poems.

Ones he wrote, ones he loves. Dog-eared favorites copied carefully into the margins of his letters. Lines about longing, about time, about wanting to be more than what the world expects of you. You read them over and over.

You tell him about school. About how many extra classes you’re taking, how you’re stacking credits and stress because your dream job feels impossible unless you make yourself undeniable. You admit, quietly, how much pressure you feel, how your dad’s trying but money is always tight. You tell him about your mom, the necklace she left behind. How much you miss her, how some days the ache sneaks up on you when you least expect it and refuses to let go.

His next letter takes longer to arrive. When it does, the handwriting is shakier.

He tells you he doesn't have a job lined up, that he was undeclared until last year. Says he’s not smart enough. That school’s always felt like something happening to him instead of for him. That he’s tired of feeling like he’s already fallen behind.

Your chest aches reading it. You write back immediately.

You tell him intelligence isn’t one thing. You tell him about different ways of learning and you even offer half-joking, half-serious, to tutor him through letters. You start including lesson plans in the margins, little quizzes at the end. Practice problems handwritten with encouraging notes at the top.

He does them. All of them. And he gets better.

His letters change, more confident, more excited. He tells you about raising his grades, about understanding things that used to feel impossible. He thanks you in a way that feels too big for ink and paper.

Somewhere along the way, you realize you wait for his letters more than anything else. You don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his name. But you know him.

It doesn't register as a crush at first.

You tell yourself it’s just anticipation. Just the small thrill of routine, checking the school mailbox earlier than you need to, flipping envelopes over to see if the handwriting looks familiar. You tell yourself everyone likes being understood, that the warmth spreading through your chest when you read his letters is normal.

Except you don’t write like you used to anymore.

You write longer. Softer. You start crossing things out, rewriting sentences so they sound right. You tell him about the things you don’t say out loud, about how your dad only ever looks relieved when you bring home perfect grades, how failure feels like erasure. How sometimes you’re terrified that if you stop being impressive, you’ll stop being lovable.

You expect platitudes. Reassurance that feels generic.

Instead, his reply is careful. Thoughtful. He tells you that you are not a report card. That worth doesn’t disappear when numbers dip. That being loved shouldn’t be conditional, and that even if it has been in the past, it doesn’t mean it always has to be.

You cry a little when you read it.

In his next letter, he admits something too.

He says his parents already seem disappointed, like they’ve decided who he’ll be before he ever gets there. That trying feels pointless when failure is expected anyway. That it’s easier to accept the role they’ve written for him than fight it and still lose.

You don’t let him.

You tell him that being underestimated doesn’t mean being incapable. You tell him about every small victory you’ve watched him earn through those stupid little quizzes you mailed him. You tell him you’re proud of him, even if no one else says it out loud.

After that, the letters change.

They still talk about music and books and poems, but now there are confessions folded between the lines. Longing disguised as curiosity. Questions that linger longer than they need to. They start signing off differently, thinking of you, write soon, don’t disappear.

By the end of summer, it feels like you’re in love with someone you’ve never seen.

The realization doesn’t arrive all at once. It settles. And when you finally suggest meeting, heart hammering as you write it, hands shaking, you half-expect him to pull away.

Instead, his response comes fast.

County fair. End of summer as the carousel. I’ll be there.

The day arrives far too soon. The fair is loud and bright and overwhelming, music blaring, kids laughing, the air thick with sugar and heat. You stand near the carousel, scanning faces, trying to imagine him. Taller? Shorter? Nervous like you?

You don’t notice him right away.

Bucky does.

He’s already there, leaning against the railing, pretending he’s just waiting for someone else. When he sees you approach, something in his chest tightens—not fear, just awareness. You look… familiar, somehow. Not because he knows you, you feel like a thought he’s had before but never finished.

He steps closer, offering a polite smile. "Hey."

You smile politely, not expecting him to be here but not surprised, you vaguley remember him being in the kitchen when Rebecca mentioned the fair to you. "Hi."

“You waiting for someone?”

You nod, nerves buzzing under your skin. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we’re both early.”

You make awkward small talk. The weather. The crowd. The carousel lights spinning gold as dusk settles in. It’s easy. Too easy.

Your hands fidget without you realizing it, fingers brushing the chain around your neck. You twist the golden locket gently, a nervous habit you’ve written about once, mentioned how it was your mom’s, how you rub it when you’re scared.

Bucky’s breath catches.

“That’s… a nice necklace,” he says carefully.

You smile, instinctive. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. I do this when I’m nervous—” You stop short, laughing softly. “Sorry. Oversharing.”

He doesn’t laugh. He stares. The world seems to narrow, the music dulling, the carousel lights flaring brighter, gilding you in warm gold. His heart starts pounding, too fast, too loud.

You’ve told him this before. In ink. In confidence. In trust.

He sees it all at once. Every time he passed you in the kitchen. Every quiet laugh from Rebecca’s room. Every moment he never let himself linger on because you were off-limits.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

He’s in love with you.

He doesn’t say anything. Not then. Bucky swallows the truth down so hard it almost hurts, and instead he smiles, soft and careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“While we’re waiting,” he says, nodding toward the games lined up in bright rows, “you wanna try some of those?”

You look to the games and back to the carousel, wondering if it's a good idea to leave or not, if your mystery writer was on his way. Bucky offers a slanted smile as you look back at him and think you might as well do something to pass the time.

So you do. You toss rings and laugh when they bounce wrong while he knocks bottles down like he’s done it a hundred times before. When the attendant hands him a small stuffed turtle, green and lopsided, clearly overstuffed, he looks almost embarrassed by it.

“For you,” he says, holding it out.

You blink. “You won that.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Thought you should have it.”

You don't take it but smile when he lets you pet the fuzzy shell.

You win stickers, sparkly ones, silly ones, and you’re way more excited than makes sense. You show him all of them, sticking one to your wrist, another to the turtle’s shell. He laughs, quiet and warm, and something in your chest loosens without you realizing it.

He buys you food while you wait. Insists on it. Fries and lemonade, the kind that tastes like summer and sugar. When the night air cools, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders without asking.

You glance up at him, confused. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

You wonder, briefly, why he’s being so nice. Then you decide not to overthink it. Some people are just kind.

Eventually, the carousel empties. The lights dim a little. Time stretches thin. You check the spot again. And again. Your shoulders sink.

“I guess… maybe they’re not coming,” you say quietly, trying to sound casual and failing. “It’s fine. I probably read it wrong.”

Bucky’s chest aches.

“I can walk you home,” he offers quickly. “If you want.”

You nod, grateful. The walk is easy. Familiar streets. Comfortable silence. When you reach your house, you linger on the porch, fingers twisting together.

He holds out the turtle again. “For real this time.”

You take it, smiling sadly. “Thank you. And… I’m sorry if tonight was boring.”

“What?” His brow furrows. “No. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You look up at him, sincere. “You didn’t either. If anything, you made it better.”

The words hit him harder than anything else has all night. He nods once, afraid if he speaks, he’ll say too much. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He walks away with his heart in pieces and doesn’t look back until he’s sure you’re inside.

That night, you write a letter. You ask why he didn’t show. You try not to sound hurt, but it slips through anyway. You tuck the stickers inside the envelope, a little silly but honest.

I was thinking about you the whole time, you write. I hope you’re okay.

Days pass.

Then weeks.

No reply.

Still, you keep writing. You send him songs you think he’d like, books you’re reading for class, movies you swear he’d love. You tell him school started and you hope you can still write, even if things are busy. Even if it’s just as friends.

You don’t know that Bucky keeps every letter in a box under his bed, unopened at first, then opened, reread until the paper softens at the creases. You don’t know how many times he starts to respond and stops, terrified that saying anything will shatter everything.

You only know the silence.

So you fill it.

Each letter becomes more honest than the last, written like confessions dropped into the dark. You tell him your secrets because you think he’ll never see them anyway. You tell him you’re still scared you’ll never be anything outside of school, that once the grades are gone there’ll be nothing left of you. That you don’t know how to live a life that isn’t measured.

That you don’t think you’ll ever really fall in love.

In one letter, you admit casually, like it doesn’t matter, that you had a crush on him at first. That it went away (It didn’t.), that Rebecca told you it was stupid to fall for someone you only know through paper and ink.

But you write that it felt real anyway. That you felt known. At the end of the last letter, your handwriting wavers.

I think I’m going to stop writing, you say. I don’t want to bother you anymore. But I’m glad I knew you. Even if it was just like this.

You seal it with shaking hands. Across town, Bucky reads it and finally breaks and knows he can’t stay silent anymore.

That night, he casually asks Rebecca if you’re coming over. When she says no, he gathers the letters, every single one, and drives to your house.

You’re in the backyard, curled up with a book, when you hear the gate creak open.

“Bucky?” you ask, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls out the first letter and starts to read. "I don't know how to do this either, I don't know how to talk about myself without actually—"

Your stomach drops. “What—stop. Bucky, what are you doing?”

You snatch it from his hands, heat flooding your face, embarrassment turning sharp. “How did you get this?”

He finally meets your eyes. “It’s me,” he says quietly. “It’s always been me.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I’ve kept every letter,” he continues. “I listened to every song. Read every book. Watched every movie.”

Your head shakes automatically. “No. That doesn’t—what about the fair? You didn’t show. You just—left me in the silence.”

“I was scared,” he says, voice breaking. “I was standing right in front of you, realizing it was you all along and I was terrified.”

“Of what?” you demand, hurt bleeding through.

“Of hoping,” he admits. “Of letting myself believe I could have something, someone, like you.”

The anger drains out of you, replaced by something softer, heavier. You look at him for a long moment. Then, quietly a thought slips into you head, a memory from one of his early letters he once sent you, the one you memorized without realizing why.

“I trace the shape of ‘almost us,’ keep hope tucked safely out of sight. I crave the warmth, I fear the loss, so I hold longing through the night.”

His breath catches. He blushes, stunned and faintly nods. You step closer, eyes flicking to the stack of letters clutched to his chest. “You really kept them all?”

“Every single one,” he says.

You smile, teasing despite the ache. “That’s a lot of commitment for someone who didn’t think he was smart enough.”

He laughs softly, relief threading through it. “Guess I was wrong.”

The space between you closes naturally, like it always should have. When he kisses you, it’s gentle and sure and everything the letters promised, ink finally turning into something real.

You start seeing each other in stolen spaces. Your house, when your dad works late. The lake, when the sun dips low and the air turns cool enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. Quiet afternoons stretched thin, fingers laced together, Bucky’s shoulder always warm and steady against yours.

It's everything and not enough. Summer is running out, and you feel it in everything.

Rebecca notices first.

“You’ve been… distant,” she says one night, sitting cross-legged on your bed while you pretend to read. “Did I do something?”

Guilt hits hard and fast.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just—studying. Stressed about exams.”

She watches you for a long moment, unconvinced but trusting anyway. That almost hurts worse.

You hate lying to her. Hate the knot in your chest every time Bucky brushes his thumb over your hand in public and you have to pretend it means nothing. You start worrying less about getting caught and more about what this secrecy is doing to the most important friendship in your life.

Bucky wants to tell her.

“We can’t keep sneaking around,” he says one afternoon by the lake, voice low. “She deserves to know.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “If this goes wrong, I lose everything. I lose you. I lose her.”

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing away the worry he hates seeing there. “You’re allowed to want things too.”

You almost get caught a few days later.

You’re coming up the steps of Bucky’s house, laughter still clinging to you from the walk home. He kisses you softly, unguarded, right as the front door opens behind him.

“Bucky?”

Rebecca’s voice. You spring apart so fast your heart nearly stops. You duck your head, pretending to retie your shoe while Bucky clears his throat.

“Just—walking her home,” he says.

Rebecca squints but doesn’t push. The door shuts. You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the sidewalk. That night, you ask Bucky to meet you at the lake.

The decision tastes like grief.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice breaking. “We’re going to hurt her.”

He steps closer. “You’re hurting yourself trying to protect everyone else.”

Tears spill before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I love you—but I can’t.”

He stills. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you love me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, even as your hands clutch his shirt like they already know the truth.

He kisses you anyway, slow, aching, full of everything you’re afraid to lose. You cry into it, happiness and sadness tangling together in salt until you can’t tell which is which.

“I’ll tell her,” you say against his lips. “Tomorrow. Just—please. One more day.”

He nods. Always nods. Always chooses you. You go to the lake to swim that evening, laughing and splashing like kids again. The water glows orange under thes setting sun. Bucky lifts you out easily, sets you on the grass, his hands warm and worshipful, like he’s memorizing you.

The kiss that follows is deeper, unhurried, filled with promises neither of you says out loud. Bucky moves on top of you, holding his weight above you on one forearm as he moves his lips down your jaw and neck. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and a soft gasp slips past your lips when you feel his knee gently nudge your thighs apart, he pulls back to look at you and the sun hits his eyes, reflecting a blue so clear your heart nearly stops in your chest.

"Is this okay?"

You nod because words don't feel like enough, like they can't convey the ever churning tidal wave of love crashing over you again and again. He kisses you again and you let your hands wander, his skin still damp from the lake, letting your fingers glide over his chest and down to his abs with ease.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as if the moment itself might be too bright to look at directly. This feeling that passes between you doesn’t need language. It lives in the way his shoulders finally drop, in the way you whisper his name like a secret kept safely.

You tilt into him, drawn by gravity neither of you fight anymore. His hand settles at your waist, firm now, certain, anchoring himself as much as you. Like if he lets go, he might lose the proof that this is real, that he’s here, and wanted, and allowed to want back.

"Bucky," you breathe out, hips twisting and arching up into him. "Please."

His fingers drift from your waist to your thighs, tracing the damp string of your bathing suit bottoms. A shuddering breath leaving his lips when you push into his touch. He stops for a moment, pulling back to look at you one more time.

Your face is still flushed from the lake, the tears and the heat blooming in your chest.

"Please," you say, reaching up to pull his lips down to yours.

You kiss again and he melts into you like ice cream under the sun, sweetness spilling onto your lips as heat and want rush through your veins, it feels like a sugar high times a thousand. While you want to ride its bliss out until then end, your heart cracks at the thought that there is an end to this.

"What's wrong baby?" Bucky murmurs against your cheek, feeling your body tighten under his. "Listen we don't have to—"

"No," you interuppt, shaking your head. "No it's not that I just… what if Rebecca doesn't want us to be together? What if…"

Bucky kisses you quiet, muttering your name across your lips. "Don't think like that, no matter what happens I'll always be yours, you'll always be my best girl."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your voice a hoarse whisper. "But what—"

"Relax." He kisses the tear streaks off your face. "You're mine." Another kiss. "I'm yours. It's going to be okay."

Your mouth curves to argue but he kisses it shut again. "Relax, baby."

Your heart, mind and body are on three seperate tracks. Heart breaking for the fear that this is it, mind racing with a thousand possible outcomes for tomorrow, all while your body aches and pushes into his touch.

"Bucky," you whisper.

"Shh, just relax pretty girl, my pretty girl." Bucky kisses you like you're the only air his lungs need, his hands drifting back down your body, finding your drawstrings and pulling one side undone.

Your mouth falls open with a whisper of his name, legs trembling as he pushes his hand between them. He pulls the rest of your bathing suit bottoms aside, just enough to expose the heat that's been aching between your thighs.

His thumb brushes the seam of your cunt so gently its a wonder why you jump at the touch. His lips move down your neck and chest and kiss his mark into the skin. His broad fingers slowly stroking you, coaxing a new whimper and whine from your lips with each touch.

"That's it baby," he cooes, kissing down the valley of your breasts before moving to mark his teeth in the soft flesh of each one. "There she is."

With his thumb pressing tight little circles onto your clit you squirm and open for him all at once, hands digging into the towel shielded grass under you. A breathy and strangled whimper slips past your lips, body ignited into flames and quickly burning bright.

"Bucky-"

"I know, pretty girl." He drawls, kissing the pebbled skin of your nipple before dropping his middle finger down your slit, so slick with arousal he hardly meets any resistance as he slides it in. "My pretty baby, it's okay, let go for me."

"Oh god, Buck—y," your hands shoot from the grass and dig into his shoulders, nails leaving behind crescent marks in his skin as white bleeds across your vision. Your thighs close and clench around his hand, hips rolling and bucking into him as you ride up and over the high of your orgasm.

When you finally catch your breath and blink the tears away, Bucky is looking at you like you've donned a halo, eyes glittering with something undescribable as he looks down at you.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any prettier." He mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss you before you can even think of a rebuttal.

Desire and need now course through your veins, quieting any figment of doubt in your mind as you kiss him back with fervent want. Your hands pull him flush against you, not bothering with the space needed to pull the rest of your swimsuits off, just rutting into him as he pulls himself from his shorts, the thick length poking into your thigh.

You shudder and his cock hasn't even come close to you, the weight of it brushing your skin making you whimper shamelessly.

"You keep relaxing for me baby," he hums, releasing himself from your needy hold to sit back on his haunches and take off the rest off your suits. "Gonna take real good care of my girl."

Bucky unties the other side of your suit and lets the fabric give way to you cunt, all the lake water has since dried on your skin save for the aching wet mess between your thighs. Your own cum coated across your lips and onto your inner thighs, shining in the growing moonlight. He teases you, sliding his cock between your dripping cunt, the tip bumping and rubbing your clit making you thrash and beg for more.

"Please Bucky, please god stop teasing me-" you whine, hips uselessly jutting up as he holds you down, watching your pussy flutter and clench on nothing.

"Breathe," he mutters, leaning over you until your noses brush, his forehead resting against yours like a promise. You folloe his words, taking in a breath unitl every sense is overrun with Bucky. The smell of his colonge not quite washed out by the lake, the sound of his stuttering breath, the stretch of him pushing deep inside, the look of his eyes locking with yours—looking at you like he's in heaven.

He's everywhere, tears sting at your eyes as you bask in it. In everything, in him, in the perfect summer you had, the love that now holds your heart for him.

Slow, deep thrusts roll into faster and deeper ones, sweat beading on your skin where lake water once sat, heat thrumming through your veins as pleasure rather than fear. Bucky's hands cover every inch of you, brushing your hair back, squeezing your thighs and holding them open under him.

"Feels so good pretty girl," he grunts, his lips at your neck. "So wet 'n tight for me, taking me so good."

Your body hangs on the edge of nirvana, each snap of his hips into yours accompained by a messy open mouthed kiss, teeth and spit smearing its way across your skin. He groans your name, feeling your thighs quiver and shake like before.

It sneaks up on your faster than before, a coil quickly winding itself low and deep within you only to be undone by his increasingly erractic thrusts, the only coherent words you can manage being the one thing that undoes Bucky himself.

"James,"

The wanton whipser of his name brushing his ears sends him over the edge right behind you, grunting a feral, mangled noise of your name, fucking you through both your highs until he loses control of his hips and comes to a low and slow stop.

For a while, you two are suspended in air, floating through the nigh without a course in mind. A soft exhale against your neck sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with growing cold and brings you back down to earth. Being this close makes the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.

You feel his lips brush your temple, soft and unrushed. Time seems to stretch, every second soft and silver under the moonlight. Bucky cleans you up the best he can, even tying your swimsuit back together before pulling you back into his arms.

When you finally lie together on the grass, foreheads touching, hearts still racing in sync, it feels like crossing a threshold—like something precious has finally been allowed to exist.

You tell Rebecca together.

You sit on the couch with your hands twisted in your lap, Bucky beside you, close enough that his knee presses into yours like an anchor. Rebecca stands at first, pacing, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

You tell her everything.

About the pen-pal program. About the letters. About not knowing it was each other at first—and how it didn’t matter once feelings crept in anyway. About the fair. About the lake. About how hard you tried to do the right thing and how badly you failed at it.

Your voice shakes. You don’t cry. You’re too scared of what crying might do.

Rebecca is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight. “So you just… lied to me.”

Before you can answer, Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he says gently but firmly. “Don’t be mad at her.”

Rebecca snaps her head toward him. “You don’t get to—”

“I do,” he interrupts, not raising his voice, but grounding it. “Because this was on me.”

You turn to him, startled. “Bucky—”

“I knew first,” he admits. “I put it together before she ever did. The locket. The letters. Her handwriting.” He swallows. “And I didn’t say anything.”

Rebecca’s anger falters, confusion cutting through it. “Why?”

“Because I knew,” he says quietly, “that if you knew, she’d choose you. Every time. No hesitation.”

Your breath catches.

“I was selfish,” he continues. “I wanted her to myself. Even if it was just for a little while. She was—” His voice softens, eyes flicking to you. “She is the best girl. My best girl. And I wasn’t ready to give that up.”

The room goes still. Rebecca looks between you, really looks this time. The way Bucky’s shoulders curve slightly toward you. The way your hand has found his without you realizing it. The way neither of you looks guilty so much as terrified of losing her.

Her shoulders sag.

“This isn’t like before,” she says slowly. “You know that, right?”

You nod immediately. “I know. I never wanted—”

“I know,” Rebecca cuts in, rubbing her face. “Those girls wanted him. You just… found each other.”

She exhales, long and tired. “I’m still upset. I won’t pretend I’m not. You hurt me. Both of you did.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t look away.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “I can see it. I can see that you love each other, that this isn’t a phase or a secret little thrill.”

Bucky nods once. “I love her. I won’t mess this up.”

Rebecca studies him, then you. Finally, she shakes her head with a small, reluctant huff. “God. I can’t believe this is how my life turned out.”

Then, pointing a finger between the two of you, she adds, “It’s okay. I mean it. But if I catch you sucking each other’s face off in my kitchen, I will reconsider.”

You let out a shaky laugh, relief crashing over you so hard it almost knocks you sideways.

Bucky grins, unabashed. “Fair.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but there’s a ghost of a smile there too. “You’re both idiots,” she mutters. “But… you’re my idiots.”

And for the first time since summer began, nothing feels like it’s about to fall apart.

Fall comes in quietly. Not all at once, not with some dramatic announcement, just cooler mornings and leaves turning the color of old gold, the air sharpening around the edges. Summer slips away without a fight, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re being left behind by it.

You and Bucky don’t hide anymore.

He walks you home with his hand openly wrapped around yours. He waits for you after class, leaning against his car like he belongs there. At Rebecca’s house, he kisses your temple without checking the doorway first, and when she groans dramatically from the kitchen, you both just laugh.

“Take it to literally anywhere else,” she calls. “I’m eating.”

Bucky grins and steals you away anyway.

School starts in earnest, and with it comes the familiar weight on your shoulders, but it’s lighter now, shared. You help Bucky with his classes in the evenings, notebooks spread across your bed or the kitchen table, your handwriting filling the margins with explanations and encouragement.

“Okay,” you say one night, tapping the paper. “Read the question out loud.”

He does, slow and deliberate.

“You already know this,” you add gently. “You just don’t trust yourself.”

He looks up at you, searching your face. “You really think that?”

“I know it.”

And he starts to believe you.

His grades improve again steadily, honestly. Not perfect, but real. When he brings home a test with a mark higher than he ever thought possible, he hands it to you like it might disappear if he holds it too long.

“You did that,” he says.

You shake your head. “You did.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, reverent. “Couldn’t have without you.”

Some evenings, when the work is done and the world feels too loud, you escape to the lake. Fall paints everything softer there. The water reflects the trees like a secret it’s keeping. You sit with your feet in the grass, leaning into Bucky’s side as he pulls a folded page from his jacket pocket.

“I wrote something,” he says, suddenly shy.

“You always do,” you tease softly.

He reads anyway.

His voice is low and steady, words shaped by longing and growth and quiet hope. Poems about choosing to stay. About learning to believe in good things. About a girl who taught him that being seen doesn’t have to hurt.

You listen like it’s a gift, because it is.

"So he stayed when instinct said run, stayed when his hands began to shake. He learned that hope is not a weakness— it’s a risk you bravely take.

Now he believes in the quiet good things: morning laughter, a hand held tight. He believes that staying can be gentle, that being known can feel like light.

Because a girl once taught his heart a truth it never knew how to say— that sometimes the bravest thing of all is choosing, every day, to stay."

When he finishes, you don’t clap or joke. You just rest your head on his shoulder and say, “That’s my favorite one.”

He smiles, small and real.

As fall deepens, the pressure you once felt, that if you weren’t excelling, you were nothing, starts to loosen its grip. You still work hard. You still care. But now, when you stumble, there’s someone there to catch you before the fear takes hold.

One night, wrapped in blankets on the porch, Bucky murmurs, “You know… I don’t think I’d have made it through this without you.”

You turn to him, serious. “You would’ve. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He studies you, eyes warm in the glow of the porch light. “I’m really glad I found you anyway.”

You kiss him, slow and sure, leaves skittering across the ground around you.

The ending doesn’t come all at once. It arrives gently, the way good things do.

Rebecca gets the job on a Tuesday.

She bursts into the apartment breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “I got it,” she says, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “In the city. Full time. Benefits. Everything.”

You scream. Actually scream.

You’re on her before she can brace, arms around her neck, jumping in place. Bucky laughs from the doorway, shaking his head as he steps in to join the chaos.

“I knew they’d be stupid not to hire you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too hard to hide it. “You’re both biased.”

Moving happens fast after that.

Boxes stack up. Clothes get sorted. Your childhood slowly folds itself into cardboard and tape. Rebecca packs her life into neat, labeled squares, ready for something bigger. You help where you can, sitting on the floor beside her, handing her things you forgot existed.

On her last night, the three of you sit cross-legged in the empty living room, takeout spread between you, walls echoing a little too much.

“You’re really doing this,” you say softly.

“So are you,” she replies, nudging your knee. “Tiny apartment. Domestic bliss.”

Bucky pretends to wince. “Hey. It’s a nice tiny apartment.”

You laugh, then grow serious, turning to Rebecca. “Promise me something.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

“Write to me,” you say. “Like—really write. Letters. Not just texts.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not. Letters are important.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “Of course I will. You started a whole relationship with pen pals. I’d be stupid not to.”

Bucky smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

Rebecca stands, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, and pulls you into a hug—tight, familiar, grounding. “We’re not losing each other,” she murmurs. “We’re just… expanding.”

You hold her a little longer than necessary.

The apartment you and Bucky move into is small. One bedroom. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen where you bump into each other constantly.

It’s perfect.

You unpack slowly, music playing, windows open to let the city noise in. You hang his poems on the fridge. He lines your books along the windowsill. At night, you fall asleep tangled together, listening to a life you’re building hum quietly around you.

On the first evening, boxes still half-open, you sit on the floor eating pizza straight from the box.

“Hey,” Bucky says, watching you with that soft look that still surprises you. “You happy?”

You look around. At the mess. At the future. At him.

“Yeah,” you say, sure. “I really am.”

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 knew that logically, you were supposed to hate him. you hadn't agreed to this, you had no real desire to be married. you'd been nothing more than a pawn in his game for years. about a week in, the anxiety that had consumed you since the wedding day had shifted. a subtle shift, but one nonetheless. for a while, you genuinely wondered if it was some kind of twisted stockholm syndrome. he wasn't exactly cruel towards you, no harsh words or blows exchanged, just a coldness that he wielded like a shield. you couldn't blame him, you weren't entirely convinced that he was sold on the whole thing either.

but slowly, the weeks all blurred into one and you were six months into this whole ordeal and things had changed. his hand lingered on the small of your back as he guided you through crowds, he was quick to jump at any opportunity to shrug his jacket off and drape it across your shoulder when the temperature dropped even a degree, kisses pressed to your temple before he left a room. his words still carried that same coldness, but his actions told a whole different story.

you contemplated bringing it up for three days before you actually did.

you were curled up in bed—the side closest to the window that he'd vacated for you after a half asleep confession one night that you slept better that way—watching him unbutton his shirt slowly and shrug it off, the low light gleaming off the metal of his prosthetic arm. something else that you didn't ask questions about. everyone who talked about it had their own version of how it happened. rivals, car accidents, deals gone wrong.

"you've been acting…" your voice trailed off as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breath hitching ever so slightly as you just looked at him. he was massive, intimidatingly so sometimes, all hard muscle and scars mapped out across his skin like constellations in the night sky. "different."

"different." he repeated, eyebrow raised as he turned just enough to look at you. "different." he wasn't a stupid man, he was far from it, but it never crossed his mind that you'd picked up on it. he thought he was being subtle about it. on the outside, he was the same cool and composed him that he'd always been, but on the inside his heart did a stupid little stutter. "i don't know what you're on about."

"right." you nodded once before you lay back down properly, letting your head sink into the pillow as you stared up at the ceiling. didn't know what you were on about. maybe it was all in your head. that wouldn't be entirely shocking. he was probably just being civil and your brain had managed to work it into something that it wasn't.

you were pulled out of your thoughts by the mattress dipping next to you, his warmth slipping under the blankets next to you. you reached over and knocked the light off, letting the darkness swallow you. the silence stretched on so long that you were almost sure that he'd fell asleep when you felt him shift next to you. there was always a perfectly measured gap between the two of you, even on your wedding night when space was supposed to be the last thing on your minds. but tonight, he scooted closer. close enough that his hip bumped against yours.

it felt like you'd brushed past a livewire, sending a shiver down your spine. touching him wasn't knew, and maybe this was still all in your head, but it felt differently charged to all the others. you just lay there, trying to keep your breathing steady so it didn't betray how you were actually feeling.

both of you were waiting for the other to move, and you were at a stalemate. you spent so long like that that sleep was slowly starting to pull you down. bucky noticed, of course he did. he noticed the way your eyes closed a couple of seconds longer as you fought to keep them open.

when you finally let it take you, it wasn't big or dramatic until it was. right before your eyes closed for good, you rolled over and flung your arm over his waist, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck and he froze. his eyes flickered down but you were already gone, breath evened out and eyes closed.

for the first time in probably forever, he didn't know what to do. he wiggled his arm out from underneath you where you'd just flopped over on it, hand hovering as he tried to decide where the hell he was supposed to put it. he settled your lower back, his thumb rubbing soft circles at the base of your spine.

fuck.

he was fucked.

he didn't fit into a lot of spaces, but he definitely did not fit in the tiny little florists downtown that his family had been using for years. he'd been stood there for half an hour, eyeing up the different kinda of flowers with way too much suspicion. he didn't know which ones were your favorite—which was a great start—so he was already going in half blind.

you didn't seem like a roses person. they were too dark, too thorny, not enough like you. lillies reminded him of death, especially in white, so they were a no go. "if you don't see what you're after, i can always give you a hand." the girl behind the counter offered, setting the bouquet she was working on to the side. "make you something up."

bucky turned to her slowly, almost like he'd forgotten that she was there. "i don't really know her favorite type. she's—" he stopped himself, leaning against the wall as he tried to find the word that he was searching for, the feelings he'd spent hours pushing down. "warm. happy, kinda like sunshine, if that helps any." the woman nodded as she stepped out from behind the counter and making a beeline for different types of flowers. "sunshine." she repeated. "so…lots of yellow, whites, how do you feel about purple?"

bucky nodded once, eyes fixed on her as she worked. purple felt a good option, safe enough. "okay, so… you ever heard about flower language?" she asked as slipped back behind the counter, laying everything out before she started to work. "so, lavender. means a lot of things, usually devotion and constant love. white tulips are purity, respect sometimes. respect, if you're in her bad books."

he scoffed at that, one eyebrow raised. bad books, right. he wasn't even sure he had any of those. he carried on watching, listening to each explanation of every flower that went into the bouquet, your bouquet. each flower meant something, represented another feeling that he couldn't quite vocalise yet. he looked ridiculous as he left the shop with a bunch of flowers bigger than his head. a man like him looked ridiculous with flowers full stop, but it was worth it. you were worth it. he'd known that about thirty seconds into you being stood in front of him at the altar when he'd first realised how done for he really was.

he was so gentle with them on the way home that it was laughable. hands that had bargained and killed and made people disappear were buckling flowers into the front seat like they had a life to lose. but they weren't just flowers. they were yours. and that made them important. he wasn't sure when the switch was flipped, when he developed such a strong urge to protect you—and your things—but it was there and it felt like it was burning him alive the whole ride home.

"sweetheart?" he called out as he cracked the front door open, and then quickly froze in his tracks. the smell of fresh something being baked had taken over the entire house, something deep and rich and chocolatey, the kind that had his mouth watering without permission. you panicked when you heard him, time had completely managed to slip away from you in the middle of your little baking session, and you'd promised yourself mentally that you'd have it cleaned up by the time he got back.

"uh, yeah, no, gimme a sec!' you called back, followed by bowls and utensils clattering together as you haphazardly shoved everything into hiding in the dishwasher. "i just—oh." you whirled around, almost flying into him. you hadn't heard him, you never did, he was good at moving around undetected. what you weren't expecting was the biggest bunch of flowers you'd ever seen in your life peeking out from behind his back.

"oh."

"yeah, oh." he repeated as he presented them with a flourish, a smile spreading across his face as you stared at them with something that looked a lot like awe. you were speechless. "i figured that you, uh—i—for you." he nodded. "for me." you repeated as you took them from him. you looked a mess, flour all over your front, chocolate at the corner of your mouth from taste testing and holding a bouquet that was more than just 'i was thinking about you' flowers. the weight of them was unspoken, but still there. "they're beautiful, really. i don't—i don't really know what i did to deserve them." you said honestly, eyes scanning for a free spot in the middle of the chaos around you to put them down in.

"you don't have to deserve them, sweetheart. not how this works." he shook his head as he scooted some stuff out of the way for you to put them down. he opened his mouth to say something else and quickly closed it again like a fish out of water when he realised that he didn't know what he was going for.

because you make me feel human.

because you make me feel things i didn't know i still had in me.

because i think i'm in love with you.

the tension crackled between the two of you as you just looked at him, and it felt like someone had kicked you straight in the solar plexus. he looked younger. less hardened than he was. like he cared.

you cared.

you'd realised that, somewhere between the first week of being his wife and the night you fell asleep on him and he thought you were asleep while he whispered soft promises, you'd fallen. hard. he felt less like an obligation and someone you actually wanted to know more about, more than just the same stories they heard out on the street. you wanted to know him and you couldn't deny that it would have been a whole lot nicer if it was on your own terms, but that was a luxury you weren't afforded.

this was the here and now and you were moving before either of you realised what was going on. the kiss wasn't clean, it was lips crashing together and tongues fighting for dominance. it wasn't a fairytale, but it was real. it was yours, he was yours. you moaned softly as he pulled back to breathe, chest heaving as he looked at you.

"i'm not good with words. or feelings. or being a husband, i don't know what i'm doing." he admitted as he reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "and i'm not a good person, god, i'm not. but i want—i want you."

he wanted you.

if you weren't speechless before, you were now. you'd known it. you'd known for a while that he wasn't as indifferent as he made out. you'd known since that night in the bedroom when he told you it was nothing and you were convinced it was all in your head. it wasn't in your head. it probably never was, you knew that now.

you had no idea what came next, what this marriage was supposed to look like—it was still the furthest thing from normal—but it felt a little less uncertain than it did earlier. "for the record, i don't know much about being a wife either." you chuckled as you turned to the oven. "i made chocolate brownies. they're my mom's recipe, and she always said that a way to a guys heart is chocolate brownies."

"isn't it food in general?"

Swallowing thickly, Bucky shakes his head, closing his eyes.

Sam takes a few steps closer to the couch on which Bucky's sitting. "You didn't... you didn't cheat on her, did you?"

Bucky's eyes fly open and he glares up at him. "God, Wilson, do you really have to ask that?"

"Then, what?" Sam snaps back at him. "What the fuck did you do that made her leave?"

Bucky runs a hand through his hair and sighs, drenched in shame. "I yelled at her," He says in an ironically small voice.

"Yelled?" Sam repeats with narrow eyes. "You had a fight?" Though any other couple having an argument wouldn't make Sam flinch, it's rare for you and Bucky to butt heads.

"It wasn't a normal fight," Bucky says, his eyes downcast. "I, uh, I yelled at her bad. Got in her face, and..."

Sam's face drops. "Did you hurt her?"

"No," Bucky says, immediately and emphatically. "I would fucking never, Wilson. I'm not... I'm not my father."

With a long sigh, Sam sits down next to him. "Is it what you said, or how you said it?"

"How. I got up close to her, and... she thought I was trying to intimidate her," Bucky recounts.

"Was she scared?" Sam asks him.

"No. No, she wasn't. She knows I'd never, ever lay a finger on her, but she's pissed that I acted in that way. As if I wanted her to think I might," Bucky spills, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Yeah, you fucked up," Sam sighs. "You know what she's been through. You know what her dad was like. I thought you knew better than to raise your voice at her, no matter what the situation is or what she might have done."

"I did. I do, I just... slipped up," He responds. "I'm an asshole, I know."

"Where is she?" Sam wonders softly.

"Banita's. Been there since Monday," Bucky tells him.

Sam's ears perk up as he looks over at him. "You want me to, uh, go over?"

"No, I don't want you to apologize on my behalf," Bucky says. "I need to do that myself."

"Just to check on her," Sam adds. "Make sure she's okay. I won't even bring you up."

With a long sigh, Bucky nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that would be good."

"Alright," Sam says, feeling his heartbeat quicken at the thought of seeing Banita. "I'll go over today."

You're sitting on the carpeted floor of Banita's living room, painting her toenails, both of you surrounded by tens of baskets with chocolate-covered strawberries, baked goods, and plenty of other treats sent to you by Anonymous. And you'd bet a lot of money on who Anonymous is.

Bucky's been sending you things, knowing better than to leave notes for you with them, and although you're still pissed, you are appreciative of the fact that he's also gone so far as to send gluten-free treats for Banita too, along with things to help with her pregnancy.

You delve into the basket closest to you and grab a chocolate truffle and just as you pop it into your mouth, there's a knock at the door.

"I was wondering when he might show up," Banita says as she slowly stands up. "I'll get it. I need to thank him for the brownies and nipple cream, anyway."

"If it is him, tell him I don't want to see him and that he can fuck himself with a rusty pipe," You say bluntly as you lean back against her couch.

She gives you a nod before leaving the room. You listen as she pads down the hall and opens the front door. It's a man's voice but you can't make out who exactly it is yet. They talk for a few seconds before the door closes, and when Banita returns to the bedroom, you're surpised to see Sam behind her. Admittedly, there is a tiny part of you that's disappointed.

"Hey," He greets you. "I, uh, just wanted to come check on you."

"Oh. It's nice to see you," You reply, standing up and stretching. "Can you paint the rest of Banita's toes? My back's killing."

Banita takes her place back on the floor, one hand on her round belly and the other on the carpet as she stretches her legs out. Sam carefully takes your place in front of her, his eyes trained on Banita's bump. She rests her feet in his lap and you hand him the bottle of white polish before laying on the couch.

"So, Bucky sent you to grovel on his behalf?" You ask him with a raised brow.

"No," Sam retorts while painting Banita's toes with precision. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" You question. "I'm absolutely fucking fine."

He gives you a pointed look in response.

"Don't look at me like that; I'm fine," You double down stubbornly. "Bucky's the one who should be upset with himself."

"He is," Sam tells you. "He's torn up."

"Fucking hell, Wilson, stop trying to make me feel bad for what he did," You spit before standing up and storming out the room.

Banita sucks in a sharp breath, giving him wide eyes. "Damn. You really suck at checking in on people," She comments, resting back on her palms. "You should probably go after her before she gets too close to my kitchen knives."

With a sigh, Sam stands up and follows you out. He doesn't see you until he sets foot in the kitchen, where you're sat at the counter eating leftover cake.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel bad," He tells you lowly. "I was just being honest with you. He knows how badly he fucked up."

"Good," You say curtly before taking another bite.

"I didn't come here to speak for him," Sam begins. "And I sure as hell don't think you should forgive him just because I said he's moping around. He's a grown man; he can earn his own forgiveness."

"Exactly," You mumble, suddenly realizing how much you miss Bucky. With a wince, you look up at Sam. "He is... okay, though, right? Like, he's eating and sleeping? Showering?"

"He is," Sam tells you, to which you let out a short sigh of relief.

"Good. Because it would be super manipulative of him to act all broken and torn apart because of the way I reacted to what he did," You state firmly.

"You gonna talk to him soon?" Sam wonders.

With a shrug, you stab your fork into the cake and pick up another bite. "I'll be at the gala tomorrow night," You tell him. "If he looks hot enough, it might motivate me to grace him with my presence."

That pulls a smile from his lips, and he comes closer before looking down at the cake box in front of you. "What flavor is that?" He asks curiously.

"Oh, it's vanilla; the pink is just food coloring," You explain. "B did a little gender-reveal at the baby shower."

His breath hitches in his throat. "She... she's having a girl?" He asks in a whisper.

You nod. "Yep."

With a gulp, Sam spins on his heels and hightails it back to the living room, leaving you there confused. You shrug and continue eating the cake.

When the door slams open, Banita jumps back in shock. "What the fuck, Samuel?" She utters with wide eyes.

He takes a few steps in, closing the door behind him. He's unable to stop himself from looking at her bump. Meeting her eyes, he utters, "She's mine, isn't she?"

Banita gasps softly, one of her hands on her belly. "Sam, I..."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asks her.

"I thought you wouldn't... men like you don't... you're in the fucking mob, Sam," She says, her eyes welling up. "I figured you wouldn't want anything to do with us. You never asked me, anyway, and I thought it was pretty obvious."

"Obvious?" He repeats with a whisper.

"Well, you fucked me without a condom at the wedding and here I am, 8 months later, 8 months pregnant," Banita says frankly. "Is that not obvious enough to you?"

"I... I've been afraid to ask. To hear the truth," He admits, getting down on his knee next to her. "And that was wrong. And selfish. You've had no choice but to go through this, and I had the privilege to pretend it wasn't happening. I'm so, so sorry."

"Sam-"

"Nothing will ever make up for the months I missed, all the things you must have gone through that I wasn't there to help you with," He continues, shame dripping from his tone. "Please give me a chance to be the man I should have been for you from the start. For you and... for our baby girl."

The tears spill over and Banita nods. "Of course, Sam. I'd want nothing more," She says, just before he pulls her into a tight embrace.

You get to the gala an hour late, dressed in a burgundy, silk dress, because you know it drives Bucky insane to see you in silk and you wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to punish him some more.

It's a boring party with boring business people in attendance, but it was important for you and Bucky to show your faces to keep the community happy and on side. When you spot Bucky, he's in the middle of a conversation with a few other men, so you make your way to the bar.

"Mrs. Barnes," A voice calls out from behind you just before you can order a drink. You turn to see the man who runs one of Bucky's front companies; John Walker, with a smile on his face. "It's fantastic to have you join us this evening." As he comes closer, he takes your hand and places a soft kiss to the back of it. "You look beautiful tonight."

Holding back an eye-roll, you give him a polite smile. "Thank you, John, it's good to be here," You reply.

"Are you looking for your husband? I think I saw him by the stairs," He says, looking around the room.

"Actually, all I'm looking for is a drink," You inform him.

"Of course!" He exclaims, taking your hand and leading you to the bar. "Make full use of the open bar, Mrs. Barnes. Tonight's a celebration!"

Before he can leave, you call out, "Hey, Walker."

He turns back to you, still smiling. "How can I help?" He asks you.

"We've been going back and forth with the Granville deal for months, now," You begin, tilting your head. "How about you get your head out of your ass and just agree to 12%?"

An incredulous laugh leaves his mouth, a mixture of shock and delight in his eyes. "I, uh, I think we should discuss this when Barnes is here-"

"I'm Barnes, and I'm right here," You cut in firmly. "Cut the bullshit, Jonathan. Sign the papers. Tonight."

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk. "Ah, you know what it does to me when you call me that," He says in what you think is an attempt to sound seductive as he moves closer to you.

You raise a brow, unamused. "Excuse me?" You utter. "Watch yourself. And if you know what's good for you, you'll sign the papers and have them delivered to our office first thing tomorrow."

His smugness falters and he gives you a single nod. "Yes, ma'am," He says simply.

With that, you spin on your heel and leave him at the bar, no clear destination in mind - until you see him.

Bucky looks good. Tired, but good.

His slouched back straightens up when he spots you, and he watches as you walk over to him. "Hi, fairy," He says, looking you up and down. "You look incredible."

"I know," You reply, holding back your desire to pull him in for a hug. Yes, you're mad at him, but you've also missed him terribly.

"I'm so sorry for the other night," He continues with a pained look on his face. "I love you more than anything, and the way I treated you was beyond awful. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm sorry."

Glancing around the busy hall, you decide against giving anyone rumor material, so you hold out your hand to him. "Come with me," You say softly. Once he places his hand in yours, you turn and lead him up the wide staircase, in search of somewhere private, away from prying ears. There are a few guests milling around the hallways so you continue walking until you finally open up some French doors and find a small, isolated balcony. Moonlight bounces off the silver railing, and you release Bucky's hand to rest both of yours onto it, finding it cool to the touch. Once you hear the doors close behind you, you turn to face him.

Bucky ventures to take a step closer to you, his familiar aftershave providing you with a sense of calmness. He doesn't know what to say or do right now - and you can tell. So, deciding not to torture him too badly, you take the glass of dark whiskey from his hand and take a sip from it.

"I will always love you, James," You begin. "I didn't lie when I told you my love is permanent and unconditional. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't leave you."

"I know," It's his turn to say. "I don't take you for granted, or assume that you'll always stay no matter how I treat you. Putting effort into loving you and caring for you and protecting you is a choice I make every day, and will keep making every day for the rest of my life."

You take in a deep breath before handing his whiskey back to him. "I don't think I've ever admitted how excited I was about you when we first met. You were dangerous and scary, yet also sweet and thoughtful at the same time," You tell him with a soft smile. "It was like having my very own dragon. Burning whoever I asked you to and letting me bask in the warmth of your flames. It felt good. The risk was terrifying but exhilarating. You're still my dragon, and I know you always will be."

"Always," He says with a whisper.

Resting your back against the railing, you hand the whiskey back to him. "You'd kill for me. Destroy cities for me. Commit the worst crimes for me," You state firmly. "But those things come easy to you. It's as easy as breathing for you to stop the heart of men who look at me too long. You kill without so much as flinching. Sure, there's a twisted part of me that gets off on knowing you've done those things for me and would do them again without question, but you enjoy it, too, James. It makes you feel like a man. It allows you to be a sadist in the name of love. It comes easy to you."

He keeps his eyes on yours without interrupting you. You're sure you spot a glimmer of fear in his gaze - does he think he's losing you?

"The reason I fell in love with you wasn't because you would destroy for me. It was because, despite your dark side, you found the strength to be kind for me," You tell him. "To show mercy to others when I asked you to. To ignore your ego and pride. I know those parts don't come easy to you, but you try for me, and that's all I've ever asked for. That's why I love you and why I want to live the rest of my life with you and for you, Jamie."

He takes another step closer to you and you knows he's itching to hold you.

"That night, Jamie, the night I left..." You begin, feeling your stomach sink as you relive it. "I felt a little bit of the burn from your flame for the very first time. And I know you didn't mean it. But that didn't make it burn any less."

Bucky's head drops and shame drenches his features. He breathes in and out deeply once, twice, three times, before finally looking back up at you. "You're right," He utters, which seems a good place to begin. "I like it. Having to burn the world for you. I enjoy hurting those who try to hurt you. It makes me feel like you need me, and I like being needed. Especially at the start, before you'd ever even seen a gun in person. You were mine to protect and shield. You gave me purpose. That's not all it was, of course, you know I fell in love with you that first night. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't use you to boost my own ego, too."

It feels odd, having such a candid conversation with him. After so long, you've opened up to each other about any and everything, so it got to a point where you felt you already knew whatever there was to know about him, and him about you. Being this brutally honest is refreshing.

"But we both grew up and learnt a lot since we were twenty," He continues. "It's been a long time. But... yeah, sometimes, when I can still be the one who destroys for you, who kills for you... it feels good. I can't help it and I don't think that will ever change. It's the way I'm wired."

"I don't want it to change," You whisper, moving closer to him. "I like having my own dragon."

His lips pull up into a small, sad smile. "But I've grown too much to still be making mistakes. Especially when it comes to you. I never, ever want you to be afraid of me. The thought makes me sick to my stomach," He tells you. "I love you too much to ever hurt you, fairy."

You finally charge forward and wrap your arms around him, sick of being without the serenity his embrace brings you. He holds you immediately. "I love you, Jamie," You say, your voice muffled against his chest. Pulling back, you look up at him. "I was angry that night because it felt like you were trying to scare me into submission. Into shutting up. But don't ever think for a second that I was actually scared of you. Just pissed that you tried it."

"I'm sorry," He says again. "I love you exactly the way you are and I'd never want to silence you. The only time I ever want you submissive is when I'm-"

"Alright," You cut him off, unable to keep the smile off your face. "We both know what you need from me. And we both know the bedroom is a very different place to the real world."

"Absolutely," He agrees with a glint in his eye, daring to move his hand lower down on your waist.

"And if you think you're gonna be allowed pleasure any time soon, you've got another thing coming, Barnes," You say, your tone darkening. "Get on your knees."

Slowly, he sinks down to the ground. You pull on the slit in your dress, revealing more of your leg to him.

"I spoke to Walker," You reveal to him. "He agreed to 12%. He's gonna sign tonight."

Bucky looks up you, slight surprise in his eyes. "Seriously?" His lips brush against your thigh until they stop when he feels something hard and cool. He looks to see you wearing the gold chain he bought you with the letter 'J' dangling from one of the diamonds. His pants tighten. You only wear it rarely; not wanting the magic effect it has on him to dull by wearing it too often.

"It was about time he got in line," You utter. "And someone had to make it happen. Now, enough business talk. Make me cum."

He hikes your dress up and sucks in sharply when he sees the black, lace panties you're wearing. Moving closer, he presses his face against your heat and breathes in deeply. "I missed you," He whispers, and you aren't entirely sure whether he's talking to you or your pussy.

His left hand wraps around your ankle before he dances it up your thigh and pulls your panties to the side. Teasingly, he blows cool air onto your clit, making it throb. It's been a long week without him, and you're extra sensitive for it.

"Stop fucking around," You say, glaring down at him. "Do your job."

With his eyes hooked onto yours, Bucky happily obeys. He licks from your hole to your clit before diving his face in. Instanty, you're plunged into pleasure. His hands tightly grab your waist, keeping you firmly in place while he eats you out.

"Don't stop," You cry out, your voice pitching up a few levels. "That's a good boy."

He groans into you, picking up your leg and resting it on his shoulder, giving him a better angle to drown in you. Bucky takes one of his thumbs to your clit and rubs quick circles onto it. You pull his free hand up to your chest, squeezing your tits with it, wordlessly begging him to play with them. He understands instantly, rubbing your nipples over the thin silk of your dress and twisting them once they harden.

You throw your head back, seeing stars even with your eyes closed, tugging harshly on his hair. Eventually, it becomes too much to take, and you feel your pleasure crescendo. With a cry of his name, you cum. He doesn't let up, continuing to suck on your clit through your orgasm.

It isn't until you shove him away, over-sensitive and tingling, that he finally breaks away, but he immediately tries to return. You place your your hand on his forehead and keep him at bay, but your hand falters for just a moment and he takes advantage, lunging forward and diving back into your soaking, pulsating pussy.

"Jamie, I can't," You whine, your breaths quick and shallow as he tortures your sensitive clit.

He gives you only a second's reprieve, pulling back to utter, "You will," before indulging in you again.

Your heart is racing and your entire body is on fire. Stunned with pleasure, you can't speak. He grabs fistfuls of your ass, groaning into you like a madman. He drinks from you as though he's thirsted for an eon and has finally happened upon an oasis. He proves to you just how much he needs you, and needs to please you.

Through the fog of overstimulation, you suddenly see the light. The uncomfortably thick tension finally flickers into that familiar build-up in your core, and you're ready for the wave again. And he can feel it. He looks up at you, sucking on your clit, pulling you through your second orgasm which comes much quicker than your first. You're weak and broken, submitting to the pleasure with no choice but to do so.

You lean back against the rail when he finally pulls away from you, both of you breathing heavily. Bucky rises back up, towering over you once again. His big arms are on either side of you and you're incredibly tempted to let him fuck you, but you know you need to make him grovel some more before you grant him that.

"You're insane," You whisper.

His lips pull up and he leans down to kiss you, treating your lips much gentler than he did your pussy just moments before. "I love you, fairy," Bucky says. "I can't promise I won't ever mess up again, but I can promise that I won't ever stop putting the effort in to be the best husband I can to you."

With a small smile, you lean up and peck his lips. "That's my boy," You whisper. "I love you more."

He wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. "Impossible."

happy valentines day!

feb 14th and this is my first post of 2026... oops

but in all honesty i've been constantly writing, it's just that i'm working on longer form one-and-done fics rather than series to stop myself from creating more and more unfinished works (his soft animal and the tailor's son are glaring at me from the corner)

i have a lot of work that i'm sooo excited to write and share with you guys this year. the longer-form stuff, such as the right fit which was my last post, really allows me to include nuance and symbolism and all the other pretentious shit i love shoehorning in to my writing. i hope you stick out the wave with me <3

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

you saw it before you could react. a massive chunk of cement was hurtling straight toward you, fast and unstoppable. your legs refused to move. time stalled, every second stretching thin with the awful realisation that this was it. this was how it ended—for no reason, on a thursday, because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

but just before it hit, something yanked you backward, hard.

you cried out as the world blurred around you, a blur of wind and sound and pressure crushing into your chest. you were flying. 

your brain screamed that it wasn’t possible, that none of this made sense, but your body was already curled tight against something solid and warm. it took a second to understand that it was a person. no—not just any person.

the red and blue suit. the stupid mask. the goddamn glowing web.

spider-man.

your stomach flipped violently as the city skyline whipped past, your legs dangling uselessly. his arm was locked around your waist, firm and annoyingly confident. a glowing thread of web tech was attached to your wrist, pulsing faintly as it connected you to his suit like a leash. below you, the chaos on the street was a distant noise. above you, the clouds were streaked orange from the setting sun. around you, the wind roared.

and you hated all of it. you had always hated spiderman. he was a self-righteous, cocky, reckless menace. always showing up to destroy half the street in the name of “saving” it. and now here you were, clutched to his chest like some helpless civilian in a comic book.

“put me down!” you screamed over the wind, squirming against his grip. “what the fuck are you doing? put me down, you freak!”

“you’re welcome,” he yelled back, voice muffled through the mask.

“i didn’t ask you to save me!”

“i noticed!” he shot back, and the smirk in his voice made your blood boil.

you struggled the entire way up—clawing at his suit, kicking your legs, swearing every curse you knew under your breath—until finally, he landed with a smooth, practised thud on the rooftop of some high-rise building. your feet hit solid ground again, but your balance didn’t catch up in time. your knees wobbled, and you stumbled forward, dizzy from the whiplash and adrenaline.

“i’m going to throw up,” you groaned, doubling over.

“do it away from the suit, thanks,” he muttered.

but before you could stagger farther, a sharp tug pulled you back—your wrist yanked mid-step until your body collided with his chest again. his arm caught you instinctively, steadying you, but you immediately shoved him away, heart still racing from the fall. that’s when you noticed it.

the thread was still glowing and your wrist was still tethered to it.

“what the hell is this?” you shrieked, holding it up. 

the web stretched and shimmered faintly in the light, a sickly silverish glow like it was straight out of some alien movie. it wasn’t even sticky anymore, just fused into your, skin buzzing faintly where it made contact. 

“why is this still on me?! get it off!”

“working on it!” he snapped, kneeling to inspect where it fused into his own suit. “it wasn’t supposed to... uh... attach like that.”

“attach like what?” you cried, tugging violently at it. it didn’t budge. “is this a leash? did you just fucking leash me like a dog?”

“you think i wanted this?” he shot up again, exasperated. “i was in the middle of stopping a building from collapsing when you ran into the line of fire!”

“i was just trying to take the subway!”

“and i was trying to stop a criminal from levelling the station! sue me!”

the shouting echoed across the rooftop, both of you standing there like idiots with a literal glowing string binding your bodies together. your breath came out in shaky huffs. your heart was still racing—not just from fear now, but fury, embarrassment, complete disbelief that this was actually happening.

he let out a long sigh, suddenly sheepish. “look... it’s an experimental prototype. a bio-thread. reacts to certain electrical signals. and, apparently, to heartbeats.”

you blinked. “you’re kidding.”

“wish i was.”

your eyes widened as the realisation sank in. “you mean this thing is connected to—”

“your heartbeat, yeah,” he said grimly, arms crossed now.

you stared down at your wrist, horrified. “that’s disgusting.”

“that’s science,” he corrected.

you gave the web another tug, desperate and annoyed. “so how do i get it off?”

he hesitated.

“no,” you said, already dreading it. “no, don’t tell me—”

“we wait,” he muttered. “should dissolve naturally in... seventy-two hours.”

“seventy—?” you choked. “seventy-two HOURS?!”

he raised both hands in defence. “give or take. the tech’s a little moody.”

“you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“i’m really not.”

you groaned so loudly it echoed. then you slumped down onto the edge of the rooftop, cradling your head in your hands, trying not to scream into the skyline.

 this couldn’t be real. it was some fever dream. you were probably still on the subway, passed out from exhaustion, hallucinating everything. because there was no way you were actually tethered to the city’s most annoying masked menace for the next three days. you refused to believe it.

but the soft glow from your wrist said otherwise.

“take me home.”

he groaned the second you said it, but you didn’t care. you crossed your arms and tilted your chin up, staring at him stubbornly as the wind from the rooftop whipped around the both of you, the glowing thread still tethering your wrist to his suit like some ridiculous sci-fi leash.

“no way,” he snapped. “i still have to go after that guy. he bombed the train platform—he’s probably already halfway across the city.”

you gaped at him. “are you dumb? you're gonna go fight a criminal—with me attached to you?”

he made a guilty little noise and glanced at the still pulsing thread between you. “...i mean. maybe.”

“maybe?” you hissed. “the police can handle him! you’re not dragging me into some vigilante war zone.”

he hesitated, shoulders slumping, and finally, with a sigh of defeat, muttered, “fine. but where the hell are we gonna live for the next three days?”

you blinked. “we?”

“we,” he said firmly, pointing between the two of you. “we’re literally bonded now. unless you wanna cuddle on a fire escape all weekend, we need somewhere to stay.”

you narrowed your eyes. “there’s no way i’m going wherever you stay. i don’t even know you. you could live in a sewer or like… some creepy underground lair.”

he looked genuinely offended as his mask scrunched up. “i don’t live in a sewer. and it’s not a lair. it’s a… small apartment. cozy, even.”

“yeah, no,” you said flatly. “you’re coming to my place.”

his shoulders sagged even further. “ugh fine. but we’re walking. i’m not swinging again with you screaming in my ear.”

and that’s how you found yourself dragging spider-man—spider-freaking-man—down the street by your wrist like some weird, reluctant pet. you ignored the way people looked. it was late, and luckily, his suit was mostly covered by the hoodie you’d given him. though he kept trying to duck into shadows, mumbling under his breath like a sulking child. the glowing thread shimmered faintly between you, pulling taut every time one of you stepped too far away.

when you finally reached your apartment building, he stared up at it with a kind of wary awe. “damn. you got a high paying job or something?”

you snorted as you opened the door. “i’m a uni student. my parents are just rich.”

he tilted his head at you as you stepped into the elevator. “what uni?”

you told him your school name without much thought, and immediately, his whole body stiffened.

“...wait,” he blurted. “me too.”

you turned to look at him slowly. “what?”

his eyes widened behind the mask. he cursed under his breath and looked away, like he’d just admitted state secrets. “shit. i didn’t mean to say that. ignore that.”

you were about to push him further when the elevator doors opened. just then, your phone buzzed. “takeout’s here.”

he startled like you’d just hit him. “you ordered food?”

“yeah,” you said, tossing your keys onto the counter as you entered the apartment. “i was starving and figured you’d eat too, unless you’re part spider and eat bugs.”

he didn’t dignify that with a response.

you handed him a pair of clean sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt you figured would fit—he disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, looking annoyingly good in your clothes. he was tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves pushed up his forearms as he sat across from you at your dining table.

you opened the takeout boxes and passed him one. “pad thai. extra spicy.”

he didn’t move.

“uh, you’re gonna have a hard time eating that with your mask on.”

his arms crossed defensively. “i don’t take off my mask in front of people. especially not people who hate spider-man.”

you scoffed, twirling a noodle around with your chopsticks. “i don’t hate you. i just think you're an annoying menace who causes more problems than he solves.”

“...that’s literally what hating me is,” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes. “look, i don’t care. you saved my life, remember? i won’t tell anyone. just… do it. you won’t survive three whole days eating through the mask.”

he was quiet for a second too long, but then hesitantly spoke up.

“...you won’t tell anyone?”

“swear on my meal,” you said solemnly.

he hesitated one last time, and then with a reluctant sigh, his gloved fingers reached up. you watched as he peeled the mask off in one smooth motion—and everything inside you short-circuited.

because holy. shit.

his face was devastatingly pretty. sharp cheekbones, soft pouty lips, golden skin that caught the light in all the right places. his hair was ruffled and messy, sticking out a little from the mask, and his eyes—big, brown, framed by thick lashes—blinked at you nervously.

“i… did not expect you to be that hot,” you blurted, mouth full of noodles.

he choked on air. “what—”

“no like—i was expecting some weird nerdy guy with maybe a beard.”

he blinked. “wow. thanks.”

you pointed at him with your chopsticks, narrowing your eyes. “wait. i know you.”

he froze at that.

“you’re… that guy from my discrete math lecture. choi yeonjun. you’re always sitting in the front row. you literally answer every question like a damn TA.”

his mouth parted slightly. “you’re the girl who sits in the column next to me. with the giant water bottle and all the highlighters.”

you paused. “...so you’ve noticed me.”

he blinked fast. “uh. yeah. i mean—you stand out. not in a bad way. just—pretty. you’re pretty. not that i notice or anything. well obviously i noticed because i just said it but—”

you snorted. “you’re really awkward without the suit.”

“i’m not—” he groaned, face turning pink. “okay maybe a little. it just gives me a different type of confidence you know?”

you grinned down at your food, heart ticking slightly faster. you didn’t know what was more surreal—sitting across from spider-man, or discovering spider-man was the hot math nerd who sat fifteen feet from you every tuesday and thursday. either way, it was going to be a very long seventy two hours.

you had come to terms with the fact that you were never going to get any real sleep. not when you were forced to lie right at the edge of your own bed, arm dangling pathetically over the side like some kind of human offering. 

the glowing web tether was still stuck to your wrist, stretching toward the air mattress yeonjun had flopped onto with a dramatic sigh of exhaustion. you could barely move without yanking his entire body with you, so the only position you could settle in was an awkward sideways curl, with one arm constantly pulled down like gravity itself was trying to remind you of your very stupid, very spider-shaped problem.

you tried to sleep. really. but around three in the morning, right as your eyes were finally starting to blur at the edges, you felt a sudden hard tug on your wrist and then you were falling. 

you yelped as your body was jerked right off the mattress, falling with a startled oof directly onto the unsuspecting man on the floor. yeonjun barely even stirred. he let out a sleepy little grunt and instinctively wrapped his stupid, warm, surprisingly toned arms around you like you were some oversized body pillow. 

you struggled, wriggling against his grip like a bug under a glass, but it was useless. his arms were locked around your waist, one of his hands now tangled in your shirt, and you could feel the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck.

you hissed his name, trying to peel his fingers off you, but all you got in return was a sleepy pout and a grumbled, “five more minutes.” it would’ve been cute if it wasn’t so infuriating. 

and okay, maybe it was a little warm. and his chest was kind of…comfortable. his stupid heartbeat was strong and slow under your ear, and you were so damn tired from the chaotic whirlwind of your spiderweb-tethered day that you just…gave in. your body melted into the warmth of his, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his borrowed hoodie, and for the first time in hours, your eyes slipped shut. surprisingly, it felt safe and grounding. like being held together by something solid in the middle of all the mess.

the next morning though, was...less cute.

“you pulled me off my bed,” you deadpanned as you sat up, pushing off his chest with an elbow. your wrist still glowed faintly, the web tether warm between your skins.

yeonjun blinked up at you, hair sticking in every direction, a blanket half-kicked off the mattress. 

“huh?” he said groggily, then sat up fast as memory caught up with him. “wait—shit, did i yank you down?”

you narrowed your eyes. “yes. and then you cuddled me.”

his entire face flushed red. “i did not cuddle you.”

you crossed your arms. “you were purring.”

“that’s slander.” but he looked horrified.

the next twenty four hours were a disaster.

you tripped over the tether so many times that you started to wonder if it had a personal vendetta against your toes. brushing your teeth was like a weirdly synchronised dance of tangled arms and accidental elbow jabs. showering was even worse. 

he stood frozen outside the bathroom door, your glowing lifeline stretched taut through the crack, his voice drifting through like a very flustered ghost. “i’m not peeking, okay?!”

“you better not be!” you snapped as you held up a towel like a makeshift curtain while trying to lather shampoo one-handed. “don’t test me, spiderboy, i will kill you.”

“this is humiliating for me too!” he yelled back. “i’m an icon of justice!”

“you’re an icon of annoying!”

you fought like bickering siblings who had never met before yesterday and yet were somehow stuck together for life. every time you tried to do anything, you’d hear him mutter something under his breath like, “why couldn’t i have been bonded to someone normal?” and you’d throw a couch pillow at him.

it was exactly at the point of your worst argument—over whether or not he could eat directly out of the peanut butter jar—that his watch beeped. he glanced down, cursed under his breath, and without any warning, leapt off the couch.

“wait—what the fuck—!” you screamed as your body was yanked clean off the floor.

“shit, sorry!” yeonjun called back mid-air, swinging out the open balcony door like it was a tuesday stroll. “emergency call!”

“emergency call your ass, PUT ME DOWN!”

“can’t! you’re tethered! my bad!”

you flailed helplessly as you were flung through the air, wind screaming in your ears, the skyline of the city blurring past. each time he swung, your body would arc toward him, face practically slamming against his as you bumped into him with every motion. your nose brushed his chin, your cheek scraped his jaw, and one time—one time—your lips accidentally brushed the side of his mask.

you shrieked. “stop swinging like a lunatic and hold me!”

“oh? now you care about being close to me?” he teased, voice gleeful, mask slightly lopsided.

you scowled. “if i throw up, it’s going straight into your face.”

he just laughed, and then like a showoff on steroids he flipped mid-air, feet planting against the side of a glass building, body upside down. the web between you tightened instantly, pulling you forward until your face hovered just inches from his. he didn’t move. neither did you. the air thinned between you, your breath catching as your eyes flicked to his masked face.

your lips were right there.

he grinned.

then dropped you very unceremoniously onto a nearby rooftop with a thud.

“careful, pretty,” he drawled, voice smug. “you almost kissed me.”

you gaped at him. “what the hell?”

“what?” he said innocently, crouching on the edge of the roof like the cockiest bastard alive. “don’t blame me. you’re the one who’s all over me lately.”

“you pulled me into the sky like a rag doll!”

he tilted his head. “and yet, you’re still clinging to me. hmm.”

you chucked a loose brick at him, but he dodged it and just laughed again, sunlight catching his suit as he rose higher on the building’s edge. the way he stood, so confident and self-assured, was almost unrecognisable from the shy, stammering boy who slept in your apartment and accidentally blurted compliments with red cheeks and soft eyes.

because here, like this, in the suit, yeonjun wasn’t flustered. he wasn’t awkward. he was bold and flirtatious and impossible to pin down. and it was beginning to drive you crazy.

“god,” you muttered under your breath, trying to smooth your wind-tangled hair. “your split personality is insane.”

“you like it,” he said with a wink and leapt off the rooftop again, dragging you behind him with a scream echoing into the morning air.

he was heavy in your arms—well, technically you were mostly dragging him, but still, he made a pretty pathetic sight with one arm slung over your shoulder and his mask balled up in your fist. 

yeonjun winced with every step as you practically hauled him down the hallway to your bathroom, grumbling under your breath about superhero idiocy and your web-chained fate. his face was pale but smug, which made it hard to feel too bad for him, even with the deep gash on his side bleeding through the slick fabric of his suit. 

“could’ve just let me bleed out on the roof,” he joked weakly, slumping down onto the toilet seat. you shot him a look and flicked the bathroom light on.

“how could i? we’re attached to each other because of your stupid web.”

he groaned dramatically as you rifled through the cabinet for your tiny first aid kit. “god, i forget how mean you can get.”

“you’ve known me for two days.”

“and i’ve never known peace since,” he mumbled, hissing when you unzipped the top of his suit. it peeled down like a second skin, sticking slightly to the dried blood at his side, and then it was suddenly just there—his torso, sculpted and gleaming faintly with sweat, all defined lines and soft curves where his skin dipped between muscle. he was flushed down to his chest, breaths short and laboured, and you hated yourself for noticing. your eyes stuttered somewhere between his collarbone and the trail of blood slashed across his ribs. he was stupidly attractive, in that way people weren’t supposed to be when they were bruised and bleeding and shirtless in your bathroom.

you blinked hard to cover it up. “you’re disgusting.”

he grinned. “you’re staring.”

“i’m assessing the wound,” you snapped, even though your voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through. 

you knelt beside him, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, trying very hard not to notice the way his thigh brushed your knee. he was warm and so very there, and the web tether between you pulsed quietly, glowing with soft light that gradually brightened as your hands made contact with his skin.

you swore under your breath as the tether suddenly shortened, dragging you even closer until you were practically perched on his leg, trying to clean the gash with shaking fingers.

“stop moving,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“you’re literally sitting on me.”

“and you’re literally whining like a baby,” you shot back.

“sorry, i didn’t realise getting stabbed meant i had to also deal with you sitting on me and insulting me,” he grumbled, but there was no bite to it. his voice had dipped lower and softer, with a strange edge of tension beneath the banter, which curled around your lungs and squeezed.

you froze when he tilted his head to look at you, eyes dark and voice barely above a murmur.

“you gonna kiss me or just keep staring?”

you froze at that, heartbeat thudding louder making the web glow brighter. you stared at him, caught between the heat of his skin under your hands and the dare in his voice. 

but then your hand shot up and smacked his chest, hard enough to jolt him, and you scrambled off his lap, trying to hide your flaming face behind pure rage.

“get dressed, freak!”

he laughed as you stormed out of the bathroom, muttering something about how you were the weirdest civilian he’d ever met. you didn’t respond with youe usual snarky response as you were too busy pressing your hands to your face and praying the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

later, the both of you ended up back in your bed this time, lying stiffly on either end like two strangers forced to share a lifeboat. the air mattress plan was abandoned mutually,  after both of you admitted it had been a disaster the night before. this was... better. except for the thing between you. the glowing thread, taut and warm, stretched like some cursed lifeline from your wrist to his. you turned to your side, glaring at the ceiling.

“this is insane,” you muttered.

“you think?” he sighed. “i was testing a prototype, not... roping myself to a civilian.”

you glanced over at him. his face was turned toward the ceiling too, dark in the low light, jaw sharp and brows furrowed in thought. then he spoke again, voice quiet and strange.

“it’s supposed to sync with biological emotion markers. that’s what the tech does. it connects based on stimulus—heartbeat, adrenaline, whatever.”

he then paused as both of you looked down at the web connecting your wrists. it was glowing again.

brighter.

“is it—” you swallowed, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. “—is it reacting to me… or to you?”

his eyes flicked toward you. something unreadable settled into his expression as he shifted, leaning slightly closer. the tether pulsed, light blooming a little brighter between your wrists. you felt your skin heat where it touched the sheets, the air between your bodies shimmering with something you didn’t want to name.

his hand moved, slow and hesitant, fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid of scaring you off. it was the first time he touched you that gently. like he wanted to. like this was something he wasn’t allowed to want.

your breath hitched.

but then he blinked, the moment cracking in half as he leaned away quickly and gave a sheepish laugh.

“sorry, i’m being so weird,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “goodnight.”

you stared at him as he rolled to his side, facing away, shoulders tense.

your hand drifted to the tether between you which was glowing faintly now. like it, too, was pretending none of that happened.

the next morning, you woke with a heavy feeling in your chest, the warmth of yeonjun's body pressed against your back where he'd somehow started spooning you during the night. 

the cursed bio-web glowed faintly between your wrists, its light weaker now but still stubbornly connecting you to the sleeping superhero whose arm was currently crushing your diaphragm. you tried to shift away, but the movement yanked yeonjun's wrist sharply toward you, jolting him awake with a grunt.

"mmph—w'shappening?" he slurred, blinking sleepily as his free hand came up to rub his eyes. then he froze, suddenly very aware of how his body was molded against yours, his nose buried in your hair. 

"oh. uh. morning."

"morning," you muttered, refusing to acknowledge how nice his sleep-rough voice sounded this close to your ear. the web pulsed between you, responding to your elevated heartbeat like the traitor it was.

yeonjun cleared his throat and attempted to roll away, only for the tether to snap taut, dragging you both into an awkward mid-air collision of limbs. 

"right. forgot about that," he mumbled, his cheeks pink as he untangled himself. "three days can't end fast enough."

the words shouldn't have stung, but they did.

the day passed in strange pockets of silence and unexpected intimacy. making breakfast was, again a clumsy dance of coordinated movements—you cracking eggs onehanded while he reached across you for the spatula, his chest brushing your back in a way that made the web flare brighter. 

by afternoon, you'd developed an unspoken rhythm. studying on the couch meant yeonjun's legs thrown over your lap, his toes occasionally flexing against your thigh. you told him about your classes, the professors you loved and hated, the little things that made you feel like home. he told you about his family, his friends’ relentless teasing, and how sometimes being spider-man meant missing out on the simplest moments. you laughed more than you expected, but the heavy feeling in your heart didn’t go away.

as sunset painted your balcony in gold, you stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the web's glow grow fainter. 

"think it'll hurt when it breaks?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

yeonjun flexed his wrist. "dunno. never stuck myself to a pretty girl before."

"shut up," you said without heat, your traitorous pulse making the thread brighten.

right as you said that, without any ceremony it suddenly dissolved. one moment the connection was there, thrumming with energy. the next, there was nothing. your wrist felt strangely light, the skin unmarked as if the tether had never existed. the sudden freedom was more disorienting than the fall from the subway platform three days ago.

yeonjun cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. "so. uh. guess i should..." he gestured vaguely toward the skyline.

"yeah," you agreed too quickly. "crime to fight. people to save. all that."

an awkward beat passed before he suddenly pulled you into a stiff hug, his hands patting your back like he was unsure of what he was doing. "see you in class," he mumbled into your hair before releasing you like you'd burned him.

you nodded, a little breathless. “yeah.”

you watched quietly as he slipped the mask back up, eyes meeting yours one last time before he waved goodbye and launched himself into the air with a graceful swing. the sight left a hollow ache in your chest, the cool evening breeze whispering around you as you leaned on the balcony railing and closed your eyes.

just as you were wondering how the hell you were going to say hi to him on campus, a shadow suddenly blocked the fading sunlight in front of you. you opened your eyes and smiled. there he was—spider-man, hanging upside down right before you. the mask’s white eyes blinked slowly, hesitating.

"miss me?"

you let out a startled yelp which turned into a punch that sent him swinging backward with a laugh.

"you absolute asshole!" you hissed, heart hammering. "what the hell are you—"

"forgot something," he interrupted, catching himself on the railing. his voice was oddly nervous as the white lenses of his mask stared at you. "the web's gone but... my chest still feels kinda tight? like there's still a tether there. that's... not normal, right?"

you blinked. "your... chest?"

"yeah." his gloved hand came up to rub at the black spider emblem. "right here. it's weird. hurts a little. think i need you to check—"

"you're such a terrible liar," you breathed, but your hands were already reaching for his mask. this time, you pulled it all the way off.

yeonjun's face was flushed, his lips slightly parted as he stared at you with an expression so open it made your knees weak. there was no smugness behind it, just nervous hope. 

"so?" he whispered. "you gonna check or what?"

your fingers curled around his jaw. "shut up and kiss me, spider-boy."

he didn't need to be told twice.

the first kiss was messy—yeonjun still upside down, your hands fumbling with his hair as he gripped your waist to keep you both from toppling over. your upper lip brushed against his lower one first, that plush swell of his mouth impossibly soft against yours, and then he was kissing you back properly, his lips moving with a desperate hunger that made your head spin. the contrast was intoxicating—the way your upper lip caught slightly on the perfect curve of his lower one before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that had you clutching at his shoulders for balance. when you bit his lower lip, he actually whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"fuck," he panted when you broke apart, his pupils blown wide. his lower lip glistened where you'd nipped it, that perfect pout even more swollen now. "was that—are we—"

"if you don't kiss me again in the next three seconds, i'm pushing you off this balcony."

he grinned, wild and bright, before surging forward. this time, he flipped mid-kiss, his body twisting until he was pressing you back against the railing, his thigh slotting between yours. your upper lip caught on his again in that delicious way, the sensitive skin tingling where it dragged against the fuller curve of his lower lip before his tongue swept into your mouth. 

the heat of him was everywhere, his hands roaming your back with none of the hesitation he'd had while tethered. when you moaned into his mouth, he swallowed the sound greedily, his lower lip catching on yours as he pulled back just enough to tease before diving in again.

"still think i'm a nuisance?" he murmured against your lips, his teeth scraping your jaw, his lips brushing yours with each word.

"shut up," you gasped, arching into him. your lips dragged against his as you spoke, the fleeting contact making him shudder. "just because i want to make out with you doesn't mean i approve of your reckless vigilantism."

yeonjun laughed, the vibration travelling straight through your chest as he lifted you effortlessly onto the railing. your legs locked around his waist on instinct, his hands gripping your thighs as he kissed you again, deeper this time. his lower lip slotted perfectly between yours, that plush softness yielding to your teeth when you bit down gently, and the groan it tore from him was better than any sound you'd heard in your life. 

"good thing i don't need your approval," he teased between kisses, each brush of his lips against yours more deliberate now, his upper lip catching on yours in ways that made your toes curl. "just your mouth. and your hands. and maybe—"

you cut him off with another kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. the city stretched out below you, endless and bright, but all you could focus on was the way yeonjun shuddered when you tugged him closer, the way his heart pounded against yours —no web needed this time to prove you were connected.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. In fact, hate was an understatement. He loathed them. Your dad couldn’t even fathom the vitriol Bucky seemed to harbor for every man interested in looking your direction, but he didn’t complain. Bucky kept shitty men away from his daughter. Why would he have a problem with that? 

The unfortunate side effect of Bucky’s hatred was that boyfriends didn’t tend to stick around very long. And you weren’t going to admit this, but he always ended up being right about them. They were shitty men, but you wanted attention as much as the next girl, and that was hard to find sometimes. 

All of this information played in the back of your mind as you watched the taillights of your boyfriend’s car speed out of the parking lot you had just been abandoned in. It was after midnight, and the area wasn’t necessarily a safe one. You weren’t even supposed to be in this fucking parking lot, and now you had no way of getting home unless you wanted to walk or call Bucky, which was out of the question. 

Bucky would narc on your whereabouts as soon as he could, and you were not losing the rest of your summer because of a stupid boy. Though, it would be nice to see Bucky again. He’d been hanging around less and less since you’d come home from college, and it was beginning to feel personal. Maybe you could convince him to keep your secret for you. Either way, you needed a way out of this sketchy parking lot. 

“Shit.” You murmured, rolling your eyes and stomping with a dramatic, over-the-top huff. Bucky would’ve laughed and called you a kid for doing it, but it felt right given the circumstances. This entire situation felt so embarrassing, and you hated to tell him he was right. You called him, nonetheless. 

He picked up before the second ring could finish. 

“Hey, doll. You okay?” 

His voice, raspy with sleep, sent goosebumps skittering down your spine. Doll. You tried not to blush into the phone. 

“Hi Buck,” you murmured, “I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

“It’s fine, doll. Where are you? I thought you were at the library with Brad. Chad? What was his name again?” 

You snickered. He knew very well your now ex-boyfriend's name but couldn’t bring himself to say it. It didn’t matter now anyways. 

“Yeah, about that,” you sighed. “We didn’t exactly go to the library. We got into a fight. I don’t know where he went, but he left.” 

“Doll, where are you?” 

His voice was much more alert now. You could hear him shuffling around in the background, probably looking for clothes to put on. 

“I’m fine,” you reminded him, biting your lip. “I just need a ride home.” 

“Tell me where you are, right now,” he demanded through gritted teeth, and because you were so good at listening to him, you did exactly that. 

When Bucky pulled into the parking lot, he looked less angry than you were expecting. Worry painted his features, a stark contrast from the usual laid-back expression on his face. Worry faded into relief when he made eye contact with you. He was out of the car wrapping his arms around you faster than you could blink. 

Your attention snagged on the grey sweatpants he was wearing, unable to keep your eyes from drifting down his tall figure.  

“I’m gonna kill that guy,” Bucky mumbled into your hair, squeezing you against his chest. “He just left? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Buck. Thanks for picking me up.” 

“Of course, Doll. Let’s get you home, okay?” 

Bucky didn’t take you home. He took you to his home, which was much more preferable than trying to sneak into your dad’s house so late at night. The drive home had been quiet, likely due to the late hour, but also because Bucky was stewing in the driver’s seat. The longer he thought about your boyfriend abandoning you basically on the side of the road, the more upset he got. 

What confused you the most was that his anger seemed to be directed mostly at you. It was as though having you safe and sound in his car made him more furious about the entire situation. He’d barely looked at you since getting in the car, and it was driving you insane. 

When he pulled into his driveway, neither of you moved to get out of the car. He put the car in park, huffed, and then finally looked at you. He didn’t say anything, which made it all the more awkward for you. 

When you couldn’t take it anymore, you said, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” 

He scoffed. 

“How many times did I tell you he would hurt you?” 

It was your turn to scoff. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you said. 

You were lying through your teeth. It became his business as soon as you asked him for a ride so late at night, but you were too chicken to admit that out loud. His eyebrows shot into his hairline before he barked a laugh. 

“None of my business? Doll, everything you do is my business. How many times have you come running to me when a boy hurts you? It’s Bucky’s job to pick up the pieces, but never to make you feel good, right? Is that it?” 

“Oh, please,” you said, ignoring the spark of pleasure that shot through your body when he mentioned making you feel good. Claustrophobia overwhelmed you in the car. Being so close to Bucky’s handsome face and alluring scent launched your hormones into a frenzy every time you took a breath. He was everywhere and you couldn’t think straight. You shot out of the car, slamming the door behind you as you stomped away.  

Bucky was right behind you, calling after you in a way that made your knees wobble. He gently closed his car door, sighing when he realized you were waiting for him by his front door. 

“You’re right,” you mumbled, ignoring his searching stare as he unlocked the door and waved you forward. “It’s not fair to you, but you don’t have to say it like that.” 

“Someone ought to,” he snapped. “Look at me.” 

You turned away, purposely avoiding his gaze. 

“Doll, look at me.” 

He stepped in front of you, gently cradling your chin. 

He whispered, “Look at me, please,” and because you were so good at listening to him, you did. 

“Beautiful.”  

He said it so quietly that you weren’t sure he meant for you to hear it. You froze under his watchful gaze, which flicked down to your lips and back up again. 

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” He breathed, caressing your cheek with his thumb. 

You swallowed, nodding slowly. You wanted to stay a lot longer than one night. 

“This is a bad idea,” he murmured, glancing at your lips again. “I can’t want this.” 

Suddenly, he was halfway across the room, fists clenched at his side. The sudden absence of warmth sent a shiver through you. He was so hot and cold that it was getting hard to keep up. 

“Buck-,” you started, but he was moving again, and then his lips were on yours. 

He groaned into the kiss, a desperate noise that mirrored your own desire for him. His arms wrapped around your waist, ferociously tugging you against his chest. You moaned into his mouth as swiped his tongue over yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do this-,” he said, before kissing you again, unable to keep away now that he tasted the forbidden fruit, “-the entire summer.” 

You could tell that he meant it. He kissed you like he meant it. 

“I know I should feel bad,” he said, lifting you so that you could wrap your legs around his waist, “but I don’t. This feels fucking amazing, doll.” 

“Bucky,” you moaned, whimpering when he attached his lips to your neck, nibbling at a spot that sent heat directly to your core. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, breathing into the crook of your neck. “Tell me you want me too,” he begged, nearly whining. 

You were glad he was holding you up because you would’ve fallen to your knees at the sound of his whine. He gripped your waist tightly, waiting for your answer. You pressed your lips against his, wondering why it took him so long to finally admit that there was something between the two of you. 

“I want you, Bucky,” you murmured against his lips, “I’m all yours.” 

He smirked. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said before slamming his lips against yours. 

His bed was soft. You’d imagined lying in it a million times; underneath him, atop him, on all fours – but you’d never thought about how soft it would be. You’d removed your shirt halfway to his bedroom, throwing it in a random direction because you had to feel his skin against yours. He’d thrown you on the bed, tugging your pants down your legs in one smooth motion, and now he was standing at the end of the bed, watching you squirm beneath his gaze. His fingers lightly grazed your ankle, tickling. 

“What is it?” You asked, crossing your arms over your exposed breasts. 

“Don’t do that,” he chided, clicking his tongue. “Don’t hide. I want to see all of you.” 

You slowly uncrossed your arms, exposing yourself to him. He sucked in a breath, slowly lowering his gaze from your face to your body. 

“Can I touch you? Taste you? Fuck you?” He asked finally, and you nearly moaned at the rasp in his voice.  

“Yes,” you moaned, “please.” 

He didn’t waste any time, dropping his face to your core and swiping his tongue through your folds. You nearly bucked off the bed, but he held you down, groaning against you. 

“Oh, fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, arching your back. “Don’t stop.” 

His tongue was a glorious feeling against your skin, sucking and nibbling at your sensitive core. You’d never felt this good while getting head from anyone else, and you doubted you ever would again. He wound you up tighter and tighter until heat pounded in your core and you couldn’t remember which direction was up. 

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long, doll,” he murmured between licks, kissing your mound as you quivered beneath him. 

“Please, Bucky,” you whined, heart pounding. 

“Please what, baby?” He asked, tilting his head. He was teasing you, and you were putty in his hands. 

“Please touch me. Please. I’m so close,” you mewled, squeezing your eyes closed. A desperate tear escaped as he teased you mercilessly. 

“Since you asked so nicely, baby,” he said, finally swirling his tongue around your clit. 

You exploded beneath him, gasping at the pleasure as it radiated through you. Wave after wave of your orgasm crested, relieving the pressure that had been building since the very first moment you’d seen Bucky in the parking lot earlier. You squirmed beneath him, grasping at the sheets before you finally wound your fingers in his hair, tugging. 

“There you go, doll,” he murmured, coaxing you down from your high, running his fingers around your thighs in a soothing motion. “You’re so pretty when you come.” 

You heaved, heart thundering in your chest. His cheek rested against your thigh, watching you come back to yourself. Slickness coated his chin, and you nearly came from the sight of him alone. His eyes, usually an icy blue, were dark oceans of desire, waiting patiently for a sign that you were ready for him. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” you panted, “I should’ve called you a long time ago. That was insane.” 

His eyes briefly darkened - the only indication that he was still upset with you for being so blind to his feelings – before he blinked it away, smirking. 

“I’m not done with you just yet, doll,” he murmured, slowly inching his way up your exhausted body.  

He trailed up your stomach, lightly pressing his lips to your soft skin and relishing the feeling with each kiss. When he made his way to your sternum, he paused, nuzzling his head to your chest. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispered, breath fanning across your exposed nipples, hardening them almost painfully. He hovered there for a moment, waiting for your consent again. “I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you.”  

You hazily blinked, trying and failing to focus on his words when his mouth was so close to your breasts.  

“Can I have you, doll?” He asked, a ghost of a whisper. “Will you let me have this part of you? Will it be enough to satiate the need I have for you?” 

You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or to himself, but you didn’t care. Heat was coiling in your gut once again. His words alone were enough to elicit a whine from your throat. 

“Will you still look at me in the morning the way you’re looking at me now?” He asked, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingertips. “One night will never be enough, but I won’t complain if it means you’ll have me tonight.” 

You whimpered, unable to voice the desire you felt for him. He was everything you’d ever wanted and more. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All mine, tonight.” 

“Always, Buck,” you gasped, arching your back so that his lips were even closer to your chest. “I’m yours, always.” 

A genuine smile crossed his face, so sweet and obvious in its joy that his next movement sent a shock through your entire system. His tongue flattened against your breast, drawing a tantalizing line from your nipple to your collar bone before he kissed your throat. The sudden contact from his warm mouth sent you over the edge for a second time, clawing at his back for more, more more. 

Grunting, he slid into you mid-orgasm, eliciting a moan from deep in your chest. You’d never felt so full before, and you loved it. You arched your back, begging him to move. No more waiting or teasing. You needed him everywhere, and he was more than happy to oblige. 

“Shit, baby,” he cooed, warm breath heating your neck, “you feel so good.” 

His need for you was visceral and endless. He pounded into you with such passion that your body couldn’t do anything except hold on and enjoy the ride. He teased, and nipped, and laughed into your skin as your bodies came together, an act of vulnerability you had never experienced with anyone before. 

Not to mention how much he talked during it. He sang praises against the column of your throat, calling you the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, claiming he didn’t deserve the attention you were giving him, wishing he could stay this close to you forever. His words were overwhelming and incredibly seductive, breathing life into you as he sent you crashing over the edge, a showcase of pure greed for your pleasure. 

He kissed you like he’d never get to kiss you again, begging another and another and another off of you, worshipping the softness of your lips and the heat in your gaze. He couldn’t get enough, holding you against him so tightly when he came that you could feel it in your bones. 

“Breathe, baby,” he cooed, peppering your cheeks with kisses as your mind reeled with pleasure. “My pretty, pretty girl.” 

You didn’t think you’d ever come down from your high, but eventually you blinked and could see the ceiling again. Tears sprung from behind your eyes, another emotional release that you didn’t quite understand. 

“That was so good,” you exclaimed, more tears escaping down your cheeks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see you, Bucky.” 

Bucky wiped the tears away, kissing the streaks they left behind. 

“I’m not mad, doll,” he said simply, shaking his head. 

“I’m an idiot,” you sniffled, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” he scoffed, and though he was smiling, you could tell he was serious. “Don’t worry about it, pretty girl. Just stay with me tonight, and we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow, okay?” 

“Everything else?” You questioned, blinking away the last of the tears you’d shed. 

He smirked, unable to hide his glee when he said, “I don’t know how I’m going to look your dad in the face after what we just did together. How do I tell him I’m in love with his daughter? He’s going to kill me.” 

It was your turn to giggle as Bucky flopped onto his back, running his hand over his face in a pitiful manner. He hadn’t even realized what he’d said, which sent a shock of butterflies through your body. You decided to keep that little secret to yourself, enjoying the playfulness in his gaze. 

“I think that’s a problem for tomorrow,” you commented, stifling another laugh. 

“Too true,” he joked, shaking his head, “I’m way too old to be up this late.” 

He gently tugged on your arm, pulling you toward him so that you were straddling his waist. He cradled your hips, running his fingertips along the skin he’d worshipped earlier. 

“I have some bad news about that,” you murmured, leaning forward to kiss the crease that formed between his eyebrows. “I’m starving.” 

He grinned, nipping at the skin beneath your collarbone. 

“I have some bad news about that,” he repeated, smirking. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes as he said, “I’m starving too,” and kissed you so sensually that heat sparked deep in your core again. 

He grasped your hips tightly, grinding your sensitive mound against his already hard member. 

“Oh,” you tutted, smirking, “I guess we can put off breakfast for a little longer.” 

“You’re sure?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow at you. 

“Oh, yes,” you assured him. 

Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. Every single boyfriend besides one – he sort of loved the last one for sending you in his direction, but he’d never admit that out loud. 

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