Conner☘️

So you didn't tell him.

"You're evil," Tony said, not looking up from his tablet. You were both in the common room kitchen. You making coffee, him pretending to work while actually watching the security feed of the east hallway on a secondary screen. "You're both evil and I'm entertained."

"Don't know what you're talking about." you said, pouring creamer.

"Camera twelve, thirty seconds ago. Bucky just pulled you into the supply closet by your belt loops. You were in there for four minutes and came out with your shirt buttoned wrong."

You looked down. Damn. "We're organizing supplies."

"Uh-huh. And I'm organizing Pepper's schedule. Which I actually am, because I'm a functional adult who doesn't need to hide in closets—"

The door burst open. Steve strode in, fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, looking unfairly wholesome. "Hey! Have you guys seen Bucky? I wanted to go over some mission parameters, but he's not answering his comm."

Tony's eyes flicked to you. You took a long sip of coffee.

"Last I saw, he was heading toward the east wing." you said, which was technically true. Four minutes ago. Before the supply closet.

"Thanks, Y/N," Steve clapped your shoulder with that heavy, well meaning hand. "You're the best."

He left. Tony stared at you.

"East wing," Tony repeated. "You sent Captain America on a scavenger hunt while your boyfriend hides his...supplies."

"He'll find him eventually. Probably in the armory. Bucky's probably cleaning his guns."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

You flipped him off.

The problem with living in a building full of super spies and geniuses was that privacy was theoretical. The problem with dating Bucky Barnes was that he had seventy years of repressed libido and absolutely no chill.

"Steve's in the gym," Bucky breathed against your neck, walking you backward into your bedroom. "Forty five minute routine. I timed it."

"You timed my brother's workout?"

"For us," Bucky said, like this was romantic. And honestly? It kind of was. His hands were already under your shirt, warm and calloused, the metal one trailing cool against your spine. "Forty minutes. I can make you come twice. Three times if you're loud."

"I'm never loud." you lied.

Bucky grinned, wicked and sharp. "Challenge accepted."

You were forty minutes into proving exactly how loud you could be—Bucky's mouth on your throat, your legs wrapped around his waist, the bed hitting the wall in a rhythm that was definitely going to leave marks—when the knock came.

"Hey! You in there?" Steve's voice, muffled but present.

You both froze. Bucky was still inside you, breathing hard, eyes wide.

"Shit." you mouthed.

"Didn't know he finished early." Bucky mouthed back.

The knock came again. "I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner! Just us, like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you all week."

Because you'd been avoiding him. Because every time you sat down for a meal, Bucky would look at you across the table with that look, and you'd have to excuse yourself to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice cracking only slightly. "Just—just a minute! I'm changing!"

"Okay! I'll wait!"

Bucky's forehead dropped to your shoulder. He was shaking, you realized, with laughter or desperation. You couldn't tell.

"We have to be quiet." you whispered.

"He's right outside the door."

"I know."

Bucky pulled back slightly, just enough to roll his hips. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't." He did it again. The metal hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the moan you couldn't hold back.

"Everything okay in there?" Steve called.

"Fine!" you managed, voice muffled by Bucky's palm. "Just stubbed my toe!"

"Oh! You want me to get you some ice?"

"No!" you yelped as Bucky thrust again, watching your face with dark amusement. "I'm good! Just give me five minutes!"

"Okay! Take your time!"

You heard him settle against the door. Actually settle. Like he was going to stand guard.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Still?

You nodded frantically. Still.

What followed was the most intense, silent sex of your life. Bucky's hand still covered your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. Every time you made a noise, he'd pause, shake his head minutely, and wait for Steve to shift his weight outside before moving again.

It was torture. It was exquisite.

When you came, it was with Bucky's name silent on your lips, your back arching off the bed, his hand keeping you quiet as your body shook. He followed a moment later, burying his face in your neck, his own release silent and shuddering.

You lay there, panting, listening to your brother hum the Star-Spangled Banner on the other side of the door.

"I hate you." you whispered to Bucky.

"I know," he whispered back, kissing your jaw. "Worth it?"

You couldn't even answer. You were too busy trying to remember how to walk.

Five minutes later, you opened the door. Steve beamed at you, then looked past you to where Bucky was sitting on your bed, fully clothed, cleaning his knife.

"Oh! Hey, Buck! Didn't know you were here."

"Just stopped by to borrow a book." Bucky said smoothly, not looking up.

"What book?"

Bucky paused. Looked at you. You looked at the ceiling.

"...The Great Gatsby." Bucky said.

"You hate The Great Gatsby," Steve said. "You said it was 'a book about a stalker with money.'"

"Trying to broaden my horizons."

Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath. Then he smiled, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "That's great, pal. Self-improvement. I like it. You guys ready for dinner?"

"Starving." you said, and Bucky coughed into his fist.

The Avengers knew.

Of course they knew.

Natasha had figured it out in week one, because she was Natasha. She'd found you in the gym at 3 AM, Bucky's jacket around your shoulders, his hickey on your collarbone, and she'd just nodded once and said, "About time. He's less murder-y when he's getting laid."

She'd kept the secret without being asked. Natasha understood secrets. She understood that some things needed to stay small and safe before they were ready for the light.

Clint knew because he'd walked in on you in the vents. You'd been hiding from Steve, Bucky had been hiding with you, and things had gotten handsy. Clint had backed out slowly, given you a thumbs up, and later left a box of condoms on your pillow with a note: 

For the greater good. Also, vents have cameras. You're welcome.

Tony knew because Tony knew everything, and he was enjoying the show too much to spoil it.

Thor knew because he was Thor, and while he didn't fully understand Midgardian courtship rituals, he understood that "secret love is the most passionate love" and had taken to giving you knowing winks that made you want to die.

Bruce knew because he had excellent hearing and the Hulk had apparently developed opinions about your relationship that he communicated through meaningful grunts.

And Steve—Steve knew that you and Bucky were close. Closer than close. Best friends, he'd say proudly, watching you two train together, watching Bucky teach you knife throws, watching you bring Bucky coffee exactly how he liked it (black, two sugars, in the red mug because the blue one had a chip).

"He's going to kill us when he finds out." Bucky said one day while holding you in your bed.

"He's not going to find out."

"He's Captain America, doll. He's going to walk in on us eventually, or Tony's going to get drunk and spill it, or—"

"Or," you said, looking up at him, "we keep being careful. We keep it ours. Just a little longer."

Bucky looked tired, but he was smiling. "You really want to keep sneaking around? The supply closets? The quickies in the armory? That time in the quinjet while he was flying it?"

"That was risky," you admitted. "But also hot."

The Avengers Tower was quiet, an accompaniment of dancing shadows and sun rays beaming through the expansive windows. Those were the only forms that walked the endless halls during the desolate weeks between Christmas and mid-January. Tony had declared an order for the team to take a nice-needed break from their hero-ing duty, going on and on with research-backed references to many global crime statistics that backed his claim. Even Steve, with faint darkening eye bags, had agreed to the Avengers taking a short vacation. You had tried reasoning with the group, reminding them that alien overlords and egotistical dimension warping villains didn't play by Earth's customs or fall into the same behavioral patterns, but your reasoning fell to deaf ears and tired faces. Tony quickly dismissed you with some flaps of his hand, calling you a "Gloomy Gus", and everyone quickly disbanded from the conference room in a heaping pile with Natasha slipping through with ease and Tony and Clint butting shoulders. A newfound energy sprung in their steps as they split and got ready to leave.

On the way-out Steve had patted your shoulder, acknowledging your point but also letting you know that it was okay to take some time off. Not to worry. He gives a small indignant wave to Bucky in goodbye to his best friend, who had been sitting in the chair next to you during the meeting. He nodded back, returning back to watch your face for a few seconds, scanning and analyzing your furrowed eyebrows and how you bit the inside of your cheek. You're trying to hold steady, trying to maintain your composure which should have been simple, everyone else had instantly clicked into vacation-mode. But you couldn't simply ask the engrained training of many countless years working at S.H.I.E.L.D. to just stop. There's always some vogue criminal. It wasn't a when, it's a where.

Scraping rolling wheels and the bounce in the leather cushion from the energized metal springs registered you back to reality. Bucky, now standing at his full height, went to put out his right arm before he faltered, switched his footing, and the glint of his open metal palm came into view. "You need a hand, Darling?" the brunette asked, your eyes noting the way his chest swelled under his tight red shirt when the nickname rolled off his tongue.

The cool press of his vibranium hand against yours resets your thoughts, finally bringing you back to the present. Bucky easily lifts you, giving a soft push against your chair with his boot to clear space for you, and if you weren't too worried still you would've thought he was showing off for you. When a thud is heard from the chair rebounding against the wall, Bucky smirks. He's always trying to impress me, you deny your thought instantly with a terminating, short scoff, wishing you were back lost in the labyrinth of pessimism instead of stuck watching yourself complete mental gymnastics over whether the super soldier even leaned the same way.

"You not gonna head out?" Bucky asks, voice rough but quiet as he leans closer into your space. He doesn't feel the need to raise his voice, not when it's only you two. Neither did he ever want to alarm you, scare you off, especially right now when you're still clearly on high alert and must feel unheard.

Am I? you question yourself first, your response still buried deep beneath the onslaught of revitalized decaying what-ifs. "I think... I'm going to stay in the tower," you answer after a moment, the words first slipping shakily like you were still deciding mid-sentence.

Bucky waits, patiently, knowing that you had more to say. He crosses his arms over his chest, the shiny glint from his metal arm catching your attention. You choose to stare at it, keeping your head down, rather than look up and have Bucky catch you staring at his flexed chest.

"Don't get me wrong, I need the vacation. We all do," you continue. Bucky nods along and gives a short hum when he notices you still haven't looked back up. "It's just that- I already took the time to visit my family for Thanksgiving so there isn't an immediate need to return again so soon. Not immediate like here..."

"You think something bad's gonna happen?" You return Bucky's gaze at his question, catching him graze his bottom lip with his tongue. Maybe there was another reason why you innately wanted to stay. A much more important and six-foot-shaped motive.

"No," you say plainly, the truth finally free. Bucky's eyebrow rises, his head tilting in surprise at your honesty. "At least that's what pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. me is saying. Quietly."

"I understand where you are coming from, Darling," he rests his right hand on your shoulder, maintaining eye contact. "It's difficult to deprogram yourself from behavior that has repeatedly been drilled into your head with sweat and blood. Day-in, day-out. For years."

Right, shit, here you are complaining about not wanting to go on a vacation because of some small aching worry you can't shake and Bucky's been through been much, much worse. But you couldn't help to begin to unpack, to sheathe away your weapon and unravel your wounds when you were around the Brooklyn-born man. Ever since Bucky joined the team - only a few months after your promotion - he always tried to ease you by cutting through all your mental noise with the simplest resolutions.

"You know, I don't think I'm going to head anywhere either," Bucky finishes, his voice a husk whisper that warms your bones.

"You're also staying in the tower?"

"Yeah," he answers breathlessly, inching his face closer. "I think it's just going to be you, I, and Friday left in the tower."

"Just us," you mutter to yourself, the realization causing your heart to soar. Fortunately, your years in S.H.I.E.L.D. had inadvertently schooled you into a steely resting expression.

Bucky catches your words but doesn't say anything. Instead, he falls in step behind you as you both walk out and into the long hallway of the executive sector. If any average citizen passed by, they would have assumed that the tall, stoic, beefy man beside was your bodyguard. Bucky couldn't shake the defensive soldier march, especially not when you couldn't notice him doing it. When you can't call him out for it, not that you would. He knew he had come a long way from his torture as The Winter Soldier under Hydra's commands, so there was only one other important reason why he was acting this way. And although he wishes it wasn't the back of your head he was staring after, the sight still made his palm sweat - undistinguishable as he stepped with his fists clenched like he was instantly prepared to sock a criminal that leaped out from a corner - and a loaded, heavy weight sinking into the pits of his stomach that deployed endearing, affectionate heat.

The everyday noise of laughing, bickering, and commands was already fading as the building began to settle against the approaching New York chill. A brief intermission of quickly condensing heat flooded your senses as you walked by an open vent. Bucky drew closer after he noticed the smallest shake rattle across your body, his swaying arm occasionally skimming against yours. The minute sensation of your skin against his induces a smirk to tug against his mechanical expression.

As you reach the elevator, Bucky outstretched past you to push the up button before you were even able to make a move. His figure lingered, leaning against you, his face even closer than it was earlier. Even though the expansive hallways could easily fit three superheroes side-by-side, he decided to stick behind you. You can feel the warmth exude from him in reassuring troves from his thick upper-body muscles pressed against your back. You glance sideways at the super soldier to no reaction. When you raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes wouldn't even budge from the electronic display counting down as the elevator descended.

The ding of the elevator causes Bucky to hesitantly, but firmly pull back, instantly returning to his previous stance as he follows you inside. You press the button this time, the elevator lifting to the main floor, and the small metal box was the only witness to the awkward shuffling between you and the ex-soldier as you await your destination.

In your stupor you shoved Bucky back onto the sofa as he offered to get you a snack from the kitchen to accompany the half-completed bottle of eggnog poorly stabilized and leaning drunkenly against a round, plush cushion. With a breathless chuckle Bucky followed you anyway, his shin banging against the coffee table and rattling the champagne glasses you decided were the best vessels for the Christmas-themed alcohol.

As you made your way across the sweeping room, Bucky pressed his side against you and when he noticed you didn't pull away, he intertwined your arms. He didn't understand why his brain was buzzing and his heart felt a little numb when his super soldier metabolism never usually allowed any standard alcohol to really affect him in the past. The brunette wasn't worried about that though, not when his tipsiness made him feel a notch bolder and braver and had you neatly wrapped around his vibranium arm.

"Always the gentleman, Barnes," he hears you say, the tease tunneling through his ears and practically squeezing at the edges of his heart. He turned away when he felt you look over, shyly closing his eyes and smiling at a passing potted fern.

He thinks he mumbles, "Only for you, Handsome," but it comes out louder than he intended. He turns back to you, still scanning your face even in this buzzing state, trying to observe every minute change in your expression as he makes sure that he didn't cross any line. A small whine escapes you as you feel Bucky shift beside you, his arm releasing yours as he instead reaches for your shoulder to lean you against his shoulder. You almost walked head-first into the kitchen doorway.

For a moment the two Avengers paused in the entryway, your right shoulder treading against Bucky's left pec as the scrunched-up fabric of his maroon long-sleeved dressed arm tickled the back of your neck, his metal bicep flexing slightly over your shoulder. Your gazes trailed along the many cabinets until your eyes met, a telltale blush highlighting the complexity in his melting ice blue eyes. You hoped that your face hadn't reacted similarly. Initially overwhelmed by the number of options you had, now you were glad your body stopped you.

This was it! both of your hearts sang. After too long of a wait, you finally were going to kiss your superhero coworker. You'll finally know that in the initial months that Steve had assigned Bucky under your wing - always your partner in all different types of missions, even ones that didn't necessarily match his abilities - met something to him as well. The too many close calls that had forced both of you to immediately trust each other blindly, his devotion in always putting himself in harm's way much to many arguments on the ride back to the tower, and the insurmountable instances you'd catch him staring across the room, sometimes even glaring in conferences when another Avenger took his seat beside you. But never at you.

Bucky raised his right arm, large palm cradling your jaw like you were a fragile doll made of glass, and he didn't want to drop you. Especially in his drunken, less precise and more clumsy-prone daze. He was reminiscing on the first mission you shared with him when Steve and Tony had practically placed him into your care, you only found out when you entered the mini quinjet and found him staring blankly against the opposite wall. You didn't question it, never made him feel like a burden as you immediately rolled with it. Needless to say, it was awkward at first, he kept to himself and tried to make his bulky frame look smaller as he mostly stayed hunched over himself on the ride over to the Niagara Falls border. Even then his heart recorded every time you had tried to open him up with superficial questions and checked in with him on his thoughts with your plan.

It wasn't until the debrief that you were told by Tony and Steve that Bucky would be under your care - something about the most recent rookie showing the ropes to the newest - that he began to open to you. It didn't make much sense, but it seemed like Steve couldn't argue against it as he shook his head and sighed against his palm. Either way you had asked him to join you that evening at a local coffee shop, knowing that you two had to get close one way or another and his aversion to crowds limited your options outside the tower. Something about that question ameliorated his icy walls protecting himself, the follow-up on whether that was alright with him and how you looked at him like his opinion and feelings truly mattered, made it so he couldn't say no to you.

You became his emergency contact; he'd reluctantly toss and turn in his make-shift floor bed as he grappled with whether to bother you after he woke up sweating and scared from another nightmare until eventually, he gave in again. He barely winched when he took bullets for you, his vibranium arm shining in a purple glaze as most of the shots ricocheted off. It wasn't until the Hydra agents were all dealt with that you noticed the large blot of blood seeping through his suit and that was when he noticed how cute you looked when you dotted over his well-being. And somewhere in between then and now Bucky turned up his charm whenever he was around you.

"What do you want, Buck?" he hears you say about six feet in front of him, rustling through the snack pantry and the refrigerator to your left wide open. He looks back at the empty space where you were before, his arms straining as they no longer have your support to combat gravity's pull. When did you walk away from him? Was he that enthralled walking down his hall of memories that he hadn't noticed your real presence gone? Did he imagine it all? Was he more drunk than he recognized?

The super soldier shook his head, placing his right hand against the chilling marble countertop - the planned shiver resetting his thoughts. He took another moment to find the confidence he lost and finally says, "I want you, Darling."

You knew you weren't supposed to, but you laugh - the joyful vibrations bouncing off the many cabinets. Bucky pouts as you pull two processed snack-filled boxes that Steve definitely wouldn't have approved of. You turn between them, saying, "I'm talking about snacks, James. You think it'd be too much for me to chop up a charcuterie spread?" With a loud crease that the super soldier would never intentionally make under normal circumstances, the brunette rushes over to you now leaning against the fridge when he noticed your faulter, his arms hovering around you just in case. "It won't be no standard board, but I'm sure we can make do with what's left."

He narrowly steps aside as you toss a packet of prosciutto that slams against the kitchen island with a loud slap. He watches with a tilt to his head as you continuously cycle between the pantry and the fridge, grumbling to yourself when you questioned where the item you had just seen gone when it was within your grip. Clearly, the eggnog had taken a stronger effect on you. Bucky had seen you drink before, even having joined you at a local bar a few weeks ago after a tough mission where he nursed a single shot of whiskey all night while he kept a careful eye on you and the collection of empty cheap beer bottles. But you hadn't been this way then. How old was that eggnog the two of you were sharing?

The super soldier only stepped in when he saw the sharp knife in your hand. He grabbed it and your attention all at once. "Hi, Charmer," you beam at Bucky almost like you forgot he was still in the kitchen, only a handful of feet away.

The ex-soldier pushed through the tinging embarrassment, free hand gripping your soldier to maintain your focus on him and the other slotting the knife back inside the walnut block in two tries. "Think we should call it a night, Darling. You need to sleep off the alcohol."

"But I need to finish crafting this charcuterie board. I was finally goin' to ask you out with it," you respond with pure honesty as the inebriation released all your inhibitions. Your initial skepticism was correct: the eggnog wasn't from three weeks ago; it was well past its expiration with three years passing. He should've listened to you.

Bucky's breath hitches, the sincere sentiment immediately sobering him up. You were going to ask him out. You wanted him back. You felt the same as he did for you. A wave of overflowing love drenches through his body; Bucky tries his darndest to cherish the feeling. He can't, though. At least not right now when you deserve more of his support. He suppresses his treasured desire with a long blink that sealed away the memory somewhere on a pristine pedestal near his heart. It's now forever near and dear and will definitely be brought up randomly in a few months after a difficult mission - grime smeared across his sharp face with blood rushing out of the bullet hole in his shoulder, but he can't feel any of the damage with the dopey grin he has when he mentions to you this moment in great detail. Breaking the news to you that in your drunken stupor, you confessed first. It will always be worth it to see the red flush burn under your skin as you try to backtrack.

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder, mirroring his action in an attempt to distract him long enough to re-grab the knife block that he moved behind his figure and completely out of your reach. Chests smushed together and your chin hooked over his shoulder, the hand shifting lower and tightening against his hip to try and get better leverage. He lowly says your name with obvious affection now that he knows you won't remember any of this come the morning. "I can you make you your charcuterie board tomorrow, Darling. Right now, I am going to bring you to bed. Is it alright if I carry you?"

Even through the maroon fabric, he feels the pressure from your lips kissing the junction of his shoulder and neck, barely even a centimeter away from open skin that you were trying to reach. He takes the affection as a form of agreement. The super soldier first lifts your hand attached to hip and stretches the arm around his neck to meet your other. In a single maneuver, his arm hugs both of your thighs in a strength-ridden grip that would need Bucky to be killed for him to let go of you, lifting you with no real effort. He would've lugged you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, but he knew that wasn't the best idea with the alcohol buzzing through your system. He grins at the thought that he could do that with you another day.

While carrying you his vibranium palm covers your head, both soothingly scraping your scalp in the continuous minute motion and tugging your head against the side of his neck. Simmering heat laps against your skin from each kiss you press into the scruff of handsome beard. And oh, does Bucky wish you would stop for his sanity. It was overwhelming his senses with your body in his arms, your confession circling his thoughts like a flaming phoenix that rose up from his chest, and the physical affection you adorned his body. He passes the half-finished bottle of eggnog - the white alcohol being the sole factor that caused everything in the past thirty minutes. He'll thank it in the morning by launching the drink down the trash chute.

All at once, you still in his arms - your body shutting down against the warmth plush of the ex-soldier's muscular frame. Once Bucky feels your soft breathing ghost slowly across his cheek, his hand ceases its movements through your hair - grip tightening a fraction more at your increased vulnerability. As he stops in front of the metal, he shifts ever so slightly to kiss your forehead and bumps his shoulder against the down button - careful not to jostle you. He almost curses when the elevator's metallic ding causes you to stir as the doors open. Stepping inside, he whispers sweet nothing into your ear even after you've settled back into slumber. Even long after the elevator doors close and the metal box descends.

You come to in the wee hours of the morning, eyes shutting immediately from the first glimmers of the sunrise filtering through the eastern window. Your body felt stiffer like how you often felt when resorting to sleeping overnight at a trashy run-down motel during multiple-day stakeouts. At least in the last year there was an upside to those missions - you always shared a room with Bucky, even if nothing ever happened. The dull throb within your forehead made it hard for you to think further.

Wait- This doesn't feel like your bed. You wouldn't have complained otherwise as Tony installed each of the team members' and his workers' private rooms with bed frames and mattresses that were each worth an otherworldly absurd amount that was common change for the billionaire philanthropist. And, you didn't have an eastern window as you preferred to enjoy your sleep without needing to worry about the sun's beautiful shine alarm you. This throw blanket wasn't even yours, the texture and color wildly different.

Why did it smell like Bucky mixed with remnants of spoiled eggnog? You wildly spring up into a sitting position and take in the mattress you were sprawled over before your eyes widened when you recognized the super soldier's minimally decorated room. Oh, fuck. You were in Bucky's room, under his sheets, and resting on his floor mattress next to his open metal bed frame. The heat that rushes up your neck relieves the creeping headache momentarily, your body now too focused on your embarrassment as your folded arms rested on top of your inclined knees, forehead digging into your thighs.

Where was Bucky? you asked yourself even though you would prefer to never know. You try to rack your brain for any semblance of recollection from the events of last night, but you kept drawing blanks after you and Bucky stepped into the kitchen. After Bucky saved you from a possible concussion when he drew your side against his. There was the awkward shuffling in that elevator ride up after everyone split, Bucky teasingly scoffing at your worry over whether the unopen bottle of eggnog you found hidden in the back of the fridge was something you saw from Sam three weeks ago or three years ago, and how adventurous and worry-free you began to feel after the second glass. But nothing vibrant comes to mind after remembering how you were really hankering for the dedicant sprawl of a charcuterie board. Why? And where was Bucky?!

Did you mess things up? Make a fool of yourself? No. You must've confessed that must be it. Bucky must have taken pity on you after you blacked out, you assume, and lent you refuge in his room as it was a few floors above yours and thus closer.

Speaking of the charming soldier, his large frame concealed in shadows blocks the entryway as he tries to shut the door without it making any noise, lest he wake you. Bucky would beat himself silly if he was responsible for doing something like that you. He turns around, his eyes widening because you were wide awake staring up at him, and yours enlarging because the modifying stream of light showcased the large brunette's figure - his upper body bare. The black gym shorts hung deliciously low below his hips, the lightest graze of a recently shaved trail of dark hair climbing up his torso to his extensively paved abs, and his bulging and thick arms and chest somehow accentuated without even needing to flex all on display.

Behind your still propped up legs, you pinch your side. Ow. Nope, not dreaming. What did you say last night that got you so lucky to see Bucky in his entirety?

"You ain't dreaming, Handsome," he says after attentively noting your wince. "How you feeling?"

"Like I never want to see eggnog ever again," you groan. As Bucky lowers to sit on the edge of his mattress, giving you plenty of distance, he nods, his wonderous light blue eyes never leaving yours. Always patient. Always attentive. "Did we do anything last night?" you ask.

"No, Darling," he responds with a deep finality that immediately eases your worries. His face hard-set and serious, close to a glare but you've watched his expressions for too many hours to know the differences quite well. At least not yet, future Mr. Barnes, Bucky can't help the thought, tucking it away for later.

"I hope you liked the bed," Bucky says conflictedly, scratching the back of his neck with nervousness? He cleared his throat, continuing. "And, I also hope you don't mind the change of clothes. I knew it wouldn't be comfortable to stay in the suit you were wearing all day, but I didn't overstep either. So, yeah, uh- I hope you like the shirt," Bucky trails off at the end, pointing at your collar as you think you can almost see his ears flushed with deepening red.

You lift up your arms, the same maroon shirt that Bucky was wearing yesterday was now covering your frame in surplus with it being two or three sizes too big. You were in Bucky's clothes, even if just his shirt. The same one that collected his musk and held within its fabric the memories of yesterday's events. You were starting to wish the dull headache came back so you could focus on that rather than your racing heart and sweaty palms. "Thank you, Buck. The effort was sweet," you compliment the man and his head whips in your direction, mouth agape and at a loss for words. "Though if I'm being honest, your floor mattress isn't the most comfy."

"No?" The super soldier crawls across his makeshift bed and shimmies under the blanket to join you. You yelp as his muscular arm pulls your shoulder until your pulled and turned into his side and your head is resting on his beefy shoulder. He smiles down at you, small but still full of more than enough love, and his lips press against yours in a short but sweet kiss. "I think I've got the solution for that, Mr. Barnes," he breathes against your skin.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"Don't worry about it, Handsome," he whispers as he closes his eyes and mushes your bodies closer. "Let's get some more rest, yeah?"

Even though you wanted to ask again, exhaustion suddenly weighs heavily against your eyelids, a yawn emphasizing how good of an idea Bucky had. And even though Bucky first shut his eyes, he only waited until he heard your breath even and felt your heartbeat sync with his that he followed you back into sleep. With you back in his arms, your confession still swirling in his conscious, and the inevitable what are we conversation he'll finally get to have with you, he was admittedly glad you found that more-than-likely expired bottle of eggnog.

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© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

Tony tries his best to make your life difficult. He’ll disappear from his home at odd hours, use his snark to try and aggravate you, or do something reckless like attempt a suit flight test above the Malibu cliffs. However, you're never that far behind and your patience is endless. One night, he’s just touched down too hard in the Mark II, crashing through his garage and damaging several of his expensive cars. You rush in, weapon at the ready, scanning for threats.

“Relax,” Tony says, struggling to peel off the broken armor. “It’s just me doing some, uh, routine test improvements.” You exhale slowly, then calmly dismantle your sidearm. No threats—except the one Tony poses to himself.

“You know,” you say eventually, picking up a piece of the shattered gauntlet, “if you keep messing around with these half-finished upgrades, eventually I won’t just be your bodyguard. I’ll be the one scraping you off the ground.”

Tony stares at you, momentarily struck by the genuine concern in your voice, before clearing his throat. “Point taken,” he mutters, but for the first time, he seems less antagonistic—and almost thankful.

The slow thaw between you and Tony continues. He starts sharing details of the Iron Man suit, half to show off and half because he’s realized you’re more at ease when you know everything that’s going on. You learn that behind the smug exterior, Tony is propelled by guilt, determination, and a heart that aches to do genuine good. And for your part, despite your initial refusal to get personally involved, you find yourself caring about him—protecting him matters, but so does understanding him.

Late nights often find the two of you in the workshop. Tony’s hyper-focused on some new repulser tech while you stand guard, occasionally offering your own insight to whatever he was working on. You’d never guess Tony would be the type to listen, but he does, especially when your suggestions keep him from blowing up half the lab. He’ll acknowledge your tips with a half-smile, or a nod that says more than words.

Pepper noticed the shift. She’d smile at you in passing, relief evident in her eyes. She once patted your shoulder and said, “You’re good for him. He trusts you, and that’s not something I say lightly.” Rhodey, Tony’s closest friend, warmed up to you fast. He appreciated having another military mind around. When Tony got lost in his own arrogance, Rhodey and you would share an exasperated look.

Then everything changes again when Tony becomes an Avenger. Suddenly, it’s not just small-scale threats or paparazzi you have to worry about—it’s cosmic forces, alien invasions, global catastrophes. You do your best to keep Tony safe in these new, unpredictable situations, but it’s a challenge.

The Avengers team is a powder keg of personalities. Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, openly clashes with Tony over leadership and moral ideals. You see how the tension weighs on Tony; he deflects with sarcasm, but you’ve come to know the signs of when he’s hurting.

One night at the tower, you’re standing off to the side while Tony and Steve butt heads—again. "Take away the armor," Steve says, voice steely, "and what are you?" The words hang in the air. Tony’s jaw tightens, and you can practically see his heart sink. It’s a cheap shot. And it’s wrong. You step forward before Tony can snap back with a trademark insult. There’s a calm coolness in your voice, the kind that hushes even the Captain.

“Tony Stark is the mind that built that suit,” you say evenly. “He’s the one who sees solutions where everyone else sees dead ends. If you take away the armor, you’ve still got the man who pulled himself out of a cave and saved his own life with scrap metal—because that’s who he is. He’s more than the suit, Rogers, and you know it.”

Steve meets your gaze and steps forward, but you aren’t intimidated. There were lines you simply wouldn’t let him cross, not tonight, not after he delivered that cheap shot at Tony without even knowing him. You can see Tony stiffen beside you, as if ready to jump in—or bolt. But you’re not about to let Steve’s words cut him down.

“Think very carefully about what you say next, Rogers,” you warn, voice low and steady. “Because none of you would be here—Avengers, Stark Tower, anything—if it weren’t for this man. Armor or no armor.”

For a split second, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. Clint shifts uneasily near the back, Natasha straightens from her casual lean against the wall, and even Bruce lifts his head from the tablet he’s been absorbed in. Steve’s jaw tightens; he clearly didn’t expect you to stand your ground so bluntly—and you don’t care. Your top priority is Tony’s well-being, not theirs. With nothing more to say, you turn on your heel and head for the workshop.

By the time you reach the corridor leading to Tony’s private workspace, the echo of your own footsteps has become a steady, reassuring beat. Only then do you register the soft tread following behind you. He’s close—but conspicuously silent, which is out of character for a man who thrives on quips and banter.

“Sir, you have arrived at the workshop,” Jarvis’s polite voice chimes overhead, and the door slides open with a hiss.

You step inside and finally turn around. Tony lingers just past the threshold, his eyes lowered. His silence seems almost heavy, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I never asked you to defend me,” he murmurs. “But you…you did. Why?” The workshop’s lights glow softly, illuminating half-built armor pieces and scattered blueprints. You let the sound of humming machinery fill the short gap before you speak.

“Because you needed someone to,” you say simply, though your voice carries an undercurrent of heat—residual frustration from your confrontation with Steve. “And because I wanted to.”

Tony’s gaze flickers upward—he looks uncertain, almost disarmed. “I can handle myself,” he says, though he doesn’t quite meet your eyes. It’s a weak protest, more habit than conviction.

You exhale, crossing your arms. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to face it alone. Especially when the hits are coming from the people supposed to have your back.”

“You caught me off guard,” he admits, voice low, “standing up for me like that. Especially in front of the team.”

You stand your ground, letting the seriousness of the moment settle in. “You act like I never stand up for you.”

A wry huff of laughter escapes him. “Not the same way. Usually, you’re telling me not to blow up half my lab or reminding me to eat something other than coffee. This time you had my back when it counted.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you ask, tilting your head. “I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Stark. That means I protect you—against outside threats and inside threats too. Even if that threat’s a super soldier with a knack for colorful speeches.”

“So that’s it?” he asks, a thin note of vulnerability in his tone. “You did it because it’s your job?” You take in his tense posture—shoulders rigid, hand flexing at his side. Tony’s never been good at showing his more vulnerable edges. Carefully, you move closer, letting your voice soften.

“Let’s get one thing straight. Defending you isn’t just me ‘clocking in.’ I do it because I care. Because I know you’re more than just the suit, no matter what Steve says.” Tony looks up at you in surprise, but you're not done yet. "If this was just part of my job, I wouldn't be spending all my free time down here with you. I would've jumped at the chance to quit when you offered it on a silver platter."

Tony cracks a half-smile, remembering when he outright tried to bribe you to quit, and you surprisingly rejected his offer. The money could've set you for life, supported you and a family if you so desired, but you simply shook your head and informed him about a meeting he had in the morning.

Tony moves closer, so close you can count the faint freckles along his cheekbones. “I hated the idea of having a bodyguard,” Tony admits, voice low. “But I’ve come to realize how much I needed you.” Your heart stutters, unsure of how to respond. Tony swallows thickly, looking uncharacteristically unsure. There’s no witty remark, no deflecting sarcasm. It’s just him, raw and honest, baring feelings you never thought he’d share.

“You’ve become one of the closest people in my life,” he continues. “I trust you in ways I don’t trust anyone else. Hell, Pepper might be the only other person who gets me anywhere close to this.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your gaze. “And…I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I might—well—I feel something for you.”

Your stomach flips, warmth blooming in your chest. There’s something surreal about this: Tony Stark, the man who refused to even acknowledge your presence at first, now openly admitting he cares—that he wants something more than just having you as security detail.

A ghost of a smile curves your lips. “I might feel something for you, too.” Tony’s grin is immediate—relief and mischief dancing in his eyes. He leans in, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades.