You Or Nothing (fic)
you or nothing (fic)
bucky barnes x fem!reader | thunderbolts spoilers!!!
content warnings: mentions and descriptions of trauma and physical v!olence; implied m solo pleasure; self-loathing :(
word count: 8k. words.
blurb: when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.
“Where’s Bucky?”
Your chest is heaving, breath catching in your throat, refusing to fill your lungs. This whole place is a mangled maze of nightmares. A psychedelic trip that you unwillingly flung yourself into, after sharing one last knowing glance with the other misfit teammates. Somehow, you’d found yourselves together, footed inside of one of Alexi’s rooms: it looks like his house, covered in filth, unkept and unhomely. He’s sitting on the sofa, eating three-day old pizza, methodically avoiding the mold spores. Every other bite is washed down with lukewarm beer. His gaze is half-focused on the television screen, illuminating the otherwise dark room with memories of his past. Memories of his glory days. The Alexi of the past sits harmless on the sofa as the four of you pant and look around in search of the missing super solider.
“Where’s Barnes? Has anyone seen him?” your repeat, louder, more desperate. Ava shakes her head.
“He must still be in his rooms,” Walker replies. He speaks with conviction but there’s a weariness to his eyes, telling of the horrors he relived to try and fight his way to a common ground. “We need to find Bob and Yelena, and put an end to this shitshow.”
“Not without Barnes,” you snap. You look around and take a shuddering breath. “I’ll go find him.”
“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Ava asks. Her British accent almost sounds sardonic.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. You study every window, every mirror, every reflection. You need a passageway to his psyche. Shaking your head, you murmur under your breath, “come on, Bucky. Gimme a clue here.”
A raspy, Russian laugh has everyone jolting. Your head darts to the Alexi on the sofa, half-collapsed in his seat. He’s pointing at the screen, applauding seemingly himself, a chunk of pizza crust catching in his beard. The glorious Red Guardian, nothing more than a washed-up has been. The present-day Alexi cringes, head bowing slightly at the insight into his ‘secret life’. But then something glimmers. It catches your eye. You take a step forward to a framed picture. The glass almost sparkles in an inexplicable phenomenon. Somehow, something in your gut knows. Bucky. You take a breath and swallow. You know Bucky’s life is scattered with shadows. Warping, melting black holes of guilt and shame and terror. Stepping into his mind might shatter yours. But if he’s lived it and survived, you can take a pass through to find him. With that, you let your fingertips reach out to the glass. They slip through it like parting water, giving way to a portal of kinds, and your eyes slip shut as incomprehension overwhelms you. When you open them, you’re no longer in Alexi’s living room .
It’s cold. Water drips in the background, monotonous and repetitive. Drip, drip, drip. You’re standing on concrete, damp with puddles of water, stained with what looks to be oil and something darker. Blood. Metal walls built atop of cinderblocks surround you. Grey and dying. Lifeless. Fluorescent overhead lights dangle from the ceiling, lighting the facility like a morgue. You swallow your dread as you take in the view. It’s easy to denominate where you are without looking at the emblem shining proudly on the wall, like a hunter’s buck head mounted. Hydra.
Movement behind you has you turning, startled. You suddenly miss the company of the others. Of the Alexi sat slouched on the sofa. Your eyes fall on phantoms of Hydra, men dressed in white lab coats as if pretending to be doctors, dishonoring the name of scientists. That isn’t what makes your stomach drop though. What is, is the sight of the man between them. The man whose legs are dragging limply on the floor, arms slung over their shoulders. The man whose chest is barely moving, life barely flickering in his body, soul barely alive. Bucky. But not your Bucky - not the Bucky you know now, the Bucky you have the honour to call your closest friend and deepest confidant. No, a Bucky from the past. A Bucky whose mind was splintered into fragments, forced together to form the image of a Hydra. A mind that was wired to know only one thing: compliance.
Bucky’s sometimes shared bits from his past with you. Back when you were in Wakanda together, he’d sometimes find it therapeutic to share snippets of his nightmares that had awoken him. You’d talk over glasses of whiskey or tea, sitting before a bonfire, swatting away mosquitos, absorbed in the noises of nature. The pictures you’d paint in your mind from his stories were like stills from horror movies no director would even dream to make. You’d listen, allow him to free himself from the clutches of them by sharing the load, if only slightly. It brought the two of you closer. A friendship no longer forged out of happenstance but instead out of trust. Understanding.
But seeing it here, before you, played out like some twisted theatre, was different. This was almost a torture of its own.
You feel bile scratch at your throat when they force him into the chair. They’re careless with his body as though he’s nothing more than a thing. A weapon with the inconvenience of organs. And like all weapons, he needed to be cleaned.
The headpiece whirs to life, slowly inching down towards the frontal lobes of his head, as if taunting him with what was to come. You shake your head as if that might stop what’s about to happen. When the power whizzes to life, your hand clutches desperately at your thigh, clenching the thin, form-fitting fabric of your suit in a pathetic attempt to ground you. Blood draws from how hard you bite your lip. Tears sting your wide eyes. It’s like watching a car crash: you can’t look away. The human mind frozen in shock, gluing your vision to the horrible, detailed recreation of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes being scrubbed into the Winter Solider. His cries are the worst part. You never imagined them before. Your mind wouldn’t allow you to. Everytime it tried to conjure a picture, his mouth would open with soundless cries. But here, they echo off the walls. Bounce off each hard surface, shattering your eardrums, cracking your heart. They’re guttural. Feral. Something almost inhuman, primal that one would never need to tap into.
The words. Those Godforsaken words that held Bucky prisoner for years. The Russian sounds jagged like rocks on the soldiers tongues as they speak them. Demand them into his head, for him to comply. For him to be theirs. He’s heaving, forehead sticky with sweat, hair thick and greasy. Uncared for. Nothing more than a means to an end. The shiny silver metal of his arm is near unrecognizable. You’re so accustomed to the sleek black Vibranium one that it’s hard to recall this former appendage. The memories it held. The history. There’s a twinge of guilt when you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to witness anymore. It’s a luxury to close your mind to it - a luxury he never had. But you know Bucky. He wouldn’t want you to see this. Wouldn’t expect you to stand there and subject yourself to his torture. He was considerate like that. Sympathetic in a way you endlessly envied.
There was a job to do.
Bucky wasn’t here. That means he must be lost in another room. A room shrouded in shame.
Shame.
What was shameful about this memory? Maybe all memories of Hydra came with that gnawing guilt, that he was their fist for so long. But as the scene continues to play, you realise why this particular reawakening. The briefing begins once The Winter Soldier confirms his compliance to the soldiers: Two people. Murder. Make it look like an accident. Steal the serum from the vehicle. No witnesses.
Tony Stark’s parents.
The scene before you hazes like you blinked, and then resets. Bucky is no longer in the seat, the soldiers and so-called scientists no longer gathered around him. Instead, he’s being dragged over, hauled into the chair. There was no time to dwell, not when Bucky needed you. God knows where he is. You look around you, searching for something - anything - that might pull you into the next place. No glimmer. No reflection. Nothing.
“Bucky!” You yell. You cup your hands around your mouth and try again. “Bucky!”
It echoes off the walls of the base. Nobody pays you any mind. Then, Bucky’s own yells shadow your own. You whimper, clenching your eyes, turning your head away. You can’t bear to hear it again. Your hands twitch as if to go help him, but you know it’s futile. You learnt that from your own rooms. After what feels like an eternity, the cries stop, and the room falls silent. Completely silent. There’s no dripping of water, no utterance of Russian words. Nothing. Your eyes hesitantly blink open and–
It’s daylight. You’re outside. It looks like…a park? You frown, glancing around and taking in the surrounding view. Trees. Lots of trees. Bushes and shrubs and plants. A long, stretching field of grass. Some schoolboys kick a soccer ball between them, calling at each other to pass! Pass to me! There’s a couple sharing a picnic. Children playing in the playground, chasing each other from the slides to the climbing-frame, chattering as they swing side-by-side. Parents sit on the bench and observe, chatting amicably between themselves. A dog-walker here; a duck-watcher there. It’s peaceful. Serene.
“Mommy look,” a little girl whispers. Your ears prick and you turn your attention. She’s tugging on who you assume to be her mother’s sleeve of her coat. A small finger points over at something. “Look at that man.”
You remember where you are. Bucky’s rooms, resembling his shame. Your face crumples as you reluctantly follow the line of her finger. Bucky is walking, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other exposed. It’s only for a flash: he’s brushing some hair off his face. It’s cut short. It must have been from after the Battle of Thanos. The black metal of his hand catches the sunlight. It’s mesmerizing, the way the golden lines shine. You finally place where you are. Central Park.
“Isn’t that–”
“Don’t look at him, dear,” the mother interrupts. She sounds alarmed. You clench your teeth.
“But isn’t that–”
“Yes, dear. It is,” she hisses. She tugs the child protectively behind her legs, as if Bucky were to lunge for the child. Your patience wears thin. Bucky pauses his walk. He heard them, no doubt. He hears most things, whether he likes it that way or not. The mother gathers her daughter’s hand in hers and guides them away from the park. “That’s a dangerous man, Millie. A murderer. He should be ashamed, walking around a park near these children. There’s no damn justice left in this country.”
The mother leads them away from the park, the daughter in tow. The little girl spares one last glance at Bucky. He’s staring at his feet. His metal hand slips into his jacket pocket. You can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him. He nearly shrinks into his frame. You begin to make your way over to him, to comfort him in the way you know best: a pat on the shoulder, to test the waters, then a hug, if that’s what he needs. Touch - gentle and caring in a way that he hasn’t known for so long. But he flashes out of sight before you can reach him. You glance around frantically. He’s reset, back to where he was before. You remember what’s happening. Remember the goal, the target, and shake your head.
Looking around, you search for something that might lead you to the next space, but once again, nothing gives a tell. You break out running into the distance, towards the park, and the futherer you get, the sooner you realise it’s a mock-up. Walls painted like trees and people. You brace yourself, raising your arms up to your face to soften the impact, and force yourself through the walls. They shatter around you, breaking apart like drywall and paper mache, and you tumble forward. It’s reflexive, the tuck and roll you catch yourself with. You return to your feet, panting lightly, hands raised and ready for battle.
You’re inside. No, not inside, but in an object of some kind…Wind rushes through your hair, nearly knocking you off your feet. There’s something tonally different to the park, and to the Hydra base. It’s tense. Hairs prickle on the back of your neck and you scan the area for threats. Force of habit, with so many years working for Shield, and later as a vigilante. The price to pay for helping Captain America. You finally recognise where you are. It’s the helicarriers. The ones from…
Oh no.
You know this memory. You know it well. It’s seared into your hippocampus, stained with blood, and no matter what you do to dispel it, it remains. You can understand why. It’s hard to force yourself to forget the day you nearly shook hands with death.
It smells like jet fuel and fresh air. You frantically look around in search of the two bodies you know are here. On the thin metal bridge opposite to the one you stand on, you make out your figure. It’s strange seeing yourself, almost hard to recognise it as you. But you know it is: can tell by the hair and the suit. You’re determined, face stoic, as you race forward to the motherboard of the ship. The chip is in your upper legging pocket. You can almost feel the press of it against your skin now, as you watch. Then, your eyes land on something you never saw that day. They spot The Winter Soldier climbing up soundlessly onto the metal bridge. They spot him following you with measured footsteps, moving fast but with deadly quiet, like a fox stalking prey. You’re unaware of him, eyes focused on the target. Watching on, your throat turns dry as the Soldier retracts a knife from his belt.
“Helicarrier two is nearly secure, Cap,” you inform the team through your earpiece. You pause to pull out the chip, and that’s when he gets you.
The soldier loops an arm over your shoulder, tightening it around your neck. You stumble backwards, gasping out painfully as your air supply suddenly cuts off. A hand scrambles to his arm only to find hard, unmoving metal. You can still feel the pulse of dread that ran through you in that moment. You’d seen him before, fought him on the bridge with Sam and Nat and Steve. He’d done a number on Natasha and she was three-times the agent you were. He was quick, relentless, free from remorse. Your other elbow jams into his ribs and it’s just enough to have his grip loosen. You waste no time, whipping a leg around his ankle, tilting him enough off balance that you both stumble backwards. Another elbow, this time to the nose, and he grunts, falling away from you. You pivot and raise your fists, only in time to dodge his swing. You’re not as lucky the second time: he catches you on the brow. A fist-fight follows, of jabs and ducks. You land a few but they hardly affect him. It’s like he’s made of brick. Then, he sucker-punches you in the chest. The air flew out of you, winding you, and you catch yourself on the railing of the bridge with a pained gasp. He lands another to your ear and you whimper out, head falling forward. Blood trickles slowly from the lobe. You watch the scene from afar, but something shifts in you when the soldier raises the knife.
“No!” you scream. You sprint ahead and collide with the soldier. You grab for his wrist and he looks at you. There’s pure ice in his gaze, no trace of Bucky in his eyes, and your blood runs cold. His metal hand locks around your throat and you gasp out. The ground slips away from you as he slowly lifts you. And then, you’re tossed onto the floor. Gasping for air, you scramble for purchase, desperate to stop the inevitable. You turn your face in time to see the Soldier plunge the knife into the side of your former self.
The scream she lets out has tears springing to your eyes. Her hand quivers as it hovers by the hilt of the knife, body immediately spiralling into shock. You can still remember the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle. Tearing through the fragile casing of your organs. He twists the weapon and she cries out in agony, eyes clenched shut, drool falling from her lips. As you watch on helplessly from the floor, eyes wide in horror, you shake your head as if to plea for the Soldier to stop. But he doesn’t. He signs the death certificate as he pulls the knife from her body. Blood quickly seeps through her clothes. It pushes through her fingers as she desperately tries to force pressure on her own wound. The chip is forgotten by both you and the soldier. His mission is complete, for now: eliminate you. The soldier turns heel and strides away, ready to take down the next member of the team, to keep Hydra’s empire from falling. You rush over to the body of your former self, hands shaking as you check her over. Blood. So much fucking blood.
“Please,” she gasps. You realise then, that she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at him. You forgot this happened. The pain mostly blacks out the memory, after he removed the knife.
The soldier freezes. He heard you.
Your voice sounds powerless, raspy as you struggle to intake air. “Please,” you try again, half-whimpering. “Please help me.”
He hesitates. You see it. It’s a flicker. Nothing more than a twitch of one of his metal fingers. But it’s something. A sign that he was still in there, fighting to come out, to help you.
But he doesn’t. He has a mission. He walks away.
The warm body in your hands vanishes. It’s as if you hallucinated her. That is, until you see her running towards you, past you, for the motherboard. It reset.
“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. Your eyes press shut, taking a beat to calm yourself.
The two of you had discussed that moment more than enough. You’d forgiven Bucky long before he even knew who you were. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a choice. You never held it against him. Never blamed him for those months spent in hospital, in and out of surgery, tiring yourself out in physical therapy. And yet, it seems that despite those restless nights of talking it out, of you listening to his apologies and accepting each one without hesitation, it seems the moment still haunted him. You could understand why, the same way you understood why it still remained in your brain. It can’t be easy, letting go of the thought that he nearly ended your life. You just wished he wouldn’t blame himself for it.
Before you open your eyes, you feel the ground beneath you change. It warps into something squishy and plush, and your knees give way slightly at the feel. Carpet. You blink your eyes open into warm, orangey lamp light. You recognise this place like an old friend. It’s your apartment. Your brows furrow. No, that doesn’t make sense.
Bucky was your friend. Ever since Wakanda, the two of you had made some wordless pact to stick together. He understood you in a way that didn’t need verbalising. Could read you like a book from childhood, well-versed in your tells, your wants and fears. That’s what made him such a wonderful friend. You never had to perform with him. There was no need for filters, no room for embarrassment. You’d complain about your crappy dates over take-out; binge watch corny movies whilst sharing beers; try and bolster him up at bars when you went out with Sam and Jouqian for a drink; listen to him practice his speeches for his run for congress. There was no room for shame in your friendship. So…why were you here?
“You sure this ain’t too much trouble?” Bucky asks you. Your attention quickly pivots to you and Bucky. He’s hovering by the bookshelf, arms folded over his chest, dressed in sweatpants and a vest. You’re straightening a quilt over the sofa-bed that resided in your living room.
“Would you stop whining already? You’re worse than Wilson, y’know that?”
Bucky chuckles at that, bobbing his head. You straighten, hands landing on your hips, and nod to yourself as you take in your handy-work.
“That should be good. You want an extra pillow?”
“I think I’ll survive with three,” Bucky replies, humour evident in his voice. You roll your eyes and cross the room to him, pinching his cheek chidingly.
“Just trying to be a good hostess,” you sing-song, walking past him and into the kitchen. Curious, your eyes remain on Bucky. He’s watching the past-version of you. A smile rests on his lips. One that you’ve never noticed before. It seems almost secretive, because the minute you turn to ask him something, it’s fading into a different kind of smile. One you now recognise. Your brows furrow at the picture. Weird. “A’right, here’s your water. You think you’ll need anything else?”
Bucky shakes his head. He takes the glass from you as he replies, “this is perfect, doll. Thank you.”
“Course. Me casa est su casa,” you smile, stumbling through disjointed Spanish. You cringe at your former self. Bucky chuckles, as if it might be endearing.
“It’s es, not ‘est’,” he corrects. Then, he utters the phrase in perfect, fluent Spanish. The other you rolls her eyes mirthfully at him.
“A’right, we get it Mister ‘I can speak twelve languages’.”
“Thirteen if you count–”
“--Hey! Keep rubbing it in my face and you can sleep in the bathtub,” you warn, pointing a finger at him. He raises his hands in surrender, laughing quietly. You then melt into a smile, easing up the act. Crossing the room to him, the you of the past tosses her arms casually over his shoulders in a warm embrace. “G’night, Buck. See you in the morning.”
You never noticed before, too caught up in the act of doing, but watching it unfold now, you realise Bucky’s reaction. He seems startled, which is strange, considering you hug him rather often. His arm slowly loops around your waist, holding you to him, and you watch that smile return. His eyes slip shut and he presses his chin gently against your shoulder.
The moment shatters when you pull away, oblivious. You wave farewell as you leave the room, closing the door behind you.
You stand and watch, befuddled, as Bucky finishes getting ready for bed. This is bizarre. What the hell is so shameful about crashing on his friend’s couch for the night? He does it rather often, especially when he moved back to New York. The nightmares caught up with him then, after the pocket of peace in Wakanda was sacrificed. People knew who he was. The government had burdened him with a pardon that he always felt was undeserved, and that seemed to trouble his psyche more than anything. Couple that with the ghosts of his past, from a lifetime ago before the war, back when things were more simple and familiar, and Bucky was knocking on your door with an apologetic smile. You’d always welcome him in, would never turn him away. The two of you would watch a movie or show, talking over most of it with mindless commentary, before you’d set up the sofa for him. It got to the point that you decided to invest in a sofa-bed.
Now, watching the scene play out, you wonder if he feels ashamed for reaching out. For needing company and comfort of another’s home. You wonder if Bucky felt as though he should shoulder the burden of being alone. Men often felt shame for their mental health, so it would be wrong to assume that Bucky was different.
The lamp remains on. You glance around the room in search of something that might be the root of the room. Maybe you left a pair of panties drying on the radiator, and he was ashamed of seeing them? That seemed rather tame compared to the other horrors embodied in this maelstrom of pain…
Bucky shifts under the sheets. Looking over to him, you watch, intrigued, realising the scene isn’t over. His eyes are shut, metal arm whirring as he brings it up towards the pillow, messing with it until it’s how he likes. He’s rather…cute. Sweet as he tries to get comfortable. An unseen side to him, human and regular, that’s weirdly endearing. You begin to smile. Then, your brows furrow slightly. He presses his nose into the pillow - your pillow - and inhales, slow and deep through his nose. He isn’t just taking a breath. He’s smelling the pillow. Your stomach twists tight, as if trying to knot itself. A small groan pushes through his closed lips, muffled into the case, and your eyes widen. Is he…
He takes another deep breath in. His eyes squeeze, lips purse, and something akin to…pleasure twitches his features. He rolls onto his back, the blanket shifting with the movement, and then you watch, alarmed, as the silhouette of his arm inches below the sheets. You can’t seem to look away from his face. His brows twitch together, teeth catching his lower lip, and then–
He hums, deep, guttural.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, quickly turning your back to him. Your hands fly up to your burning face, lips agape, eyes wide, stupefied. The sheets rustle behind you and he groans, quiet enough to go unnoticed by other you, who lays unaware in her bed. You squeak, hands flying up to your ears, mortification flooding over you like a bath of cold water as you accidentally intrude on a very private moment.
A private moment, which happened in your living room.
A private moment, which sparked from Bucky smelling your pillow.
A private moment, which began from the mere smell of you.
He rasps your name, no louder than a breath. You only just catch it. The way your name sounds on his tongue...It's hotter than sin, and you let out a startled breath. You’re ashamed at the arousal that pulses through you at the sound. Shaking your head, you straightened yourself out. You can’t listen to this any longer. It feels wrong. No, it doesn’t just feel it - it is wrong. Bucky has spent his whole life having his humanity stripped away from him, as if he didn’t deserve it, and you refuse to be another name added to that list of people who didn’t treat him like a person. You rush to the door of the living room and swing it open. You don’t look as you step forward. Rookie error.
A scream rushes through you as you fall down, down, down.
You nearly bounce back up when you land. It’s soft, softer than the carpet, and gives easily under your weight. A mattress. Thank God, you think to yourself, pushing up onto your knees with a huff. You look around the room, searching for the man you’ve been chasing through each twisted, turning memory. Returning to your feet, you straighten your suit.
“Bucky?”
There’s no reply. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. Where the hell is he? Worry curls in your gut. What if something went wrong? What if his rooms were too heavy for him? What if he–
“Come on, doll. One more step.”
It’s his voice, but it isn’t him. You startle when the bedroom door opens. It’s only then that you register your surroundings. It’s his bedroom, the one from his old flat back when he lived in Brooklyn. God, that place was like a prison. He was punishing himself when he lived there. A sofa made of stiff leather sat before a flat-screen television. A kitchen barren of appliances or plants. The fridge was only filled with necessities. No art on the wall, not even a clock. The bedroom was just as desolate. A wardrobe organised with too much precision, almost display-art in its meticulousness, and a desk without any books or computer. The bed was comfortable at least, not that Bucky used it much back then. He preferred the floor. Would sleep on it in the living room with nothing more than a blanket, the hard wood cradling his body.
You take a step back as if to make way, as Bucky and this former version of you step into the bedroom. You’re hanging onto him, nearly blackout drunk, practically dragging his sturdy frame down like a heathen. You can’t help but cringe at the sight, bringing a hand up to your forehead. It seems your legs are rather useless as you practically trip over yourself. Bucky catches you, keeps you steady.
“Easy there,” he chuckles.
You groan, flopping onto the bed face-first. Bucky stands, watching, hands on his hips, and laughs to himself.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you slur into the bedsheets. You raise a finger in the air, arm wobbling as you do so, and Bucky laughs harder. He struggles to stifle them. He’s pretty when he laughs. Sounds young, carefree. It makes you smile as you watch.
“Come on, party animal,” Bucky chuckles, grabbing your hand to help twist you onto your back. He kneels by your feet and undoes your heels, metal fingers meddling with the tiny clasps. You smile to yourself, unable to place the memory in your own mind. You couldn’t remember this moment, just the incredible hangover you were met with the next day.
Once again, the question begs: why this memory? Bucky is a perfect gentleman as he helps you get ready for bed. You can barely keep your head upright. Your body rattles with hiccups, eyes half-closed, make-up smudged under your eyes. It’s not a good look, to say the least. Bucky eases your heels off one by one, placing them neatly by the wardrobe. You watch as he hesitates, unsure whether to offer you more comfortable clothes to sleep in or leave you in your dress. He stands, glances to his wardrobe, and runs a hand over his head, fingers brushing through his hair, as he thinks.
Your eyes catch a moving figure on the bed. You watch, mildly amazed that you even have the strength and coordination to do so, as you rise to your feet. Bucky hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy weighing up what to do next. He nearly jumps out of his skin when your hand lands on his shoulder. He turns his head quickly, body following soon after. One of his hands instinctively reaches for your waist to steady you on your feet. He’s confused and concerned, brows furrowing as his eyes scan over your squiffy features.
“Doll, what’re you–”
Your mouth presses against his in a heated kiss. You gape at the sight, mind drawing a complete blank at the supposed moment you lived. Bucky’s hands fly up, hovering, frozen like statues, by your sides. His eyes are blown wide. Your hands cradle his face, holding him close, turning his face just-so as you kiss him with unexplained fever. Shaking your head, you watch on, mortified, as drunk-you forces Bucky into a kiss.
And then…his eyes slip shut. One of his hands slowly lowers to rest against your waist, a shadow of a hold on your body, sinking into your skin like rocks on wet sand. He turns his head, chasing your taste, your tongue. Then, you listen as other-you sighs against his lips. That seems to flip a switch in Bucky’s head. He quickly pulls away with a gasp. His hands take you by the shoulders, holding you away from him, arms outstretched. He looks horrified, staring at you with damp lips and a heaving chest. You feel yourself wither with embarrassment and shame at the thought of forcing yourself upon him like that. Drunk or not, it was no excuse.
But then he’s closing his eyes and shaking his head. It hangs, low, defeated, and he takes a slow, almost sad, breath.
“Not like this, doll. I– You’re drunk and…It’s not…It ain’t how I pictured it…” he murmurs. Drunk you hardly seems to hear him. She takes a step back and melts down onto the mattress. Bucky helps you into bed with a distracted mind; guiding you under the covers and ensuring you lay on your side. Then, he heads for the door. He lingers in the doorway, finger hovering over the light switch, and watches you. A smile tries its way onto his face - that smile from before - but it is chased away by his frown. You recognise the shadow that casts over his face. You’ve seen it in the dead of night, when he’s awoken from a nightmare. You spotted it in Wakanda, when he pieced together who you were and what he did to you. You remembered it from the funeral, when Bucky realised that he’d never be able to apologise to Tony for what he did to his parents. Shame. One of his metal fingers lifts to his lips, as if he’s recalling the feel of yours on his. The room becomes engulfed in darkness.
It’s only for a moment. You’re left alone with your thoughts, trying to organise them into some sort of coherent system. Guilt, for kissing him; embarrassment, for, well, all of it; sadness, for not even remembering it; and…longing. Was that what that was? That odd twisting feeling in your gut, reaching out like vines, clutching at your heartstrings. Sadness, maybe? You can’t make sense of it. The one thing you can make sense of is the recognition that not one part of you is angry at him. Not even remotely. If anything, you’re curious about his moment of weakness. About that brief half-minute, when he allowed himself to kiss you back. About the way he looked at you before leaving the room. Had he looked at you that way before? Did you never even notice the way he–
The light flashes on and it nearly blinds you. You groan, rubbing your face, and you can make out muffled voices down the hall. The scene is resetting. Bucky still isn’t anywhere to be found.
It’s becoming exhausting, wading through these memories, confronting these pockets of Bucky’s conscience without him even knowing. Would he be mad at you, when you do find him? Or will he understand? There’s only one way to find out…
You slip out the bedroom door after you and Bucky make your way inside. To your surprise, instead of stepping into another memory or room, you simply enter his living room. You freeze. There’s a silhouette sitting on the floor, staring at the TV. Bucky. His knees are brought up near his chest, arms wrapped around them. Despite his large frame, body mostly muscle, he looks small. Fragile and scared, like a child trying to self-soothe. You glance around and wonder if this is another memory. But as your eyes adjust to the scene before you, you recognise his tactical suit from before you stepped into the void. His hair is longer, nothing like how it was in the memory, and his black vibranium arm glimmers in the flashing colours of the TV. He’s watching a soccer match. Although, something tells you that he isn’t actually watching. You swallow and take a step forward.
“Bucky? Is that you?” you tentatively ask. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He refuses to look at you, it seems. “Buck?”
His head hangs. Relief consumes you and you let out a sigh, clearing the rest of the distance. You drop to your knees and throw your arms around him, grateful he’s in one piece.
“Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried when you didn’t find us in Alexi’s–”
He’s stiff, still like a statue, unmoving like a corpse. Your words die on your tongue as you pull away, a hand lingering on his back.
“Bucky?”
He swallows. His voice is hardly more than croak as he asks, “how’d you find me?”
“I uh…” You hesitate, unsure whether you should be transparent or not. It doesn’t take you long to decide. “I went through your rooms until I found you.”
His eyes press shut as if you’ve delivered news of death. His silence unsettles you. Your hand rubs his back and he leans forward, out of your touch. A pain stabs through your chest.
“Bucky?”
“If you went through them…Then you saw it, right?”
Your lips move but no words come out. Instead, you swallow. Bucky isn’t looking at you but he must be able to catch you nodding your head in his peripheral, because his face becomes twisted with agony.
“Oh God,” he mumbles. Balling his hand into a fist, he presses it firmly against his forehead. “I’m so fucking sorry…”
You shake your head, going to touch him again before freezing. Your fingers hover half a centimetre from his back.
“Look, we…We need to go help the others and stop whatever the hell is going with this…thing that Bob’s become but…” He looks up at you then. Bucky’s eyes are damp with unshed tears as he holds your gaze, and you know you can’t bring yourself to look away even if you tried. “But I promise you, you don’t ever gotta see me again after that, yeah? I promise you that.”
Your stomach opens with a pit of dread. “Bucky, I–”
“--I’m so sorry, okay? You gotta believe me when I say that. I…” He gasps, trying with all his might to keep it together, “I tried so hard not to want you, I really did. I tried so fucking hard but I…I couldn’t help it…”
He clenches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, jaw going taut. He presses further into his fist, knuckles turning white. A single tear slips down his cheek. Your heart splinters and you fight the urge to wipe it away.
“I couldn’t help it,” he whispers, as if admitting a sin to God himself.
You shake your head slightly, mouth moving uselessly. A small, shaky breath escapes you. Tears prick your waterline as everything you’ve seen hits you like a freight train. It barrels through your mind and tears your hippocampus open, flooding you with memories. A new light is shed on them. A perspective you never allowed yourself to see before. The unexplainable serenity and safety you felt in his company, despite the start of your friendship. The kind of safety that enabled you to share stories of your life with him without fear of judgement or rejection. The kind of safety that you sought out after a hard mission or a nightmare haunted you. The kind of serenity you craved when you were bored out of your mind on a mission, and Bucky’s off-handed quips were your only company through a cracked phone screen. The kind of serenity you were consumed by during the nights spent by his side, laughing as he teased you, raving over your favourite shows and sharing the theories and backstories to each storyline. Never afraid to be too much or too little. No, it was always just right.
And now you see it. The longing glances. The tenderness in his gaze when his eyes landed on you. The extra layer of panic when you were in battle, scanning over your body to make sure you’re alright. The smile that you kept catching sight of as you ventured through his shame that was reserved just for you, when you weren’t even looking. And how couldn’t you look, because he was right there, all this time.
“I don’t want you to leave,” you breathe.
Bucky frowns. His brows furrow, mind struggling to parse together your words. You shake your head, slow then fast, and swallow your anxiety because this was much more important.
“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t…I don’t care about any of that, I just…I don’t…” You can’t find the words. Every sentence is weak, sandcastles in rain, and you shake your head and grunt, annoyed. Bucky looks at you, addled, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks with an aggressive sweep of your hand.
That’s when the answer comes to you.
Pushing to your feet, you extend a hand down to him. He blinks at it, then up at you. “Do you trust me?”
It takes less than a second before he’s lifting his hand and guiding it into yours. You help ease him to his feet. Then, you turn and face the door to the bedroom. As you begin to move, Bucky holds the two of you in place. You look back at him. He’s reluctant to meet your eyes.
“I don’t…I can’t see that again,” he admits. Your heart squeezes. You gently clench his fingers in your hold.
“Trust me, yeah?”
He takes a shuddering breath before nodding. His feet give way as you guide the two of you to the door. You turn the knob and close your eyes, steeling yourself for what you’re about to face.
The only room you couldn’t bring yourself to face before, instead fighting your way to Alexi’s horrors.
The door opens to a well-lit room. It’s modern, with floor-to-ceiling length windows lining one of the walls, and a sleek, silver bartop busied with guests and party-goers. Streamers decorate the ceiling, twinkly lights looped around pillars. Music plays from speakers in every corner of the room. Classic hits that everybody knows. Some people are dancing, others tapping their feet along and drinking, good-natured. There’s sofas which are occupied by chattering groups of friends and co-workers. A pool table crowded by primarily men, likely congratulating themselves on being the masters of the universe for another year.
“Where’re we?” Bucky asks after a beat. You take a small breath before looking at him, forcing a smile that you know he’ll tell to be fake.
“One of my rooms.”
Bucky frowns. You slowly let his hand slip from your hold. You know this evening well. It’s a repressed memory that enjoys making a guest appearance, most often when you’re around Bucky. The evening you realised that there was something more there, something deeper under your skin, but that you refused to touch.
Dressed in a floor-length gown, you saunter up to the bar, sadling by the side of the present-day you. There’s no need to look at Bucky to know he’s watching.
You order a drink and toy with the olive skewered on a cocktail stick, sloshing it in and out of the martini. You take another glance over for the millionth time that night, eyes landing on Bucky. Not this Bucky, but the Bucky from the party. The one dressed in a suit that was designed for him to wear it. The suit that ruined all other men for you, because nobody else could possibly make it look that good. The Bucky that was currently talking to a gorgeous, tall blonde lady, with eyes that could bewitch and thighs that could kill. The Bucky that was talking to his date for the New Year’s Eve Party.
“I don’t…” Bucky’s words fade into the rhythm of the song currently playing. He glances at you - you see it in your peripheral - but you keep your eyes trained on the phantom of your memory as she drinks. You know there’s bigger things at stake, an entire city in peril, but this feels a thousand times more pressing and important. If you don’t have Bucky, you have nothing. It’s a terrifying but simple conclusion. So you need him to see.
You take a sip of your martini and let out a sigh. Your head hangs and you purse your lips, and for a long while, just stand there, alone, thinking. Then, your head darts up. You toss back your drink, leaving the olives neglected in the glass, and stride back into the party, eyes set on a random former-Shield agent who has been occupying the pool table for the larger portion of the night. You watch as you shake his hand, smiling all pretty at him, before the scene flickers and resets. Bucky shakes his head, looking at you.
“I don’t understand,” he murmurs. “What’s so shameful about that?”
“It’s not what I did,” you tell him, unable to look away from the Bucky in the distance, talking to his date. He’s smiling. You think that’s what had bothered you the most. That he wasn’t smiling at you. “It’s what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
You chuckle humourlessly, dropping your head and gaze. A moment to still yourself, then you face him.
“That I hated your date. That I hated everything about her, and wanted to fucking gut her in the middle of the party, and rip her hair out of her head, and scratch up her face. I was thinking that I hated her because…Because I could never be her. And I wanted to be her so bad, because I realised - at that stupid New Year’s Eve party - that I wanted to be the only person you looked at like that. The only person you wanted to see. I realised I wanted to be the best thing at the party, to you. And I wasn’t…And I hated her for that and I…” You take a gasping, short breath. The words that follow are guilt-ridden, your body shrinking with shame, “I hated you for it too. But most of all, I hated myself, because I’d…I’d let myself...want you.”
Bucky stares at you. His eyes dance over your face, searching for some lie, some sign that this itself was part of the mind games you’d both been thrown into. But instead, he just saw you. Saw it plain and simple, written across your face in big, black ink.
“Why were you ashamed, of those things? The things in your rooms?” you quietly broach.
Bucky grunts, shaking his head. “It was wrong. You were my friend - you are my friend - and I…I let myself fucking…” He shudders at the memory. You think you know which one is playing in his mind right now. Then, his expression deepens. Sadder. “I kissed you back. You were drunk, and you trusted me, and I took advantage and I let myself kiss you back, when I knew it was wrong.”
“Only for a second,” you tell him.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, quick, like he’s rehearsed this apology a thousand times before. You wonder if he’s thought of confessing, to clear his conscience. Wonder how long he’s let himself rot under the shame of harbouring feelings for you. Because that was what this was, right?
“I don’t even remember that night.”
Bucky doesn’t seem to like the sound of that. His eyes close and he tries not to wince.
“I wish I did though,” you whisper. “Cause that was the first time we kissed, I don’t even remember it.”
He’s hesitant when he opens his eyes, as if waiting for you to take it back. But you don’t. You stand there, a shadow of a smile on your lips, and shrug.
“I’m sorry I did that to you, but I’m not sorry I…I’m not sorry I…”
“You’re not sorry you what?” he pushes, wide eyes staring at you. It’s as if his whole world hangs on your next words.
“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you. No matter how hard I’ve tried to be.”
Bucky gazes at you, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hand twitches, fingers reaching out towards yours, and you meet him halfway. Loosely intertwine your digits with his. He shuffles a step forward, and his forehead slowly eases down until it rests against your own. You let out a small huff and he takes a breath in, and the two of you stand in the room of your shared past.
“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you, too,” Bucky admits in a low rumble of his voice.
Your hand lifts to his face, cupping his cheek in your hold, cradling his jaw. He finds your lips like ships returning home in the night, guided by the glow of a lighthouse. It’s sweet, and tender, and wistful from years of wanting. His tongue darts across your lower lip and you gladly give way, sinking into the taste of him as his hand wraps around your waist, tugging you closer, holding you near. Eventually, the two of you break apart, but you refuse to step out of his orbit. His nose nudges yours in a silent kiss, and you smile. A strand of his hair curls around your finger and he sighs, content.
“What say we go save the world now, huh?”
“Only if you’re there too,” Bucky replies, tone lighter than you've known it to be before.
You realise then that your absolute truth is the same for Bucky: if he didn't have you, he didn't have anything.
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More Posts from Spookyreads and Others
wallpaper
summary: bucky finds out how to change the wallpaper on your phone, and takes every opportunity he can to do so. until one day he doesn't have the heart to
pairing: bucky barnes x female reader
word count: 1000
warnings: fluff, nonspecific friends to lovers, this was just a dumb idea i had
《《《《 ♡ 》》》》
The first time Bucky changed the wallpaper on your phone, it was an accident - kind of. He sat on your couch, lazily scrolling through the photos of Alpine you insisted he looked at, because you simply couldn’t resist having a Halloween photoshoot with her while he was off on yet another mission, leaving her in your trusting hands. He was happy you were in the kitchen, because he would never let you see the smile he wore as he browsed the album, chuckling silently to himself over how elaborate these photos were. His mood swiftly changed when he swiped incorrectly, an array of different options suddenly presenting themselves to him. He swore under his breath as he tried to make them go away, but he only made it worse as the option to change your wallpaper came up. With an annoyed huff, he just kept tapping, figuring that eventually he would get it back to how it was. After a few more grueling seconds, he sighed in relief as he was once more face to face with Alpine sitting inside a jack-o-lantern candy bucket - how was he supposed to know that photo was now both your lockscreen and homescreen?
“Did you change my lockscreen?” you curiously asked when you finally sat back down beside him, taking your phone and checking it for any new messages.
“Did I what?” he asked in confusion, his head snapping up from his own phone to look at you with a scrunched brow.
You could only laugh lightly, turning your phone to display the new photo brandishing your screen. The second Bucky saw it, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly as his face flushed ever so slightly.
“I, uh- sorry,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, your phone is just - it’s different than mine.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle fondly, your chuckles growing into more laughter as you realized it was also your homescreen. “It’s okay, Buck,” you assured softly, laughing quietly as you changed the photos back to their precursors. “It could have been worse, at least it’s not an embarrassing photo or something.”
You were too busy fixing his mistake to notice the glint that sparkled in his eyes, a smirk growing on his face as your words gave him the most incredible idea he’s had in a while.
The second time Bucky changed your wallpaper, it was very much not an accident. You left him your phone so he could look at the photos you took on your latest trip, unpacking your bags as he split his attention between listening to your stories and scrolling through a seemingly endless array of new pictures - which he truthfully enjoyed, but he was on a secret mission for the perfect, nondescript one to choose.
“Again, Buck?” you giggled, flopping on the bed beside him as you took your phone back.
“What?” he asked, just innocent and clueless enough to not raise any flags.
“You and your fat thumbs, I swear,” you mumbled under your breath, changing the photos back once more, completely oblivious to his proud little smirk.
It took three more times for you to suspect that Bucky had started doing it on purpose, but your suspicions weren’t proven correct until he took a photo of you to display.
“Did you- when- really?” you stammered as you looked between him and your phone, half annoyed and half impressed because when did he even take this photo?
He only grinned in response, laughing about how long he was able to do it under the pretense of it being an accident before running away in a fit of giggles, dodging the pillow you threw after him.
From that moment on, it became a game for him.
Any opportunity that presented itself, Bucky snatched your phone and changed your displays to the most embarrassing and ridiculous photos of yourself.
A sunset was changed to you mid-sneeze. Alpine was changed to you post-nap. You partying with the gang was changed to an extreme close up of your face in that very photo. Louisiana docks were changed to you mid rant as you yelled at him to give you your phone back. A cherry blossom was changed to you passed out on the couch, wrapped up in a hoodie you stole from him and drooling all over the sleeve of it.
As time went on, you stopped being surprised whenever it happened, and you grew to enjoy it. It was a silly thing, but it was a silly thing that only you and Bucky shared. It was a special thing, a cherished thing. It was your favourite thing.
Neither of you realized how the dynamic between the two of you started morphing into something else right in front of your very eyes. It was slow. It was gradual and complex and delicate and went unnoticed for almost a whole year.
It was only noticed now, as Bucky took the opportunity to grab your phone as you slept soundly against his chest. It had been a while since he was able to get a chance to do this, and so he eagerly unlocked your phone, already running through different ideas of what picture to use.
He was caught off guard when the picture staring back at him was from a few weeks ago. It was the day you finally convinced him to let you drive his bike after months of endless asking. It was a photo neither of you knew Sam took until later that night, when he sent it to both of you.
It was you, sat in front of him on the bike and wrapped up in his arms, one securely planted on either side of you as his hands rested on yours, guiding you through everything as you both gleefully laughed at the fact that you actually managed to convince him to do this.
For once, Bucky didn’t have the heart to change it.
He couldn’t.
It was his wallpaper, too.
take a photograph and carry it with you
you’re a photographer. you discover that Tom is your favorite subject when you’ve somehow been hired on a press tour.
tom holland x reader
words: ~18k (oops!!!)
warnings: swearing, fluff, a tiny bit of angst I guess??, smut (nothing SUPER graphic, but still), 18+!!!
a/n: lemme know what you think!!! I wanna hear feedback! thank you for reading, I know it’s long… enjoy!!
You were, somehow, hired to be a photographer. I mean, you knew how. You loved taking photos as a kid– you know those cameras that you take photos on, and you can only take, like, 30 or something, and then you get them developed once the camera is full? Your mom gave you one of those when you were eight, and you took all 30 pictures in the one day. That just started it for you.
Keep reading
It’s been a long fucking day, and Eddie’s back is killing him. The boots he wears for work don’t quite cut it anymore. He’s been secretly thinking about buying inserts for them, but he can’t force himself to go and actually buy the damn things. As if admitting that he needs the support would result in the rest of his body giving up its battle against middle-age.
He ignores the way his shoulder clicks when he reaches into the back seat to grab the few bags of groceries and the gallon of milk that sits in the passenger’s side back seat. He offered to run out after work, knowing you’re likely just as exhausted and sore as he is. Probably more. You’ve already given up the fight with your body, having bought a pair of orthopedic sneakers 2 years ago for your shifts at the hospital.
Eddie sees the light in the living room is on. Even now, all of these years later, his heart misses a beat when he thinks about seeing you. It’s a relief to be in your presence, the time apart always leaves him feeling like a piece is missing. Like he’s forgetting something important. He only feels completely at ease when you’re within eyesight or ear shot. When there is indisputable evidence that you exist, and that you’re safe.
Eddie keeps his keys out just in case as he approaches the front door of your tiny home. He puts his hand on the knob and turns it. He’s not mad, he’s just disappointed. He sighs heavily, and pushes open the door. He’s ready to lay into you about forgetting to lock the front door, again.
He kicks off his boots, the relief he feels is immediate. That deep ache in his toes lessens a little with them on the soft carpet of the entryway. He peeks his head into the living room, a lecture already on his tongue when he lays his eyes on you. You’re curled up like a cat in his armchair. You’re wearing your readers with the silver granny chain around your neck. A needle is held between the fingers of one hand, and the other holds an embroidery hoop. You have a piece of embroidery floss caught up in the hair that’s peeking out from under your beanie - it’s bright blue. It doesn’t quite match the orange t-shirt and brown afghan you have thrown over your lap.
You fix your gaze on him over the rim of your glasses and indelicately work the floss off of your lips with your tongue before saying, “Oh! Thank you, Baby. I really didn’t want to have to go out looking like this. Can you believe how much that milk cost? It’s gone up at least 25% since this time last year. Oh, yeah, did you remember the super pads? I swear, I think I ejected my entire uterus last night.”
Eddie stands there, forgetting what he was so ready to say as he was walking through the door. He can’t help it. How could he remember anything when he’s in the presence of the most beautiful person in the world?
Favour - Part 3
Title: Favour (Part 3 of 3) Pairing: ClubOwner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: When your boyfriend messes up with the wrong people he offers you up as free labour in Bucky Barnes Club.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Violence, Blood, Noncon/Dubcon Elements, Dark Themes, Manipulation, Psychological Domination, Public Humiliation, Power Play, Possessiveness, Rough Sex, Chocking, Degradation Kink, Fear Kink, Bucky Being a F**king Monster (And we love it!), Unprotected sex, Fingering. NO BETA
A/N: Final part to series that was part of my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for Bucky 108th Bday event This is the conclusion! Part One Here & Part Two I don’t know if I’m going to do anymore parts for this… but we’ll see what happens, never say never.. Square: a1 – Clubowner AU Card Number: 4B003
The month had unraveled like a slow-motion disaster, each passing day tightening the noose around Brock Rumlow’s neck. He had made promises, excuses, spun lies into makeshift bandages, but in the end, none of it mattered. His time was up.
And you felt it.
That morning, you had woken to the sound of Brock pacing. The sharp rhythm of his boots on the floor, his muttered curses, the occasional snap of his knuckles cracking- it painted a picture of a man cornered. His frustration was a living thing, a beast clawing at the walls of your apartment, suffocating the space between you.
You had learned long ago when to step lightly. When to make yourself small.
So, you had dressed in silence, slipping into your clothes quickly, avoiding his gaze. His energy was volatile, his movements erratic, his words clipped when he finally spoke.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “Work.”
His nostrils flared, jaw ticking. He said nothing more.
You didn’t wait for an argument. You were out the door before he could sink his claws in deeper.
You’d hoped that you’d be able to relax at your desk, but you didn’t. The idea of eating lunch just made your stomach twist with nausea. The tension from home, from Brock, seemed to follow you into your shift behind the bar. Everything felt just as wrong here as it did there. No one really looking at you. The girls you thought you’d made friends with exchanging glances, whispering when they thought you weren’t listening.
Something was very, very wrong.
It was 1 AM when a hand finally came down on your shoulder.
"You’re wanted upstairs."
Your mouth went dry. Your hands shook.
This was what they meant when they said ‘dead man walking.’
The hallway smelled of whiskey and old leather, but beneath it, the iron tang of blood coiled sharp in your nostrils. You could seen see the blood stains, dark on the burgundy carpets that weren't able to fully disguise it's presence. The sounds filtering from Bucky’s office were unmistakable- flesh meeting flesh, the wet squelch of impact, the grunted responses of pain.
Then came the voice- low, controlled, laced with something far more dangerous than anger.
"One month. I gave you an entire extra month!"
Another wet impact. A groan. A sickening thud that made your stomach twist.
"Your girl’s bought in more than you have."
A muffled noise- Brock trying to speak, cut off by a sharp crack, followed by a wheeze of pain.
"Stop treating me like I’m stupid, Rumlow!"
Your breath stilled in your chest. Your fingers curled into your palms as you hesitated just outside the door, pulse hammering against your ribs. You knew what was waiting for you inside, knew that once you crossed that threshold, there was no looking away.
But Bucky Barnes had summoned you.
And you had never really had a choice.
You knew what you would see before you even stepped inside.
Still, the sight of Brock’s slumped, battered form made your stomach turn.
He was barely upright in the chair, wrists bound, head lolling forward. Blood painted his face in crimson streaks, dripping sluggishly from a gash at his temple. One eye was swollen shut, lips split, breath coming in wet, rattling drags.
Bucky stood near his desk, rolling his sleeves back down, movements methodical, almost bored. The contrast was staggering- where Brock looked like something discarded, Bucky was pristine, composed, a man who had never lost control a day in his life.
He wiped his knuckles clean on a handkerchief, exhaling a slow breath, before finally lifting his gaze.
Right to you.
“You’re out of options, Rumlow.”
The words slithered through the air, finality threaded in velvet.
Bucky took a step forward, and the weight of it settled over you, thick as smoke, as it pressed into your lungs. The air itself seemed to shrink, heavy with the scent of blood and the unshakable authority he carried in every movement. Your pulse stuttered, throat tightening as though his presence alone had wrapped invisible fingers around your neck, demanding your submission before he had even spoken. The way he moved- deliberate, assured- sent a slow crawl of heat down your spine.
Rumlow stirred, his remaining eye cracking open, gaze flicking between you and Bucky. His bloodied lips curled, voice thick with spit and venom.
“She’s mine, Barnes.”
Bucky hummed, something dark and knowing flashing behind his eyes. He lifted a hand, dragging a slow, lazy fingertip from your jaw, down your throat, over your collarbone.
“Not anymore.”
The silence pressed heavy, thick with unspoken truths.
Bucky traced the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, the touch deceptively soft. A claiming.
“She’s not yours,” Rumlow spat, voice cracking. “She’s not- ”
“She is now. You practically gift wrapped her for me."
Rumlow made a sound- half snarl, half choked breath- but he wasn’t fighting anymore. He was just watching. Watching as Bucky’s hand traveled lower, over the curve of your waist, thumb dipping just beneath the waistband of your skirt.
"You’re the only thing he’s got left to give me,” Bucky mused, voice low, edged with satisfaction.
Your breath hitched. You wanted to protest, to say something, but your body betrayed you, frozen beneath his touch.
Rumlow's breathing turned ragged, his body tensing against the bindings, his fingers twitching uselessly where they were tied. His chest heaved, each breath coming out in thick, rattling bursts, fury barely held beneath the surface. He shifted against the chair, as if testing the strength of the restraints, his shoulders bunching, his jaw clenching so tight it looked like his teeth might crack.
But he wasn’t struggling to fight anymore.
No, this was different. This was a man trying to cling to something already slipping through his fingers, too slow to stop it, too weak to change the outcome. His good eye darted to you, frantic, flickering with something ugly- accusation, betrayal, the last remnants of his pride bleeding out alongside his dignity.
And then, the realization hit him fully.
He had already lost. He saw it, too.
"Christ, you fucking whore!" His voice is a wet rasp, thick with blood and fury. He spits in your direction, and you feel it hit your hand, warm, sickening. Your stomach clenches, but you don’t move.
"Knew it! Knew you'd been putting out for him! Fucking slut!" The venom in his voice is weaker now, laced with something that sounds almost like fear. Like he’s realizing too late that he’s already lost.
Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His fingers only tighten against your waist, his amusement evident in the smirk that curls at his lips. "That’s it, Doll," he murmurs, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "Look at him. Not even worth the effort, is he?"
Bucky leaned down, breath fanning against your ear, his words for you alone. “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever deserve you?”
Your pulse pounded. Your fingers curled into fists. And you hated that you didn’t have an answer. Brock had used you, stomped you down, sold you off. Hate sizzled under your skin.
Bucky’s lips ghosted against your jaw. “Didn’t think so.”
He chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. His fingers trailed along your cheek, smearing a streak of Rumlow’s blood across your skin. His touch was deceptively gentle, reverent almost, a stark contrast to the brutality he had just unleashed.
“Just a sad, sad loser,” he purred, thumb pressing against the curve of your jaw, tilting your head back to him. “Who threw away the only thing that should have mattered.”
Your breath hitched as his fingers toyed with the button on your blouse before he started to undo them. The cool air of the room kissed your exposed skin, but the heat of his palm followed, searing in its wake. His fingers lingered, tracing over your collarbone, dipping lower, teasing, claiming.
“Want someone better, don’t you?” he murmured against your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Someone who knows what you are.”
A soft whine escaped your throat as he guided you toward the desk, his grip firm but never forceful. His hands knew their way around your body, knew exactly how to make you tremble. Your shirt hanging open.
“Loyal till the end, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he mused, lips dragging over your temple. “Would’ve let him drown you to save himself.”
Your stomach twisted because you knew it was true. Brock never would have taken the fall. Never would have bled for you.
Bucky’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your skirt, teasing at the sensitive flesh beneath. His smirk was lazy, knowing, pleased.
“I know a prize when I see it,” he whispered. “Know when something good comes into my life.” His fingers pressed, slow, firm. Your lips parted in a sharp inhale. “And you want to be good, don’t you?”
Your knees felt weak, your body betraying you, betraying everything you thought you knew about yourself.
“Want to show him what he’s going to miss?” His teeth scraped along the shell of your ear, voice thick with amusement. “What you’ve needed?”
You should have pulled away.
Your mind had screamed at you to move, to step back, to reclaim the last shred of control you still had. But your body betrayed you- breath shallow, fingers twitching at your sides, legs weak beneath the weight of his touch. The heat of him, the scent of leather and blood, the quiet, possessive hum vibrating against your ear- it held you there, trapped between defiance and surrender.
Bucky had given you a choice..
But it wasn’t really a choice, was it?
You could fight, but what would that change?
You could run, but where would you go?
And maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of you that wants this.
That wanted to hurt Rumlow back for everything he’d done to you. That wanted to let go, let someone else take control for once. That wanted to belong to someone who wouldn’t throw you away when it was convenient.
You didn't answer.
You didn't need to.
Bucky knew.
His hands moved slow at first, teasing, testing the waters, making you feel every second of his touch. The rasp of his calloused fingers against your skin. The heat of his palm as it pressed against your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.
He slid your blouse off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor in a whisper of fabric, his fingers grazing along your bare skin as he went. His touch was slow, deliberate, reinforcing the control he had over this moment since the second you stepped through the door. Your breathing was sharp, shallow, your pulse thundering against his lips when he dragged them down the side of your neck.
Rumlow shifted in his chair, hands curled into fists. You could feel his anger, his humiliation, but you didn't look at him jsut threw him.
Because he had never really looked at you.
Never really saw you at all.
“Look at her,” Bucky murmured, fingers pressing under your chin, tilting your face toward Rumlow. His voice was dark, cruel, intoxicating. “She was never yours.”
His hand slided under your skirt, rough fingers pushing aside the thin barrier of your panties. Your body betrayed you, your hips shifted into his touch, breath catching when he draged his fingers along your slit.
“She’s dripping for me,” Bucky chuckled. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Shame burned your cheeks, your body trembling against his as he stroked you, teasing, relentless.
Rumlow watched, silent rage carved into every muscle. His breath came fast, shallow, his chest heaving. He hated this. Hated you.
You hated him back.
This was his mess, Brock had pulled you into this whole circus.
Now you were stuck, trapped in world you never wanted to be part of.
A tangled mess of emotions coils in your stomach- shame, defiance, something darker still. The heat of Bucky’s touch branded you, claiming, unraveling you inch by inch. You should resist. You should hate this. But the way Rumlow seethed - it stirs something primal, something that makes your thighs press together but Bucky parted them instead.
And it only made you wetter.
Bucky’s grip tightened, his other hand curled into your hair, dragging your head back so he could nip at your throat. “Good girl,” he murmured against your skin. “That’s it. Let him see.”
His fingers kneaded the soft flesh of your chest, cupping, squeezing, rolling your nipples between rough fingertips as his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. “Take it off,” he whispered, voice thick with command. “Show him.”
Your breath caught in your throat, your fingers trembled as they reached behind your back, unclasping your bra. The fabric slid down your arms, baring you to the cool air of the room, but the heat of Bucky’s touch was already there, claiming every inch of exposed skin.
“Look at her” Bucky purred, his hands finding their way back to your chest, massaging, teasing, reveling in the way your body responded to him. “You threw this away.”
Shame burned at the edges of your mind, tangled with something deeper, something darker. You hated Rumlow- hated him for dragging you into this, for making you a pawn in a game he was too stupid to win. But more than anything, you hated the way your body responded to Bucky’s touch, the way his control settled over you like something inevitable.
Bucky’s hand slid down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, gripping the waistband of your skirt before spinning you around and bending you forward over his desk. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor as he kicked it away sent a shiver down your spine.
One large hand pressed firm against the back of your neck, keeping you in place, while the other slid down, tracing the swell of your behind before slipping between your thighs. His fingers pushed inside you with ease, stretching, exploring, claiming.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice deep and satisfied. “And he gets to watch every fucking second of it.”
Bucky worked you open with slow, torturous precision, curling his fingers just right, his touch unrelenting as your body betrayed you further. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as heat coiled low in your belly. His grip on your neck eased slightly, but only so he pressing possessively against you.
“Yeah, Doll,” he purred, the deep rumble of his voice sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. “Bet he never did this for you.”
A sharp pang of resentment twisted through you, shame tangling with reluctant pleasure as you realized- he was right. Brock had never touched you like this. Never made you feel like this.
Your hips had rolled back against his hand before you could stop yourself, seeking more of the friction he so cruelly teased. The motion made you aware of the thick, hard press of his cock against your backside, straining through his pants.
Bucky chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “That’s it, baby. You want more, don’t you?”
Your answer came in the way your thighs shook, in the way your body arched instinctively into his touch. He let go of your neck then, his hand snaking around to your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips. “Open.”
You hesitated only a second before he slid two fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, letting you taste the remnants of your own arousal.
“Oh yeah, let me feel that tongue,” he groaned, his fingers thrusting in slow, deliberate movements, his other hand still buried between your legs, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
That idea made your core clamp down around his fingers, the rush of heat twisting low in your stomach. Rumlow made a noise- something between a growl and a choked breath- but you couldn’t focus on that. Not when you were so close.
Bucky felt it, too. "That's it, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with approval, fingers pushing deeper, curling just right. "Go on. Come for me."
Your body betrayed you completely, the pleasure crested so fast and sharp that you barely recognized the sounds spilling from your lips. The air thickened around you, every nerve alight as your thighs trembled, your hands scrabbling weakly against the desk for something- anything- to anchor you. The sharp tang of sweat and musk filled your senses, your pulse hammering in your ears as your mouth fell open in a choked gasp, your body wracked with sensation so intense it was almost unbearable. Your nails dug into the desk as your legs trembled, a strangled cry escaping as the tension snapped and pleasure crashed through you in waves.
Bucky groaned low in his throat, feeling the way you clenched around his fingers, dragging it out, letting you ride every last ripple of sensation. And then, just as you sagged forward, boneless and panting, he pulled his hands away.
The loss made you whimper, but he only chuckled, lifting his fingers to his mouth. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, slow and deliberate. "Sweet," he mused, smirking as he turned his gaze back to Rumlow. "Bet you never even tried, huh?"
Brok snarled, but he was powerless, his bindings holding him tight. His face was twisted in barely contained rage, humiliated, but Bucky only laughed, rubbing his slick fingers together before finally reaching for his belt.
The sound of the buckle coming undone made your breath hitch, anticipation and something darker pooling between your legs. You barely had time to process it before his wet hand- still damp from your mouth- pressed down on your shoulders, guiding you forward until your chest met the cool surface of his desk. His other hand tangled into your hair, tugging your head up just enough to make you face Rumlow again.
"Look at her, Rumlow," Bucky murmured, his voice dark and mocking. "You're going to watch. Like a good boy."
Then he pushed into you, the stretch of him immediate and overwhelming. Your fingers clawed at the desk, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants as your eyes rolled back.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck- "
Bucky’s grip tightened in your hair, keeping you steady, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. "No, no," he corrected, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're going to take it. You're going to love it."
The stretch was too much. He was too much. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, body trying to fight the intrusion even as another part of you surrendered. The burn made your breath hitch, made your nails scrape against the wood of his desk as your legs trembled beneath you.
Bucky felt it. Felt the way your body fought him, trying to adjust, trying to take him. And he loved it.
“Easy pretty girl,” he murmured, his tone mockingly sweet as he dragged his cock out a fraction before pressing in again, forcing your body to yield. His grip in your hair tugged your head back, keeping you from burying your face in the desk. He wanted you watching. This time you whined loudly, your eyes getting wet as tears pricked in the corners.
“Shhh, Doll. I know it’s a lot,” he purred, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned down, lips just by your ear. “But you’re gonna take it for me, aren’t you? Be a good girl and let me ruin you?”
You let out a choked sound, half whimper, half moan, your body torn between resistance and something darker. The pressure, the overwhelming fullness- it was too much and not enough all at once.
Bucky groaned, his grip shifting from your hip to the nape of your neck, pressing you down harder. His is fingers flexed, tightening, possessive. “That’s it, baby. Stop fightin’ it. Just let me in.”
You whimpered, body finally starting to give in, your muscles loosening, letting him sink deeper.
“There you go, sweet girl,” he cooed, his thrusts turning slow, deep, merciless. “That’s what I thought. You just needed me to break you in a little, huh?”
"Buck-Auh."
Your legs were shaking now, your breath coming in uneven gasps as your body stopped resisting. It was all too much, too overwhelming- the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, owning you, the weight of his body that pinned you down, the way his voice slithered into your ear, hot and filthy and so damn cruel.
And Rumlow. Watching. Seeing everything.
Bucky made sure of that.
He tugged your hair again, tilting your head enough that your blurred gaze met Brock’s, that he could see the way your lips parted, the way your eyes fluttered shut every time Bucky pushed deeper.
“See that?” Bucky grunted, his voice sharper now, his thrusts harsher, shaking the desk with each movement. “See how much she likes a real man fucking her, Rumlow.”
Your whimper had only made him smirk. His other hand had left your hip, dragging up your stomach, up your chest, gripping your throat, holding you still.
Bucky wasn’t done teaching.
“You feel that, sweetheart?” he murmured again, his hand tightening around your throat, forcing your head up, keeping your back arched as he pounded into you. “This is what it means to be owned.”
A strangled moan tore from your throat, your vision blurring as the sensations overwhelmed you. You didn’t know when the fight left your body- when your resistance melted into submission, your hips pushing back. “That’s it Doll,” he groaned, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted. Knew you’d learn.” His pace didn’t slow, hips slamming into yours, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every stroke dragging along your sensitive walls, making your nails dig deeper into the desk.
Your body was burning, your legs weak beneath you, pleasure a tightening coil in your stomach. The desk holding you up more then your legs did.
But he wasn’t going to let you go so easily.
“You got to learn, too, Rumlow.” Bucky’s voice was mocking, dripping with cruelty as he pulled you back by your hair, your neck arching, your chest lifting off the desk. “You watching? You paying attention?”
A low, muffled noise- Rumlow’s disgust, his helpless fury. But it didn’t matter.
Bucky owned this moment. Owned you.
His hand slid down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, slow circles, teasing you, making your thighs tremble.
“You’re gonna come for me,” Bucky ordered, his breath hot against your ear, his thrusts unrelenting. “You’re gonna come while he watches. Gonna show him what it looks like to be fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Your body shook, heat cascading through you, your muscles locking as the pressure inside you snapped. Your orgasm slammed into you, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your body tightening around him like a vice.
Bucky cursed, his fingers digging into your hip, riding it out with you, his thrusts never stopping, never giving you a moment to breathe.
“Oh god, oh god..”
Then his hand left your hip, sliding up, fingers to wrap back around your throat. Not just to hold you this time. The pressure was immediate, firm but controlled, cutting off just enough air to make your head go light, your pulse pounding against his palm. Your vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in like ink seeping through water.
"That’s it, Doll," he groaned, his grip tightening. "Give it to me. Let go. Give me the another one."
Your body spasmed around him, muscles clenching, the sharp pleasure twisting with the darkness creeping into your mind. You barely heard your own ragged moan, barely felt the last desperate pulse of your orgasm before the world faded, before you felt him spill inside you- hot, claiming, absolute.
Bucky held you there, his cock buried to the hilt, his hand still wrapped around your throat as he emptied himself into you. The last thing you felt before the blackness swallowed you whole was the deep, satisfied hum of his voice against your ear.
"That’s my girl."
TAG: @swiggityswoody52
imagine dating spencer and you come to visit or something and make him so distracted that he literally can’t info dump on something and the rest of the team is just shocked
yes yes, a hundred times yes 🤭 thank you so much!
catching a glimpse of yourself in the elevator mirror was the last thing you needed right now. you were covered in paint, your dungarees showing up every coloured streak and hand print against the light denim. you're sure there's paint in your hair but you don't have time to dwell on it, you're late
you'd got stressed, painting your boyfriends apartment on your own, lost track of time and then didn't have the time to change before running out of the apartment, just about managing to remember to grab yours and spencer's lunch on the way
"i'm so sorry i'm late," you sigh and frown as you rush through the bullpen to the collection of desks you're oh so familiar with, "please excuse the state of me,"
spencer turns at the sound of your voice, "hi sweetheart," he hums, looking up at you just as you dip to kiss him quickly before pushing the bag of food onto his lap
"hey," you smile softly at your boyfriend before turning to his colleagues, "hey guys, how are we all?" you ask, getting a mixed bunch of replies back
"how's painting?" derek laughs, looking at your appearance and the state of your clothes
you slide onto spencer's desk, pulling your legs up to sit cross legged, "standing six feet up a ladder trying to hold a tray of paint and a brush is hard, i've nearly fallen off twice," you huff,
spencer hands you the sandwich he knows is yours and then seemingly looks at you properly for the first time since you've been there, "hey," he says, almost breathlessly
"hello?" you question, head tilting slightly, "you've already said hi," you say, looking at emily and jj who just snicker and shrug their shoulders but spencer doesn't reply, "oh before i forget!"
your boyfriend watches you carefully as you produce a piece of paper from the tiny pocket on the front of your dungarees, flapping it around to unfold it, your other hand busy clutching your food
"the living room is next, i need to know how much paint to buy," you explain, handing the paper to him, "the cans are one litre or five litres, i can't figure it out"
truth be told you hadn't bothered to try and work it out, knowing spencer would be able to reel off the answer like it's nothing, naturally, he knew the exact measurements of every wall in his house
the boy stares up at you blankly, big brown eyes soft and sparkly. your cheeks heat up under his gaze, your eyebrows raising slightly, "spence?" you nudge him with your knee
he jumps ever so slightly, his head shaking a bit, "hmm?" he asks before only just registering you've handed him something, his eyes scan over it, "oh!" he blushes, turning his chair to face his desk
"what colour are you doing the living room?" jj asks while she stabs at her salad like it's offending her. you'd consulted the girls with all of the decorating developments.
"a light brown i think, we have so much to hang on the walls," you pause to swallow, "so something neutral," you finish with a slight nod
a door opening to your side grabs your attention, aaron coming out of his office with his lunch. he comes down into the bullpen, sitting on the edge of emily's desk, "the paint fighting back?" he asks you, slight smile creeping over his face
you roll your eyes at him, playfully, while the other laugh at your expense, "very funny but i don't see any of you offering to help"
penelope scoffs, "actually, i did" and she was right, however her idea of getting wine drunk and decorating had been quickly shut down by spencer, the only input he's actually offered up in the whole process
giggling, you turn back to your boyfriend who's been far too quiet, "boy wonder?" you say gently, pushing your fingers through his hair, "got an answer for me?"
usually he would have an answer within seconds, his minutes of silence making you frown, he turns to you with the same frown painted across his face, "i don't know," he says
people around you gasp, loudly too, "what do you mean, you don't know?" emily almost chokes on her lunch, sitting forward to gawp at the boy
"i do not know how much paint we need" he confirms
derek scrambles, pulling his phone out of his pocket, "say it again, i need record of this moment" he pleads while garcia smacks him
"well there's a first," david says, wandering over after hearing spencer say i don't know for possibly the first time, ever
your boy stares at the paper in his hand and then up at you, confused, "i have to go and work it out, excuse me" he says, rushed, as he stands and takes off towards circle table room
after a moment of shocked silence you turn to the team who are all staring directly at you, "i'll go check on him, i wonder what's wrong?" you say to no one in particular as you hop off of the desk
"i think i know," jj sing songs and the others hum in agreement as you hop up the stairs and along the walkway into the room.
when you get into the room spencer is stood in front of the biggest whiteboard you've possibly ever seen, marker in hand though the board is still empty of his handwriting
"spence? angel?" you say quietly, staring at his back as he starts to write the measurements of the walls in his living room, "everything alright?"
he hums, not turning to look at you as he continues to work through the problem, "yeah, fine, just can't think properly when you're around," he admits, "not when you look like that," he turns slightly to look at you
"oh, do you want me to leave?" you're sad, its obvious in your voice. nervously you start fiddling with the sleeves of your sweatshirt
your boyfriend gasps, "no, no, honey that's not what i meant!" he says, holding his arm out. you slide into the space, head resting on his shoulder, "you're so beautiful and i love you so much, so so much, my brain just switches off when you’re around"
"really?" you giggle, looking up at him. he hums and nods his head, a light blush rushes up his neck before taking over his cheeks, "i love you too,"
he's taller than you, forcing you onto your tip toes to kiss him, not caring when someone, emily, whoops from the bullpen. gentle hands squeeze at your waist, while you hold his face with one hand, the other resting on his shoulder
"three litres," spencer mumbles against your mouth, you pull away with a sight hum, forgetting what you'd asked of him, "you need three but it's cheaper to just buy five and have left over, now come back" he huffs, his arm wrapping tighter around you to pull you back in for another kiss
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily!! send prompts to my ask box!
❥ spencer reid masterlist !!
SPILL YOUR GUTS
˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
practice boyfriend! eddie x fem! reader
summary: eddie’s your practice boyfriend. you’re positive he’s upset at you and you’re waiting for him to get mad. however, he has a different response in mind.
cw: references/allusions to past child abuse but extremely vague, references/allusions to bad relationships (also pretty vague), reader acts on a learned response and assumes the worst about Eddie, anxiety
tags/tropes: angst, hurt/comfort (my brand!) sappy sappy romantic idiots, they kiss and figure their mess out at the end
a/n: this came to me in a vision
summary makes this sound smutty but i promise it’s not. this accidentally became disgustingly romantic. read at your own risk :)
࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
You’re positive Eddie’s mad at you.
Okay. Maybe positive is a strong word. But still.
You’ve only been fake/pretend/practice dating Eddie for about two weeks now. He’s the one who approached you with the offer— when you were in the Upside Down together, you’d made an off-hand comment about how you might die without ever having a real boyfriend- not one that mattered, anyway. It’s always kind of been a sore spot for you for a good portion of your life. Growing up, you didn’t really have the best relationship with your dad (Robin likes to call that “The understatement of the year, and we almost died.”) and out of the incredibly small handful of guys you’ve gone out with, none stuck around longer than a month and all ended in such equally, specifically, and uniquely horrific ways, you finally came to the conclusion you had to be fucking something up. What are the chances of all them ended so completely horribly?
After you all had decidedly not died in the Upside Down, Eddie approached you with an offer: pretend date him. You’re popular and well known enough that it’ll help get people off his back about the whole Chrissy/murders thing —even though he’s been absolved of all charges, the people of Hawkins hold grudges— and in exchange, you get a trial run of a relationship that won’t end unless you both agree too— you get to figure out what you’re doing wrong.
You feel bad about it, because even though you spend so much time together, you feel like a nervous wreck. All. The. Time.
You’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop— waiting for him to tell you that you’re too weird, that you’re not considerate enough, that you’re selfish, or that you talk too much.
But he never says any of it. All he ever tells you is the good things. He tells you how sympathetic you are, how kind you are, how good you are at remembering little details that matter. He tells you that you’re a good kisser.
(Yeah. Your first kiss, even after those failed relationships, ended up being with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson. You’re not quite sure you’ll ever forget how you felt when his lips —just a little cracked, but not rough— met yours; when his hair tickled your face and you could faintly smell the cigarette smoke that stubbornly clings to all of his clothes, no matter how many times he washes them. You didn’t tell him he was your first. That’s something you decided you couldn’t bear to share.
You kind of have a feeling he knows anyway, though.)
It all sets you on edge. You’re under no reassurance that you’re perfect. You’re currently questioning if you’re tolerable, from a romantic standpoint.
You know how you are. You’re clinging and you drink up reassurance like a dying man in the desert. You linger in his casual touches like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever feel them. You know you’re a lot. You know. You know that guys in a relationship don’t want ‘a lot’, they want a pretty thing to hang off their arm and laugh at what they say.
But you just… can’t.
You tried, and you tried, and you tried. But you always ended up being too much, or it didn’t work out for some other reason. You want more. You want to feel safe, and happy, and cherished and loved and all those things that only happen in the movies.
The ironic part of all of this is that when you first started setting out terms for your arrangement, Eddie had told you flat out: “This will only work if you are completely and one-hundred percent yourself. You gotta lay it all on me, angel.”
And so you had, and now you regret it because he’s upset about something.
You’d come over to his trailer at his request to ‘hang out’ while he went over DND stuff for his next campaign. Eddie does this a lot— he calls them ‘Neutral Dates’ where you’re not really doing anything in particular- most of the time, you’re both doing seperate things, but still just being in each other’s presence.
It’s nice. The majority of your friend circle consists of everyone involved with the Upside Down and that entire mess. You two are no Steve and Robin (you’re convinced those two have the kind of bond no one can replicate or break. Like the kind of bond stray cats get and then they have to be adopted together) but it’s still nice. To just be with someone.
Even if you feel like you’re walking on eggshells.
It’s not always eggshells. Sometimes, for a a few moments, you forget. You forget it’s all pretend. You forget he’s just a friend helping a friend fulfill a goal. That’s all.
You’ve almost forgotten just now, too— you’re too concerned about what you might’ve done.
He’s not acting angry, per-se, but he’s definitely upset. You tend to pick up on this kind of thing: small changes in someone’s personality or body language. Most of the time it’s not a conscious habit.
Most of the time.
Right now, he’s run his hands through his hair about a million times. It’s become a frizzy mess behind him, and when you’d made an offhand joke about it —an attempt to lighten the mood— all he’d done was scowl. Not at you, really, but the message was there. You’d snapped your jaw shut so fast you’re pretty sure he heard your teeth click.
After that he’d frustratedly made tea for the both of you, which consisted of opening the cupboards faster than he usually did, closing them slightly louder than he usually does, and drumming his fingers impatiently on the stove-top while he waited for the kettle to boil.
All of this you observed from the corner of your eye while ‘reading’ on the couch.
And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when you’d finally mustered up the courage to speak again, a little joke about a part in the book you were reading, all he’d said was a flat:
“That’s great, babe.”
You’re starting to get antsy. Nervous. Maybe you should go? Unless he gets upset at you leaving. That would be bad. But he’s clearly upset with you being here, so maybe you should go.
While you’re debating the pros and cons of leaving, you try to remain as still and silent as possible. No need to upset him anymore by moving too much or being too loud.
You flip a page in the book you’re no longer reading (he might notice you’re not paying attention to it anymore) and decide to test the waters again.
“The author just spelled restaurant wrong. That’s the third spelling mistake I’ve caught in this book.”
“Hmm.”
Okay. So that was worse. Talking to him is out of the question, then. It must be something you did, to warrant this kind of reaction.
You wrack your brain, trying to think of anything you could’ve done in recent hours to make him upset, but you can’t think of anything.
You glance slightly to the right— not far enough that he’ll see you looking at him, but far enough to get a better look at him in your peripheral. He’s glaring down at his campaign notebook. Shit, he looks so angry.
Unbidden, tears begin to well in your eyes and you try to shift, trying to angle yourself away from him enough that he can’t see the tears in your eyes.
But your hand shifts, knocking into his leg.
Fuck. “Sorry!”
You yank you arm back as if burned, jolting back on the couch so you’re in no danger of touching him. “I’m sorry!”
He sits up, immediately snapping to attention at the desperation coloring your voice. “Woah woah, hey. Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
You take a steadying breath. “Did I do something wrong?”
He blinks blankly at you. Oh shit, you’re supposed to know that you’ve done something wrong.
“I mean,” You hurry to correct, “I know I— Can you tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it?”
Understanding floods his features and you brace yourself, ready for the reprimand.
“Can I touch you?”
Now it’s your turn to stare with confusion. You nod once, briefly thinking about how weird it is to ask for permission first.
He sits up on the couch, facing you with his legs crossed, the couch springs squeaking loudly at his movement. You resist the urge to wince. He reaches out with a slow hand, taking the hand that’s still clenched, held away from him and up near your chest.
He stares down at your hand, holding it with his left hand and tracing delicate shapes on it with his right. His ringed fingers drag lines around your knuckles and veins, lingering occasionally over the odd, old scar.
“How long did you think I was upset with you?”
Your heart is racing, muscles tensed and ready to bolt. “Um. A few hours? Maybe?”
You’re hyper-aware of the grip he has on your hand, and how quickly and easy it could become crushing.
It doesn’t.
“Bug,” He says slowly after a moment. At first he used to use pet names as a joke— it was something you’d laugh at, between the two of you, since the relationship wasn’t real.
But recently, he’s been saying them with a different inflection in his tone. A little less teasing, a lot more fond.
“Have you spent the past few hours afraid that I was mad at you?”
He sounds… sad. Which is confusing. It doesn’t— he was. He was.
“But you were,” You say, suddenly unsure about anything and everything. “You were upset.”
“I was upset because I couldn’t work this part of the campaign out, and i’m dramatic. I was never mad at you, honey. I was never mad at you.”
You frown, gears turning in your head. “When I made that joke about your hair, you glared at me. And then when I tried to talk to you, you were upset. You didn’t want to talk.”
“I was jokingly glaring at you, I’m so sorry you thought I was serious. I wasn’t, I promise. I didn’t mean to be dismissive, I was really focusing on writing.”
You’re both silent for a moment. A beat too long. You want to squirm in the unwelcome space the silence has created.
“What did you think I was going to do?”
That is a loaded question.
“I don’t know,” You pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I don’t— I don’t know. That’s the problem. You don’t yell at me, or get angry, or tell me when i’ve made you upset. I don’t know what you’ll do.”
He makes a wounded noise in his throat.
“I know you get angry,” You bulldoze on, “I’ve seen it. You’re so… loud, in everything you do. I know you get angry. But you never get that same kind of loud angry at me and I don’t know what to do because that means that I upset you and you don’t tell me about it and then I don’t know how to fix it. I have to fix it, Eddie.”
His eyes, deep and brown, search your face. He reaches up a hand, painfully slow, to cup your face. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you tip your head to the side, leaning into the job.
“I’m gonna tell you something, Bug. Are you listening?” He waits for you to hum in confirmation before continuing. “You’re not responsible for my moods. Or anyone else’s for that matter. That’s not your job. You don’t have to fix it.”
He reaches his second hand up to cup the other side of your face. “You know why I don’t get angry at you? Not all loud and dramatic like that? Because I’ve seen how you react when people do. And I never, ever want to be the reason you get that look in your eye. I never want to make you afraid. I never want you to believe, with proof and confidence, that I’ve grown sick of you.”
You open your eyes, eyes darting across the planes of his face. Searching for even the smallest hint, the smallest giveaway that he might be lying.
You can’t find any. In its place, you find eyes, shining with pure determination. You find lips parted ever so slightly, a sad-sort of smile being etched into being. You find two hands on your face, thumbs delicately sweeping across the skin of your under-eye, of your cheekbone. Smoothing away the steady tears that had begun falling, wiping away the hot trails they leave on your face.
And you realize all at once that love isn’t like the movies. It isn’t picture-perfect kisses. It isn’t ball gowns and dresses and kisses in the rain. It isn’t like the love you thought you were supposed to have: empty and hollow; a life of hanging off of arms and praying your next slip-up didn’t cost you your relationship.
It was this.
It was just being. Just being and knowing the other person is there for just that— for you. It was not raising your voice. It was carrying extra hair-ties. It was making two cups of coffee. It was steeping tea for an extra couple of minutes, just the way he liked it. It was playing your favorite music in the car, and looking over at each other during the bridge, belting the lyrics with the same, toothy-smile. So full and so happy you just keep screaming the lyrics, because you’re filled with so much you don’t know where to put it all.
Your tears begin to fall in earnest now. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but for a different reason now. You’re struck with the need to convey all of this to him— to tell him you understand, you know, you feel the same.
“These hair ties,” You shove your wrist up to his eye-line. “They’re for you. Because you always forget your own. And— and I steep the tea for a few extra minutes, because you like your tea strong, and you didn’t just find that tape in your van, I bought it ‘cause I know you lost the old one in the Upside Down, ‘cause it felt out of your pocket.”
You’re babbling, nearly choking on your tears and your words, rushing them all out of your mouth in an aching wish to be understood, in this very moment.
“I know,” He says, voice a little hysteric and eyes a little too bright. His lip wobbles. He presses your face tighter in his hands. “I know. I know. I see you. I see you.”
You stay like that for a little while. At some point, your hands find his wrists, and then you’re just two fools, smiling like idiots with tears streaming down your faces, staring into each others eyes.
Eventually, Eddie clears his throat. “The next time you think I’m upset at you, you tell me, okay? You can ask. You can ask me and I pinky promise I won’t get mad.”
You giggle wetly. “Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear,” He says, taking his left hand away from your face to hold up his pinky. You intertwine yours and his together, the both of you laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
He gets quiet for a moment; removes his hands from your face and instead clasps, your hands together, resting in your lap.
“You know why I never tell you when you’re being a bad practice girlfriend?” He says, his voice low and soft.
“How come?”
He smiles, full and good. “Because you’re not. You’re so sweet and kind and loving. And if you’d let me, I’d really like to kiss you right now.”
You furrow your brows. “The real kind? The I-love-you kind?”
Your face flushes over the words ‘I love you.’
“I’ve always kissed you for real,” He says, words laden with fondness. “Ever since the day we met and you slapped the shit out of me for being stupid. I’ve been hopelessly obsessed ever since. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice.”
You suck in a breath. “So all of this— the, the dates and the hanging out and the kissing— that’s all been real?”
“Every last bit.”
“Then in that case,” You say, squeezing his hands. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”
He leans in, slotting your lips together and everything just clicks. Like this is where you’re meant to be. Maybe it’s puppy love. Maybe it’s not.
All you know is that Eddie Munson is kissing you for real, and he always has been. You couldn’t ask for anything better.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal
Word Count: 3.9k
Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.
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The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.
Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.
It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper.
James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.
Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.
There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.
So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.
Not until you.
Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.
You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.
By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.
And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.
But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.
“Miss me, Barnes?”
And damn him, he had.
You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam.
And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.
There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.
He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.
You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.
You grounded him.
And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.
He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.
But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.
Because he did love you.
And it terrified him.
Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.
But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.
But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.
He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.
The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.
That was what marriage looked like to him now.
Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.
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It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.
You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.
“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”
You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”
“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”
You didn’t answer.
He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.
You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.
His jaw clenched.
“Bucky.”
“Almost got it.”
“Bucky.”
He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.
“James.”
He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.
“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.
“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”
“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”
“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when
you’re worried.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.
“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” you breathed.
And then, silence.
Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.
He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.
“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
Another silence.
He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith.
And he was always bad at faith.
He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you.
“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.
The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.
“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”
“Bucky.”
“I said keep talking.”
You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”
“Not funny enough.”
“He hit his head.”
“That’s better.”
Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.
You winced as the metal tip shifted.
“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”
“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.
“Oh yeah? You cooking?”
“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”
You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.
“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”
“M’tired.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.
“Do me a favor?” You asked.
He hummed.
“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”
“Not a chance.”
“And if I die…”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“If I did. Hypothetically.”
His jaw ticked.
“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”
You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”
“It’s honest.”
And it was.
Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.
He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.
He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.
“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”
You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.
He couldn’t stop now.
“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”
“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”
You blinked slow. “You first, then.”
He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.
“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”
His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.
He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”
You didn’t speak.
“Three.”
He yanked.
A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.
He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”
You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.
He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him.
“Did you mean that?”
He blinked.
“What?”
Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.
“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.
His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”
“I wasn’t hearing things.”
“You were half-conscious.”
“And you still said it.”
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.
“It was nothing. Just words.”
You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.
And god, he wanted to run.
Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.
He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed.
His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.
“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”
He stilled.
For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.
His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.
You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”
His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.
“You hate those mugs.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”
His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.
“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”
“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”
He didn’t.
He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.
“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.
You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.
“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”
He swallowed.
“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.
You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.
“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”
He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”
Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”
His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.
Why don’t you ask me?
So simple. So fucking impossible.
Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.
He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.
Why don’t you ask me?
Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.
He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.
But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.
He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”
He let it sit there. Let it ache.
“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”
His throat worked. His jaw locked.
He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.
But instead—
“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”
You didn’t interrupt.
He swallowed. Continued.
“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”
His hand twitched where it held yours.
“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”
He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.
“You made me want things again.”
You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.
He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.
Barnes, James B.
Property of the U.S. Army.
And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.
They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.
He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.
“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”
His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.
“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”
He looked at you now. Really looked.
“But I can’t.”
Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”
“All I’ve got is this.”
His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.
But now?
Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.
“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”
His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.
He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.
So he asked.
“Will you marry me?”
It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.
But it was his. And it was real.
You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.
But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.
“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”
The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—
He kissed you.
It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.
His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.
You were both shaking.
You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.
He brought the tags forward.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t speak.
He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.
The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.
But they were yours now.
His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.
He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.
Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.
Yours.
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Something Sweet
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x candymaker!Reader
Summary: Bucky had a sweet tooth and stumbled across a candy shop. He found sweetness inside—but not just from the candy
Warnings: Nothing, really. Just a lot of fluff!
Word Count: 8.0k
—<><>—<><>—<><>—
Bucky had a sweet tooth.
It was a weird discovery he made when he ended up in Romania—broken free of the prison he was lost in, only to stay lost but in an entirely new world. Choosing to hide as a civilian meant learning how to be one. Renting an apartment wasn't the same as breaking into someone’s home; taking the bus wasn't the same as hijacking one; going to bed wasn't the same as going back into cryofreeze.
Bucky learned what it was like to forget to eat because he was too busy doing something else. To sleep in and wake up in the evening. To allow himself a second to close his eyes underneath the sun.
To buy himself a piece of chocolate because, why not?
He had watched a little boy beg his mother to buy a piece, and a sharp memory attacked his mind, reminding him of a time when he had done the same with his mother. It gave him a tight feeling in his chest, his cold heart aching for his family for the first time since he escaped, and he eventually found himself paying for the sweets along with his fruits and vegetables. The candy sat in his pocket for hours, slowly melting away in the wrapper before Bucky finally remembered to eat it.
When the chocolate hit his tongue, something inside him cracked open.
His heart stopped aching, only for it to start weeping, longing for his parents’ embrace and sisters’ laughter. He couldn’t remember how it felt to be hugged or be surrounded by laughter, but his chest embodied a type of warmth that was overwhelmingly comforting. The sugar gave him a spark of energy, but also a brief, wonderful feeling of simply being human.
He went back the next day to buy more.
Soon, the sweet side of his basket—apples, berries, and plums—was joined by chocolate, caramel, and toffee, which all eventually went inside a little jar in his tiny kitchen. There wasn’t much, but it was just enough for him when the weight in his chest became too much—it never went away, but sweets made it bearable.
A few weeks went by, and Bucky finally accepted just how much of a sweet tooth he had. He found it amusing, thinking about how HYDRA would’ve reacted to see their prized assassin obsessing over sweets. Ice cream, cake, pie, tart, cookie—name it, he’d love it.
But candy—small, one-bite treats—always made him feel better. All Bucky needed in life was something sweet.
When he ended up in Wakanda, he didn’t eat as many sweets as he’d like. It wasn’t that there weren’t any, but readjusting to his own self called for changing his diet, leaving him in the grassy field with fruits and grains, his only company being goats. He didn’t mind, but now and then, he’d just want a singular piece of chocolate. But overall, his craving for sweets became something quieter, less urgent, but still present. Something that seeped into his heart whenever the noise got too loud.
And, to Bucky’s dismay, Brooklyn was so loud.
Of course, he had expected the city to be different from when he lived there. But the abrupt sounds of shouting and honking, lingering scents of exhaust fumes and garbage, and overwhelming sights of people and people and more people were too much for him.
Shoving his gloved hands into his pockets, Bucky grumbled as he walked home from his morning appointment, which only left him irritated as Dr. Raynor was never helpful with…well, everything. The wind blew through his hair, reminding him to get a haircut as it was his homework for a “new start,” but also because a few people had recognized him from his fluffy locks.
He hated being recognized, stopping only to see if the people who caught his attention would praise him as a hero—that he does not find himself to be—or scowl at him for being a villain—which he still agreed with. Which is why, on this particular late morning, when Bucky noticed a group of people far ahead pointing in his direction, he decided to hide. He sharply turned to his left, slipping into the closest shop without bothering to check what it was selling.
The smell of sugar shocked him.
He paused, the sweet smell almost overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It was joined with hints of caramels and…nutmeg? Whatever it was, it worked its way into his chest, making his shoulders relax instantly and encouraging him to take a deep breath. Unlike the outside world, it was quiet.
Bucky glanced around, taking in the small size of the shop that still managed to hold so much life. Walnut wood framed the shelves and counters, giving it a kind of charm that made him feel like he’d stepped backward in time, to his youth, where everything felt simple. The floor was tiled in granite with flecks of cream, and instead of the glaring fluorescents most stores used, the shop favored amber bulbs that cast a soft glow across everything.
On the top shelves, there were bundles of candy, neatly wrapped and named with care—Lavender Twists, Cashew Bits, Honey Drops—while the lower ones carried glass jars full of gummy and hard candies in every color possible, adding brightness to the walls. And at the front of the shop was a main counter where customers would pay for their sweets, but it was also lined with a curved glass display decorated with rows of chocolate, brittles, dipped fruit—all glowing like treasure.
Behind the main counter, Bucky saw movement. Through the window of the kitchen where metal tables, copper pans, and unfamiliar machinery lived, he watched the shop owner pick up a black tray with gloved hands.
You stepped through the doorway, your apron dusted with powdered sugar while you hummed. When you glanced up from the tray, you paused when your eyes landed on Bucky. Then you smiled brightly, as if your lips were sunlight on honey.
“Oh, good morning! Or, I guess—” You glanced at that clock, giggling at the sight of the large hand that had just passed twelve. “Good afternoon now. Sorry, I didn’t know you came in!” You set the tray down by the cash register and brushed your hands on your apron before beaming at Bucky again. “Welcome to Sweet Heavens. Let me know if you need any help with anything.”
Bucky didn't flinch, but he definitely was startled by your bubbly energy. The way you carried yourself seemed effortless, as if you lived on an entirely different plane of existence. He nodded politely before turning his attention to the jars and bundles surrounding him, his taste buds already starting to scream for him to buy something. But still, he pretended to study the labels, debating on whether or not he should actually buy anything.
Because after everything he’d done, he wasn’t sure if he deserved sweetness in his life anymore.
Suddenly, Bucky felt your gaze weighing him down. He was about to turn around when you spoke.
“Wait… Are you Bucky Barnes?”
Damn it.
He sighed, rolling his eyes before turning around to face you, his eyes suddenly sharp with practiced disinterest. “Yeah. Why?”
He expected the usual—fumbling awe, lingering suspicion, growing unease…but you? You didn’t bat an eye. Despite doing his best to seem intimidating, you smiled at him and pointed at a tray of samples. “Oh, you actually might be the perfect person to try this, then.”
“What?” He blinked, genuinely caught off guard, before peeking at the tray, examining the small, golden cubes of peanut-covered caramel. Nothing looked particularly crazy; they were very simple in look and design.
Left confused, Bucky turned back to you. “Why me?”
You only continued to smile, gesturing to the tray again rather than using your words. Frowning slightly, Bucky stepped towards the tray, his gaze flickering between you and the samples. You gave him a little nod, encouraging him to pick one up and pop it in his mouth.
Home. It tasted like home.
The moment the sample touched his taste buds, it was as if the shop disappeared, leaving Bucky in a place that felt familiar to him. The texture of the peanut mixed with the buttery taste of the caramel pulled him back into a memory that he was only able to grasp at. He could suddenly hear laughter and feel the smiles of his loved ones resting on his eyes. Without meaning to, Bucky shut his eyes, wanting to stay in this place forever.
Eventually, he opened them, meeting your soft gaze as you patiently waited for him to enjoy the moment. He blinked, clearing his throat to hide his slight embarrassment for getting away in his mind, his eyes immediately looking at anything but you.
You brought your hands together in anticipation. “So…what do you think?”
“I’ve had this before,” he whispered.
You laughed, taking Bucky’s attention away from the floor and back onto your smile. “That was the plan! I was trying to remake some sweets from the early 1900s. This one is similar to PayDay—how it actually tasted when it first came out. Not the overly processed stuff we get now. They taste too artificial to me… Or, I don’t know,” you shrugged as you stepped aside, suddenly feeling self-conscious of your particular ways, “maybe it’s just me overthinking it.”
“No, you’re not,” Bucky said, catching your eyes again. “I had a PayDay a couple of years ago. Tastes like shit now.”
You laughed, a hand over your heart like he’d just given you the kindest compliment. “Right? Thank you! I’ve been saying that for so many years!”
Bucky raised a brow at your dramatic gesture, then your eyes lit up. “So…do I have your approval then?”
Your words threw him off, making him frown. “Why would you need my approval?”
“Well,” you began, matter-of-fact, “considering you’re the only person I know who has actually tried PayDay when it was still good, if you say it’s good, then I did something right. Clearly, I have to impress you.”
And yet, you were already impressive to Bucky.
Your tone was playful, but it still did something strange to his chest, like you were letting him be something other than a weapon or a soldier. Just someone with buried memories worth preserving. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this…good.
Bucky took a beat before giving you a curt nod. “Approved.”
You let out a laugh, clapping briefly. “Yes! Guess I’m adding this to my inventory.”
Bucky didn’t laugh, but his lips couldn’t help but slightly curl at your excitement. His eyes were locked on you as you grabbed your notebook. Unlike Dr. Raynor, he enjoyed watching you scribble away in your notebook, reminding yourself to adjust the layout of your display case to make room for the new treats.
You clicked your pen before looking back at Bucky. “Well, enough about that. I’m sure you came in here for something specific. What are you interested in?”
He didn’t tell you that he didn’t plan on coming here, nor know the shop even existed. Instead, he hummed and glanced around. “Some chocolate would be nice.”
You smiled as you stepped towards your glass display case full of chocolate, Bucky following your movements closely. “Are you looking for something simple or more unique…”
And you kept talking, showing him the different kinds of chocolate you had crafted. Dark chocolate with sea salt, white chocolate with raspberry filling, and milk chocolate with a hint of coffee. Without asking you to, you offered him a piece of every one, letting him savor each tiny explosion of flavor. He took his time with each of them, and you let him take all the time he wanted.
After all, of all people who deserved time to enjoy the moment, it was he.
You continued to let him try whatever caught his eye, even if he didn’t say anything, while you talked about sugar and cocoa powder as if it were the most important thing in the world. And, unlike most customers, Bucky let it be that way.
When Bucky was at the door, you waved at him with a silly wink. “Come back anytime! I’ll save you the best of the batch.”
Bucky grinned, giving you a small wave back before heading back out into the loud, chaotic world, but it didn’t bother him this time. Unlike that morning, when he wandered with a scratch in his heart, Bucky found comfort in the white paper bag he carried, filled with vanilla-cream-filled chocolate and peanut-covered caramel.
He might’ve found his new favorite place in this new world, and it just happened to smell like caramel.
<><><>
“Oh god—” Bucky winced as his eyes shot open, making you laugh as he continued to chew on the gummy candy. “What is this?”
“You’re not a sour candy person, huh?” you said, setting down a cup of water near him.
“No, I do like them. Just…” A shiver passed through his body as he swallowed the candy, making you laugh more. “That was a lot.”
“That was barely anything,” you teased as you wrapped up another order, tying it with a yellow ribbon before writing the name of the customer. “You can try the cherry one. It’s not sour at all.”
“You’re lying.”
You playfully gasped, pretending to be offended. But then you immediately dropped the act. “Yeah, I was.”
Bucky chuckled before taking a sip of water to wash down the sour taste in his mouth. By now, he had stopped by your shop a few times, claiming that he was just passing through, but you knew better. Every visit, he’d lingered a little longer, asking more questions about the sweets you’d made and even learning how to say the names of certain candies. It amused him to see how stunned you were by his flawless accents as he switched languages. After a couple of visits, you stopped pretending he wasn’t your favorite customer, and he stopped hiding himself, hence feeling the freedom to take off his gloves when it was just the two of you.
The sun was getting low, meaning it was almost time for you to close the shop. You were wiping down the countertop, peeking and giggling at Bucky having what looked to be a staring contact with the sour candy—you knew teasing him about his staring problem would not do anything in the end to stop it. Then you heard the door open, and you looked over to see a family of three walk in.
You smiled right away, walking over to them. “Hi! Welcome back!”
The parents gave you a polite smile while their son immediately rushed to the jars of gummy candy. Bucky stepped away to give you space to help them out, and he turned around to quickly slip on his gloves. But when Bucky looked up, however, he froze at the man staring straight at him, hard, as if he saw something vile. The man’s eyes flickered to Bucky’s left hand, making the soldier turn away again. He walked to the chocolate display to act like he was just an ordinary civilian, but cursed to himself when he heard footsteps approaching him.
He looked back to see the man in front of him, his wife in the background, concerned and confused. “You’ve got some nerve, showing your face in public,” he snapped, just quietly enough that everyone else couldn’t hear.
Bucky didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes on the man but also his jaw tight. He learned that silence always worked the best.
You slightly frowned, walking over to both of them with the woman. “Hi, is there a problem—”
“I don’t care what they all say—you’re a monster.”
You froze while Bucky showed no reaction. The woman reached for her husband and tried to pull him back, but he wouldn’t budge. Their son looked mortified by the jars, feeling extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed. But Bucky continued to stand still, simply waiting for the moment to pass like every other time.
Because, in the end, was the man really wrong?
The answer was yes, according to you, as you suddenly stepped in between the two men, shielding Bucky from your customer.
“Don’t be rude,” you firmly said. “You don’t get to speak like that to anyone in my shop.”
The man scoffed. “You know you’re standing in front of a killer, right?”
“I’m standing in front of my friend, actually,” you quickly responded, your voice stern and hard.
Bucky was startled—your usual warmth was gone, replaced by the sharpness of a knife. He’d only ever seen you golden, full of laughter like maple syrup drizzling over a stack of pancakes, offering him and other customers sweets on rainy days that reminded you of sunrises.
And yet, there you were with your shoulders squared and voice solid. You weren’t angry, but you were unshakable like melted sugar cooled back into a hard shell. This strength was always within you—you just never had a reason to let it out.
And Bucky’s chest tightened, realizing that the reason was him.
The man looked at you in disgust. “Friend? He’s killed—”
“—Saved half of the universe,” you quickly cut him off. “He’s the reason why you’re back.”
There was no flame in your voice, but it was boiling with conviction, which somehow was louder than if you had shouted. Bucky continued to stay quiet behind you, but his lips were ajar by your ability to go from bubbly and bright to firm and still.
“You’re welcome to buy candy, but as long as you’re in my shop, you will treat everyone with respect.” You crossed your arms, never once breaking your gaze from the man.
The silence was heavy, as if someone had poured molasses all over the shop. The man looked like he wanted to argue, but instead scoffed. “We’re not coming back.”
“Fine by me,” you replied immediately.
The man snarled before storming out of the shop, his wife and son both flustered. The wife looked back at you and Bucky. “I’m so sorry… Uh…”
Not sure what else to say, the two of them left quickly, leaving just you and Bucky in the shop. You exhaled, dropping your shoulders as you walked over to your door, flipping the sign from “open” to “closed.” You then looked back to see Bucky in the same spot, his eyes now finding the floor interesting.
“Hey,” you walked back to him with concern, “are you okay?”
Bucky didn’t look at you, but muttered, “You didn’t have to do that.”
You frowned, shaking your head. “I wanted to, Bucky. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”
When he didn’t look up again, you softly sighed. You reached for his wrist, finally getting him to lift his head and see your smile, bright as always, but this time flavored with sorrow. “Don’t ever listen to people like him. You’re not what he said.”
“But I—”
“You’re not what he said,” you repeated, your voice stern yet still soft. “You’re not a monster. You’re my friend.”
Bucky looked at you, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “We’re friends?” he asked quietly.
You let out a giggle. “Of course. That is, if you’re fine with us being friends instead of just a candy-maker and their customer.”
At first, he didn’t reply. He only continued to look at you, and you knew he was even considering whether it was allowed for someone like him to have a friend. So you gave him a gentle squeeze on the wrist, and slowly his lips curled into a small, yet very warm, grin.
You tried to offer him another sour gummy just to mess with him, and his grin turned into a laugh.
<><><>
Bucky was already at your shop before he realized where his feet took him. He knew your shop wouldn’t be open until eleven o’clock, yet there he was at your door at six in the morning. His hands were deep in his pockets—he didn’t even think to bring gloves in the middle of his desperation to get out of his apartment. His shoulders were stiff against the cold air, while the sting on the back of his neck wished he had never cut his hair to begin with.
He kept his eyes shut, letting the silence and memories stained with sugar pull him somewhere warmer.
But then, the door opened behind him. “Bucky?”
He flinched before spinning around, locking eyes with your confused ones. You blinked at him—you were both wide awake, but he looked rough compared to you.
You glanced at the sky, which was still dark. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” Bucky’s eyes flickered away, his cheeks warming up from embarrassment. “I couldn’t sleep, so I…I was just walking around.”
You gazed at him, almost trying to look into his mind, which made him curl away further. But then you smiled and opened the door wider. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”
“Oh,” Bucky shook his head, “it’s okay. I didn’t—”
“Come inside, or I will throw a marshmallow at you.”
He blinked.
“I mean it.” Your smile curled into a bigger one. “They’re really sticky. It’d be a shame if one got caught in your hair.”
At that, Bucky let out a huff tinted with amusement and stepped inside to let the warmth and smell of sugar envelope him. But instead of stopping at the counter, you walked towards the kitchen and looked back at him to silently tell him to follow you. He briefly hesitated, but walked into the kitchen with you, taken aback by the liveliness around him—pots were warming up, trays were laid out, and a new batch of white and pink treats sat near him. He had only seen your kitchen through the window, so it felt like you were letting him into your dream world.
Bucky paused at the new treats and raised an eyebrow. There were small, soft white cubes with pink swirls next to a large sheet of it that had yet to be sliced, all of it smothered in powdered sugar. He stared at them while you put a new pot on the stovetop, turning on the heat and pausing to see Bucky’s puzzled expression.
You chuckled, “Never seen fresh marshmallows before?”
He glanced up at you. “You weren’t kidding about throwing marshmallows at me, were you?”
“Maybe.” You winked as you carried milk and heavy cream back to your stove, quickly yet efficiently measuring out the liquids before pouring them into the pot. “I decided to make marshmallows for once.”
“Have you made these before?” he asked, watching how you moved with such comfort in your second home.
“A few times,” you replied before adding vanilla extract, brown sugar, and cocoa powder to the pot—the aroma slowly melting away the ice in Bucky’s chest. “It’s rare, but I had the sudden urge to experiment last night.”
Bucky slightly smiled, crossing his arms. “When are you not experimenting?”
“On Mondays.” You grinned, slowly whisking the mixture. “Those are my day-offs.”
He quietly chuckled before peeking at the marshmallows again. You noticed his eyes and giggled, stepping away from the stove and carefully grabbing a sliced piece. “Here.”
Bucky went to grab it, but you pulled your hand back. His eyebrows furrowed while you chuckled, “Sorry. These haven't been coated yet—you’ll get it all over your fingers.” You showed him how you held the treat only by its powdered sides.
Then you smiled, raising your hand towards his face. “Open wide.”
To say Bucky was overwhelmed was an understatement. His body froze, yet his mouth opened without thinking, and you popped the marshmallow in. You giggled before turning back to the stove, whisking the chocolate concoction while he continued to stand still behind you.
He couldn’t even process the taste of strawberry and vanilla—his mind was working twice as hard to process what you had just done, his hand sweating over just how close your hand was to his lips.
He shifted, clearing his throat before swallowing the treat. “Strawberry and vanilla?”
You hummed while grabbing two mugs. “It sounded good in my head.”
“It is good,” he said, finally realizing you had been making hot chocolate.
You poured the sweet drink into the mugs and dropped two marshmallows in each. With the smile that Bucky had grown to find comfort in, you offered him a cup. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he accepted the drink, smelling the chocolate melt away the vanilla and strawberry.
“It’s like Neapolitan ice cream,” you said before sipping your drink. “At least, I hope it is.”
Bucky took a sip as well, and it was the best hot chocolate he’d ever had. The marshmallow was melting into something smooth, joining the silky liquid to welcome some sweetness back into his system. He sighed into the mug, holding it tight to further warm up his right hand.
He smiled and went to thank you for the drink, but you instead whispered, “Nightmares are rough.”
He immediately stiffened, his eyes widening as he stammered, “I, uh, I didn’t say—”
“You don’t have to lie,” you interrupted gently, swirling your cup a little as you stared into it. “Nightmares are the worst.”
Bucky paused, affected by the sudden change in your demeanor, like you were remembering your own nightmares. Then quickly, you softly smiled at him, not necessarily hiding your own fear, but expressing it clearly to him.
“Hot chocolate helps me. It reminds me that there’s something sweet to look forward to.” You took another sip, letting the silence speak for itself.
Neither of you said anything else—there was no need to. The kitchen filled the silence and comforted the soldier. He didn’t say thank you, but it was because you already knew.
<><><>
You were anxious.
You tried to keep yourself as busy as possible, but no matter how long you’d spent time in your kitchen, interacting with customers, and doom-scrolling on your couch, you continued to stay worried for Bucky.
Bucky came by your shop at least three times a week now, either to satisfy his craving for sweets or exist somewhere he didn’t have to be anything for anyone, where he could just be Bucky, and that would be it. He’d always stick around, chatting with you for however long he wanted because clearly, though he’d never talked about it, he had no one else in his life to casually talk to.
He was able to do so with Steve Rogers, but then he disappeared.
You made a note to yourself to ask Bucky where he went, but also knew that it would’ve been a while before you could. He had mentioned Steve only once when you had asked him about other kinds of candy he ate as a child. He talked about Steve’s favorite—butterscotch hard candy—for only a minute before his words fell apart and silence took over. You never asked him about Steve again, and instead offered him truffles and peppermints to cheer him up.
Whatever happened to Steve had hurt Bucky, so when the news broke out that there would be a brand new Captain America, Bucky himself had disappeared.
Not once did he show up at your shop, and now it had been almost two weeks since you last saw him.
Of course, you tried to text him—you said you hoped he was well and to stop by for new experiments to try if he wanted to. But you didn’t get a reply, and he stopped coming to your shop.
You thought about texting him to hang out, but the timing felt off now. You had only now gotten Bucky’s number as you let him take charge of moving your relationship further—you were always afraid of being too pushy, considering some people had told you that your energy was too much for them to handle. You knew it was silly to be insecure about such things, but every person out there always had something haunting them, didn’t they?
But still, you wanted to text him and see if he was okay. You sighed, telling yourself that you’d contact him after work. Your customers, a loving, elderly couple, approached the counter, and you smiled, ringing up their little bag of hard candy when you heard the door open.
You glanced up, and your breath hitched.
Bucky stood in the doorway, his eyes already locked onto you. You could tell by his eyes alone that he was tired—and maybe a little guilty—but he still smiled at you.
For the first time in two weeks, the glow in your smile returned.
You finished checking out the couple as if everything was fine, though your hands moved a little quicker as you handed back their credit card and waved them goodbye. Bucky gave them a little nod as he walked past them, and the moment the door closed, you marched right toward him.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” you teased.
Bucky raised his hands in surrender with a chuckle. “Sorry. It’s been a minute.”
“A minute?” You crossed your arms with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. I was about to call the police on you.”
“It takes you two whole weeks to do that?”
You both laughed, the shop feeling more cozy than it had ever been since you’d first opened your business. Then your laughter softened as you took in his face, noticing a faint scar on his nose. Your smile remained, but you stepped closer to get a better look, making Bucky’s cheeks slightly red.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
Bucky nodded. “I’m fine. I got busy.”
“Okay, but like…” You stepped back, but continued to stare into his eyes. “Are…are you really okay? After…the news, you know.”
This time, Bucky didn’t respond right away, though you noticed a shift in his stance. He stared back at you for a moment before humming, his lips curling into a soft smile again. “Yeah. Had to take…a minute to figure that all out.”
You nodded, not pushing any further as usual, which Bucky always found charming. “Good. Well, while you were gone, I made something for you.”
Bucky’s smile immediately faded, but he didn’t hesitate to follow you to the jars of candy. “For me?”
“Yeah.” You opened one of the jars and took out a golden, circular hard candy, wrapped in clear plastic, and then held it out for him.
The shade of gold made Bucky freeze in his steps.
It was beautiful. Not shiny in the way actual gold gets in the form of jewelry or bars, nor light like sunlight hitting thin curtains. It was as if amber glowed within the treat, chasing the darkness around them away.
It was a beautiful color, embraced by the hand of the most beautiful person Bucky knew.
You lightly chuckled at Bucky’s awe, “Butterscotch candy. I figured…you know, with the whole new Captain America thing, you could use a little—”
For the first time in a long time, you felt a different kind of warmth. Not the one you felt when you stood near a pot of melted chocolate, or when you poured liquid sugar onto your metal countertop, or when you stepped outside briefly when you opened your shop, letting the sunlight hit your skin.
You blinked, inhaling Bucky’s cologne as he hugged you close. The butterscotch candy nearly slipped from your hand from shock, but you quickly gripped it tighter before gently wrapping your arms around him as well. The warmth you felt was the kind that only appeared when you realized how much someone trusted you.
It felt nice.
Bucky had his eyes closed, holding onto you like you were the only thing left in the world.
The past two weeks had been too much.
Learning that Sam had given up the shield. Meeting John Walker. Fighting the Flag Smashers. Pretending to be the Winter Soldier.
Losing the trust of the Wakandans. Losing his arm. Losing the symbol of the shield to a man who lost a friend and himself due to the serum.
Recapturing Zemo. Apologizing to Sam. Learning to embrace his fears rather than fight them.
So, there he was, welcoming fear as he held you—something he had wanted to do for so long, but was too scared to. But after everything that happened in just two weeks, he found that fear couldn’t stop him from understanding that you were just what he needed.
Something sweet.
“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, and you could hear a slight tremor in his voice.
Hugging him tighter, you smiled into his shoulder and exhaled. “You’re welcome.”
You only let go when Bucky pulled away first, and you both locked eyes once again. You grinned, holding out the piece of candy again, and he took it happily. And when you watched as his shoulders relaxed at the taste of nostalgia, you lit up.
You didn’t realize how seeing him made you feel at ease.
Glancing at the clock, you hummed as you walked to the front door. “Wanna go on a walk?”
Bucky paused, raising an eyebrow at you. “Doesn’t your shop stay open for another hour?”
You flipped your sign over, letting the outside world see that your shop was now closed. With a smirk, you winked at him. “Nope.”
He chuckled, shaking his head while walking towards you. “Sure. A walk sounds nice.”
Neither of you acknowledged aloud that this was the first time you decided to spend time together outside of your shop. You both knew and just let the moment speak for itself. Bucky took a few more pieces of the butterscotch candy before you two stepped out, and you let him talk about his chaotic two weeks.
<><><>
The lights in the front of the shop were dim, toning down the bright colors of the candy jars and signifying that the shop was closed. Only the kitchen was bright, as you decided to spend another night messing around with some leftover chocolate.
You sprinkled sea salt on your dark chocolate caramel swirls. It wasn’t necessarily a brand-new recipe, but it was a good one. Picking one up, you went to try it, but instead jumped from a loud knock on the front door. You blinked, feeling a bit nervous because who would knock on your door at this hour? For a moment, you wondered if you should even open the door, but knowing that your kitchen light was visible to the outside, you couldn’t pretend no one was there.
Maybe it was ridiculous for you to check the door—what if there was just bad news waiting for you? But when you stuck your head out of the entrance of your kitchen, you saw a familiar silhouette standing at the front door. Even the window’s glare couldn’t stop you from recognizing the figure outside.
“Bucky?” You smiled, jogging to the door and unlocking it quickly. “Hey! What are you…”
You stilled when you saw a smear of red on the left side of his face.
“Oh my god—” You immediately grabbed his upper arms, standing straighter to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched the way you looked, so concerned for someone like him. Soon, he smiled. “I was in a little fight.”
“A little?” You shook your head, gently pulling him into your shop by his metal wrist. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
Bucky blinked. “Oh, I didn’t come here to—”
“Nope!” You huffed, not exactly angry but definitely not happy. “C’mon.”
You led him to the back room where you kept your first aid. He sat down on a stool while you rummaged through the kit, pulling out ointments and gauze that you only ever used whenever sugar hurt you. None of what you held was meant for battle wounds, but they would have to do.
“Who exactly were you fighting?” you asked, grabbing a clean cloth and wetting it.
Bucky couldn’t help but huff out a grin. “You didn’t hear about the Flag Smashers at the GRC voting?”
“What?” You shook your head as you sat down in front of him, pressing the cloth to his head. “You know I don’t go on my phone when I’m in the kitchen.”
He nodded, his face slowly turning red as you cupped one cheek with your hand while the other wiped the blood off his face. For someone who worked with boiling sugar and metal tools, your hands were incredibly soft, gentle, and steady, just like you.
“So…they finally showed up, huh?” you said, setting the cloth aside and grabbing the ointment.
“Yeah. Sam gave me the heads-up, and next thing I knew, I was already in a fight with them.”
“Hm.” You paused, eyeing him down before smirking. “Did you win?”
Bucky chortled. “Of course we did.”
“I don’t know. This wound says otherwise.”
“It’s the most minor wound I could’ve gotten.” Bucky then grinned, almost proudly. “But hey, it was worth it… We got the Captain America we deserve to have, now.”
You widened your eyes with a wide smile. “Really? Sam did it?”
Bucky nodded, closing his eyes while you pressed a bandage gently against his temple. You dropped your hands, briefly admiring your little handiwork before taking in Bucky’s face. There was exhaustion under his eyes again, the kind you saw frequently, but you had since come up with a solution for it.
“One second,” you said while squeezing his shoulder, quickly walking to your kitchen.
Bucky watched you leave and exhaled, bringing his hand to the bandage. His heart raced and fingers slightly trembled, but not due to the fight he had just returned from. He inhaled deeply, letting out the strained breath as you returned.
You sat down again and held out a piece of chocolate. “Dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt. Sugar is the best medicine.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, though his smile was still present as he took it from you. “No doctor would ever say that.”
“That’s why I'm not a doctor.”
He gently laughed as he examined the chocolate. “Experimenting again?”
“Not this time. I was just messing around with leftovers.”
Bucky tossed the chocolate into his mouth, immediately humming in glee. “And it still tastes great.”
You softly laughed, your cheeks getting redder. “Thanks.”
Then you both went quiet and stared at each other.
Because it seemed like the only place they could go now was into each other's eyes.
There were no words Bucky could’ve used to describe the color of your eyes—the shade was of pure beauty, just like you. Despite already being alive for over a hundred years, he could get lost in your eyes—your warmth—for a hundred more.
And the way you looked back at him made something in his chest bubble.
So, casually, Bucky broke the silence. “You know, there’s this new Thai restaurant that opened near my apartment. I never had Thai food before…so I was thinking about trying it.”
You tilted your head, your voice now gentle and full of care. “Yeah?”
He nodded, his smile getting a bit wider. “Yeah. And…I thought it might be nice if…you know…if someone came with me.”
You blinked, then quickly leaned forward. “James Bucky Barnes… Are you…” you grinned with a hint of amusement and mischief, “asking me out on a date?”
He smiled back just as wide. “It can be, if you want.”
You giggled before continuing to tease him, “Depends… What’s with the timing? Why now?”
He gave a half-laugh. “Figured if I’m brave enough to go fight an entire group of super-soldiers…then maybe I should be brave enough to ask you out for dinner.
Your eyes stayed on him, filled with something tender, something amazed. Then you hummed, leaning back with admiration in your eyes. “Well…I’m glad you’re brave enough for both of us.”
Immediately, Bucky lit up, his smile wide as he went a little breathless, almost relieved that he had been right in feeling your warmth for him.
“But,” you added as you tapped his knee, “we’re only going when you’re all healed up. No earlier than that.”
He lightly shook his head. “I’m really fine—”
“No earlier than that!” You pointed at him with a grin, pretending to scold him. “If you try to pick me up before that wound is gone, I won’t have it!”
He chuckled, raising his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine.”
But his eyes stayed on you, full of something deep and steady—something that made the ache in his temple fade just a little. And he thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the safest he’d ever felt.
<><><>
Your laughter carried Bucky’s heart.
The sun was dipping low as you shared stories about humorous interactions you’d had with customers. The golden hues radiated off the water and your skin, making you glow even more than Bucky thought was possible. He watched you wave your hands around, making everyone around you laugh, their shoulders sagging out of relaxation and peace.
Peace. It was so peaceful.
Bucky smiled softly, then turned to his side when he felt someone hit his shoulder.
“Careful, man,” Sam smirked, “you might fall over there.”
“Shut up,” he chuckled, standing up straight while putting down his empty bottle.
“Is her laugh making you weak in the knees?”
“I wasn’t gonna fall, Sam.”
“Sure.” Sam began to laugh. “Seriously, though, she’s the sweetest person I have ever met. Literally.” His smile grew larger. “How the hell did you wrangle her?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, though his smile still lingered. “She wrangled me.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, amused by his friend’s answer. Then Bucky grabbed his bottle and gave him a little nod before walking towards you. Tossing the bottle in a bin, he made his way to you. When you saw him approaching, you smiled brighter than the golden sun itself.
“Hey,” Bucky grinned, “walk with me?”
You blinked before giggling. “Sure thing.”
You both waved at the others before stepping away, your arms brushing as Bucky led you down the dock. Then, when you two reached Sam’s boat, you smiled once again. It was a peaceful spot, not entirely quiet as the cookout was still bursting with energy, but still calming. Bucky climbed aboard first before offering you his hand, and you took it while appreciating the coolness of the metal. The boat gently rocked as you walked to the other side, leaning over the edge to laze in the sunset. Bucky followed your lead, deeply exhaling at the smell of the water that radiated the sunlight.
“I have to say,” you started with a smile, “you can’t get a view like this in Brooklyn.”
Bucky hummed in agreement and moved closer to you. Even though it wasn’t the first time he’d done so, you couldn’t help but blush. You looked at him and smiled while rummaging through your pocket.
When you pulled your hand back out, he laughed. “Really?”
“What?” You giggled as you handed him a piece of caramel. “You should’ve expected this.”
He lightly shook his head while his smile widened. “I guess I should’ve.”
As you slowly peeled away the wrapper, you watched the sunset and softly grinned. “Everyone always needs something sweet in their lives, you know? Caramel’s a good choice for that.”
For a moment, Bucky didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at his caramel, and then back at you. And without realizing, he was already speaking before his body could stop it. “Maybe caramel isn’t the only choice,” he said quietly, almost like a confession.
His cheeks immediately flushed as you froze before slowly turning your head, meeting his widened eyes with your own. Then, slowly, an amused grin began to appear on your face. “What are you implying, Bucky?”
“I— Uh—” He cleared his throat as he looked back at the water, unable to meet your playful expression. “I mean, I—I didn’t mean it like— You know, you— Uh—”
His words melted against your lips.
Was he surprised that you tasted like caramel? No, not at all. It was a given that you’d be sneaking in some sweets between conversations and meals whenever you could.
But he was surprised that the caramel on your lips grounded him. That, while his words disappeared, his heart still hummed against your hands on his chest. That you allowed yourself to drop the caramel—a piece of your creation—onto the floor to rest your hands on his chest to begin with.
That you touched him as if his heart belonged to something you’d made, but always wanted for yourself.
Something sweet.
All Bucky needed in life was something sweet, but like as you said, everyone needed it.
And you needed him the most.
His hands that hovered around your body finally found their way to your face, securing you to him as if you already hadn’t linked his heart to yours months ago. The kiss was not hurried, but rather slow like tempering chocolate—delicate and balanced. It was as if you were each following the other’s recipe with care, only to try to let your bodies memorize every detail of it.
When you both pulled away, eyes still closed, the silence between you two carried the weight of your feelings for one another. Finally, you looked at him and met his blue eyes, and you gave him a teasing smile.
“Well,” you tilted your head, “I’m assuming I’m one of the other choices.”
At that, Bucky softly laughed as he adjusted his hold on your face, his thumb tracing the edge of your lips. “You,” he quietly began with a smile so gentle that it felt the world around you was smaller, “are my first and only choice.”
It was a simple phrase, but the depth of the emotions behind each word made you speechless. You felt warm, but it wasn’t just the sunset that showered you with light and comfort.
Your face softened, shocked by what he said, while your smile grew. “Bucky… Do you mean that?”
“Every bit of it.”
The boat rocked slightly underneath you both while you looked at him. You stared at the man who stumbled into your shop and stuck by your side like sea-salted taffy that’s been slightly melted—the man who took your kitchen tools and carved into the empty spot in your life, and you realized that it fit him perfectly.
“I love you,” you quietly said, almost carefully as if you didn’t know what he would say back. “I’ve loved you for a while.”
His heart swelled as he leaned in closer, trying to look at you closer than before. His eyes were wide at your confession, and you could feel—hear—his heart pounding at a fast pace.
And then, softly and gratefully, as if he still believed he wasn’t allowed to have something as wonderful as you, he whispered, “I love you too.”
Then he pulled you into another kiss, and you two lingered in each other’s presence for the rest of the evening.
Bucky had a sweet tooth. That, he knew of. It took a while for him to accept how much he loved sweets—how much he needed them to feel human. He loved all kinds of sweets.
Out of all of them, candy always made him feel better.
But you? You made him feel the best.
—<><>—<><>—<><>—
Thanks for reading :)
his girls [one-shot]
marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
![His Girls [one-shot]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a3d02af7c2953cd26e091058f77a6876/3f86ebb46d890ecb-a0/s500x750/a1f455f210f058bb107b245c533a12c6207da852.gif)
You were careful.
Or at least, you thought you were careful.
For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.
You figured no one had noticed.
Until today.
It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.
Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.
“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.
“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement.
“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.
“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.
“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”
“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”
You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut.
“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”
“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”
You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”
Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.
“Machine giving you trouble again?”
Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.
“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.
“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.
“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”
Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.
“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.
Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”
The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.
“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.
“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—
Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?”
“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.
Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”
You made a face at her. “What are you on about?”
Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.
For now.
As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.
Right. Focus.
“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”
Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.
“I like the way you think.”
—
You knew Alpine would be your downfall.
The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.
So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to.
You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.
Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.
The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.
“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.
You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?”
You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.
“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”
“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.
“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”
Natasha snorted into her drink.
Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder. “This is bullshit, and you know it—”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”
“That is not true!”
“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.
“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.
Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.
“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.
The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.
“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both.
“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.
Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”
“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”
As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.
“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew.
Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.
“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.
“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.
Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.
“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”
“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.
“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”
Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. “You what?”
“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”
Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.
It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.
You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”
Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.
Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”
And, truthfully, neither were you.
-
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r, 25, a collection of fics I enjoyed - 18+ I follow from @spookysaturn
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