#winterlena

all the small things you do

by Ninazadzia

xxx

“I close my eyes and all I see is you And the small things you do…”

xxx

By the time we reached the safehouse, it was the middle of the night and well below freezing.

I’d given my jacket to Yelena hours ago—the only reason I hadn’t lost fingers or toes to frostbite was the serum.

“If this isn’t the right place, I’m going to kill Sam Wilson,” she muttered through chattering teeth.

I punched in the code Sam had given me. The keypad was an old SHIELD model—barely the size of my palm, scuffed and scratched, with three metal buttons and a cracked green screen. It took me three tries before the lock finally released with a groan. A green light blinked once on the panel, then went still. The burst transmission was sent.

Somewhere, on some off-site SHIELD relay or Avengers comms desk, someone now knew exactly where we were.

Whether they could reach us? That was another story.

The cabin was maybe a few degrees warmer inside. Barebones. A wood stove crouched in the corner, its metal sides dusted with ash, stacks of firewood leaning in a tarp-covered pile.

A single cot, a cramped kitchenette with dented MRE tins, and one crooked door—bathroom, probably.

No curtains. No rugs. Just wood, metal, and silence.

Yelena slumped against the wall. I could see her breath, curling in tendrils in the air.

“Cozy,” she muttered, sliding down to sit on the floor.

“You complaining?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied, letting out a deep exhale.

She didn’t have to say it out loud. After what we’d been through these last twelve hours, we might as well have been at the Four Seasons.

We’d barely made it out when the first explosions hit the facility.

I don’t know who fired first—ours or theirs—but the sky had lit up like the Fourth of July, and comms went to hell in under a minute. Sam’s voice had crackled through the intercom just long enough to shout the coordinates to the safehouse before it went dead.

The rest of the team got pulled before the second wave. We didn’t.

Yelena and I had been covering the western exit when the snow started. At first it was just flurries. Then the wind picked up, visibility dropped to nothing, and the blizzard swallowed the entire valley. By the time we broke away, the convoy was gone. It was just us, a pair of half-frozen packs, and the promise that if we could get to the safehouse, someone would find us—eventually.

No food. No water. Ten miles through knee-deep snow. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was limping by the second hour, bleeding through her pants. And me—well, I had the serum, which meant I could keep moving even when my body told me to stop.

But her? She’s not supposed to be out in this kind of cold for that long.

Nobody is.

Yelena looked like she was about to doze off.

“Hey,” I snapped, running over to her side. “Let me see your leg.”

I half expected her to protest, to say “can it wait until morning?” So when she didn’t, I knew it was bad.

She winced as she pulled down her pants, finally revealing the deep gash just above her knee.

My stomach dropped. It smelled putrid.

“Jesus, Yelena,” I managed.

I looked at her—she’d gotten hit by a stray piece of shrapnel right when we’d left the compound, nearly twelve hours ago. I noticed immediately she was favoring her left leg, and when I’d tried to ask her about, she’d brushed it off.

“I’ll be fine,” she’d said through grit teeth. “We can deal with it when we get there. Let’s keep going.”

I looked from her knee, and back to her.

I’d always known Yelena was tough—she was raised in the Red Room. I knew she was a fighter and a survivor, through and through. But it hit me then, just how much she was made of steel.

She mustered a laugh. “Pretty, huh?”

I just shook my head. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve carried you.”

“You offered, remember? I told you not to.”

“Yeah, but if I’d known it was this bad—”

“—What? You would’ve insisted?” She scoffed. “Yeah. Like that would’ve gone over well.”

I clamped my mouth shut. She was right, and I knew it.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I dug through the cabinet by the kitchenette until I found a dusty first aid kit, half-empty but better than nothing.

When I crouched back down beside her, Yelena tilted her head lazily toward me. “You look like you’re about to perform surgery.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, snapping the box open. The gauze was sealed, at least. Small mercy.

I peeled her hands away from her leg and inspected the wound. Up close, it was worse than I thought—angry red edges, heat radiating off it even in the freezing air.

I pressed the gauze firmly against her skin, careful—probably too careful—and she smirked like she noticed.

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass,” she said.

I kept my eyes on the wound, refusing to look at her face. I wasn’t thinking about how warm her skin was under my hands, or how she was watching me like she could tell.

My stomach tightened. “This is already warm. It’s been open too long.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what? You’re going to diagnose me with infection, Doctor Barnes?”

“Not funny,” I said sharply, dousing a gauze pad with antiseptic. The smell stung my nose.

She smirked, trying to lean back like she wasn’t in pain. “I’ve had worse. Red Room summers, remember? A little shrapnel isn’t going to off me.”

“This isn’t the Red Room,” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

Her expression softened, but she didn’t argue. She stayed still as I pressed, cleaned, wrapped.

Antibiotics.

My mind kept circling the word like a warning. No internet. No comms.

Just me, a half-assed combat medic course from seventy years ago, and a kit that hadn’t been updated since SHIELD was founded.

“Any medicine in there?” I asked finally, motioning to the box.

She rummaged through it, reading off faded labels, butchering the names.

“…oh,” she said after a beat, almost casually. “Probably should tell you—penicillin and I don’t get along. Nearly killed me last time.”

My stomach dropped. “How bad?”

“Hospital bad.” She tilted her head at me. “So, no penicillin, yes?”

“Fantastic,” I muttered, digging through the rest of the kit.

My hands felt too big, too clumsy as I flipped through a warped SHIELD field manual I found wedged behind some cans. Stop bleeding. Set bones. Stabilize until evac. Nothing for this.

Three antibiotic names jumped out. One circled in pencil—amoxicillin. Useless.

I grabbed the bottle she’d set aside, squinting at the faded label.

“Bactrim,” I muttered.

Broad-spectrum. Non-penicillin. Should work.

“Should,” Yelena echoed, raising one eyebrow.

I met her gaze. “I’m ninety percent sure.”

“Ninety.” She smirked faintly. “I’ve survived worse odds.”

“This isn’t funny.” My voice cracked just a little. “If I get this wrong—”

“—then I swell up. Maybe I die fast. Better than slow infection, yes?” Her tone was maddeningly calm. “You’re stalling because you’re scared.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“You’re not dying on me,” I said finally, voice low, steadying. “Not from this. Not here.”

“I already told you,” she said, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn right you’re not.”

She swallowed the pills without complaint. I stayed crouched next to her long after, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to the stove creak as the first logs caught. For the first time in twelve hours, we weren’t moving.

And I hated every second of it.

xxx

The fire in the stove had burned down to embers, throwing barely enough heat to keep the room from icing over. My breath fogged in the air every time I exhaled.

We hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements—just a glance at the single cot, a look from me, an awkward pause from her—and I’d taken the chair without argument. It wasn’t much of a chair anyway. Every time I shifted, the old wood creaked like it was about to splinter.

Yelena lay curled under the blanket, back to me, shoulders hunched. She hadn’t said a word since I finished bandaging her leg, but every so often I caught the faint sound of her teeth clicking together when she thought I wasn’t listening.

Hours passed like that. Neither of us moved, neither of us sleeping.

At some point, she pushed herself upright with a groan and limped toward the bathroom. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

When she came back, she didn’t lie down right away.

“You awake?” she asked finally.

I opened my eyes. “Yeah.”

She studied me for a beat, like she was deciding whether to bother saying what was already obvious. “You sleep at all?”

“Not even a little,” I admitted.

I didn’t have to say it out loud. Serum or not—it was freezing. We both knew it.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

She crawled back into bed. Another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed.

My heart started to pound. The question was on the tip of my tongue.

It’s not like that, I told myself. It’s about staying warm. Survival. She needs rest. She’s not going to heal otherwise. She’s already fighting off an infection.

I finally forced the words out, half-muttering: “Would it help if I—”

“—can you just get over here?” she said at the exact same time.

I didn’t think. I just stood, joints stiff from sitting too long, and crossed to the cot.

“Okay,” I said, voice low, and sat carefully on the edge before lying down beside her.

The cot dipped under our combined weight. The blanket was scratchy, stiff, and too small for two people.

“You comfy?” I asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice already softer, sleepier. “No, this works.”

We tried not to touch at first, lying stiff and angled away, but the cot was too narrow. Her shoulder brushed mine. Her knee bumped my thigh. Neither of us moved.

Her knee brushed my thigh again, and I stared at the ceiling like it might give me answers.

Don’t move. Don’t shift closer. Just breathe. The cot is too narrow, that’s all.

That’s all.

The warmth hit slowly, sinking in, her body heat bleeding into mine. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady, and after a while, her head tipped closer, resting lightly against my arm.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling.

The air was still freezing. The room still smelled of smoke and damp wood. But I could feel the warmth of her through the blanket, seeping into every inch of me.

I didn’t let myself think about it. Not too much.

xxx

When I woke up, it was to the smell of hot coffee and half-burnt pancakes.

“Morning,” Yelena said, too cheerfully.

I shot up in bed, disoriented for a second, before I remembered where I was.

Still in the same cabin—in the same scratchy cot. The fire roared now, and outside the wind still howled against the windows.

But the room felt different. Warmer.

Yelena had some color back in her cheeks, and though she was still favoring one leg, she moved with a little more ease as she fussed with the skillet.

“How you feeling?” I muttered, voice sleep-rough.

“About a million times better,” she replied, setting a plate at the foot of the bed. “No promises about these. The mix expired a few years ago.”

I was already halfway through the first pancake before she finished talking. “I’ll take my chances,” I managed between bites.

She smirked, sitting on the edge of the cot. “You were out longer than I was.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say without a clock. But the sun went down an hour ago.”

“Jesus,” I muttered. A whole day gone.

Yelena broke off a piece of pancake and held it up like a toast. “Thanks for not killing me with your questionable antibiotics.”

“Thanks for making breakfast.”

She shrugged, chewing, then glanced toward the fire. The flames had caught properly now, throwing real heat for the first time since we got here.

I set my plate down, leaning back a little. “This is… warm.” My eyes shifted to the woodpile by the stove. “Do we have enough to keep it going?”

“We do now,” she said, too casually.

I turned to look at her. “Yelena—”

“What?”

“You didn’t.”

She didn’t even flinch. “I did.”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head.

“You were dead to the world,” she went on, unfazed. “And we need the fire. So.”

“You shouldn’t be—” I caught myself, letting the words die halfway.

Her mouth curved, just a hint of a smile. “Relax, Barnes. We’re a team, remember? You needed the sleep. I can handle a little firewood.”

I didn’t argue, but I kept my eyes on her a moment longer than I meant to. She ignored me, going back to her pancakes like nothing had happened.

xxx

The rest of the evening passed in small, practical movements.

We cleaned up what little mess “breakfast” left, each of us moving around the cabin in silence, too tired to bother with conversation. The fire stayed low, carefully fed, the heat barely stretching past the stove.

We took turns with the bathroom. She went first, and when it was my turn, she’d already retreated to the cot, sitting cross-legged and leafing through an old SHIELD field manual like it was a novel.

There wasn’t much privacy—just a thin door and the courtesy of pretending not to listen. She didn’t look up when I came back out, hair damp from the cold water.

By the time we were both done, the light outside had faded completely. We didn’t talk about the fire or how little wood was left.

We didn’t talk about the bed.

When she slid under the blanket, I followed without a word. It felt strange how easy it was this time.

The cot creaked under our weight. We lay stiff at first, angled away, until the cold forced us closer. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, heat pooling between us under the scratchy blanket.

For a long time, there was just the sound of the wind against the cabin walls. Then, quietly:

“How long do you think it’ll be before they come for us?”

I turned my head slightly, looking at the dark ceiling. “Hard to say. Depends how bad it is out there.”

She was quiet for a moment. “What do you think’s going on?”

Images flashed in my head—the first explosions tearing through the facility, the sky lit up in streaks of orange and white, the way the comms went dead all at once.

“Worse than they’re telling us,” I said finally. “Extraction isn’t top priority.”

She hummed, low and thoughtful. “Then we could be stuck here for a while.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But we can’t stay here forever.”

I didn’t have to elaborate—she already knew. The cabin was equipped for a week—two weeks tops, maybe, if the weather was better. But the blizzard showed no signs of letting up.

If the others didn’t find us by the end of the week, we’d have to figure something out.

She shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing mine. “It’s day two, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll make a plan on day six.”

I glanced at her, but she was already closing her eyes, settling into the blanket like it was a real bed.

“Right now,” she added, her voice soft, almost a murmur, “let’s just wait it out. We’ve got time.”

I stared at the ceiling again, listening to the slow rhythm of her breathing evening out.

Day two. Four more days until we’d have to think about leaving. Four more nights in this cot.

I didn’t say anything.

But—now that she was on the mend, and I knew she’d be okay—I didn’t mind waiting.

xxx

By the third day, it felt like we’d been there weeks.

Not in a bad way. Just… everything had slowed.

Mornings started with coffee—burnt, bitter, the kind of instant stuff you only drink because it’s hot, but Yelena handed me a mug like she’d just made us something fancy. We sat on opposite sides of the cot, sipping in silence, trading books we’d scavenged from the safehouse shelves.

At some point, we stopped asking who would cook. Whoever got up first just started. Usually her.

“Your turn to be impressed,” she said once, flipping something in the skillet with too much flair for what was obviously canned potatoes.

I glanced over from where I sat by the stove, half-smiling. “I’m shocked you didn’t burn them already.”

“They’re supposed to be this crispy,” she shot back, smirking.

Dinner usually ended in quiet bickering, the kind that wasn’t really arguing.

“You’re cutting that wrong,” I said one night, watching her hack into a loaf of stale bread with a combat knife.

“Then do it yourself,” she replied, handing me the knife without even looking.

I took it, muttering something about technique, and she grinned, leaning back against the counter like she’d won.

By evening, the cabin smelled faintly of smoke and stale coffee, and the fire crackled low. She read stretched out on the cot, leg propped up on my folded jacket. I cleaned up dishes or split wood, and every so often she’d glance up just to throw some offhand comment my way.

“You chop wood like an old man,” she called once from the cot, smirking over the top of her book.

I didn’t look at her right away. Her smirk lingered just a little too long, and something in my chest pulled tight before I forced myself to glance back at the firewood.

“Need I remind you—I’m 110 years old,” I replied.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

It wasn’t much. But it was a rhythm.

Easy. Familiar.

And every time she glanced up at me, or smirked when she caught me watching her cook, or shoved her book toward me to show me some random passage, I felt it—that pull.

The quiet kind. The one you don’t say out loud.

xxx

By the time we went to bed on our fourth night, it felt inevitable.

She crawled under the covers and wordlessly nestled her head against my shoulder—a far cry from where we started, a few days ago. Given her position, it was guaranteed that she could hear my heart, relentlessly pounding in my chest.

I felt stiff against her, at first. Until she took a deep breath, and as she exhaled, wordlessly pulled my arm so it draped around her waist.

That one movement—innocent enough, but at the same time, loaded—made my pulse race.

She smiled, her eyes closed. “You nervous, Bucky?” she teased.

I swallowed. “Why would I be nervous?” I asked.

She cracked an eye open, smirking. “I don’t know. Am I the first woman you’ve shared a bed with in a century?”

“Well,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant. “That would depend.”

“On what?”

“On how we’re defining sharing a bed.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She didn’t move, but she suddenly felt… closer.

“Oh,” she said slowly, almost under her breath.

“Yeah,” I murmured.

Her fingers found mine then, threading through them casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

“That long, huh?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer. Not out loud. But the thought flickered anyway—how many nights I’d spent lying awake since meeting her, wondering what it might be like if I wasn’t who I was, if the world wasn’t what it was.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.

About her.

She was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you actually think we get out of this?”

I exhaled slowly. “I have to think that way.”

“Right,” she said, her voice almost unreadable. “Okay, then.”

She didn’t look at me when she spoke next. “Just wondering… if we didn’t—” She stopped, then tilted her head slightly, her hair brushing my chin. “Would it change anything? For you?”

I hesitated. “Change what?”

She glanced up at me, eyes catching mine in the dim light. “The way you’re holding out.”

My pulse kicked hard in my chest. “Yelena…”

“I mean,” she added, her tone deceptively light, “might as well enjoy what’s left of the world, right?”

For a second, the image flashed in my mind—her pulling me closer, the two of us forgetting everything outside these walls. But I shook my head.

“I don’t want it to be because of that,” I said quietly. “Because we think we’re not walking out of here.”

Her gaze lingered on me, searching.

“It wouldn’t be,” she said finally, so soft I almost didn’t catch it. “Not for me.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I stayed quiet. But I didn’t let go of her hand.

xxx

For a second, I thought it had been a dream. Our conversation, from the night before.

The warmth, the weight of her pressed against me—it felt too good to be real. But when I cracked my eyes open, there she was. Still curled up beside me, her head tucked under my chin, our hands still loosely tangled where they’d fallen asleep.

Her breathing shifted as she stirred, and a moment later, her eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep.

“Morning,” I said, my voice low, rough from sleep.

“Hi,” she murmured back.

For a beat, we just lay there, looking at each other. The quiet stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then, slowly, like we’d both made the same decision at once, we leaned in. Her lips brushed mine first, soft, tentative.

I kissed her back before I could think better of it.

What started careful turned messy fast—neither of us willing to stop. She shifted closer, one hand sliding up my chest, tugging at my shirt. My arm tightened around her waist, dragging her flush against me, and she let out the faintest sound against my mouth that nearly undid me.

By the time I rolled us, bracing myself over her, we weren’t careful anymore.

Her fingers were in my hair, her leg hooked tight around my hip, and every part of me felt like it had been waiting for this.

“Yelena—” I muttered against her jaw, my breath catching as my hand slid under the waistband of her sweats.

She gasped, hips jerking up into me, and for half a second I froze.

I shouldn’t. Not like this. Not here.

Not when everything outside these walls is still waiting for us.

Then she caught my face in both hands, eyes dark and certain. “Don’t talk,” she whispered, voice rough, needy. “Just—touch me.”

That hesitation shattered.

My fingers slid lower, finding heat and slick, and the soft, choked noise she made in my ear almost killed me.

I stroked slow at first, teasing, just to feel her tremble. Her thighs opened wider, greedy, and I slipped two fingers inside, curling just right. Her nails bit into my shoulders, her hips rolling shamelessly to meet every thrust of my hand.

“Fuck,” she gasped against my neck, her breath hot and uneven. “Bucky…”

I pressed harder, faster, my palm grinding against her clit, and she broke apart under me—half-silent, half-strangled gasps she tried to bite down on, her entire body tightening, clutching me like she never wanted me to stop.

I couldn’t look away. Her mouth fell open, her head tipped back against the thin pillow, and she was gorgeous like this—wrecked and shaking and mine.

I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. My name slipped out of her again, desperate, like a plea, and I groaned, burying my face against her throat.

The cabin door burst open.

“Jesus Christ,” someone barked.

We froze—but only for a second.

“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” Walker drawled.

Thank fucking god—we were still under a blanket. So even though it was obvious what we were up to—at least they couldn’t see anything.

Ava leaned against the doorway, smirking like she’d just caught us with our hands in the cookie jar. “Should we come back later?”

“Don’t encourage them,” Walker muttered.

Ava shot him a sideways look, smirk tugging wider. “Please. Like you’re one to talk.”

Walker scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” she said, a little too fast.

Walker muttered something low, almost swallowed—and looked away, ears just barely pink. Ava’s smirk sharpened anyway.

Yelena’s shoulder brushed mine under the blanket, and we exchanged a quick glance.

Huh.

I looked toward the door, my voice rough. “Give us a minute.”

Walker snorted. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I drag you out myself.”

Ava rolled her eyes, already turning away. “You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The door slammed shut.

Yelena cracked an eye open, flushed and smiling wickedly. “Finish what you started,” she whispered, voice low and wrecked.

I didn’t need to be told twice. My fingers curled deep again, finding that perfect spot, and she tightened around them, desperate. I groaned, pushing her through it as she came hard—biting down on my shoulder to keep quiet, trembling against me while I held her through every shudder.

Her breathing slowed eventually, her face still buried against my neck, and I pressed a kiss to her temple without thinking.

“The rescue team is here,” I managed.

I should’ve felt relieved. I didn’t.

“Hooray,” she mumbled against my skin.

“They’re going to make us move,” I said quietly, my pulse still racing.

She tilted her head just enough to meet my eyes, her smirk softer now. “So? We’ll pick this up later.”

And as her hand slid down to grab mine, still between her legs, I believed her.

Whatever waited for us outside, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

xxx

“When we're done making love And you look up and give me those eyes

'Cause all of the small things that you do Are what remind me why I fell for you”

-----

iii. all I want is to be in your vice

-----

I don't know when it started.

But suddenly I was back there—there being everywhere I didn’t want to be. The Winter Soldier was moving through my body like muscle memory. Silent. Precision-tuned. I was holding a man by the collar, pinning him to a wall, blade in hand.

He begged.

I didn’t stop.

I felt the spray. The weight of the body. The silence that followed.

“Hail Hydra.”

And then—

Her voice.

A whisper. Familiar.

“You’re not him.”

xxx

I shot upright, gasping.

The room was dark. The air still.

I wasn’t in a bunker. I wasn’t on a mission. I wasn’t… him.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft. Sleep-rough. “Bucky.”

I turned. She was already sitting up beside me, reaching out without hesitation. One hand rested lightly on my shoulder.

“You okay?”

I couldn’t answer.

She reached for the lamp and clicked it on low. Soft amber light spilled across the sheets. Her eyes scanned my face, my body—like she was checking for wounds that hadn’t bled.

“It was just a dream,” she said.

I shook my head. “No. Not just.”

“It’s not real anymore.”

I looked down. My hands were still trembling. Ghosts of adrenaline and fear.

“I haven’t had one in months,” I murmured. “Not like that.”

I could still feel the blade in my palm. Still smell blood I hadn’t shed in years. Still hear the man’s last breath—the one I never gave him.

She didn’t say anything.

And that silence was worse somehow.

For a second, I considered getting up. Pulling on my clothes. Disappearing. Pretending this night had never happened—because maybe it shouldn’t have. Maybe I was still too far gone. Too hollow. Too full of things no one should have to carry.

But she was still looking at me. Still touching me. Still here.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I said quietly.

“Bucky—”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

She blinked—once. Slowly. Her brows drew together, just a little.

“What are you so afraid of?” she asked. “I get nightmares, too. I still woke up next to you. I still want to be here.”

“You’re going back,” I said. “To your team. To the Avengers. This was—”

“What?” she cut in. “A one-night stand?”

She said it like she was daring me to call it that.

I didn’t answer.

“You let me leave,” she added. “That was your choice.”

I looked at her. Really looked.

Her mouth was tight. Her chin tipped up in defiance. But her eyes… they were soft. Searching.

“That’s not what you’re afraid of,” she said. “So tell me.”

I hesitated. Swallowed hard. Everything in me screamed to bury it. To keep it quiet. Keep it safe.

But I couldn’t anymore.

“You want to know what scares me?” I responded. My voice was hoarse. “You want to see it?”

She nodded. Once. No fear in her face.

I reached across her slowly—pausing, giving her space to stop me. She didn’t.

I picked up the panties she’d dropped from last night on the chair.

Held them in my hand like a confession.

Her gaze dropped to the fabric. Then back to my face.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just waited.

“Yelena,” I said, voice low. “I want to tie you up.”

I expected her to flinch. Pull back. Say something sharp to knock me off-balance.

She didn’t.

Her eyes flicked to the panties in my hand, then back to my face. Steady. Waiting.

“I used to like control,” I started, thumb rubbing the fabric. “Not the power trip kind. Not pain. I liked knowing I could hold someone in place. Keep them safe. Even when they were falling apart.”

Her breath caught—barely. She was listening.

“Before Hydra,” I went on, “before the serum, before everything— I already had this part of me. Gentle. Focused. A little intense, maybe. But I liked the responsibility. Liked knowing what I was doing.”

She exhaled, quietly. Her fingers twitched against the sheet.

“But then Hydra gave me strength I never asked for. Took my control and turned it into violence. Something I couldn’t trust.”

I met her eyes. Fully.

“But I still want it. I still want to hold someone like that. With care. With intent. I still want that kind of trust.”

She exhaled. Quiet. Controlled.

I took a step closer. Let the weight of what I was saying hang in the space between us.

“I want to tie you up,” I said again, voice rougher now. “Not to hurt you. Not to break you. To show you that I won’t.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t run.

I didn’t stop there.

“I want to hold you still,” I murmured. “Make you fall apart. With my hands. With my mouth.”

Her eyes locked on mine. Wide. Dark. Dazed.

I stepped closer.

Pressed my body to hers—just barely. Just enough for her to feel the tremor in my chest.

My fingers slid down to her chin. Tilted it up. My thumb brushed just beneath her bottom lip. Her lips parted. Barely.

“I want to give you everything I’ve kept locked away,” I said.

Yelena didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat. I felt it under my palm.

She was speechless. Breathless.

I saw it in the way her chest rose—sharp and shallow. In the way her thighs shifted, as if she needed to ground herself. Her mind was reeling, but her body was already giving me the answer.

Still, I didn’t move further. Not until she did.

And she did.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She reached for my wrist.

Took my hand—panties still looped between my fingers—and guided it toward the bedpost.

Her eyes never left mine.

She pressed it there. Held it.

“I trust you,” she whispered.

That was it. No theatrics. No hesitation.

Just: I trust you.

I felt my knees go a little weak.

“I need a word,” I said quietly. “Something that means stop. Immediately. No questions. No confusion.”

She nodded. No hesitation.

“Red.”

“That’s the word?”

“Always has been.”

I nodded, then I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Okay.”

Her lips parted like she might say something else.

But she didn’t need to.

Because I was already moving.

I was shaking as I tied the knot.

Not from nerves.

From relief. From want.

I tested it once, then twice—slow, deliberate, careful as hell. My fingers brushed the bedpost, then her wrist, then the soft fabric between. She stood there, waiting, watching, chest rising with shallow breaths she wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

The knot held.

“Still okay?” I asked.

She nodded once. Too fast.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she said—clearer now. “God, yes.”

I cupped her face again—lightly this time. Not to steady her. To steady myself.

Because I was burning.

She leaned into the touch like it grounded her, like she’d been waiting for it all night. All year. My thumb traced over her lower lip, slow enough to make her mouth fall open.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Her throat worked. She didn’t speak.

And when I bent down and kissed her, she gasped like I’d knocked the air out of her lungs.

I didn’t push her back on the bed right away. Her free hand clutched my shoulder, like she didn’t trust herself to stay upright.

I did. I held her steady.

And then I turned her.

She let herself fall.

I followed. Climbed up between her legs, hands braced on either side of her hips. I didn’t press down. Just let her feel me there—close enough to touch, to want. Close enough to lose it.

“You okay?” I asked again.

She tugged at the knot. Not trying to escape. Just testing it. Just letting me know she was still here, still in it.

Then she looked up at me—eyes wild and glassy—and said, “Do something.”

That almost broke me.

I pushed her shirt up. Paused when I hit the underside of her ribs. Bent down and kissed the skin there, slow and warm, just to see her squirm. Her breath hitched. Her back arched.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” I said, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

I tugged the shirt off completely. Brushed her hair back. Ran my hands down her arms, over her sides, mapping every inch like I was memorizing her body for when I inevitably lost her again.

Then I kissed my way down. Chest. Stomach. Paused at the waistband of her shorts.

“If you want me to stop,” I said, “you say red.”

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

And I didn’t.

I kissed lower—slow, deliberate. Hooked my fingers under the waistband of her shorts and tugged them down, inch by inch, like I had all the time in the world. Her breath hitched when I eased them past her thighs. She lifted her hips without me even asking.

And, fuck—seeing her like that, wrist bound, chest rising fast, legs spread just a little too wide—my brain short circuited.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

I looked up at her.

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “Because I want you so fucking bad I don’t know what to do with it.”

Her breath stuttered. Her thighs parted wider.

I slid down her body and settled between them.

And for a moment—I just breathed her in.

She was breathing hard already.

Wrists bound. Hair a mess. Eyes wide and wild and fixed on me like I was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

I’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

I let my lips drag there—slow, warm, deliberate—while my hand stayed cupped between her legs, palm heavy over the cotton of her shorts.

Her body arched reflexively—like she was trying to press herself into my hand, like she couldn’t help it.

Good.

I wanted her like that. Needy. Squirming. Held down and wanting.

My fingers grazed her thighs, the crease of her hips, the slick heat already pooling where she was practically dripping for me.

“Jesus, Yelena…”

She was soaked. Already.

“Fuck,” I muttered, more to myself than her. “You want it this bad already?”

Her head tipped back, chest rising fast. “Six months,” she managed.

I smirked. “Right.”

Then I hooked her thighs over my shoulders and buried my face between her legs.

She gasped—sharp.

I didn’t go slow.

Didn’t tease.

I licked her like I’d been starving. Like I’d crossed half the damn country just to taste her again.

Because I had.

Her thighs trembled against my ears, and I had to grip her hips to keep her from pulling away. She was making these little sounds—half-moan, half-whimper—biting her bottom lip like it was the only thing keeping her from coming undone right then and there.

“Bucky—”

I pulled back just enough to growl, “Keep those hands where I tied them.”

“I am,” she gasped, “I—fuck, I am—”

“Good.”

I slid two fingers inside her, slow, knuckles-deep, just to feel how tight she was. Hot. Wet. Gripping me like she never wanted to let go.

I curled them just right and flicked my tongue over her clit.

She cried out. Loud. Didn’t give a fuck who heard.

“God, you taste—fuck.”

“Don’t stop,” she begged.

I didn’t.

I pressed harder. Deeper. Set a rhythm I knew she’d feel for days.

Watched her fall apart on my mouth.

And just before she came, I looked up—watched her eyes fly open, wrists straining against the headboard, whole body arching like she was offering herself up.

That’s when I knew:

She was mine.

Still.

Now.

Again.

And I hadn’t even fucked her yet.

She was still shaking when I pulled back—mouth slick, fingers buried deep, watching her pulse against me like she didn’t know which way was up.

I dragged my mouth to her inner thigh and bit down, gentle but firm.

She gasped again. “What was that for?”

I licked the mark I left. “Reminder.”

“Of?”

“That you’re mine.”

She shuddered.

I sat back on my knees, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked at her—really looked. Her legs were open, flushed and trembling. Her chest rose and fell like she couldn’t get enough air.

And her wrists—tied to the bedpost, skin warm and unbruised, just the way she liked it.

“You okay?” I asked, throat raw.

She nodded. “Yeah. Better than.”

I ran my hand down the inside of her thigh, slow. “Color?”

“Green.”

“Say it.”

“Green.” She locked eyes with me, breath still catching. “Please.”

I didn’t need more than that.

I pushed my boxers down and freed my cock—hard, aching, leaking at the tip. Her eyes dropped and widened.

“Jesus, Bucky—”

“You remember how this feels?” I asked, climbing over her again.

She nodded, face flushed.

“Then say it.”

“I remember,” she whispered. “I remember everything.”

I lined myself up, dragged the head through her slick folds, and paused.

“Ask me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You want me inside you—say it.”

Her thighs squeezed around my hips. Her wrists tugged tight in their binds. “Bucky, please.”

I thrust in, slow but deep—every inch, filling her in one long, deliberate push.

She moaned—loud. Guttural. Like her body had been holding that sound back for six fucking months.

“Fuck,” I growled. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

She arched into me. “Don’t stop.”

I set a rhythm—rough, controlled, hips slamming into hers with just enough force to make the headboard creak. She took it like she was made for it. Moaning, gasping, begging under her breath. The whole time, I kept a hand on her jaw, thumb dragging along her lip, watching her come apart beneath me.

“You gonna come again for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “God—yes—"

I drove into her harder.

“Then do it. Let me feel it.”

And when she did—when she clenched around me, legs shaking, head thrown back in the sheets—I nearly lost it.

But I didn’t.

I gritted my teeth. Pulled out slow. Fought every muscle screaming to come right then and there.

Because I wasn’t done with her. Not even close.

She was trembling beneath me, thighs still twitching, hands curled around the sheets like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.

I pressed a hand to her stomach—firm, grounding. Felt her flutter around nothing.

“Shh,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss the space between her breasts. “You’re okay. You did so fucking good.”

She nodded, barely. Swallowed hard.

“Color?” I asked again, voice low.

“Green,” she whispered, and then softer, “God, green.”

I untied her slowly—kissing each wrist as I did, watching the red pressure lines fade. She winced when I rubbed one out, and I kissed it again.

“Too much?”

“No.” Her voice was hoarse. “Perfect. Just… intense.”

“Yeah,” I said, letting out a breath. “It was.”

We lay there in the quiet for a minute—skin slick, limbs tangled, air thick with sex and sweat and something we hadn’t named yet. Her head on my chest. My arm locked around her like I wasn’t ready to let her go.

I wasn’t.

I could feel her heartbeat. Still rapid. Still trying to catch up.

“You okay?” I asked again. Just to hear it from her.

She nodded. Then, after a beat, looked up at me.

“Why’d you stop?”

I blinked. “You came.”

“So?”

I blinked again.

She smirked. “I want to watch you come.”

Her hand slid down my chest. Teasing. Light.

I caught her wrist before she got too far.

“Yelena,” I warned.

“What?” she asked innocently. “You’re the one who said if I wanted more—”

I rolled on top of her again before she could finish that sentence. Caught her wrists and pinned them above her head—not tied, not yet, but firm enough to remind her who was in charge.

“I’ll give you more,” I said against her throat. “But this time, you don’t get to touch.”

She arched beneath me, already soaking again.

I grinned. “Let’s see how many times you can come before I finish.”

And just like that, we started again.

I didn’t let her up.

Didn’t give her time to recover or rethink. I wanted her loose. Boneless. Fucked-out and barely able to remember her own name, except for the part where she moaned mine like a prayer.

I slid back down her body and sucked her clit between my lips—harder this time. No teasing. No mercy.

She gasped. Arched. Her hands were still pinned above her head, and I could feel her resisting the urge to move—already so responsive, already unraveling again.

“Keep your hands where they are,” I ordered.

She whimpered. “Bucky—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

She nodded, eyes wide. And I kept going.

I licked her deep and slow, then fast and tight, fingers curling inside her. Every stroke of my tongue was meant to undo her. Every moan I pulled from her throat was earned.

She came again, fast—faster than I expected. This one hit harder. Her thighs clamped around my head, her whole body bucked, and she cried out my name like it hurt.

I didn’t stop.

Not until her legs stopped shaking.

Not until she was begging—really begging—for me to fuck her.

“Please,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Please, I want to feel you—”

I pulled back, kissed her hipbone, and sat up. Took my time lining up again—because I could.

Because she was already coming undone beneath me, trembling and desperate, completely open.

When I thrust into her the second time, she sobbed.

God, she was tight. So wet. Like her body had been waiting for this. For me.

I didn’t ease up. I set a punishing rhythm—deep, hard strokes that made the headboard knock against the wall.

Her hands flew to my shoulders. I caught both her wrists again and pinned them above her head, fucking her harder.

“You said no touching,” I growled.

“Can’t help it,” she gasped.

“You will. You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll come on my cock just like that—”

She did.

Fucking shattered beneath me.

It took everything I had not to lose it right then and there. But I wanted to watch her. Feel her. I kept going—driving her through it, drawing it out until she was gasping, pleading, writhing under every thrust.

When I finally came, it was like a detonation. Deep, hot, possessive. I buried myself inside her, moaned into her neck, and let myself feel all of it—every inch of her body, every stifled sob, every unspoken don’t go that clung to our sweat-slick skin.

I held her afterward.

One hand running through her hair, the other wrapped tight around her back.

She buried her face in my chest and let herself shake.

“Color?” I whispered into her temple.

“Still green,” she breathed. “Very, very green.”

I chuckled. Kissed her again. “Good.”

We lay there, quiet.

Just the sound of our breathing. The thud of my heartbeat finally slowing. Her fingers drawing shapes on my side.

She was the first to break the silence.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“That was…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

I nodded. “I know.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at me. Eyes soft. Mouth swollen. Hair wild.

“This doesn’t feel like just sex,” she whispered.

I held her closer. Let my lips graze her forehead. Let myself finally exhale the truth.

“It never did.”

“I want you,” she said again. “Not just tonight.”

I closed my eyes. Held her tighter.

rampant thunderbolts* spoilers. Inspired by Lana Del Rey’s Cinnamon Girl, which I listened to on a loop while writing this. 10/10 recommend hitting play while reading. ✨💔

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part i: bob

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there's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live

—Lana Del Rey, *Cinnamon Girl*

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We can’t.

I had the words loaded and chambered. Practiced, even.

Bob gave me that look again—the one he’s been giving me more and more lately. The look that says maybe this time, even if it never is.

Usually, I shut it down before we get here. But tonight… I don’t know.

This was the last stop on our New Avengers press tour—a PR-fueled damage control campaign, cooked up by Valentina herself. And for the grand finale, she wanted optics. Flashbulbs. Champagne. A full-on gala, hosted at Avengers Tower.

“It helps us fight the Bargain Bin narrative,” she’d said.

Bargain Bin Avengers. B-Vengers. The press hadn’t exactly been kind—not since Sam filed that lawsuit.

And because perception was everything, Val hadn’t needed to say it out loud. I was to stay close to Bob. Keep him grounded. Presentable. On message.

They didn’t use the word babysit. But that’s what it was.

I was the one he trusted most. The only one he really listened to.

Natasha was to Bruce what I was to Bob. Emotional anchor. Ground wire. Whatever metaphor made it sound less grim.

And most of the time, I was good at it.

But tonight, he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

And he looked good.

He’d shaved. Put on a real suit. Even combed his hair. I don’t know if it was cologne or just clean skin, but something about him smelled different—sharp, warm, intentional.

And maybe I’d had one too many glasses of bubbly. Maybe I’d gotten a little too used to the way his eyes lingered on me.

Maybe—for once—I didn’t want to carry all the weight alone.

We were the last ones up. Ava had bailed first. Walker wasn’t far behind. Alexei fell asleep mid-rant, slumped sideways on the couch. Bucky made some dry crack about the Soviet serum losing its punch, then hauled him off like it was a chore he didn’t mind doing.

Which left me and Bob. Alone.

And close.

He reached for the champagne.

“Ahh,” I said, lifting a hand.

“What?”

“I’m cut off. Already past my limit.”

Bob hesitated. Then tipped the bottle—not to himself, but toward me.

I shook my head. “Nice try.”

His smile faltered. “Right. Sorry.”

He poured himself a glass anyway. His hands shook slightly—barely enough to notice if you didn’t know him.

I knew him.

“You sure that’s smart?” I asked.

“It’s not meth.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he said again. “Just… I wanted something to take the edge off.”

I didn’t answer. Just watched him drink.

It wasn’t the first time I’d felt the pull between us, but it was the first time I let myself acknowledge it. The way he looked at me like I mattered. The way his knee brushed mine and didn’t move.

I didn’t want Bob. Not really. Not in the way he wanted me.

But I did want to be wanted. And he did that—wanted me—without apology. Without hesitation.

It made something ache inside me.

His eyes flicked to my lips. My breath caught.

The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable, exactly—just heavy with the weight of whatever we weren’t saying.

Bob glanced at me again, slower this time. Like he was working up to something. Like he was asking a question with his eyes.

I didn’t look away.

And for one reckless second, I thought—what if I just kissed him? Just leaned in and let it happen. Let myself feel wanted. Let him think it meant more than it did.

He looked so soft, tonight. Not just cleaned up—but vulnerable. Hopeful.

But I couldn’t.

Not with everything I knew. Not when I was the thing standing between him and the Void.

He leaned a little closer, and for half a second, I didn’t pull away.

And then—

Footsteps.

Too steady. Too timed.

“Shit, sorry—didn’t realize you were still up.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. He crossed into the kitchen without looking at us, poured a glass of water, and took his time drinking it.

Casual. Measured. Deliberate.

I’d pulled this move before. Walk in late, look unbothered, kill the mood.

Maybe he was just returning the favor.

He was already halfway across the room, headed to the kitchen like it was a casual water run.

Bob practically teleported to the far end of the couch.

I could still feel his breath on my skin.

Bucky filled a glass, took a sip, and only glanced at us on the way back.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he added dryly.

It was too smooth. Too perfectly timed.

I knew that move. I’d used it myself.

You sly bastard.

Bob was muttering something under his breath, looking at the floor.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to mine—checking. Not asking. Just seeing.

I stood up fast. “I’m heading to bed.”

And just like that, the spell broke.

I didn’t look back. But I knew exactly who was watching me leave.

What the fuck, Yelena.

I’d almost kissed Bob. Bob. Robert Reynolds—the Sentry, the Void. The most powerful human, being, or God recorded in human history. The one person on the team I’d been not-so-explicitly tasked to protect at all costs—and to help avoid emotional distress.

I tried my best not to run down the hall to my room. My hands shook as I ripped my dress off.

“Get a fucking grip, Yelena,” I muttered, like a mantra. How could I be so fucking stupid?

Bob and I had always been close—closer than the other Thunderbolts. I had a soft spot for him. And I knew he knew that. But the more I thought about it—the way he looked at me, the way he always looked at me—I knew he’d felt it too.

That pull, that longing, between us—it was real. But was it mine? Or was I just mirroring it back at him? Letting myself feel wanted, instead of… whatever the hell I actually was.

I threw on the nearest sweatshirt and pants I could find. Shut off the lights. Crawled into bed.

If I could just pretend to sleep, maybe I could pretend I hadn’t almost made the worst mistake of my life.

“We can’t,” I whispered to myself.

Even though the thought alone made me wet. Even though I could still feel his breath against my lips, his suit against my skin.

But I didn’t want Bob. Not in the way I wanted to be wanted. Not in the way I…

God. Why was Bucky always the one who showed up at the exact wrong moment?

Or maybe—the exact right one.

I slipped my fingers between my thighs. The pressure hit fast—hot, desperate. “We can’t,” I whispered again, as I teased the edge of my clit.

I’d fleetingly had this fantasy before—but it wasn’t like I’d ever acted on it. Not really. Not until now.

I imagined his head between my legs. His mouth. His hands. The weight of his body, holding me in place.

My thighs trembled. Breath caught. I was so close—

—and then the door creaked open.

I didn’t even have time to yank the blanket up.

“Shit—”

He turned fast—too fast. Hand up over his eyes like it could erase what he’d just seen.

“I—I knocked,” Bucky stammered, mortified. “I should’ve knocked louder. I didn’t think—fuck, I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked with it—panic, embarrassment, regret.

“You always check on people like this?” I managed, breathless, yanking the blanket up over my hips.

“You said you were going to bed. I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Clearly.”

He froze in the doorway, still turned away. His hand stayed over his face like I might combust on contact.

“Bucky.”

My voice came out quieter than I meant.

He turned, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if it was a trap.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, voice low but steady, “this wasn’t… a regular thing.”

His mouth twitched. He didn’t quite meet my eyes.

“I wasn’t planning on it. You just… caught me on a weird night.” I shrugged, folding my arms. “Can’t blame a girl for having urges.”

That got a reaction—barely. The ghost of a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Especially when we’re all playing pretend half the time,” I added. “Like we’re not human.”

He was quiet for a beat. And then—

“You’re not the only one with urges.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. His posture went rigid the second they landed.

“What?” I said, blinking.

“And you’re not the only person on this team who wants someone they can’t have,” he added, softer, almost like it hurt.

Silence.

His eyes widened just slightly, like he’d only just realized he’d said it out loud.

“Shit,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“That sounded… personal,” I said, cautious now.

“I should go,” he said quickly, already turning.

“Bucky—”

“Forget I said anything.”

“That’s gonna be hard.”

His hand gripped the doorknob like it was an anchor.

“Sleep well,” he said.

“Like grains of sand inside my hand

It’s falling away from me now…

I want to feel something that’s not just wasted love…”

~ wasted love by JMSN

xxx

We were halfway through a bottle of vodka when the stories started.

It was Walker, of course.

“—and then she bit me,” he said, gesturing with the bottle like it was a mic. “Right on the lip. I was bleeding the rest of the damn school day.”

Ava made a noise halfway between a groan and a gag. “Dear God. Is this what our team-building nights have come to?”

She leaned back on her palms, unimpressed. Bucky was trying his best not to smile.

Walker kicked Ava lightly in the shin.

“C’mon. That was gold. I told you mine, you tell me yours.”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Ava said with an eyeroll. “Don’t be crass.”

“Ohhh,” he drawled, grinning. “That sounds like someone’s never been kissed before.” He raised the bottle in mock horror. “What, you mean no one in all of SHIELD ever took you out behind the quantum lockers, or whatever?”

Ava snatched the bottle from his hands. “Derek Hayes. Fifth grade.”

She took a long pull. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I phased through him afterwards. He called the police.”

Dead silence.

And then—laughter. Loud, doubled-over, breathless kind of laughter. Even Alexei had to cover his face.

Bob shook his head, smiling. “That poor kid.” His voice softened when he spoke next, and started telling a story about holding hands on a park bench in Cleveland, sophomore year.

I glanced up. Caught Bucky looking.

He didn’t smile. Just held my gaze for half a second too long—then looked away.

And then, it was my turn.

By the time they’d gotten to me, the bottle was almost empty—and the topic had veered from “first kisses” to “first loves” to “first times,” period.

I took the bottle. I didn’t blink.

I thought about lying. Thought about saying something casual, something easy. But I was done pretending.

“First kiss? Mission.”

I waited half a beat.

“First time? Also, mission.”

Nobody laughed. Nobody asked a follow-up.

The air changed.

I let it stretch. I didn’t elaborate—just passed the empty bottle to my right. To Bucky. It was his turn.

He shifted in his chair, posture tightening. He didn’t look at the bottle—he didn’t look at anyone.

“I’m calling it a night.”

He stood up, and left.

Nobody said a word—none of us had to. The collective expression was, huh?

I shifted in my seat. I knew why.

xxx

Hours later, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

I half-expected it when I opened it, and Bucky was on the other side.

His jaw was tense, clenched. Eyes unreadable.

We didn’t say hi. We didn’t do that anymore.

Earlier, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Now? He wouldn’t look away.

“I wasn’t going to ask you this,” he started. “But it’s been stuck in my head all night.”

I didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, gave him a small nod.

“Have you ever been with someone… when it wasn’t a mission?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

If it was anyone else, my expression would’ve been unreadable—Fort Knox. I knew how to guard, how to hide.

But this wasn’t just anyone. He’d been trained to read people like me. And it didn’t help that he had a few months head start—a few months of living, working, and spending just about every waking minute together.

We’d been on top of each other, those last few months. Everyone on the team.

But with Bucky—I didn’t mind it. Except during moments like these.

I crossed my arms. I felt naked—exposed.

“Why are you really here, Bucky?”

It was the only play I had. If I couldn’t hide, I could deflect. Fire it back at him.

Because I’d felt it—the energy shift, between us. And not just tonight. We’d been circling the drain for weeks.

He took a breath. Didn’t answer.

He just moved.

Took a step forward.

I didn’t stop him.

He stepped into my space. I felt the question hanging in the air.

He didn’t answer it. So I kissed him.

And, then—we crashed into each other.

All heat, teeth, his mouth on mine, as I pulled him into the room and slammed the door shut behind us.

Clothes flew from there. His mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, everywhere. We stumbled backwards onto my bed, our limbs tangled together, intertwined.

"What are we doing?” I finally breathed.

I didn’t mean for it to come out. But once it did, it hung there—between us, too late to take back.

His eyes flicked up. Paused. I wasn’t sure he’d answer.

He didn’t.

He’d trailed his way down from my neck to my navel, to the space between my legs. He ran his hands down my thighs, thumbs catching on the waistband.

“This doesn’t count as a mission,” he managed, voice rough with want. He looked up at me, not breaking eye contact until my pants were all the way down—past my knees, past my ankles. “Right?”

His thumb pressed into the heat between my legs. As he did, it sent a shudder down my spine.

“No,” I managed, shaking my head.

He swallowed. Hard.

“Good.”

He pulled my panties down. And then he was gone—mouth on me, like he needed it to breathe.

He didn’t ease in. He took—mouth rough, breath hot, like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

I was already shaking by the time his tongue flicked over me, mouth greedy and focused. No teasing. No performance. Just pressure, rhythm, intent.

I fisted the sheets. My hips bucked into him, and he didn’t stop—just grabbed my thigh and pulled me closer.

We were nothing but friction and breath and teeth.

When I came, it was sharp and sudden, pulled from somewhere I didn’t know I’d locked away.

He didn’t give me time to recover.

I pulled him up, and he kissed me like he’d lost something.

Clothes half-on, limbs tangled, hips grinding. The only sound was breath and skin and the scrape of the bed against the wall.

He pushed into me with a groan, like it hurt to hold back.

I felt it, too. That ache, the hunger.

We moved like we were trying to outrun something.

There was nothing slow. Nothing sweet.

But it was ours.

For the first time, it was ours.

He buried his face in my neck and shook.

Not from effort. From release. From relief.

I didn’t say anything. But I held him anyway.

xxx

Afterward, we lay there in the dark. No pillow talk. No jokes. Just breath.

I could still feel the ghost of him between my legs. My chest rising too fast.

He hadn’t let go of my hand. I only noticed when I tried to move and found our fingers still laced tight.

A minute passed. Maybe more.

I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Or maybe that he was about to get up and leave.

Then, low:

“You know they made me, too… right?”

His voice didn’t shake. But something in it cracked wide open.

I turned my head. He was staring at the ceiling like it held an exit.

He didn’t elaborate. But I didn’t need him to.

Not with the way his jaw clenched. Not with the way he’d touched me earlier—like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.

I’d heard rumors, back when I was in the Red Room. Whispers. That some of Hydra’s assets were used for more than just combat.

But I hadn’t let myself believe it. Not with him.

And now, I wished I hadn’t made him say it out loud.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

His head shook, sharp and automatic.

“Don’t be. That’s not fair. What you went through…”

He swallowed.

“It wasn’t the same. I didn’t have it as bad as you. At least I had... something. Before.”

That caught me.

I let the silence hang. Then asked:

“Did you? Before the war?”

He nodded slowly.

“Yeah. A few girls.”

His voice dropped even quieter.

“But it wasn’t anything like this.”

The last line hung in the air. Fragile. Honest.

Something fluttered low in my stomach.

Not nerves. Not surprise.

Just heat. Awareness.

I looked at him—really looked—and whatever was in his expression… it lit something in me.

I reached for his face. Brushed my fingers against his jaw.

And then I kissed him.

Slow. Sure.

Not hungry, this time. Just real.

When I pulled back, I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He just leaned into me like he meant it. Like he finally let himself mean it.

And I let him.

xxx

like a moth to a flame

by Ninazadzia

xxx

"...he seems like he's good for you And he makes you feel like you should And all your friends say he's the one His love for you is true..."

xxx

The first time I caught Yelena sneaking out of Bob’s room, she froze mid-step—caught off guard, like she hadn’t planned on anyone being awake. Hair a mess, sweatshirt tugged low, every inch of her saying you weren’t supposed to see this.

For a spy, you’re not very slick.

If I liked Yelena less, I would’ve cracked that joke. But one look at her face said it all.

She held my gaze. The silence between us stretched.

One of us had to be the first to break it.

It wasn’t going to be me.

My jaw clenched. Fingers curled tight around my mug.

It hadn’t always felt like this—tense, off-balance.

There’d been a time when she looked at me the way she was looking at him now.

Late nights in the compound kitchen, trading dry jokes over cold coffee. Not flirting, not really. But close enough that it felt like we might’ve, if things had been different.

Don’t say it. Don’t look at her like you want to.

Yelena opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it. All the while, I could feel my blood pressure rising.

Was I surprised?

No.

This just confirmed what I’d already suspected—what I’d noticed weeks ago, that the rest of the team was still (somehow) oblivious to.

Yelena and Bob.

Bob. Robert Reynolds.

Fragile, dangerous, wired-to-detonate Bob.

The long glances. The way they would look at each other, during team debriefs. How their body language shifted when the other was in the room.

Granted—I hadn’t been the only one to notice Bob’s infatuation for Yelena. That much was obvious to everyone on the team—or, anyone with eyes, really.

But Yelena?

She was smart. Knew how to keep her end under wraps—at least, to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. To anyone who wasn’t watching her closely.

But I was.

I don’t know when it started—hell, I don’t even know why it started. I just seemed to always catch myself scanning the room for her, before I even realized it.

I didn’t like it—but I didn’t know how to stop.

And, now? I’d caught her red-handed.

She finally broke the silence.

“Bucky.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. A plea, if anything—and the implication was obvious.

Don’t. Please. Don’t say anything.

I gave her a small nod. “Goodnight.”

I turned on my heel, and swallowed the rest.

Swallowed what I wanted to say—what she already knew.

xxx

She was never mine to begin with.

In the weeks that came, I had to keep reminding myself of that.

Especially once it went public.

It didn’t stay a secret for long. Not really.

A look held too long during debriefs, her laugh coming easier when he was in the room—little things the others started to notice, the same things I’d seen weeks before. By the time Val got involved, no one was surprised. Not officially, anyway.

Val was the first to make it official, spinning them as the Avengers’  “Golden Couple.”

Cute press photos, offhand interviews, staged-but-not-staged mission shots where Yelena’s hand lingered on Bob’s arm just long enough to sell the story.

The public loved it.

And, to make matters worse—so did the team.

“She’s glowing,” Alexei commented.

The conversation started after Bob and Yelena left the room—headed to some briefing Val had set up, still walking close enough for their hands to brush.

“I’ve gotta admit,” Walker said, leaning back in his chair. “Normally I’m against colleagues dating—it’s a mess waiting to happen. But those two? I get it.”

Ava smirked over the rim of her mug. “Yeah. They work. The PR stuff’s not even exaggerating—they’re cute.”

“Cute?” Alexei scoffed, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “They are beautiful! Like young Natasha and—well, better than Natasha and Banner! She is glowing, no? My little snowflake, happy at last.”

Even Ava didn’t argue with that, just nodded. “Yeah. She does look happy.”

And the worst part was—I understood.

Bob wasn’t perfect. He was messy, wired too tight, his own worst enemy half the time.

But he was honest. Loyal. The kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back, and never ask for it back.

And with Yelena? He didn’t hold back. He adored her—openly, stupidly, in a way everyone could see.

I couldn’t do that. Not then. I’d kept my distance, kept my mouth shut, convinced myself I had time.

Bob hadn’t. He shot his shot, and she said yes.

And I couldn’t even be mad at her for it. Not when he made her smile like that.

She used to smile like that at me. Quieter, softer. Nothing staged.

I stayed quiet.

Didn’t add a word to the conversation.

Just clenched my jaw and stared at the table, because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out.

She smiled for Bob the same way she smiled for the cameras—bright, easy, like it cost her nothing.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I was imagining the tension in her shoulders, the way she hovered just close enough to keep him steady.

Everyone else saw a love story.

But, behind her smile—behind Bob’s affection, the adoration—I saw how much weight she was carrying.

And I hated that I saw it. Hated that I cared.

So I bit my tongue, got up, and left before they noticed how quiet I was.

What I didn’t realize—what I couldn’t know—was that Yelena was still in the hallway outside, close enough to hear every word.

And close enough to notice I hadn’t said a thing.

xxx

The kitchen lights were dim, just the hum of the fridge breaking the silence. She was sitting on the counter, legs swinging idly, mug in her hands.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Hey,” I said, voice low.

“Hey,” she answered, casual, but her eyes flicked up like she’d been waiting.

I went for the coffee pot. I didn’t need it—I hadn’t needed caffeine at this hour in years—but I needed something to do with my hands.

“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “We caught the PR junket earlier. You guys did good. Looked natural.” I hated how formal it sounded, but anything else felt dangerous to say out loud.

Her brows lifted, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… you sold it. Val must be happy.”

“She is,” Yelena said flatly, taking another sip.

I nodded, focusing on my coffee. It felt stupid to even say it. Complimenting her for looking happy with someone else—someone she actually was with—felt wrong.

And maybe she saw that, because she tilted her head, studying me.

“You were quiet earlier,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Earlier?”

“When everyone was talking about it,” she said, voice still even.

I tried to play dumb. “I wasn’t—”

“I could hear you. From the hallway,” she cut me off. “Walker, Ava, Alexei—everyone else had something to say. You didn’t.”

I shifted my weight, gripping the edge of the counter. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

“Maybe not,” she said, setting her mug down. “But I noticed.”

There was no accusation in her tone, just something curious—searching.

I looked at her then—really looked.

She was in an oversized sweatshirt, hair still damp, makeup washed off. And maybe it was just me, but she looked tired.

“Bob’s… a good guy,” I said finally, as if that explained anything. “You… you looked happy.”

She gave a short laugh, no humor in it. “Yeah. That’s the point, isn’t it? We’re supposed to look happy.”

The words hung between us, heavier than I expected.

And before I could stop myself, I asked, “Are you happy, Yelena?”

Her head jerked up, eyes sharp.

I winced, already backpedaling. “Sorry, you don’t have to— That was a loaded question—”

“No,” she cut me off, her voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.”

I froze.

“Thank you for asking,” she said, softer this time, almost like she was letting out a breath she’d been holding for weeks. “You’re the only person who has.”

The room went still.

She stared down at her mug, then started talking—fast, almost like she was afraid if she stopped, she’d lose her nerve.

Yelena stared down at her mug, then let out a sharp exhale, words spilling before she could stop them.

“Look—I love Bob. I do. He’s… sweet, funny, we have a lot of fun together. But he’s got a lot of shit he needs to work through, and sometimes it feels like I’m holding him together with tape and prayers. And now with Val and the PR, it’s like—”

She broke off, giving a short, humorless laugh. “The sex is good, though. It’s not all bad.”

I froze. My fingers tightened around the counter before I could stop myself. I didn’t trust my face, so I kept my eyes on the coffee.

The attempt at levity fell flat. She stared down at her mug, shoulders tight.

That’s when she finally caught me.

Her brows knitted, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “Did I totally overshare just now? Was that… too much?”

I blinked, forcing myself back into the conversation. “No, it’s—”

But she was still looking at me, waiting.

I tightened my grip on the counter, because I couldn’t lie. Not to her.

“Actually… yeah. Yelena, I can’t be the person you talk to about this.”

Her brow furrowed, puzzling over me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, quieter this time.

Like she already half-knew the answer.

I forced myself to meet her eyes, even though it felt like my chest was caving in.

“Because… I’m not impartial, when it comes to this.” My jaw tightened. “I never was.”

The words landed between us, heavier than anything else we’d said.

Yelena blinked, something flickering in her expression—something sharp, then softer, like a realization sliding into place.

“I—” She shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly softer. “Sorry. I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to…”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” I said quickly, too quickly. I set my mug down and stepped back, needing to move before I said anything worse.

“Goodnight, Yelena.”

She didn’t answer, not right away.

I left before I could look back, before I could see if she was still watching me.

But I could feel her eyes on me as I walked out—the weight of it lingering long after I was gone.

And Yelena stayed sitting on the counter, fingers tightening around her mug, her cheeks warm as the realization settled in.

xxx

I tossed and turned for an hour, replaying the kitchen in my head.

Her tired eyes. Her laugh with no humor. “Thank you for asking. You’re the only person who has.”

I couldn’t leave it like that.

Finally, I muttered, “Screw it,” and swung my legs out of bed. I wasn’t sure what I planned to say—just that I couldn’t sit there doing nothing.

I opened the door—and froze.

Yelena stood on the other side, fist raised to knock.

We both stared for a beat.

“You’re awake,” she said first.

“Yeah,” I managed.

“Good,” she said, dropping her hand.

I stepped back, holding the door open. “You want to come in?”

She shook her head. “No. Here’s fine.”

So we stayed in the hallway, her arms crossed loosely, me leaning against the doorframe.

Yelena’s arms stayed crossed, her eyes steady on mine. “How come you aren’t impartial?”

“What, you want a list?” I said before I could stop myself.

She didn’t smile. “No. Just the truth.”

I froze for half a second, then met her gaze. “You already know the answer to that.”

She didn’t push. Just stared at me, and in the silence, something shifted—like she was really thinking about it for the first time.

And for a second, I was back there.

Back to those first weeks when it had just been easy.

Late nights at the compound kitchen, quiet conversations that stretched longer than they should have. The almost-flirting—not quite, not enough to cross a line, but enough that it felt like we were circling each other without meaning to.

I’d told myself I’d imagined that energy. That she hadn’t felt it, not the way I did.

But standing here now, I wasn’t so sure.

Yelena exhaled, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable.

Then, softer: “Well… I guess we’ve got some things we need to figure out then, Bucky.”

My heart skipped, but I kept my voice even. “Yeah? Like what?”

She gave me a look—one I couldn’t easily place.

“Like this,” she said simply.

My heart stuttered.

Her fingers brushed my wrist—barely there, testing.

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

xxx

"Like a moth to a flame I'll pull you in, I'll pull you back to what you need initially It's just one call away And you'll leave him, you're loyal to me..."

v. james

-----

if you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first who ever did

-----

The dinner table was quieter than usual that night.

Alexei was shoveling pierogi onto his plate like it was his last meal. Ava kept checking the clock, like maybe it’d buy her more time. Even Walker, for once, wasn’t talking. Just chewing—slow, methodical—like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

Bob and I had our bags by the door. Everything we owned packed up in two duffels. We were leaving at zero-dark-thirty. One final sleep, if any of us even managed it.

I’d tried to make it normal. I really had. I even helped cook, and for a second, when Ava started humming over the stove and Alexei cracked a joke about Walker’s metabolism, it almost felt like a regular night.

Almost.

Then I looked up.

No one said it was a goodbye dinner. But it was.

Bucky was sitting at the end of the table.

Same chair he always took—quiet, angled just enough to look like he wasn’t really part of it. He hadn’t said much all night. Hadn’t touched his food. Just sat with his arms crossed, watching the middle of the table like it might explode.

Then someone—probably Alexei—made a toast. Something rough and honest, like,

“To getting through whatever’s next.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

Everyone but Bucky.

We talked around it—hovered near the edges of what tomorrow meant. Laughed too easily. Ate too slowly. The kind of night where everyone pretends they’re fine, just long enough to survive the meal.

I was the first to stand.

I hugged Ava first. She didn’t cry, which surprised me. Just pressed her forehead to mine and whispered,

“Make them regret not choosing you first.”

Walker raised his glass to that.

Alexei pulled me into a hug that felt like it might crack something in my chest. Held on longer than usual.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I get it.”

Then, gruff and quiet:

“But you better call. Or I’ll find you.”

I nodded. Swallowed hard. Tried not to let it show.

When I turned to say goodbye to Bucky—he was gone.

His chair sat empty at the end of the table. The wine in his glass untouched.

“Where’d he go?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“I think he said he had a call to make,” Walker offered, shrugging. “A few minutes ago.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the chair like it might offer a better answer.

Bob was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping his thigh like he was working through an equation he didn’t quite believe in.

I sat down next to him.

We didn’t speak for a while.

Then, without looking at me, he said:

“You should go see him.”

My stomach twisted.

“I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Just… don’t leave with it still stuck in your chest.”

He paused. Then added, softer:

“I’ll be okay.”

And that—

That was all it took.

Not permission. Not absolution.

Just that.

I stood up. My legs felt too heavy.

“Don’t wait up,” I said.

He didn’t.

xxx

I waited until everyone else had peeled off—until the hallway lights were low and Ava’s door clicked shut behind her.

Then I went looking for him.

I wasn’t pacing anymore. Wasn’t weighing pros and cons. I didn’t know what I was going to say, not exactly—but I had half a mind to say something. Something real. Something that mattered.

Because if it was ever going to happen—whatever it was—it had to be tonight.

I stopped outside his door. Took a breath. Knocked three times—soft and uncertain. The kind of knock that says, I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I showed up anyway.

No response.

I waited anyway.

Then I tried the handle.

The room was dark. Empty. Clean—too clean. Like he hadn’t touched anything since walking out of the kitchen.

No clutter. No clothes. No dent in the bed. Just the faintest trace of something familiar in the air—soap, sweat, metal. Him.

It hit all at once.

He wasn’t here.

I stood in the doorway, blinking like maybe I’d missed something. Like maybe he was hiding just out of sight. Maybe he’d step out and say something first.

But no one came.

No voice. No movement. Just quiet.

Heavy, final.

I stepped inside. Just for a second. Just to be sure. Then backed out fast—like the longer I stayed, the more it might break me.

Of course he’s gone, I thought. Of course I waited too long.

I didn’t say it out loud. Just shut the door behind me—too hard, too loud.

Then stood there in the hallway.

Still. Stupid. Empty-handed.

Bob’s voice came back to me: Don’t leave with it still stuck in your chest.

Too late, I thought. It’s already lodged somewhere I can’t reach.

Whatever might’ve been—it wasn’t anymore.

And maybe that was safer. Maybe that was easier.

But it didn’t feel like it.

xxx

I lay awake for hours.

Didn’t even try to sleep, really. Just stared at the ceiling and tried to rehearse the things I would’ve said. If I’d found him. If he’d answered. If I hadn’t waited too long.

It was stupid. All of it. The silence. The waiting. The pretending.

I’d blown it.

I knew that.

I just wanted a glass of water. Something to do. Something to hold. Something that wasn’t this.

I padded barefoot through the dark hallway, one hand trailing along the wall, the other tugging the hem of my sweatshirt lower.

When I rounded the corner into the living room, I stopped short.

He was there.

Bucky.

Alone. Half-shadowed by the firelight. Sitting in the armchair like he hadn’t moved in hours, eyes unfocused, shoulders curled forward like the weight of the last week was finally settling on him.

He didn’t see me right away.

Or maybe he did, and just didn’t say anything. Either way, he was slouched in the armchair, legs stretched long in front of him, one arm draped over the back, the other hanging loose at his side. Staring into the fire like it owed him something.

He looked wrecked. Not drunk. Not disheveled. Just… like someone who hadn’t let himself break, and was starting to realize that was a mistake.

Something about that—about finding him here when I’d already convinced myself I wouldn’t get to say goodbye—hit me harder than I expected.

“Where were you?”

His head snapped up. Not startled, exactly—but off balance, the way I’d been the night of the gala, when he walked in on me and Bob. Like he was caught mid-thought, mid-something.

“I went to your room,” I said. “To say goodbye.”

He blinked, jaw tightening. I could almost hear the click of him locking everything down again.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Yeah?” I stepped into the room. “Well, I did.”

I crossed to the edge of the rug, just far enough to feel the fire’s heat on my shins.

“Where were you?” I repeated.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbed a hand over his face like he was buying himself time.

“Out,” he muttered. “Trying to walk it off. Or drink it off. I don’t know.”

He didn’t look at me. That part stung more than I thought it would.

“I thought… it’d be easier not to say anything,” he added.

I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“You really think that made it easier?” I said, sharper than I meant. “For who?”

His head turned, slow and deliberate. That same look he’d given me so many times before—steady, unreadable, a little too focused.

“You think this is easy for me?” I said. “You think I want to leave?”

That landed.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees now, hands clasped like he was bracing for something. Or trying not to fall apart.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think that.”

“Good. Because it fucking sucks.”

Silence. The fire popped once. His eyes didn’t leave mine.

“I know what this looks like,” I said. “You’ve been watching me, waiting for me to screw it up, and maybe I did. But not with Bob. I’m not choosing him—I’m choosing not to let the world burn.”

He flinched—barely. But I caught it.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, softer now.

He looked down. Swallowed. His voice came out rough.

“I know.”

“Then why’d you keep acting like it?”

That cracked something open. He sat back again, jaw clenched tight.

“Because I couldn’t stand watching it. You—him—it felt like I was already losing you, and I hadn’t even had the chance to—” He stopped. Shook his head.

I stepped in closer.

“To what?” I asked. “To what, Bucky?”

He looked up at me like it hurt. And maybe it did.

“To want you.”

Silence.

My chest tightened. My fingers twitched.

“You could’ve said something.”

“And what?” he snapped. “Said I wanted something I shouldn’t? Said I couldn’t stand losing you, when you were never mine to begin with? Said I—”

He stopped again. Swallowed the rest.

I moved in until we were almost eye level. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to remember what it felt like when I was the one being interrupted.

“You said in my room that night,” I murmured, “that I wasn’t the only one with urges.”

His throat worked around a swallow.

“You weren’t wrong.”

He just looked up at me like I’d split something in him open—and he didn’t know how to close it back up.

That same look.

The one he gave me the night of the verdict. When I’d crossed the room, slow and quiet and stupid with want, and he’d said nothing—just watched me move closer like he didn’t trust himself to stop it.

He hadn’t touched me then. Had barely breathed.

But I remembered the way his voice cracked when he said, “Long day.”

And I remembered how that sentence had gutted me. Not because it was cold. But because it was mercy.

This wasn’t that.

There was no more space for mercy.

So I broke it for him.

My hand went to his jaw—steady, certain—and his eyes fluttered closed like he’d been waiting for it longer than he wanted to admit.

I didn’t pull him in. I just held him there. Let the moment hang between us, like the end of a sentence we were both too scared to say.

“You should’ve answered the door,” I said, quieter now. “I was ready to say goodbye.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “Not to you.”

He didn’t say anything now. Just looked up at me with that same tension in his jaw—like if he moved, even an inch, he might break something.

And I thought about that night in his room—the night of the verdict.

When I’d asked why he was always there. When he told me I wasn’t the only one who felt things.

It hadn’t been a confession. It had been a reckoning. And I hadn’t known what to do with it then—but now I did.

So I reached for him.

I leaned in and kissed him—slow at first, aching, like I was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth. Like I was afraid I’d forget how he tasted.

But he didn’t let me stay soft for long.

His hands found my waist like he’d been waiting for permission he thought he’d never get. And then we weren’t careful anymore.

We were teeth and breath and hands. We were frustration and grief and guilt, spilling out all over each other.

He stood up too fast and I didn’t let him pull away. I pressed into him, fingers dragging up under the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel skin, to feel him—solid and real and here.

His breath hitched.

“Is this really happening?” he murmured—low, rough, almost like it wasn’t meant to be out loud.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

He looked at me like he was still catching up. Like he’d been bracing for this moment so long he didn’t know how to step into it.

Then he kissed me—hard. Like he was done thinking. Like the answer had always been yes.

We weren’t careful. We weren’t soft. We were burning the house down because neither of us knew how to mourn it quietly.

But neither of us stopped.

He pushed me back into the wall with a groan, and I swore I felt the floor tilt under us.

My shirt was halfway off when a floorboard creaked down the hall.

We both froze.

His breath caught in my mouth. Mine caught in my throat.

“Shit,” I whispered.

I looked at him. Hair mussed, lips swollen, shirt wrinkled. He looked back at me like he was already bracing for someone to come walking in.

“We should probably—”

“Get a room?” I finished. He nodded.

We made it halfway down the hall before I pressed him into the wall again.

I couldn’t help it.

His hands were already under my shirt. Mine were tangled in his hair. And every time I remembered this was our last night, I wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

“This is crazy,” I breathed against his mouth.

He kissed me harder.

We barely made it to the bedroom. I stumbled backward through the door, pulling him with me, his mouth still on mine like we were going to fall apart if we stopped touching. Maybe we were.

The door clicked shut behind him.

For a second, we just stood there—breathing each other in. Close enough to feel the heat still radiating off our skin. Close enough that I didn’t know where I ended and he began.

He stared at me like he didn’t want to blink.

Like if he did, I’d disappear.

And suddenly I needed words. Not just hands. Not just breath.

I didn’t know if I was holding onto him or holding myself up.

“Bucky,” I whispered. “tell me what you’re thinking.”

He looked at me like it hurt.

“I’ve been trying not to want you for a while now,” he murmured.

“Me too,” I said. “Didn’t work.”

This time, when I kissed him, he didn’t hold back.

I kissed him again—slower now. Not to prove anything. Not to make a point. Just to feel it. To feel him. Solid and real and mine, even if only for tonight.

His lips moved against mine like he didn’t quite believe it. Like he was waiting for me to change my mind.

“You sure?” he breathed, brushing his nose against mine.

“Yes.” I tangled my fingers in his hair. “Stop asking.”

He swallowed hard. His hands curled around my waist like he needed something to hold.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “Not for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” I said, resting my forehead against his. “I’m doing it because I want to. Because I want you.”

That undid him.

His hands tightened at my sides. His mouth found mine again—hungrier this time, like he finally let himself believe it. Like he was kissing me with everything he hadn’t said out loud.

We didn’t rush.

We didn’t stumble.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was careful. Intentional. Like we were building something fragile and already grieving its collapse.

By the time we made it to the bed, Bucky Barnes wasn’t the man sitting by the fire, trying not to fall apart. He wasn’t the soldier, or the spy, or the one who always watched from the edge.

He was mine. And I was his.

And we were done pretending we didn’t want this.

Clothes came off slowly, like we were peeling back armor. Each layer a surrender. Each breath another promise we couldn’t keep.

When he slipped his hands beneath my shirt, his touch was reverent. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch—but needed to anyway.

“You really want this?” he asked again, voice hoarse.

I grabbed his hand and pressed it flat over my chest, right above my heart.

“I want you.”

His eyes darkened. His breath caught.

“Okay.”

He kissed me like he meant it—steady, grounded. Like he was trying to hold me in place with his mouth, like if he let go for even a second, I’d disappear.

I let him lead.

I let him take me apart with his mouth, his hands, his breath against my skin. He kissed down my ribs like they meant something. Traced the curve of my waist like it might break if he rushed.

And when he knelt between my legs and slid my underwear down, it felt like both a question and an answer.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, barely above a whisper.

“Please,” I said, threading my fingers into his hair. “Just—please.”

That was all it took.

He buried his face between my thighs like he’d been starving. His fingers curled inside me, coaxing soft, shuddering gasps from my throat. Every touch—every sound—ratcheted up the tension already thrumming in my chest. I felt like I was burning from the inside out.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” I managed, breathless.

He kissed up my body, slow and deliberate, until he was hovering over me again.

“Since the Void,” he murmured.

Surprise must’ve crossed my expression. His mouth quirked—wry, but soft.

“You walked in, asked if I was okay… and I lied through my teeth. Figured it was safer if you didn’t know I was already gone for you.”

I stared up at him.

“That long,” he said again, quieter now.

Something in my chest cracked open.

I didn’t want to wait anymore. I’d waited enough.

“Bucky,” I gasped. “Please. I need you.”

He brushed a thumb over my cheekbone. His voice dropped.

“You want me, Yelena?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a game. He was still asking like he needed permission. Like he didn’t quite believe he was wanted.

“I want you,” I said, firm. Then again, rougher—meaner, because I was coming apart. “I want you.”

I fumbled with his pants, fingers shaking, and wrapped my hand around him. He groaned—low and guttural—and dropped his forehead against mine.

“Say it again,” he whispered, grinding against me, fingers still between my legs.

“I want you so fucking badly, Bucky,” I whimpered. “Please. Just—fuck, please.”

He lined himself up and pushed in all at once.

I gasped—loud, broken—and he caught it in a kiss.

He moved slow at first. Measured. Like he was learning the way I felt around him. Like he didn’t want to miss a thing.

Every thrust landed deep, precise. My body arched beneath him, straining to meet every inch.

And then—just as the pressure built, just as I felt myself start to fray—he whispered it.

Soft. Quiet. Right against my mouth.

“I love you.”

I froze for half a second.

Not from fear. From impact.

He swallowed hard. His rhythm faltered.

“Had to say it,” he murmured. “At least once.”

My breath hitched.

His hand found mine.

And that—

That was it.

I shattered.

I came around him with a cry, clinging to him like I could hold the moment still. He followed with a groan, spilling into me with a shudder, his face buried in my neck.

We stayed like that—sweaty, tangled, breathless.

Two ghosts playing at being human.

I let myself pretend, just for a second, that we weren’t both trained to disappear.

He was still holding me. Still breathing like he hadn’t quite come down.

I stared at the ceiling, let myself imagine—for just a second—what it would be like to stay.

“Did you mean it?” I asked. Quiet. Like if I said it too loud, it wouldn’t be true anymore.

He didn’t look at me right away.

“Do you want me to?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—like he meant it, but couldn’t stand to say it first.

I looked at him for a long time.

“I just…” I shook my head, stopping myself.

But the words kept burning anyway.

I stared at the ceiling, let myself imagine—for just a second—what it would be like to stay.

“I just wish we had more time,” I said.

Then, after a beat, quieter: “Would’ve been nice to do this more than once.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around mine.

“Maybe we will,” he said, so quiet I almost missed it. “Down the line.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a long time.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

But we both knew better. And we didn’t say it.

Still—

As we drifted off to sleep, he held me. Without flinching. Without breaking.

And somehow—without hurting me.

No one ever had. Not like this.

And if he really could—if this was real—