knowledgeableknitter

[knowledgeableknitter]

Thanks! I’m so glad you liked it! Bucky needed to be taken down a peg or two - reader just got there first! 😉

Aftercare Challenge

A slightly spicy Part 2. Cause I could.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn, I think?)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: Bucky wants you to need aftercare. He thinks he's up to the challenge of your libido. He's not.

Trigger Warnings: Sex (p in v); Save a horse, ride a supersoldier; bucky needs a bit of aftercare.

Author’s Note: I still don't really get aftercare. Maybe cause my world's never been rocked enough, idk. Enjoy.

Masterlist

Part 1: Aftercare

It started with a kiss.

Then another.

And then a promise, murmured against your lips with a mix of hunger and competitive pride.

“You don’t need aftercare? Let’s see how you feel when I’m done with you.”

You only smirked, tugging him closer by the waistband of his sweats. “Careful, Barnes. You sound like a man trying to prove something.”

He had been.

And for a while? He was winning. You lost track of how many times he made you come. Three? Four? Maybe five. At some point, counting stopped mattering.

It blurred into a long, drawn-out session of heat and sweat and friction. His hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing endless praises and filth down your skin, his voice wrecked from groaning your name like a warning and a prayer all at once.

He flipped you onto your stomach and took you from behind, slow and punishing, groaning into your shoulder as you shattered again.

But you never broke.

You whimpered. Moaned. Cried out. Came.

But you didn’t crumble.

Even after the fourth orgasm left your thighs shaking, you rolled him onto his back, straddled him, and smirked.

“Still going?”

“Supersoldier, remember?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, sinking down onto him again, “I plan to take full advantage of that.”

That was his mistake.

Because riding him was your favorite game.

You found a slow, rolling, perfect rhythm, and watched him start to unravel beneath you.

His head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving. He was trying to hold on. He was trying to stay in control. But his thighs were twitching, his hands were fisting the sheets, he was already in too deep, both inside you and in this challenge that he clearly underestimated.

Your hips rocked down in long, grinding motions, dragging moans out of him he couldn't bite back.

“You okay down there?” you teased, breathless but smiling.

He choked on a laugh and tried to thrust up into you, but you pushed his chest back down. “Nuh-uh,” you whispered. “I’m driving.”

He nodded, barely, eyes fluttering shut as his hands found your waist again. But it was shaky now. Desperate.

“You’re trying to ruin me,” he panted.

“Obviously.” You leaned forward, lips brushing his jaw. “Is it working?”

His answer was more of a gasp.

When he came, it was with a strangled moan, thighs flexing, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline as he spilled into you, completely gone, body trembling under yours.

You slowed, then stopped, letting your hands slide up his chest as he went limp beneath you, blinking up at the ceiling like he wasn’t quite sure where he was anymore.

You rocked once, just to be petty.

He whimpered.

You grinned.

Then carefully, you climbed off him and stood up, legs a little wobbly from the marathon ride, but only for a second.

He watched you stagger and lifted a weak hand. “Ha. Got you.”

You reached for his discarded T-shirt and tugged it on with practiced ease. “You got me for a second. You can’t claim victory when I’m the one walking.”

“I’m breathing through my eyeballs.”

You walked into the bathroom. “That sounds like a you problem.”

You came back two minutes later with a damp washcloth and handed him his water bottle.

He blinked up at you from the bed, still flat on his back, one arm draped over his eyes.

“I think I’m broken,” he mumbled.

You crawled back into bed, sitting beside him cross-legged. “That’s what happens when you challenge someone with core strength and motivation.”

“You don’t need aftercare,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I need aftercare.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You did great.”

His eyes opened, glassy and overwhelmed, but still full of heat.

“You’re not human.”

“Sure I am. I just have a high libido.”

He groaned and grabbed your wrist, pulling you down so you were sprawled over his chest. You let him.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “I’m too tired to chase you.”

“You were never gonna win that game, Buck.”

“I’m never letting you ride me like that again.”

You lifted your head. “Liar.”

He cracked a smile. “You’re right. But I’ll complain next time.”

You kissed him, lazy and slow. “Next time, I’ll ride you until you ASK for aftercare.”

He whimpered again. “Please stop talking.”

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd  @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @justalittle47 @cyacola  

[knowledgeableknitter]

Aftercare Challenge

A slightly spicy Part 2. Cause I could.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn, I think?)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: Bucky wants you to need aftercare. He thinks he's up to the challenge of your libido. He's not.

Trigger Warnings: Sex (p in v); Save a horse, ride a supersoldier; bucky needs a bit of aftercare.

Author’s Note: I still don't really get aftercare. Maybe cause my world's never been rocked enough, idk. Enjoy.

Masterlist

Part 1: Aftercare

It started with a kiss.

Then another.

And then a promise, murmured against your lips with a mix of hunger and competitive pride.

“You don’t need aftercare? Let’s see how you feel when I’m done with you.”

You only smirked, tugging him closer by the waistband of his sweats. “Careful, Barnes. You sound like a man trying to prove something.”

He had been.

And for a while? He was winning. You lost track of how many times he made you come. Three? Four? Maybe five. At some point, counting stopped mattering.

It blurred into a long, drawn-out session of heat and sweat and friction. His hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing endless praises and filth down your skin, his voice wrecked from groaning your name like a warning and a prayer all at once.

He flipped you onto your stomach and took you from behind, slow and punishing, groaning into your shoulder as you shattered again.

But you never broke.

You whimpered. Moaned. Cried out. Came.

But you didn’t crumble.

Even after the fourth orgasm left your thighs shaking, you rolled him onto his back, straddled him, and smirked.

“Still going?”

“Supersoldier, remember?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, sinking down onto him again, “I plan to take full advantage of that.”

That was his mistake.

Because riding him was your favorite game.

You found a slow, rolling, perfect rhythm, and watched him start to unravel beneath you.

His head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving. He was trying to hold on. He was trying to stay in control. But his thighs were twitching, his hands were fisting the sheets, he was already in too deep, both inside you and in this challenge that he clearly underestimated.

Your hips rocked down in long, grinding motions, dragging moans out of him he couldn't bite back.

“You okay down there?” you teased, breathless but smiling.

He choked on a laugh and tried to thrust up into you, but you pushed his chest back down. “Nuh-uh,” you whispered. “I’m driving.”

He nodded, barely, eyes fluttering shut as his hands found your waist again. But it was shaky now. Desperate.

“You’re trying to ruin me,” he panted.

“Obviously.” You leaned forward, lips brushing his jaw. “Is it working?”

His answer was more of a gasp.

When he came, it was with a strangled moan, thighs flexing, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline as he spilled into you, completely gone, body trembling under yours.

You slowed, then stopped, letting your hands slide up his chest as he went limp beneath you, blinking up at the ceiling like he wasn’t quite sure where he was anymore.

You rocked once, just to be petty.

He whimpered.

You grinned.

Then carefully, you climbed off him and stood up, legs a little wobbly from the marathon ride, but only for a second.

He watched you stagger and lifted a weak hand. “Ha. Got you.”

You reached for his discarded T-shirt and tugged it on with practiced ease. “You got me for a second. You can’t claim victory when I’m the one walking.”

“I’m breathing through my eyeballs.”

You walked into the bathroom. “That sounds like a you problem.”

You came back two minutes later with a damp washcloth and handed him his water bottle.

He blinked up at you from the bed, still flat on his back, one arm draped over his eyes.

“I think I’m broken,” he mumbled.

You crawled back into bed, sitting beside him cross-legged. “That’s what happens when you challenge someone with core strength and motivation.”

“You don’t need aftercare,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I need aftercare.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You did great.”

His eyes opened, glassy and overwhelmed, but still full of heat.

“You’re not human.”

“Sure I am. I just have a high libido.”

He groaned and grabbed your wrist, pulling you down so you were sprawled over his chest. You let him.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “I’m too tired to chase you.”

“You were never gonna win that game, Buck.”

“I’m never letting you ride me like that again.”

You lifted your head. “Liar.”

He cracked a smile. “You’re right. But I’ll complain next time.”

You kissed him, lazy and slow. “Next time, I’ll ride you until you ASK for aftercare.”

He whimpered again. “Please stop talking.”

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd  @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @justalittle47 @cyacola  

[knowledgeableknitter]

Ahh! Thank you so much! He's such a complex character, I love finding different ways to write him!

Aftercare

Just a quick ficlet. Slightly spicy Part 2 later today. Cause why not.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn, I think?)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: You don't need aftercare. Bucky is... surprised. And maybe a little let down.

Trigger Warnings: idk, implied sex?

Author’s Note: I never really got the whole aftercare thing. This is for anybody who also doesn't quite understand it all, but also doesn't mind a good cuddle afterwards.

Masterlist

The air in Bucky’s bedroom was thick with heat and breath and sweat. Soft light from a single bedside lamp painted your bare skin gold. The sheets were tangled somewhere around your legs, his chest rising and falling beneath your palm.

You kissed him once, slow and soft, a little smile against his lips, and then pressed your hand to his chest and gently pushed yourself up.

“Be right back,” you whispered, already slipping off the bed.

“Wait—” His voice cracked with surprise. “Where are you going?”

You paused, already halfway across the room, naked and unbothered. “To the bathroom. To pee. Because I’m a grown woman who takes care of her pH.”

He blinked, eyes trailing your retreating figure. The door clicked shut behind you and he stared at it.

"...That’s it?”

You came back a couple minutes later, still naked but clearly refreshed, holding two bottles of water, one for you, one for him.

You handed his over wordlessly, then climbed back into bed, cracking the cap off your own. “You okay?”

He blinked again. “I mean… yeah. Yeah, I’m great. I just—”

You raised a brow and took a sip. “You thought I was gonna cry or something?”

“No!” He sat up slightly, bottle cradled in both hands. “Not cry. Just… I don’t know. Maybe cuddle? Stay in bed a minute? Look at me like I hung the moon?”

You gave him a sideways glance. “That was sex, Bucky Baby. Not an exorcism.”

“Yeah, but it was good sex.”

“It was great sex,” you corrected, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “And I’m solid. I’m relaxed. I feel incredible.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was still looking at you like he couldn’t quite process what was happening.

You tilted your head. “Are you okay? You’re acting like I got up and started doing taxes.”

“I just…” He rubbed a hand through his hair, still dazed. “I’ve never had a first time end like that.”

“Like what?”

“You kissed me, got up, peed, hydrated, came back like you just woke up from a power nap.”

You smiled. “Because I’m good.”

“No nap? No... trembling lip? No whispered ‘Thank you for seeing me’?” He put on a mock-dramatic voice.

You giggled and handed him his water. “You did see me. All of me. Multiple angles.”

His face flushed, and he coughed a little, trying to drink to hide the grin pulling at his lips.

You looked at him again, really looked this time, and saw a hint of lingering tension behind the amusement. There was concern under the charm.

Your expression softened.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need aftercare.” You leaned in a little. “But... I’m not trying to blow you off, either. I liked that. A lot. I just don’t need to process it.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at the bottle in his hands. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“But,” you added, reaching out to touch his knee, “if you need a little post-game reassurance? We can do that.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

You smiled, warm and real. “You were amazing. That was hot. I felt safe. I felt wanted. You rocked my whole world. You’re not just good, you’re positively dangerous.”

He stared at you for a beat, then whispered, “...Holy shit.”

“What?”

“You just gave me better aftercare than I’ve ever given anyone.”

You laughed and leaned back against the pillows, finally letting your body relax.

He watched you for a second, then leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“I’m still holding you before we sleep,” he said against your skin. “I don’t care how chill you are.”

You sighed dramatically, but smiled, secure in the knowledge that that was your plan all along. “Fine. But you better be warm.”

“Oh, I’m warm,” he murmured. “I’m practically melting.”

He tugged the covers over both of you and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest with ease.

You rested your head on his shoulder, one leg draped over his.

“Still want me to look at you like you hung the moon?” you asked, eyes closed.

He grinned. “Yeah.”

So you opened your eyes, met his, and said, very softly, “You did.”

He groaned, tucked his face into your neck, and muttered, “Okay, now I really do need to cuddle.”

You snorted. “Told you.”

Part 2

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd  @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus 

[knowledgeableknitter]

Aftercare

Just a quick ficlet. Slightly spicy Part 2 linked at the bottom. Cause why not.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn, I think?)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: You don't need aftercare. Bucky is... surprised. And maybe a little let down.

Trigger Warnings: idk, implied sex?

Author’s Note: I never really got the whole aftercare thing. This is for anybody who also doesn't quite understand it all, but also doesn't mind a good cuddle afterwards.

Masterlist

The air in Bucky’s bedroom was thick with heat and breath and sweat. Soft light from a single bedside lamp painted your bare skin gold. The sheets were tangled somewhere around your legs, his chest rising and falling beneath your palm.

You kissed him once, slow and soft, a little smile against his lips, and then pressed your hand to his chest and gently pushed yourself up.

“Be right back,” you whispered, already slipping off the bed.

“Wait—” His voice cracked with surprise. “Where are you going?”

You paused, already halfway across the room, naked and unbothered. “To the bathroom. To pee. Because I’m a grown woman who takes care of her pH.”

He blinked, eyes trailing your retreating figure. The door clicked shut behind you and he stared at it.

"...That’s it?”

You came back a couple minutes later, still naked but clearly refreshed, holding two bottles of water, one for you, one for him.

You handed his over wordlessly, then climbed back into bed, cracking the cap off your own. “You okay?”

He blinked again. “I mean… yeah. Yeah, I’m great. I just—”

You raised a brow and took a sip. “You thought I was gonna cry or something?”

“No!” He sat up slightly, bottle cradled in both hands. “Not cry. Just… I don’t know. Maybe cuddle? Stay in bed a minute? Look at me like I hung the moon?”

You gave him a sideways glance. “That was sex, Bucky Baby. Not an exorcism.”

“Yeah, but it was good sex.”

“It was great sex,” you corrected, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “And I’m solid. I’m relaxed. I feel incredible.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was still looking at you like he couldn’t quite process what was happening.

You tilted your head. “Are you okay? You’re acting like I got up and started doing taxes.”

“I just…” He rubbed a hand through his hair, still dazed. “I’ve never had a first time end like that.”

“Like what?”

“You kissed me, got up, peed, hydrated, came back like you just woke up from a power nap.”

You smiled. “Because I’m good.”

“No nap? No... trembling lip? No whispered ‘Thank you for seeing me’?” He put on a mock-dramatic voice.

You giggled and handed him his water. “You did see me. All of me. Multiple angles.”

His face flushed, and he coughed a little, trying to drink to hide the grin pulling at his lips.

You looked at him again, really looked this time, and saw a hint of lingering tension behind the amusement. There was concern under the charm.

Your expression softened.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need aftercare.” You leaned in a little. “But... I’m not trying to blow you off, either. I liked that. A lot. I just don’t need to process it.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at the bottle in his hands. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“But,” you added, reaching out to touch his knee, “if you need a little post-game reassurance? We can do that.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

You smiled, warm and real. “You were amazing. That was hot. I felt safe. I felt wanted. You rocked my whole world. You’re not just good, you’re positively dangerous.”

He stared at you for a beat, then whispered, “...Holy shit.”

“What?”

“You just gave me better aftercare than I’ve ever given anyone.”

You laughed and leaned back against the pillows, finally letting your body relax.

He watched you for a second, then leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“I’m still holding you before we sleep,” he said against your skin. “I don’t care how chill you are.”

You sighed dramatically, but smiled, secure in the knowledge that that was your plan all along. “Fine. But you better be warm.”

“Oh, I’m warm,” he murmured. “I’m practically melting.”

He tugged the covers over both of you and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest with ease.

You rested your head on his shoulder, one leg draped over his.

“Still want me to look at you like you hung the moon?” you asked, eyes closed.

He grinned. “Yeah.”

So you opened your eyes, met his, and said, very softly, “You did.”

He groaned, tucked his face into your neck, and muttered, “Okay, now I really do need to cuddle.”

You snorted. “Told you.”

Part 2 (18+, MDNI)

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd  @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus 

[knowledgeableknitter]

Ten Minutes is too Damn Long

A new fic-let

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (I wrote this with curvy/plus sized reader in mind, and the first part clearly is, but this part is less obvious)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: Your Congressman husband just defended your honor at a gala. Now you show your appreciation in the limo on the ride home.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ MDNI. It's smut. In the back of a limo. Riding Bucky. Slight obsession vibes, from both of you. Him threatening violence gets you off.

Author’s Note: This is Part 2 to "Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.", but each can be read as stand alone.

Masterlist

His breath caught. Then he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“You are the dessert.”

You were still smirking when his fingers curled around your wrist, pulling you just slightly off balance, not roughly, but with purpose. His eyes burned hotter than the city lights behind him.

“Ten minutes is too damn long, sweetheart.”

“Bucky—”

But he was already walking, already leading you through a narrow side hall, past guests sipping champagne and pretending not to notice how tightly his hand held yours. Every step matched his tension. He was silent as he marched on, his jaw locked as though restraint was costing him more than he could afford.

He found a door marked ‘Private’, a single-occupant restroom, all marble and gold fixtures, and tugged you inside before anyone could look twice.

The lock clicked.

You turned toward him, lips parted, ready to tease, but he was already on his knees.

Just like that, no words, no hesitation.

Just Bucky Barnes, the man half the room wanted and the other half feared, sinking to the floor in front of you in his tailored suit, like you were something to worship.

His hands came up slow, sliding over your calves, then the backs of your thighs, coaxing your legs apart with nothing but reverence. He looked up at you, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

“I need to taste you. Now.”

You opened your mouth to say something, some kind of protest, maybe just a curse, but he was already lifting the hem of your cocktail dress.

“Bucky, we’re—”

“—In public?” His voice was low, gravel and smoke. “No one’s gonna hear you. And if they do?” He kissed the inside of your thigh, hot and slow. “Good.”

You pressed your hand to the marble counter behind you, balance faltering as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and eased them down your legs.

He tucked them into his jacket pocket like a trophy.

“You have no idea what you did to me tonight,” he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, dragging his mouth along your skin like it might burn him. “Standing there like you own the world… then reminding everyone you own me, too.”

You barely managed to keep standing when his mouth finally found you.

His tongue swept through your folds, slow at first, then insistent, groaning as he tasted you.

Your knees buckled slightly, and his hands shot up, palms splayed across your thighs to hold you steady.

You whimpered, trying not to let your head hit the mirror behind you. “Fuck, Bucky—”

He growled against you. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours. All yours.”

He latched onto your clit like he was starved, sucking with the kind of focus only a man on his knees and in love could give.

You gripped his hair, one hand planted against the sink for balance. Every swipe of his tongue was a worship, every moan of his name a litany. The sounds were filthy in the silence, wet, hungry, and frantic.

He pulled back just enough to rasp: “Don’t hold back. I want them to hear how good I make you feel.”

You gasped his name again, thighs shaking.

You came hard, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashed through you. Your body trembled, and Bucky held you still, tongue never stopping until you begged.

Your back hit the mirror. Your hand fumbled for the edge of the counter as your vision blurred.

Bucky stood slowly, mouth slick, pupils blown wide. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath his wrinkled dress shirt. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

“I should let you make that speech more often,” he said, voice wrecked and reverent.

You let out a breathless laugh, still catching yourself. “I just might if this is the result. That was not subtle.”

“Neither was the way you claimed me.” His hands smoothed over your waist, then down your back, possessive and grounding. “Fair’s fair.”

You looked down at yourself, dress hiked up, lipstick slightly smudged, thighs trembling.

He reached out and tucked a curl behind your ear. Kissed your temple.

“You taste like mine,” he whispered. “And I want you to remember it for the rest of the night.”

You blinked up at him. “We’re skipping dessert.”

He grinned, slow and wrecked. “I already had dessert.”

You tugged your dress back down, still trembling slightly as he adjusted your posture for you with quiet care, straightening your straps, and fixing your necklace, like nothing about you could ever be out of place.

He turned you toward the mirror, hands on your waist.

“Your lipstick is still smudged,” he murmured behind you.

“So fix it.”

You expected him to ask for your lipstick or something, but he didn’t.

Instead, he swiped his thumb across your lower lip, then ran it over the corner of your mouth in one clean motion.

He didn’t ask you to check it.

Just whispered, “Perfect.”

You turned to leave, but he grabbed your hand, gentle, but firm, and kissed the back of it like he was still on his knees.

“Let’s go home.”

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld

[knowledgeableknitter]

Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.

A new fic-let. Last weekend, we saw Bucky shut down a man who was after you. Now it's your turn to shut down a woman after your husband.

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (plus sized/curvy wife! reader)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: You defend your place next to your husband while at a rooftop event. Congressman Barnes likes it.

Trigger Warnings: You shutting down an impudent strumpet.

Author’s Note: This is Part 1. Part 2 is 18+, MDNI, but both can be read as stand alone.

Masterlist

The rooftop terrace glittered beneath soft string lights strung between marble columns, D.C.’s skyline glowing in the distance. Laughter floated through the air like perfume, blending with the clinking of glasses and the muted strains of a string quartet playing something elegant, forgettable.

You didn’t care about any of it.

Your husband stood in front of you, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting on your hip, its natural place. His navy suit was custom-fit, tie loosened just slightly, hair pushed back with just enough intentional mess to drive you wild. His focus hadn’t drifted from you all evening.

You were laughing at something he’d murmured under his breath, brushing your fingers against his lapel, your cocktail dress hugging you in all the ways it was designed to.

You had Bucky Barnes’s full attention. That meant everything else faded into the background.

Until she appeared.

Sleek, blonde, and professionally charming, she was one of those “strategic networkers” who made a career of being seen with powerful men and acting like the women next to them didn’t exist. She swept toward Bucky like she had every right, her voice lilting and just a little too loud.

“Oh, Congressman Barnes,” she purred, her hand lightly touching his forearm. “I’ve been dying to catch you tonight.”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, bored, and took another sip of your drink.

Bucky didn’t turn toward her. Didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed locked on you.

That only seemed to embolden her.

She laughed softly. “And here I thought you’d be surrounded. I should’ve gotten to you earlier.”

Still, he said nothing. And still, his gaze stayed on you, jaw tight, lips pressed into the ghost of a smile.

“I imagine it must be hard,” she said, glancing between you with all the subtlety of a blunt knife. “Keeping his attention, I mean. A man like him…” She let the words trail off, suggestive and dripping.

You let the silence hang for just a moment longer, long enough to give her the rope.

Then you stepped forward, slow and easy, slipping your hand over Bucky’s chest as you turned fully toward her. His hand dropped from his pocket to rest gently against the curve of your hip, fingers flexing once, like he was grounding himself.

You smiled, and not warmly.

“He’s taken,” you said softly. “Fully. Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.”

Her lips parted, just slightly.

You didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“You must be used to men who forget what they have. Can’t relate.”

She froze, blinking twice before recovering with a weak laugh. “I didn’t mean—of course, I didn’t mean—”

You tilted your head, still smiling. “Didn’t you?”

Bucky’s fingers slid just slightly along the fabric of your dress, both possessive and devoted. His jaw was tight now with restraint. He still hadn’t looked at her even once. His entire world was wrapped around the sound of your voice and the shape of your silhouette beside him.

The woman excused herself a moment later, muttering something that could’ve been an apology, or just the word “sorry” stuffed into a shoe and dragged out of her mouth like it hurt.

She walked away fast.

You didn’t look after her. You turned back to Bucky and raised your glass, brushing your lips over the rim like nothing had happened.

His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and a little stunned. The man was entirely yours.

“You say things like that,” he murmured, voice low and raw, “and expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

You shrugged one shoulder, pretending to sip. “That was me being tactful.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your jaw without touching your skin. “My beautiful menace,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You love it.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist, then settled again, a deep, slow breath pushing through his chest.

“How many more do you think I’ll have to fend off tonight?” you murmured.

He chuckled, low and soft. “Hard to say. You’d think they’d learn.”

You took another sip and tilted your head toward him. “Some people never do.”

“They will eventually,” he said. “Probably once your reputation rivals mine.” 

That earned a real laugh out of you. 

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear. “I like this side of you.”

You arched a brow. “Which one?”

“The one that shuts it all down with one sentence. And then walks away like she didn’t just ruin a woman’s entire fantasy life.”

You smirked. “That wasn’t her fantasy. That was delusion.”

His lips twitched. “Well, it died a quick death.”

He looked at you then like you were the only thing worth worshipping on this rooftop. Not the lights, not the skyline, not the city or his career. Just you.

“So,” he groaned, quiet but wrecked., “how fast do you think can we leave without making a scene?”

You stepped a little closer, lips barely grazing the curve of his jaw. “We could try in ten minutes,” you replied, already walking your fingers down the length of his tie. “I want dessert first.”

His breath caught. Then he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“You are my dessert.”

Part 2 (18+, MDNI)

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd

[knowledgeableknitter]

Ours to Keep: The Extraction

Part 1 of 4.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (curvy reader)

Word Count: 5.5k

Summary: You and Bucky infiltrate a supposedly defunct lab to gain information on a potential weapon, only to find a very real, very helpless baby girl. The escape is chaotic, and the safe house has nothing for her. Bucky makes an emergency Target run while you find yourself under a new kind of pressure. 

Trigger Warnings: Baby girl is classified as a weapon; genetically engineered baby; sticker shock at baby items (if that's not triggering, idk what is).

Author’s Note: I wrote this when I was very pregnant, very hormonal, and very much wanting to take care of all the lost babies in the world.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

The wind carved through the shattered fence line, dragging coils of rusted wire back into the dirt with every gust. From behind the treeline, you crouched low in the underbrush, infrared goggles pressed to your face, tracking the facility across the clearing. Squat and windowless, the concrete block looked like it hadn’t seen life in years. According to GRC’s intel, it hadn’t. The site had been classified inactive, bioweapons research shuttered, all staff pulled, power systems cut. That, clearly, was incorrect.

Heat signatures pulsed behind the exterior walls. Six, maybe seven bodies. It was sparse for a research base, but enough for you to know it was still active. They looped between corridors and labs, maintaining and operating the space.

“This isn’t what we were told,” came Bucky’s voice beside you, low and steady. He exuded the kind of calm that usually came right before he made something bleed. His vibranium arm flexed, mechanical fingers adjusting the rifle sling across his chest. “We’ll call it in. Let someone else handle the mess.”

You didn’t respond right away. The last heat signature shifted, pacing like they were nervous. Whatever was happening inside, it wasn’t clean. You shook your head, voice tight as you finally spoke. “Wait. If they’re still operating, they’re still building something. I don’t want to give them time to wipe the evidence.”

He turned to look at you fully, expression unreadable. “You’re not field certified.”

“No… But I’m the only one available who can figure out what exactly they’re developing in there,” you muttered. “Get me inside. Five minutes.”

There was a long silence. Then a grumble that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Scientists,” Bucky muttered, loading a fresh mag into place. “Always making my life harder.” But he nodded. “Fine. Stay behind me. And don’t touch anything that looks like it might go off.”

You grinned at the win and moved fast and low. The side door was reinforced, but Bucky made quick work of it, a calculated burst of strength, one blow to the lock, then a boot to drive the door open. Inside, the air was sharp, over-filtered and scrubbed to the point of sterility. 

Footsteps echoed ahead, two sets, soft-soled, rapid, but not panicked. You pressed flat against the wall, then watched Bucky slip forward, silent as a shadow. Two unarmed scientists rounded the corner in the middle of a conversation. Neither made it to the end of the hall. A quick strike from the rifle’s butt dropped the first; the second crumpled before he had time to shout.

You rushed ahead to the nearest lab bench, looking for any descriptors of their main project. Your hands brushed over notebooks and charts, but nothing was labeled in a way you’d recognize. You turned to a terminal, left unlocked thankfully, and started sorting through files. 

Behind you, Bucky shifted suddenly. “We’re compromised,” he said sharply. Already, his weapon was raised.

A beat later, gunfire cracked through the corridor like a whip. The guards weren’t shouting, they knew the layout and stayed professional and silent. Bucky returned fire with terrifying precision, laying down cover as you dove behind an overturned cart, shielding the terminal with your body, heart slamming into your ribs.

Then your eyes caught something across the corridor, just past the main lab junction. A recessed vault door, matte black with heavy steel braces and a biometric keypad blinking faint green. It didn’t belong in a lab this size. It was over-secured, tucked out of line of sight like someone hoped no one would think to check.

PROJECT Z-03, read the placard above it.

Your gut twisted. That wasn’t storage. It was locked down like it held something they didn’t even trust themselves with.

“Cover me!” you shouted, already sprinting.

“Don’t—dammit!” Bucky’s voice exploded behind you, footsteps following fast, rifle fire cutting through another round of guards. You skidded to your knees in front of the keypad, pulled a bypass device from your belt, and got to work. 

“Thirty seconds!”

“We don’t have thirty seconds!”

The lock gave and the door swung open with a slow mechanical groan.

What hit you first wasn’t the layout, it was the total, warm, unnatural silence. It reminded you of a hospital, or perhaps a tomb. The air was just slightly too warm, the lighting too soft. Walls were clean white, and along one side of the room stood five high-tech cribs. They reminded you of the kind found in NICU hospitals, but also like incubators, really. Four were empty. One wasn’t.

In the center crib, nestled in a white thermal swaddle, was a baby.

You stepped forward like you were moving underwater. It was a female, approximately three months old, if the symbol on the placard was to be believed, with dark fuzz across her scalp, and soft skin flushed pink with circulation. Biometric sensors blinked quietly along the edge of her crib, and she was staring at you. Not the vague stare of a newborn, but focused and intense. Too still. She didn’t cry or fidget. She just… watched.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered behind you. He’d entered quietly, his rifle still up, though his posture had changed. “They said this place had been developing some sort of a weapons prototype.”

You picked up the placard mounted on the crib, fingers numb. 

SUBJECT: Z-03 Female Genome Sequence: Stabilized Cognitive Patterning: Accelerated Emotional Response: Unpredictable CRISPR edits verified.  Recommend environmental exposure under monitored conditions. Noted preference: female caregiver

You kept reading, but the words blurred as something inside you buckled.

“She’s not a weapon,” you said softly. “She’s just a baby. Engineered, yes, but…” Your throat tightened. “She’s still a baby.”

The child shifted slightly, and her tiny hand reached toward you, fingers curling into open air.

Then she smiled. A real, small, unmistakable smile. And with it came a soft, happy coo.

The sound broke something in you, not hard, but permanently. As if a wall had cracked open and something essential spilled out that couldn’t be put back.

Behind you, Bucky’s boots moved. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

You reached into the crib, arms steady. The baby fit against your chest like she’d always belonged there. She didn’t cry or fuss, just watched you with those too-bright eyes like she already knew you.

“Then we’re taking her with us.”

*****

The moment you crossed the threshold, cradling the child to your chest, the world erupted.

Alarms blared overhead, piercing and angry, a shrieking klaxon underscored by pulsing red strobes that bled down the corridor walls. A mechanical voice crackled from unseen speakers, thick with a clipped Russian accent: “Level Four breach. Secure Project Z-03. Non-lethal force only. Repeat: non-lethal force only—”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to yours, then to the baby in your arms, then down the corridor where the thunder of booted footsteps grew louder. His jaw tensed. “Well,” he said grimly, stepping into the open without a flicker of hesitation, “that’s their first mistake.”

You barely had time to register what he meant before the guards appeared around the corner. Shouts echoed, rifles lifted, but none of them fired. They hesitated the second they saw the infant in your arms, small, wide-eyed, utterly still.

Bucky did not.

He moved like smoke and steel, a blur of purpose. Two kneecaps shattered under surgical fire. A concussive grenade arced from his hand and detonated behind the squad, scattering them like leaves. One guard charged; Bucky stepped inside the swing, caught the rifle midair, and cracked the man’s jaw with a noise that sounded like a log splitting.

You ducked back behind the doorframe, shielding the baby with your body, your pulse thudding loud enough to drown out the screams. The baby didn’t cry. She blinked slowly, her face serene, unbothered. That somehow made it worse.

“Let’s go!” Bucky shouted, voice edged with command.

You ran, tightening your hold on the child, trying to keep her head cradled near your collarbone. The rush of motion made your breath ragged, your lungs struggling to keep pace. A guard lunged into your path, but Bucky’s metal arm slammed him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. He didn’t even look down.

The two of you tore through the compound like a pressure front, Bucky always one corner ahead, clearing each intersection with flawless precision. Muzzle flashes lit the corridors like heat lightning, brief and blinding. His focus was absolute, he never once looked back, but every movement carved a path for you to follow.

And somehow, in the middle of that chaos, you had one strange, irrational thought: 

He’s beautiful like this.

Efficient and lethal, not just killing for the sake of it, but protecting. He was focused entirely on getting you and the child in your arms out of there, with a precision that felt almost intimate.

The baby, Zoe, you thought without knowing exactly why, made a small contented cooing sound. She tucked her face deeper into the curve of your neck, soft and warm. You pressed a kiss to her hair as the storm raged around you.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “We’ve got you.”

You burst through a back exit and into the cold, the air biting and sharp, night swallowing you whole. Steam coiled up from the ruined compound behind you, rising like breath from something broken and furious. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you sprinted toward the treeline. Half a klick out, mostly obscured in shadow, the GRC SUV waited.

Bucky handed you a pistol without slowing. “Just in case.”

You took it clumsily, still holding Zoe in your other arm. “You know I’m not actually—”

“Point and shoot if you have to.” His voice was gravel. “Keep her safe.”

You didn’t argue. There was no time.

The sound of pursuit returned, boots, shouting, the dry static of radio commands relayed in Russian. Another wave closing fast.

“Z-03 is active. Do not let them reach the perimeter. Repeat: use nets if necessary—do not harm the child.”

The fact they were trying not to kill you made them bolder. That was their second mistake.

Bucky dropped to one knee and dropped three guards with clean precise shots. Another raised a launcher, stun round incoming.

Bucky caught it.

He snatched the round mid-air with his left hand, spun, and hurled it back like a fastball. It exploded against the wall behind the advancing squad, knocking a section loose in a rain of debris and smoke.

You stumbled to a halt, briefly stunned. Your knees felt hollow.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes wild with fire and adrenaline. “What?”

You swallowed, shaking your head. “Nothing. You're just… insane. And kind of incredible.”

That earned a crooked grin. “Took you long enough.”

You reached the SUV. Bucky yanked the rear door open with one hard pull, clearing the back seat with a single sweep of his arm. You climbed in, still clutching the child, your whole body trembling from effort. Bucky slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door just as gunfire cracked through the trees behind you.

The engine roared to life and you peeled out, tires spitting snow and gravel. A round pinged off the back window, rubber-tipped. They were still trying to take you alive.

“Is she okay?” Bucky asked, not looking back.

You glanced down. Zoe was staring at you again with those eerie, unblinking eyes. Not frightened or confused. Still just… watching.

“She’s fine,” you said softly. Then you looked at him, hands steady on the wheel, jaw locked, eyes sharp with purpose.

“Thank you,” you added, quieter.

He didn’t meet your gaze, but his voice softened. “She’s just a kid,” he said. “No way in hell was I leaving her behind.”

You sank back into the seat as the SUV tore through the night, Zoe nestled close to your chest, her small hand wrapped in the fabric of your coat.

The mission was over.

But it wasn’t just an op anymore.

*****

The safe house was an old farmhouse buried in a dense pine grove, the kind of place you could drive past a dozen times without noticing it. From the outside, it looked like a structure surrendering to time, weather-beaten siding, crooked storm shutters, a porch that sagged like it had given up. Nothing about it suggested military upgrades, and that was the point. The GRC perimeter shielding the place didn’t show up on any civilian map, and the encrypted beacon only responded to one frequency. It wasn’t just off the grid, it had been erased from it.

Inside, it was bare bones, but held some remnants of the old owners. One bedroom with two bunks, a kitchen with old but functional appliances, a single bathroom the size of a janitor’s closet, and a semi-functional washer and dryer. The pantry was stocked with canned goods and MREs, the kind with shelf lives that outlasted most wars. There was enough weaponry to arm a small revolution, and you each had a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes.

What there wasn’t, what it painfully, obviously didn’t have, was anything for a baby.

No formula. No diapers. No crib. No soft cotton clothes or wipes or blankets. Just you, your arms wrapped around this tiny, genetically-engineered girl, and the man who’d bled to get you both out.

Bucky closed the door behind him with a mechanical clunk, the reinforced locks sliding into place with an audible finality. Then he turned, breathing hard, snow melting down the back of his neck. His jacket was torn at the shoulder where a round had grazed him, not deep, but messy. Blood was seeping through the fabric in a slow, dark stain.

“Sit,” you said, adjusting the baby on your chest. Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. “You’ve been hit.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding. Sit down, Barnes.”

He raised a brow at your tone, half challenge, half amusement, but didn’t argue. He sank into one of the battered wooden chairs at the table, jaw tight, the movement pulling at the wound. You crossed the room, one arm steady around the child, and grabbed the med kit from a shelf. The baby had gone silent again, but remained wide-eyed, watching everything.

You set the kit on the table, opened it one-handed, and grabbed a sterilizing wipe. “Hold still.”

Bucky rolled up his sleeve, watching your face more than the cloth. You pressed it gently to the wound and felt him flinch, sharp breath pulled through his teeth.

“I said it was nothing,” he muttered again.

“And I said I don’t care,” you replied, not looking up. “You got us out. You kept her safe. You don’t get to bleed all over the furniture.”

That earned a dry huff of a laugh. Zoe made a soft gurgling sound in response, half giggle, half grunt, and your eyes flicked down. Her little fists curled in your hair, her gaze alert, following every movement.

“She’s watching you,” Bucky said.

“And she’s studying you,” you agreed, adjusting your grip on her so you could reach his arm better. “The file said she’s already showing advanced emotional recognition patterns. Cognitive bonding skewed early. She’s not just observing, she’s judging.”

He scoffed. “What, already decided I’m not good enough?”

“Maybe she thinks you’re too loud,” you said, mouth twitching at the corner.

He gave a low chuckle. “She’s not wrong.”

You finished wiping away the worst of the blood, reached for the antiseptic cream. The sharp smell hit the air and Zoe whimpered, wriggling in protest. You bent your head closer to her and murmured, “I know, sweet girl. Almost done. I promise.”

And then, without ceremony, without comment, Bucky reached up and brushed his thumb gently across your cheek, wiping away a smudge of ash or dirt you hadn’t realized was there. His hand lingered just a second too long, the warmth of his touch at odds with the steel and frost of everything else.

You looked up.

He was watching you, not with pity, not even with concern. With that same cool, calculated intensity he carried in the field. Only now it had softened at the edges, tinged with something grounded and protective.

“You had something,” he said, as if it were nothing.

But his voice had gone quieter, too.

Your breath caught, something warm and tight in your chest. Zoe shifted again in your arms, nuzzling deeper into your shoulder, and the moment passed. You blinked and forced your focus back to Bucky’s arm, wrapping it with quick, practiced movements.

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it was heavy. Fragile in the way new things are fragile, careful and charged. You secured the last of the bandage, taped it down, and finally leaned back in a chair yourself.

“We need supplies,” you commented flatly.

Bucky glanced down at Zoe, who was now chewing halfheartedly on a lock of your hair. “Yeah. I’m gonna guess we don’t have powdered formula hidden behind the canned ravioli.”

“We don’t have anything. No diapers. No bottles. No baby clothes. Nowhere for her to sleep. Unless you want to try swaddling her in a Kevlar vest, we’re in trouble.”

He scanned the room like one of those things might miraculously appear if he looked hard enough. “We’ve got three cans of chili, six MREs, and two knives under the mattress. That’s it.”

“Great. So either we feed her tactical chili and teach her to self-soothe with a combat knife, or you’re making a Target run.”

He barked a laugh. “You think I can just walk into Target?”

“I think we each have a burner phone and GRC gave you a black card. I think you know how to operate in a civilian zone without drawing too much attention. And I think you’re going to figure it out.” 

Bucky leaned back, flexing his injured arm experimentally. “You’re really in mom mode already.”

You looked down at the baby curled against your chest. She yawned, tiny fingers stretching toward your jaw. Her gaze found yours again, sharp and steady. You wrapped both arms around her just a little tighter.

“Someone has to be.”

*****

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a personal insult. Bucky stood motionless in the middle of the baby aisle, staring down at a pack of something called Stage 1 Ultra-Flexi Orthodontic Pacifiers like it might detonate in his hand. There were twelve more brands lining the shelf. Some were shaped like animals. One glowed in the dark. Another looked like it had been developed for zero gravity deployment by NASA.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and grim. “What the hell is a flow rate?”

The baby registry checklist you’d texted him read like a tactical op written during a caffeine binge. 

Diapers: multiple sizes? 

Wipes, but only hypoallergenic. 

Bottles: glass or plastic? 

Formula: but not that one brand, the one that “backs them up like concrete.” 

Onesies: 5-7 

Burp cloths: 10

Swaddles: 3

Carrier. 

Pacifiers: “as many as you can reasonably grab.” 

Something called a nose sucker, which he had refused, on principle, to Google.

He tapped your name and hit call.

“Yeah?” Your voice came through scratchy but clear, a quiet murmur of background noise threading beneath it.

“I’m in hell,” Bucky said flatly.

You chuckled, low and unsurprised. “You made it to the baby aisle.”

“There are forty-seven kinds of bottles here.”

“Try to find the ones with anti-colic valves.”

“Colic?”

“Crying. Constant crying.”

“Ah. So normal, then.” He glanced down at a pack. “This one says ‘medium flow nipple.’ That seems like something I should be alarmed about.”

“Too fast. She’s only three months old. You want slow flow. Stage one. Or anything that says ‘newborn.’”

He looked back up at the shelf, a veritable wall of nipples staring back at him like the world’s strangest tactical challenge. “It’s a goddamn nipple matrix.”

“I know,” you said, gently. “Just grab a couple different types. We’ll see what she’ll take.”

He sighed, selected a four-pack featuring a pastel sheep, and dropped it into the cart with the solemnity of a man disarming a landmine. “Okay. Bottles: check. Diapers?”

“Size one, probably. Maybe newborn if she’s on the small side, but she feels like she’s filled out some.”

He frowned. “You can feel that?”

You laughed. “Maternal instinct. And I babysat for cash when I was fifteen. Get a pack of each.”

Bucky stared at the price tags for a moment like they were an elaborate prank. “These cost more than my boots.”

“Welcome to parenting.”

A woman passed him pushing a cart full of frozen meals and twin toddlers screaming over the custody rights to a plush elephant. She gave Bucky a polite, strained smile, equal parts pity and suspicion, as she registered the tactical jacket, the scowl, and the aisle full of nipple options.

“I’m being judged,” he muttered.

“You look like a lost dad. It’s endearing.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just blinked at the shelf, expression unreadable. Then finally: “What about formula?”

“Anything marked for newborns, iron-fortified, milk-based. Avoid soy unless she starts getting fussy.”

He located the shelf and grabbed the nearest canister. Then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

“Thirty bucks? For powdered milk?”

“It’s special powdered milk.”

“It better teach her algebra.”

He dropped two different cans into the cart. Then added a third for good measure, glaring at the price tag like it had personally insulted him.

Wipes next, unscented, economy pack. Then pacifiers. He grabbed six different kinds without blinking and dumped them all in. No point in gambling. Then the baby carrier, which resembled a cross between a parachute harness and a fabric burrito. The man on the box looked cheerful and capable. Bucky was neither, but he figured if he could assemble sniper gear under fire, he could figure this out too.

Final stop: clothing.

He stood frozen in front of a rack of onesies covered in cartoon fruit: strawberries, peaches, watermelons. Why the hell were babies covered in fruit? He reached for a simple gray pack but stopped halfway.

Tucked near the back, almost hidden, was a tiny navy-blue onesie dotted with small white stars. Soft cotton. No slogans, no glitter, no dancing bananas. He ran his thumb across the fabric, something quiet and heavy rising in his chest. It reminded him of her, of Zoe. Small, watchful, calm in the center of chaos.

He added it to the cart.

By the time he made it to checkout, the cart was overflowing. Formula, diapers, wipes, pacifiers, the carrier, two types of bottles, and a few onesies one of which made his throat feel tight for no reason he could explain. The cashier was a teenage boy with two lip rings. He raised an eyebrow as he scanned the mountain of baby gear, then glanced up at Bucky, at the dark jacket, the black gloves, the thousand-yard stare.

“First kid?” the kid asked, deadpan.

Bucky stared at him like he'd been asked to recite his blood type in Morse code.

“...Yeah.”

The total came out to four hundred and sixteen dollars.

Bucky pulled out the GRC black card and swiped it with silent, focused fury.

*****

You heard the truck door slam before you saw him, the dull, metallic thud followed by the rhythmic crunch of boots on frozen gravel. The porch creaked, familiar now in its tired protest, and a second later the lock thunked open with the weight of reinforced steel surrendering to the right key. You looked up from your spot on the floor, settled near the couch, where Zoe lay sleeping in your lap, swaddled in a throw blanket, her small chest rising and falling against the makeshift pillow beneath her. Her mouth was parted slightly in a perfect, soft O. Total peace.

Then Bucky walked in.

He looked like a man who had just fought a war and barely survived it, and also, somehow, like he'd lost that war to a department store. He was carrying four overstuffed shopping bags in each hand, a long rectangular box awkwardly tucked under one arm, and something yellow with cartoon ducks clamped between his teeth.

You stared. “Oh my god. You bought Target.”

He made it two more steps before placing everything in a relatively quiet yet spectacular heap beside the couch, then yanked the duck contraption from his mouth and tossed it on the couch. “There were too many options. I panicked.”

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. “Is that a vibrating giraffe?”

“I don’t know. It lit up when I touched it. I didn’t ask questions.”

You reached for the nearest bag, carefully shifting Zoe’s weight in your arms so you didn’t wake her. “Let’s see what damage you did.”

Inside were wipes, unscented, sensitive skin, industrial quantity. Diapers, in sizes ranging from “she’s tiny” to “small toddler.” At least twelve different bottles, all promising peace, sleep, and salvation. Pacifiers in neon, neutral, and novelty shapes. A six-pack of onesies in colors labeled Gentle Earth Tones. Something that unfolded into what looked like a portable bathtub. Two kinds of formula, three sizes of burp cloths, a nasal aspirator, and something, not on your list, that was labeled boogie wipes.

You held up the pack slowly. “Did you Google baby essentials?”

“I may have found a ‘Newborn Survival Checklist,’ at the end of the aisle” he said, already sounding defensive. “And I may have bought everything on it.”

You dug deeper and pulled out a baby carrier still in its packaging. You tilted your head at him. “You planning on wearing her like a chest grenade?”

“It was on sale,” he muttered.

You chuckled, the sound softening something in the room. It was absurd, all of it, laughably, painfully absurd. And yet, here you were, surrounded by the fallout of someone trying to do the right thing and doing it… too much. As you reached into the final bag, your hand brushed soft cotton and you stilled.

It was small and simple, a navy-blue onesie scattered with tiny white stars. No bright colors or baby animals. Your fingers curled around it. You didn’t speak right away. You ran your hand across the stars, feeling the weight of it, not just the onesie, but the thought behind it. When you finally looked up, your voice was different.

“You picked this one?”

Bucky had wandered halfway toward the kitchenette, but paused. He rubbed the back of his glove against his wrist strap. “Yeah. I dunno. It just reminded me of her, I guess.”

You smiled, lifting it next to Zoe’s sleeping face. “Me too. And it’s actually cute. There’s hope for you yet, Barnes.”

Relief flickered over his face, masked quickly by a dry huff. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“She’s gonna look like a little night sky,” you said, almost to yourself.

He didn’t respond. Just watched you, watched how you cradled her without even thinking, how your movements were gentle but certain, like she’d always belonged there. Something unreadable settled in his expression. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but the tension in his shoulders eased, like watching you made it easier to believe all of this was real.

You looked up suddenly and caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly, clearing his throat. “Just… you’re good at this.”

You gave him a sideways look. “Says the guy who bought an entire store and is now emotionally bonded to a light up giraffe.”

Zoe stirred in your lap, letting out a breathy little coo. You rocked her gently and smiled down. “Hey, little Zoe. Look what your very confused, very well-meaning soldier brought you.”

Bucky leaned against the armrest, arms crossed. “So it’s Zoe now?”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. Then nodded. “Yeah… Zoe. She deserves a real name. Not ‘Project Z-03.’”

He tilted his head. “You gonna tell me what Z-03 actually stands for?”

Your voice dropped a little. “Zeta-series experimental subject. Third iteration.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

You traced a circle on Zoe’s back with your thumb, protective and quiet. “Yeah. Not anymore.”

*****

The safe house was too small, too cold, and nowhere near soundproof enough to handle a crying infant.

You moved on instinct, not thought. Every squall from Zoe snapped something awake inside you, some primal, frantic reflex that clawed up through the exhaustion and fog and said: Fix it. Now. You hadn’t eaten since long before the facility. You weren’t sure if you’d even sat down. Everything narrowed to the squirming, red-faced baby in your arms, who hiccuped and writhed and refused to be soothed for more than a breath or two at a time.

She wasn’t sick. You could tell that much. No fever, no raspy breathing, no signs of distress beyond the usual newborn outrage. Just a normal, healthy three-month-old, if you ignored the unblinking, too-aware eyes and the fact that she’d been classified as experimental ordinance.

You weren’t ready to think about that part yet.

You paced the length of the narrow bunk room in socked feet, rocking her gently, murmuring nonsense under your breath. The rhythm had settled into your bones now, step, bounce, hush, repeat. Her cries had softened to whimpers, her lashes fluttering in the dim light. One tiny fist curled in the collar of your shirt.

In the kitchenette just beyond the doorway, Bucky moved like he was disarming a live device. Every motion was deliberate and careful and unnervingly silent. Every time he came close, Zoe let out a warning whimper, and each time, he stepped back without protest. He never took it personally, at least, not out loud, but there was a flicker in his expression whenever it happened. It wasn’t anger or even frustration. It looked a little like disappointment.

But he didn’t push. He just found ways to help from the edges.

By the time Zoe seemed to be well out of it, the counter had become a minor disaster zone. Boiled water. Clean bottles. Sterilized lids laid out like ammunition. Bucky was bent over them, sleeves rolled, lining each one up with military precision. His vibranium hand held the formula scoop like it might explode if he used the wrong ratio.

You blinked at the setup, then stared. “Did you… sterilize those?” you whispered.

He nodded, not looking up, matching his volume to yours. “Figured it mattered.”

A tired laugh caught in your throat. “It does. Thanks.”

“You’re doing everything else,” he said simply, giving one of the caps an extra turn just to be sure. “This I could handle.”

You watched him for a moment. The care. The quiet effort. The way he double-checked labels, the way he moved around you without crowding. He wasn’t trying to take over. He was just making sure the pieces didn’t fall apart.

“You never signed up for this,” you said softly, arms tightening around the now-sleeping infant.

Bucky looked up, his expression unreadable. “Neither did you.”

A long pause stretched out between you, the only sound Zoe’s soft snuffling as she settled deeper into sleep.

“We’ll make it work,” he added after a beat, like it was fact, not reassurance, not hope. Just the reality he’d already decided on.

Your chest ached in a strange, unplaceable way. You were used to being the most competent person in the room, at least when it came to molecular structures, containment procedures, operational logistics. But this? This was different. This was sleepless nights, crying that pierced to the bone, fear that lived in your marrow. This was learning in real time how to hold someone who depended on you for everything.

And somehow, the only steady force in the chaos was Bucky Barnes.

You glanced to the side, where he’d fashioned a makeshift crib in one corner of the room, a clean laundry basket lined with a folded hoodie, a towel, and a small pillow that smelled like detergent and gun oil. It wasn’t perfect. But it was safe. And it had been ready before you even thought to ask.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

His mouth tugged into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah. But you looked like you were gonna drop. And I’ve survived worse than babysitting in a GRC cabin.”

You let out a short huff of laughter, half real, half disbelief. It surprised you, the sound of it. It surprised him, too, judging by the way his shoulders eased slightly.

You crossed the room and lowered Zoe into the basket with practiced care. She stirred once, a tiny fist tightening in the blanket, but didn’t wake. You hovered for a second, hand still on her back, before finally stepping away.

When you turned, Bucky was already there, wordless, a chipped mug in his hand.

You blinked. “Is this… soup?”

“Tomato,” he said. “Can expired a few months ago, but it didn’t smell like death. So. You’re welcome.”

You took it with both hands, the warmth soaking instantly into your fingers like heat through frostbitten skin. “I didn’t even realize I was hungry.”

“Exactly why I made it.”

You sat on the edge of the bed with a breath of a groan, sipping carefully. It was barely warm and faintly metallic, but it tasted like comfort, like a break you hadn’t earned but were taking anyway.

“You’ve got a real nurturing side, Barnes,” you said, eyes still on the mug, voice laced with something dry.

He leaned against the wall, arms folded, the smirk forming slow behind his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystique.”

Chapter 2

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @idk-karla @asprinkleofsage @mrsalexstan

[knowledgeableknitter]

How is it that I am overwhelmed by the number of stories that I have to edit? I have literally 10 one-shots already written and just awaiting editing. And some of these (probably at least 2) I’ll abandon if they’re 💩.

I know it’s because editing takes me the longest, so instead of editing I just think up a new story and start at least an outline.

But I gotta stop this. 🤦🏼‍♀️

[knowledgeableknitter]

Ours to Keep

Welcome to a new series! This will be a 4-part found-baby trope fic, with about 24k words, featuring Bucky Barnes x you. Canonically, it falls around the same time as FATWS, and Bucky and you (and Sam) work for the GRC (Global Repatriation Council). There will be lots of emotions, as well as some hilarity and domesticity.

I will not be posting an overall summary here so as not to spoil future parts, but I've listed the trigger warnings for the entire story. This is a completely clean fic, though I am already considering a 4-part continuation which may involve some spice.

Trigger Warnings: genetically engineered baby girl treated as a weapon/threat; Bucky having feelings (all kinds); you and Bucky taking care of a baby including: baby sleeping on a super soldier's chest (that is SUCH a warning), a big baby spit-up, a diaper explosion, and streaming pee; medical testing of you and Bucky (including blood draw with butterfly needle, fMRI, neural brain mapping, etc); cute little date; one kiss. Oh, and you like Star Wars, for the sake of hilarious conversation.

Blog Masterlist

Chapter 1: The Extraction

Chapter 2:

Chapter 3:

Chapter 4:

Will be posted M-W-F at 4pm EST until complete.

Message me if you want to be added to the tag list! (or removed, lol)

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld

[knowledgeableknitter]

Thanks so much for including me, especially with such amazing authors! 💕

I found these fics all over Tumblr — some through late-night scrolling, others from my mutuals’ amazing recs. Every single one stuck with me. Each story carries a different weight, and together they form a beautifully chaotic mix of heartbreak, comfort, and everything in between. If you're drawn to stories that stir something in you, this collection delivers.

🔊IF YOU HAVE RECS, DO TAG ME IN YOUR FAV FICS,ONESHOTS/SERIES pleasee

pink carnartions – @chaimilkshake ✦ Summary: Logan still thinks about the you from his universe, so what happens when he meets the you from this universe? ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, Worst!Wolverine x fem!reader ]

Loving him loudly – @carbonfiction ✦ Summary: Logan still thinks about the you from his universe, so what happens when he meets the you from this universe? ✦ Tags: [Drabble, Fluff, Logan x fem!reader ]

Overpoweringly Sweet– @insert-this-fire ✦ Summary: Somehow you contracted Hanahaki for a man you hardly ever spoken to. Cant end well can it? ✦ Tags: [Oneshot, Logan x gn!nonspecified mutant! Reader ]

9.30pm – @slushycoookie ✦ Summary: Fluff, you and Logan take a night to relax, bathe together, you wash his hair, etc. You also do face masks and each other nails (more like Logan does yours). ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, Logan x Hairdresser! Reader, freaking cute ]

Jealous Much?– @fungateshortcakes ✦ Summary: What happens when Logan finds the father of one of your students flirting with you after class? ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, dofp!Logan]

The Best There is– @fungateshortcakes ✦ Summary: Parenting comes with challenges Logan never thought he would have to face in his old age; like school drop offs, nosy teachers and career day disasters. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, oldman!Logan x fem!reader, Laura]

Say Yes to Heaven – @happy74827 ✦ Summary: Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, First Kiss, Logan’s POV]

Clawsome Dad – @shybluebirdninja ✦ Summary: When Logan mistakenly thinks you’re pregnant (you're not), he gets way too excited about baby names and starts building a baby-proof bunker in the backyard. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, baby proof]

Soft Edges – @lubdubology ✦ Summary: Logan doesn’t know how to relax. So you help him. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, Worst!Wolverine x fem!reader ]

Put it on My Tab – @munsonsmixtapes ✦ Summary: You’re a bartender at the club where Logan is a bouncer and he’s going to deny his feelings for you until he’s convinced himself that he’s lost his chance. ✦ Tags: [One shot, bouncer!!logan x bartender!fem!reader]

Origin – @d1stalker ✦ Summary: two people, one shared past, and decades apart. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Angst Fluff, Logan x fem!reader ]

Suspension Bridge Effect – @d1stalker ✦ Summary: you saved one of the younger mutants during a mission, and now he's obsessed with you, much to Logan's dismay ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, Logan x fem!reader ]

no title – @writing-with-moss ✦ Summary: Girls night at a nightclub leaves you drunk and having your husband take care of you <3 ✦ Tags: [One shot, Fluff, Wolverine x f!reader, freaking cute ]

Remember me – @fungateshortcakes ✦ Summary: You thought you lost him. But even in the depths of his broken mind, love has a way of finding its way back. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Angst, Wolverine x fem!reader ]

Weathering the Storm – @librababe99 ✦ Summary:Caught in the middle of a storm—both outside and between them—Logan and the reader struggle through a painful argument fueled by fear and doubt. ✦ Tags: [Blurb, Angst, Logan x fem!reader]

Moments Between Time – @librababe99 ✦ Summary: In a dystopian future, you and Logan share a final night together before he’s sent back in time to change the past. As the world falls apart, your last hope is that he’ll survive—and find his way back to you. ✦ Tags: [4 parts Series, Angst]

Awake My Soul – @foreverindreamlandd ✦ Summary: Five years into the apocalypse, survival is instinct—trust is not. When you rescue two boys from walkers, you find yourself unexpectedly tied to Camp Shield and the guarded, sharp-edged man named Bucky. He doesn’t trust you, but when danger strikes, his instincts betray him—because keeping you alive suddenly matters more than keeping his distance. ✦ Tags: [Series, Angst, canon level violence, zombies, blood/gore, lots of unaliving]

Astrophile – @all1e23 ✦ Summary: Orion Barnes discovers a new love for stars, books, and the kind bookstore owner who always saves her the best picks. Bucky’s surprised by his daughter’s sudden fascination with constellations—especially after years of trying to share his passion with little success. Now, he watches as his little comet lights up over everything he once hoped she’d love. ✦ Tags: [Series, Angst, Firefighter!Bucky, Single dad AU]

To Have & To Hold– @slyyywriting ✦ Summary: Bucky juggles single fatherhood and first-grade milestones, but his world shakes when his daughter asks about her absent mom. Meanwhile, you—once a feared mob boss—are struggling to leave your violent past behind. When your paths cross, an unlikely bond forms, and a curious little girl becomes the bridge between healing, redemption, and unexpected family. ✦ Tags: [Series, Angst, Single Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mob!Reader]

Flashing Lights– @pellucid-constellations ✦ Summary: Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance? ✦ Tags: [Series, Angst, Paramedic!Bucky x reader, physical trauma]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom– @knowledgeableknitter ✦ Summary: Kay Romano settles into her role as the Avengers’ nurturing new nanny, quickly earning their trust. Bucky Barnes finds himself quietly captivated by her, but their growing bond is tested by hesitation and miscommunication. ✦ Tags: [Series, Angst, Slowburn]

Silver Lining– @bcksbarnes ✦ Summary: for someone who was once frozen in time, bucky barnes never had to worry about aging, until he finds his first gray hair. ✦ Tags: [One shot, fluff]

Sweet on the Job– @danysdaughter ✦ Summary: when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once. ✦ Tags: [One shot, congressman!bucky x assistant!reader, slow-burn,grumpy x sunshine, office romance]

The Bet – @wkemeup ✦ Summary: The agents at SHIELD have not taken well to Bucky’s pardon. When he’s injured on a mission under suspicious circumstances, you take matters into your own hands.   ✦ Tags: [One shot, angst, violence]

Sanctuary – @sunskisser ✦ Summary: bucky is worried about you when you’re overworking yourself.   ✦ Tags: [One shot, fluff]

Falling for you– @vividxpages ✦ Summary: Working on Bucky Barnes’ congressional campaign was supposed to be about making a difference- not falling for the quiet, brooding man behind the podium. But after long nights, quiet smiles, and one very unexpected coffee invite, your crush becomes harder to ignore. ✦ Tags: [One shot, fluff]

Cold wind blows– @bcksbarnes ✦ Summary: bucky hates the cold, you show him how enjoyable it is to warm up ✦ Tags: [One shot, tooth rot fluff]

Mine, Always– @imtaashu ✦ Summary: You post a cute selfie, and the internet does what it does best—starts flirting. But Bucky sees it before you even finish writing a caption. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader, Jealousy, Social Media AU, tooth rot fluff]

Bergamot– @mcrdvcks ✦ Summary: You haven’t seen Bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable—the team has only known him for two weeks, but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile. ✦ Tags: [One shot, Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, tooth rot fluff, thunderbolts included]

You lifted...?– @knowledgeableknitter ✦ Summary: Funny drabble of cleaning, lifting the couch, lifting Bucky and Lifting Thor's hammer. ✦ Tags: [Drabbles, Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, FUNNY FLUFF]

Charles Xavier The Mutant's Serenade – @librababe99

Scott Summers In the Quiet Hours – @librababe99

[knowledgeableknitter]

Hot Water on Cold Tile

I have decided that a drabble will be under 500 words, and a fic-let will be under a 1000 words. So here is a fic-let of smut for you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (female)

Word Count: <900

Summary: Shower sex with Bucky. That's literally it.

Trigger Warnings: It's... it's shower sex. A little fingering. Your wide hips and thick thighs are mentioned. A swear word or two. You call each other 'baby'. 18+ ONLY. MDNI.

Author’s Note: I never thought I'd really do pwop, but turns out I'm feral for a fictional character. 🤷🏼‍♀️ It's a problem.

Masterlist

The water was hot, cascading down your shoulders in rivulets when Bucky stepped into the shower behind you. His chest pressed to your back instantly, warm and solid, like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between you for even a second longer.

He didn't speak at first. You only felt his breath at your neck, the slow drag of his metal hand down your side, the wet heat of his mouth pressing just beneath your ear.

“Need you,” he murmured, voice thick, jaw tense. “Right now.”

You barely managed a nod before he spun you to face him. His kiss came hungry, lips wet, tongue deep, hands gripping your wide hips with aching reverence. The steam curled around you both as the water thundered down, but you didn’t care. You clutched at his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

He didn’t waste time. He reached above you to adjust the showerhead, angling it toward the tile behind your back to lessen chill. You loved his thoughtfulness. When your back hit the warmed wall, he braced one hand beside your head, the other sliding down between your thighs, and you gasped into his mouth as his fingers found you already wet and wanting.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re always so ready for me.”

You moaned as two fingers slid through your folds, teasing, spreading you open before he slowly pushed one inside. His metal hand stayed firm on your waist, anchoring you as his other hand worked you open with slow, deliberate care. He knew exactly where to touch you, and when he curled his finger just right, brushing against that sensitive spot deep inside, your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

“There it is,” he said softly, watching your reaction with a flicker of awe behind the heat in his eyes. “That’s what I was looking for.”

Your head dropped back against the tile, a moan spilling from your lips as his second finger joined the first, pumping in slow, purposeful thrusts. He hit that spot again, and again, and you cried out, your body already starting to tremble, slick and open around him.

“Please, Bucky,” you whispered, not sure if you were begging him to keep going or take more.

He kissed you again, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’ve got you, baby. I’ll give you everything.”

His hands slid down, gripping the back of your thigh before lifting one leg with practiced ease. You gasped as your foot left the tile, your balance shifting, arms wrapping tighter around his neck as he guided you up onto the very tips of your other toes.

“Hold onto me,” he growled, barely more than breath. “Just like that.”

The second he sank into you, your head dropped back against the wall with a cry that got swallowed in the hiss of water and the wet, desperate slap of skin on skin. His name spilled from your lips, helpless and broken, and he grunted in return, eyes locked on yours like he was watching something sacred unravel right in front of him.

It wasn’t rough, but it was deep and relentless, the kind of rhythm born from too many days apart. His metal hand braced your lifted leg against his side, fingers tight around your thick thigh as your body clung to him, slick and shaking.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “So fucking good, baby…”

The sound you made was somewhere between a sob and a moan, your body tight and trembling as his cock dragged against everything inside you that made you come undone. Your heel pressed against his ass as he kept you pinned between his chest and the wall, every thrust hitting deeper, harder to breathe through, harder to think through.

Your orgasm came hard and fast, stealing the strength from your arms as you cried his name against his mouth. Your leg shook in his grip, and you felt his rhythm stutter when your walls clamped down around him.

He cursed, low and guttural, and thrust once, twice more before burying himself as deep as he could go, his entire body shuddering as he spilled inside you with a groan that sounded like surrender. He held you through it, breath ragged, arms shaking as the tension finally melted from his frame.

The only sound left was the water still pouring over you both and the uneven breath between slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses.

He didn’t let your leg drop right away. He just held you against the wall, one hand still cupping your thigh, the other smoothing down your side as he pressed soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“I missed you like this,” he whispered, his breath trembling slightly. “So much.”

“It’s good to have you home, baby” you murmured back. 

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods 

[knowledgeableknitter]

YES. YES. 100,000% THIS.

I do this all the freaking time. Like, it’s literally all I do. And then suddenly I have a 16 chapter 70k word fic because I wanted the team to have a nanny figure who makes scones for the misfits and falls in love with the grump.

writing is 5% typing and 95% lying on the floor whispering “why would they do that” like a conspiracy theorist with red yarn

[knowledgeableknitter]

Mine is at 11pm or 2am when I can’t sleep, and my brain is like: fanfic? Imagine random scene? Mob boss Bucky? Thunderbolts Bucky?

i think i tend to forget how good boredom is for creativity because we're all so addicted to numbing ourselves with screens and stimulation. but standing in the shower or going for a walk with no music or just sitting in your bedroom without being allowed to touch any screens & all of a sudden i have multiple new projects to start, a solution to a months-long plot problem & 4 new original characters

[knowledgeableknitter]

Same. Stinking brain.

My brain: hmmm I want to write something.

Each of my WIP: me?

My brain: no 💅

[knowledgeableknitter]

Something Just Like This

A song-inspired one-shot. Pairing: Bucky Barnes (circa FATWS) x Female (unnamed, just "she/her")

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Bucky Barnes constantly puts himself in harm's way, convinced that suffering is his only way to redemption. However, when a mission leaves a young soldier on the brink of death and Bucky himself seriously injured, he must face the consequences, not just for himself, but also for the woman who loves him. With her support and reassurance that she desires him, not the super soldier, Bucky decides to take a different path: one focused on being present, finding peace, and embracing love.

Trigger warnings: Marvel level violence; blood/bleeding mentioned; the tending of wounds; pregnancy alluded to; hurt/comfort; one swear word; female’s hair can be put in a loose bun?; mention of a church in metaphor?

Author's note: I have had this song stuck in my head imagining Bucky for AGES. Like quite literally MONTHS. So I finally wrote it. And here it is. I hope you like it!

I have no clue how to actually link songs, so the song is "Something Just Like This" by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay.

Masterlist

I've been reading books of old, the legends and the myths. Achilles and his gold, Hercules and his gifts Spider-Man's control and Batman with his fists And clearly, I don't see myself upon that list

It was supposed to be simple.

In and out. Secure the target, intercept the shipment, keep the body count low.

But missions never stayed simple for long.

The night stank of smoke and scorched metal, thick with the scent of gunpowder and burnt rubber. The heat of a recent fire hung in the air like a second skin. Sirens wailed in the distance, a broken chorus of warning too late to matter. Shouts ricocheted off the graffiti-scarred walls, every sound sharp. Somewhere far behind him, someone screamed, a jagged, human sound. He was too far to help and too late to matter.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

His shoulder smashed into the edge of a steel loading dock as he twisted sharply, using his metal arm to shield a teammate from incoming fire. Pain flared through his side as a ricochet bit into his suit, slicing through the Kevlar like paper. Blood bloomed hot beneath the fabric, sticking to his skin.

Doesn’t matter. Keep moving.

A sudden explosion split the night, painting the alley in garish orange and white. The force of it cracked nearby glass and sent flames licking skyward like the fingers of hell. Bucky ducked and pivoted, metal arm absorbing the impact of a falling railing as he dragged a soldier clear of the wreckage.

His vision blurred as sweat stung his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, ribs throbbing with each one, bruised or cracked, he couldn’t tell. Every muscle screamed. His left knee gave a little more with every step. He was a patchwork of pain, barely stitched together by adrenaline and stubbornness.

Steve would’ve had this wrapped up in fifteen minutes.

The thought hit hard, fast, unwelcome. A knife between the ribs.

Steve would’ve dropped into the chaos with that damn unshakable calm, shield in hand, orders barking out like gospel. He would’ve rallied the team, defused the ambush, neutralized the threats, and walked out clean. Hell, the punk would probably have smiled for the press on the way to the hospital.

But Bucky had never been that kind of man.

He was a knife in the dark, no more than a ghost with blood on his hands. He didn’t make people better, he just tried not to make things worse. 

But tonight, nothing felt like enough.

A flash caught his eye, and he already knew he was too late.

He saw the glint from the rooftop just as the sniper fired.

The shot rang out, sharp and cruel. It hit the young agent ahead of him, Miller, he thought, straight through the side. The kid dropped mid-stride, legs folding beneath him like paper.

Bucky spun too fast, his boot slipping on the blood-slick pavement. He hit the ground hard, and pain surged through his injured side, white-hot and blinding. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up, ignoring the scream in his ribs.

The sniper was gone now. 

All that remained was the acrid smoke, the ruined street, and the bitter taste of failure on his tongue.

He reached Miller in three limping strides. The kid was still conscious, though barely. His eyes fluttered, unfocused. Blood poured through his fingers, bright and too fast.

Bucky dropped to his knees and pressed down on the wound, hands slick and shaking. His voice cracked as he muttered the usual nonsense: Stay with me. You’re gonna be fine. Come on, kid. Just hang on. Maybe they were lies, but they were all he had.

The medics were minutes out. It may as well have been hours.

And especially now, with the boy’s blood pooling beneath him, that voice in his head wouldn’t stop whispering:

Steve would’ve saved him.

Bucky clenched his jaw, eyes sweeping the rooftops, the flickering firelight casting twisted shadows over the wreckage. His hands trembled. Not from fear, but from fury and helplessness. From the old, aching shame that never really went away.

He was too slow. Too damaged. 

Too much of a weapon, and not enough of a man.

He wasn’t built for symbols or speeches. He wasn’t hope. He was what came after hope had failed.

But maybe, just maybe, if he threw himself hard enough at the next fight, hit the wall fast enough, gave enough of himself…

Maybe then, he’d matter.

Maybe then, he’d be enough.

Even if it tore him apart in the process.

He stayed there until the medics arrived, hands red with blood, adrenaline draining out of every pore. His limbs felt hollow and his chest burned with every breath.

When they took Miller away, alive, but unconscious, Bucky didn’t wait for orders. He didn’t wait for a debrief or a pat on the back.

He just walked.

Alone and limping, swallowed by the smoke and shadow. He was a ghost among the living.

And beneath the dull roar of the sirens and burning rubble, he heard it again…

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

***** 

But she said, "Where d'you wanna go? How much you wanna risk? I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts Some superhero, some fairy tale bliss Just something I can turn to, somebody I can kiss"

The bathroom was quiet, the special kind of hush that only comes after chaos. The overhead light was off, leaving the space bathed in the soft yellow light of the hallway nightlight. It was dim and warm, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. It was the same light she always left on for him. It was his beacon and her quiet promise: I’m still here. Come home.

Bucky sat on the closed toilet lid, hunched forward, jaw clenched against the dull fire still burning in his side. Blood had dried in dark, crusted streaks down his ribs, turning rust-colored as it flaked against the curve of his abdomen. His tac suit hung loose around his waist, half-unzipped and shredded, the fabric torn where shrapnel bit through.

She knelt between his legs on the cool tile floor, knees bare, hair pulled back in a messy knot, sleeves pushed past her elbows. The med kit lay open beside her, its contents spread with practiced efficiency: gauze, antiseptic, butterfly closures, tape, and gloves she never bothered putting on.

Her hands were steady.

His weren’t.

Bucky’s left hand rested gently against the curve of her thigh. Not to reassure her, but to anchor himself in a grounding touch. His hand on her was a silent, desperate plea: Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t let go.

She didn’t flinch at the blood. Didn’t ask what had happened or how bad it had been. She just worked, cleaning the wounds he hadn’t realized were there until the adrenaline wore off. Her focus was clinical, but her touch was tender, familiar, and intimate.

He watched her work with the same reverence he once gave battlefield strategy. He saw the line of her frown and the slight tension in her brow. His eyes trained on the way her fingers moved: neither hurried, nor afraid, just careful.

He should have said something. Anything.

But it was easier to stay quiet and pretend the shaking in his bones was just from blood loss and not shame.

The sting of antiseptic made him flinch involuntarily. She lifted her hand instinctively, pressing it lightly to his sternum for calming pressure.

“You didn’t call,” she said, her voice low, nearly a whisper.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

She looked at him then, and he immediately regretted it. Not because she was angry, she was never angry when he came home. Her eyes were calm, level. But not the comforting kind of calm. It was the kind of calm that settled in right before everything cracked.

“I always worry, love.”

He swallowed against the tightness rising in his throat.

“I messed up,” he said after a beat, the words scraping out of him like gravel. “I thought I had it under control. Thought I could handle it. But I wasn’t fast enough. Another kid got hurt. I couldn’t stop it.”

Her fingers paused, the cotton pad suspended just above the wound. The silence between them thickened.

“I keep thinking,” he continued, the words dragging, “if I were more like Steve… this wouldn’t keep happening. He would’ve seen it. Reacted faster. Saved the kid. Hell, he wouldn’t have let him run ahead in the first place.”

She didn’t speak, just set the cotton pad aside with a quiet, decisive motion. It wasn’t in anger or dismissal, she was just… done.

“You know,” he added, eyes dropping to the tile between them, “sometimes I think the only way I’m worth anything is if I throw myself into the fire first. If I can’t be perfect, then maybe I can at least be the shield. Take the hits so someone else doesn’t have to.”

She exhaled, slow and deep, like she was forcing herself to stay grounded.

Then she reached for a bandage, peeled the backing, and pressed it gently over the wound. Her fingers lingered there, far longer than necessary, fingers warm against his cooling skin.

“Useful,” she said softly, testing the word like it didn’t belong. “Perfect.”

He looked at her then, and she met his gaze without flinching.

“I didn’t marry you so you could die trying to live up to someone else’s legend,” she said, voice calm but heavy with meaning. “I didn’t fall in love with a soldier, or a symbol, or a story.”

She touched his face then, cupping his jaw, the pad of her thumb brushing the rough stubble along his cheek. Her hand was so soft. She was so human. So alive.

“I married you because you remember how I take my tea. Because you hum off-key when you think no one’s listening. Because you curl up like a cat when you sleep on the couch and starfish so wide you leave me no room in the bed.”

He let out a weak, cracked sound, half laugh, half breath.

She smiled faintly. “I didn’t want a superhero. I just wanted you. I want the man who eats dry cereal out of the box and insists he doesn’t snore even though he definitely does.”

Her thumb traced the faint scar near his temple. He leaned into her hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I don’t need a super soldier,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I need you. I need you to come home breathing and be mine.”

His grip tightened slightly on her thigh, metal fingers trembling now.

Then, softer, but firmer, her voice like steel wrapped in silk:

“If you die out there chasing perfection, trying to be someone you’re not… what does that leave me with?”

Bucky didn’t break in any visible way. No sobs or collapse. But something inside him gave way. It splintered like old wood under too much strain. All the guilt, the shame, the weight of failure cracked beneath her truth.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched and just breathed with her. Their eyes closed, and the silence holding him steady.

Just this moment, this woman, this heartbeat.

He wasn’t perfect.

But she never asked him to be.

She just needed him alive.

And slowly, carefully, like a man learning how to live again, Bucky let himself believe that might be enough.

*****

I want something just like this

Sunlight poured through the slats of the office blinds in narrow golden stripes, casting soft, shifting patterns across the surface of Sam’s desk. The warmth of it lent a sense of calm to the room, a small oasis of quiet in the otherwise sterile hum. Outside the window, the low murmur of city life crept in faintly: the rise and fall of voices, the distant thrum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter or siren. It felt so distant from the blood, dust, and shrapnel that had defined so much of Bucky’s life.

Bucky sat across from Sam, posture upright, shoulders squared, more out of habit than necessity. The light caught the edge of his vibranium knuckles where they rested loosely in his lap. His side ached with every breath beneath the bandage and taped over butterfly stitches, but he didn’t let it show.

Sam leaned back in his chair, a slow movement that betrayed both caution and curiosity. “You sure about this?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve been sure for a while.” He hesitated for just a moment, then added, “I just needed to stop pretending I wasn’t.”

Sam tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. He didn’t look skeptical, just thoughtful, as if weighing the truth beneath the words. “You’re not burned out, are you? If this is about that last op—”

“It’s not just that,” Bucky interrupted gently, his voice low but steady. “It’s everything. I’ve spent so much of my life reacting. Running toward the next fire. Trying to undo everything I’ve done, like there’s some tally I can balance out if I just throw myself at enough danger.”

Sam didn’t interrupt this time. He just listened.

“I don’t want to break even anymore,” Bucky said. His gaze drifted down to his scarred hand. His metal thumb absently traced a faint scar. “I want to build something. I want to be there when she wakes up. I want to make her tea and complain about her awful pop music and fix the leaky sink before she even notices it’s broken.”

He looked up again, quieter now. “I want to be present. For her. For us.”

The silence stretched comfortably between them. Sam studied him for a long beat, his expression unreadable behind the sunlight shadowing his face.

“She deserves more than a man who limps through the door half-alive every other week,” Bucky added.

Sam’s mouth curved faintly, less a smile and more an acknowledgment. “She say that?”

“No.” A wry huff of breath. “She said she just wants me. That if I keep trying to die perfect, it doesn’t leave her with anything to hold on to.”

Sam leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Damn.” Sam huffed, then gave it serious pause. “She’s right, though.”

Bucky nodded, jaw clenched against the emotion tugging at his throat. She was right. And it was terrifying, how deeply her words had stayed with him. I need you. I need you to come home breathing and be mine.

He drew a breath, steadying himself. “I still want to be involved. I’m not walking away from the work. I want to train new recruits. Help with intel. Tactical planning. Just… no more front-line missions. No more bleeding out in some alley in Prague wondering if she’s going to get a folded flag instead of a phone call.”

Sam leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. His voice softened. “That’s fair. And it’s overdue.”

His eyes met Bucky’s. “You more than earned this life, Buck. It’s about time you get to live it.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water, rippling outward, quiet but irrevocable. Not a grand declaration or a command. Just a truth Bucky had spent decades not believing he was allowed to hear.

He nodded again, slower this time. “Thanks, man.”

Sam grinned, standing up to give Bucky a hug goodbye. “Go on home to your girl.”

As Bucky turned toward the door, Sam called after him, voice casual but meaningful.

“Oh, by the way. The kid, Miller? He made it. Medics said it was close, but what you did out there kept him alive long enough for them to save him. Good work.”

Bucky stopped in the doorway. The words hit harder than they should have, reverberating in the space like a bell struck in a quiet church.

For a moment, he just stood there, back to Sam, hand resting lightly against the doorframe. His breath caught, then released slowly. Not a sigh, but something quieter. A pressure eased off his chest, like an old wound finally healing.

The knot that had been coiled in his gut since that night, tight, cold, and constant, unwound just a little. He hadn't let himself hope the boy would make it. Hadn’t let himself believe that maybe this time, it hadn’t ended in failure. That maybe, this time, he’d done something right.

He closed his eyes for half a second. He drew in a breath that finally felt easier and fuller.

The guilt didn’t vanish like a miracle, but it softened. And in its place, something unfamiliar stirred.

Relief. Not just that Miller lived, but that he had helped him live.

He didn’t say anything. Words would have felt too fragile for the moment, but his shoulders, always drawn just a little too tight, eased.

He nodded back at Sam once, jaw tight, throat thick.

And as Bucky stepped into the hallway, the sunlight following him was like a quiet promise as he walked toward home.

*****

I want something just like this

She was curled on the couch when he walked in, the soft creak of the front door breaking the quiet hum of the evening.

Late afternoon light spilled through the living room windows, warm and hazy, casting long stripes across the hardwood floor. The air was laced with the faint scent of lavender and something sweet from the candle burning low on the side table. A half-finished cup of herbal tea rested on a coaster near her elbow, its steam long since faded.

She sat with her legs tucked beneath her, one blanket-wrapped foot peeking out from under a knitted throw. Her hair was swept up into a loose bun, wisps falling around her face. A book lay open in her lap, pages gently curled from the warmth of her hands.

She looked up at the sound of the door, blinking as if surfacing from somewhere deep and quiet.

“You’re home early,” she said, her voice soft with pleasant surprise.

“Yeah,” he replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “Got a surprise for you.”

She set the book aside and stretched slowly, arms reaching overhead with a little groan of contentment. The hem of his old T-shirt she was wearing lifted slightly, revealing a sliver of her stomach before she padded across the room barefoot.

“Does the surprise involve dinner?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I would kill for something smothered in cheese.”

He snorted, amused. “No murder necessary.”

From behind his back, he produced a small bouquet, simple but thoughtful. Pale yellow daisies mixed with fresh lavender, the kind she always paused to admire at the weekend market but never bought for herself.

He watched her eyes light up like he’d handed her the moon.

“Bucky…”

“There’s more,” he said, his voice softening, slowing.

She tilted her head, lips parting, waiting.

“I talked to Sam,” he said. “I’m stepping back. No more front-line missions. No more nights where I come home bleeding and you patch me up like you’re a nurse on the front lines.”

Her breath caught.

“I want to be here,” he continued. “Every single day. I want to burn grilled cheese and fall asleep during bad movies. I want grocery runs with you and to argue about tile colors and starting tomorrow I’m going to fix that stupid leaky sink you keep reminding me about.”

He stepped closer, the flowers cradled in one hand, the other hand lifted, gentle fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I want a future. With you.”

Her eyes shimmered, brimming with emotion, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she surged forward, burying herself in his arms, warm and breathless, her embrace fierce with relief and love. He caught her without hesitation, one arm locking around her waist, despite the additional pain it caused in his side. It was worth it to hold her close. His other hand slid down between them, resting on the soft curve of her stomach.

And she stilled.

Pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You knew?”

“I had a feeling,” he said, voice thick with wonder. His thumb brushed over the soft cotton of her shirt. “You stopped drinking coffee in the mornings. And your scent, it changed. Just a little. I knew something was different. I didn’t know for sure, but… now I’m really glad I did this before I knew.”

She covered his hand with both of hers, gentle and protective.

They stood like that for a long moment, fingers intertwined, foreheads nearly touching, holding not just each other, but the quiet promise of everything to come.

The room around them was nothing extraordinary. A lived-in space of cozy throws, coffee rings on coasters, and mismatched mugs in the sink. But it was one they built together, one evening, one morning, one tiny decision at a time.

No legend, no mission. Exactly what they both wanted.

Something just like this.

This is my first one-shot, and it's also my first song-inspired fic!

Seeing my little writings reach people is the highlight of my day, so please let me know what you think!

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods Hello my Friends! Since this is my first one shot, and you all asked to be tagged when I only had the New Avengers series, please let me know if you want to be notified for the series ONLY, or for everything (if you don't reply, I'm gonna leave you on for everything, fyi)! No worries if you only want the series - I'm happy to accommodate you either way! ❤️

[knowledgeableknitter]

Ten Minutes is too Damn Long

A new fic-let

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (I wrote this with curvy/plus sized reader in mind, and the first part clearly is, but this part is less obvious)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: Your Congressman husband just defended your honor at a gala. Now you show your appreciation in the limo on the ride home.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ MDNI. It's smut. In the back of a limo. Riding Bucky. Slight obsession vibes, from both of you. Him threatening violence gets you off.

Author’s Note: This is Part 2 to "Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.", but each can be read as stand alone.

Masterlist

His breath caught. Then he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“You are the dessert.”

You were still smirking when his fingers curled around your wrist, pulling you just slightly off balance, not roughly, but with purpose. His eyes burned hotter than the city lights behind him.

“Ten minutes is too damn long, sweetheart.”

“Bucky—”

But he was already walking, already leading you through a narrow side hall, past guests sipping champagne and pretending not to notice how tightly his hand held yours. Every step matched his tension. He was silent as he marched on, his jaw locked as though restraint was costing him more than he could afford.

He found a door marked ‘Private’, a single-occupant restroom, all marble and gold fixtures, and tugged you inside before anyone could look twice.

The lock clicked.

You turned toward him, lips parted, ready to tease, but he was already on his knees.

Just like that, no words, no hesitation.

Just Bucky Barnes, the man half the room wanted and the other half feared, sinking to the floor in front of you in his tailored suit, like you were something to worship.

His hands came up slow, sliding over your calves, then the backs of your thighs, coaxing your legs apart with nothing but reverence. He looked up at you, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

“I need to taste you. Now.”

You opened your mouth to say something, some kind of protest, maybe just a curse, but he was already lifting the hem of your cocktail dress.

“Bucky, we’re—”

“—In public?” His voice was low, gravel and smoke. “No one’s gonna hear you. And if they do?” He kissed the inside of your thigh, hot and slow. “Good.”

You pressed your hand to the marble counter behind you, balance faltering as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and eased them down your legs.

He tucked them into his jacket pocket like a trophy.

“You have no idea what you did to me tonight,” he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, dragging his mouth along your skin like it might burn him. “Standing there like you own the world… then reminding everyone you own me, too.”

You barely managed to keep standing when his mouth finally found you.

His tongue swept through your folds, slow at first, then insistent, groaning as he tasted you.

Your knees buckled slightly, and his hands shot up, palms splayed across your thighs to hold you steady.

You whimpered, trying not to let your head hit the mirror behind you. “Fuck, Bucky—”

He growled against you. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours. All yours.”

He latched onto your clit like he was starved, sucking with the kind of focus only a man on his knees and in love could give.

You gripped his hair, one hand planted against the sink for balance. Every swipe of his tongue was a worship, every moan of his name a litany. The sounds were filthy in the silence, wet, hungry, and frantic.

He pulled back just enough to rasp: “Don’t hold back. I want them to hear how good I make you feel.”

You gasped his name again, thighs shaking.

You came hard, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashed through you. Your body trembled, and Bucky held you still, tongue never stopping until you begged.

Your back hit the mirror. Your hand fumbled for the edge of the counter as your vision blurred.

Bucky stood slowly, mouth slick, pupils blown wide. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath his wrinkled dress shirt. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

“I should let you make that speech more often,” he said, voice wrecked and reverent.

You let out a breathless laugh, still catching yourself. “I just might if this is the result. That was not subtle.”

“Neither was the way you claimed me.” His hands smoothed over your waist, then down your back, possessive and grounding. “Fair’s fair.”

You looked down at yourself, dress hiked up, lipstick slightly smudged, thighs trembling.

He reached out and tucked a curl behind your ear. Kissed your temple.

“You taste like mine,” he whispered. “And I want you to remember it for the rest of the night.”

You blinked up at him. “We’re skipping dessert.”

He grinned, slow and wrecked. “I already had dessert.”

You tugged your dress back down, still trembling slightly as he adjusted your posture for you with quiet care, straightening your straps, and fixing your necklace, like nothing about you could ever be out of place.

He turned you toward the mirror, hands on your waist.

“Your lipstick is still smudged,” he murmured behind you.

“So fix it.”

You expected him to ask for your lipstick or something, but he didn’t.

Instead, he swiped his thumb across your lower lip, then ran it over the corner of your mouth in one clean motion.

He didn’t ask you to check it.

Just whispered, “Perfect.”

You turned to leave, but he grabbed your hand, gentle, but firm, and kissed the back of it like he was still on his knees.

“Let’s go home.”

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld

[knowledgeableknitter]

Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.

A new fic-let. Last weekend, we saw Bucky shut down a man who was after you. Now it's your turn to shut down a woman after your husband.

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (plus sized/curvy wife! reader)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: You defend your place next to your husband while at a rooftop event. Congressman Barnes likes it.

Trigger Warnings: You shutting down an impudent strumpet.

Author’s Note: This is Part 1. Part 2 tomorrow, but both can be read as stand alone.

Masterlist

The rooftop terrace glittered beneath soft string lights strung between marble columns, D.C.’s skyline glowing in the distance. Laughter floated through the air like perfume, blending with the clinking of glasses and the muted strains of a string quartet playing something elegant, forgettable.

You didn’t care about any of it.

Your husband stood in front of you, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting on your hip, its natural place. His navy suit was custom-fit, tie loosened just slightly, hair pushed back with just enough intentional mess to drive you wild. His focus hadn’t drifted from you all evening.

You were laughing at something he’d murmured under his breath, brushing your fingers against his lapel, your cocktail dress hugging you in all the ways it was designed to.

You had Bucky Barnes’s full attention. That meant everything else faded into the background.

Until she appeared.

Sleek, blonde, and professionally charming, she was one of those “strategic networkers” who made a career of being seen with powerful men and acting like the women next to them didn’t exist. She swept toward Bucky like she had every right, her voice lilting and just a little too loud.

“Oh, Congressman Barnes,” she purred, her hand lightly touching his forearm. “I’ve been dying to catch you tonight.”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, bored, and took another sip of your drink.

Bucky didn’t turn toward her. Didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed locked on you.

That only seemed to embolden her.

She laughed softly. “And here I thought you’d be surrounded. I should’ve gotten to you earlier.”

Still, he said nothing. And still, his gaze stayed on you, jaw tight, lips pressed into the ghost of a smile.

“I imagine it must be hard,” she said, glancing between you with all the subtlety of a blunt knife. “Keeping his attention, I mean. A man like him…” She let the words trail off, suggestive and dripping.

You let the silence hang for just a moment longer, long enough to give her the rope.

Then you stepped forward, slow and easy, slipping your hand over Bucky’s chest as you turned fully toward her. His hand dropped from his pocket to rest gently against the curve of your hip, fingers flexing once, like he was grounding himself.

You smiled, and not warmly.

“He’s taken,” you said softly. “Fully. Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.”

Her lips parted, just slightly.

You didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“You must be used to men who forget what they have. Can’t relate.”

She froze, blinking twice before recovering with a weak laugh. “I didn’t mean—of course, I didn’t mean—”

You tilted your head, still smiling. “Didn’t you?”

Bucky’s fingers slid just slightly along the fabric of your dress, both possessive and devoted. His jaw was tight now with restraint. He still hadn’t looked at her even once. His entire world was wrapped around the sound of your voice and the shape of your silhouette beside him.

The woman excused herself a moment later, muttering something that could’ve been an apology, or just the word “sorry” stuffed into a shoe and dragged out of her mouth like it hurt.

She walked away fast.

You didn’t look after her. You turned back to Bucky and raised your glass, brushing your lips over the rim like nothing had happened.

His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and a little stunned. The man was entirely yours.

“You say things like that,” he murmured, voice low and raw, “and expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

You shrugged one shoulder, pretending to sip. “That was me being tactful.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your jaw without touching your skin. “My beautiful menace,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You love it.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist, then settled again, a deep, slow breath pushing through his chest.

“How many more do you think I’ll have to fend off tonight?” you murmured.

He chuckled, low and soft. “Hard to say. You’d think they’d learn.”

You took another sip and tilted your head toward him. “Some people never do.”

“They will eventually,” he said. “Probably once your reputation rivals mine.” 

That earned a real laugh out of you. 

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear. “I like this side of you.”

You arched a brow. “Which one?”

“The one that shuts it all down with one sentence. And then walks away like she didn’t just ruin a woman’s entire fantasy life.”

You smirked. “That wasn’t her fantasy. That was delusion.”

His lips twitched. “Well, it died a quick death.”

He looked at you then like you were the only thing worth worshipping on this rooftop. Not the lights, not the skyline, not the city or his career. Just you.

“So,” he groaned, quiet but wrecked., “how fast do you think can we leave without making a scene?”

You stepped a little closer, lips barely grazing the curve of his jaw. “We could try in ten minutes,” you replied, already walking your fingers down the length of his tie. “I want dessert first.”

His breath caught. Then he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“You are my dessert.”

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd