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mandoalorian · 12 days ago

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the tags… 😭😭😭

this made my whole day, i love you @brnsswthrt 🥺🥺🥺

I love you work so much! 💞💞💞 I was wondering if I could request a sub!bucky smut where maybe he's inexperienced after being in hydra for so long and is scared and whimpers (I swear bucky whimpering is one of the seven wonders of the world) and maybe he cums in his pants or smth? If that's not something you're into no worries! I wish you the best all the same! 🫶🫶🫶

calm in wakanda.

synopsis: you’re sent by steve rogers to keep an eye on bucky barnes as he rehabilitates in wakanda. in a moment of tender vulnerability, bucky experiences the touch he thought he no longer deserved.

warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact, clothed sex, dry humping, sub!bucky, inexperienced!bucky, touch starved!bucky, whimpering, soft praise kink, hurt/comfort, mentions of hydra and ptsd, feelings of unworthiness, gentle aftercare, soft smut but heavy emotional intimacy <3

word count: 3.2K

bucky barnes masterlist

Wakanda was never quiet in the way you expected.

Even in its stillness, there was always sound — the soft chirp of birds, the wind through the trees, the hum of distant vibranium pulses in the earth. You’d assumed a nation so advanced would feel cold, sterile. But it was alive in every sense. Organic. Vibrant. Peaceful.

It made Bucky Barnes feel even more like a ghost.

You saw him for the first time across a sun-drenched courtyard, pacing slow circles in the sand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. No weapons. Just that red tunic tied low on his hips and a look on his face that wasn’t quite grief, but not quite peace either. His hair had been longer than you remembered from the footage—tied back, unruly. He looked like a man who didn’t know what to do with stillness. Like someone who hadn’t yet decided if he deserved it.

Steve hadn’t said much when he asked you to go.

“I just think he needs someone who won’t see him as a threat,” he told you. “Shuri and the Dora are doing their part, but he’s… withdrawing. And I trust you.”

You weren’t sent to fix him.

Just to observe. To monitor his mental and emotional rehabilitation after the cryo sleep. To make sure the Winter Soldier wasn’t clawing his way back through cracks in Bucky’s mind.

But after two weeks, your reports were thin. There wasn’t much to say. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. He trained, bathed, ate. He never complained. Never smiled. Never asked for anything. You couldn’t tell if that was progress or survival.

Still, you tried.

You left books by his door. Sat nearby during meals without pushing conversation. You offered him simple things—tea, an extra blanket, help braiding his hair when it fell into his face during sparring. Sometimes he accepted. Sometimes he didn’t. But you never forced it. You let the silence grow soft between you.

Eventually, he began walking with you in the mornings.

Then he started sitting near you during evening meals.

He still didn’t talk much, but his presence shifted—just slightly. Less rigid. Like his muscles had stopped bracing for impact. Like he was finally letting the quiet sink in.

And somewhere between the long silences and careful smiles, a rhythm formed.

You stopped seeing him as an assignment.

And he started looking at you like a tether. Something grounding. Familiar.

Something safe.

That’s what tonight was supposed to be. Just another quiet evening. Another layer of slow trust.

You made dinner—something simple with vegetables from the garden, rice soaked in ginger broth—and he came to your quarters without you asking. He always did now. He never knocked anymore.

You sat close on the floor cushions afterward, sipping tea and listening to the rain as it whispered against the window panes. You’d put on a movie for background noise—something old and grainy, all velvet tones and longing stares—but neither of you had been watching.

You were too aware of him.

The weight of his thigh near yours. The fall of his hair over his cheek. The scarred line where his metal arm used to be, shadowed by the low flicker of lamplight.

And then—

His hand brushed yours.

Fleeting. Unintended.

But it lingered.

And that was when you knew: something had changed.

It wasn’t in his posture—he still sat stiffly beside you, legs pulled up, red tunic falling loosely around the slope of his shoulder. It wasn’t in his breathing, though that had gone quiet, shallow. It was in his stillness.

Bucky only got still like that when something in him was breaking.

The movie flickered across the wall, all forgotten dialogue and soft music. You sat cross-legged, a mug of now-cold tea cradled in your hands, and you could feel the weight of him beside you. Tense. Heavy. Waiting.

And then, softly—like he wasn’t sure if the words were real or not—

“I want to touch you.”

You blinked.

Your head turned slowly to face him, and his blue eyes were already on you, wide and glassy and afraid. Like the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

“Bucky,” you said gently. “What do you mean?”

He flinched. You felt it ripple through him, a shudder just beneath the surface of skin. He sat up straighter, pulled his knees in a little tighter. Like he was preparing to run. Or disappear.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut down. Talk to me.”

“I just—” He looked away. His jaw clenched. “I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

You reached for him slowly, not touching until you were sure he wouldn’t flinch—and when you rested your hand on his arm, his only arm, he froze.

Not pulling away.

Not leaning in.

Just still.

The fabric beneath your hand was soft and worn from countless washings, still warm from his skin. You felt the tension beneath it. Felt how tightly he held himself together.

“Where?” you asked plainly.

“What?” Bucky’s voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed. “Where do you want to touch me?”

Then, he turned his head toward you. His eyes flicked up, searching your face like he didn’t believe this was real. And then—without a word—they dropped to your lips.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

“Oh,” you whispered, the word catching softly in your throat. “Oh.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

You leaned in slowly—so slowly he could’ve stopped you a dozen times—and you kissed him.

It was soft at first. Barely there. A test. A question. But then he answered.

He pressed back with a quiet desperation, the barest tremble running through his lips. His hand came up—not sure where to go, not quite touching you—and then dropped back down to his lap, like he didn’t trust himself. You shifted closer, let your fingers slide up the side of his neck, into his hair. He gasped, and the sound shot straight through you.

The kiss deepened.

His breath hitched, and you could feel the way his body reacted, the way he leaned toward you like it was involuntary.

When you finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes fluttered open, dazed.

“Is that what you meant?” you asked.

He nodded, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

“Was that your first kiss since…?” you asked gently.

He nodded again, slower this time.

You cupped his face with both hands, warm and steady. “It was nice.”

Bucky’s cheeks flushed crimson. “Okay.”

“I thought…” You paused, hands now folding in your lap, unsure how to finish the sentence without breaking the spell. “I didn’t think you were interested.”

That caught his attention. You’d positioned it like it was something you’d considered before. Something you’d thought about.

His brow furrowed, lashes sweeping low, lips parting with a breath you weren’t sure he’d meant to release.

“Interested?” he echoed, voice faint.

You gave a gentle, awkward shrug. “I just mean… you never said anything. Never looked at me like that. I thought you didn’t—”

“I did,” he interrupted, and then flinched at his own urgency. His cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable pink.

“I do,” he corrected, quieter now. “I just… I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

You stared at him for a moment, stunned by the fragility of his voice. The way he looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

“Bucky…” you whispered, breath catching.

He shook his head, not in disagreement, but like he was trying to shake something loose. Shame, maybe. Fear. Whatever tightly-wound thread had kept him holding back until now.

“I didn’t mean to confuse you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a shaky hand. “I just—I’ve been quiet so long I forgot how to ask for what I want. And with you… I was afraid if I said something, it would ruin this. Whatever this is. I mean, it’s probably nothing. I just overthink. I’m so used to being in my own head all the time. I know Steve sent you to watch me… and that I’m just an assignment to you. I’m so stupid, I—”

“Bucky, stop.”

You looked at him, really looked. The slope of his shoulders under the red tunic, the way he held himself like he was always bracing for rejection. You’d known him long enough to understand the signs. He didn’t trust easily, not even himself.

“Do you really think I would’ve pushed you away?” you asked, gently.

He hesitated. Then nodded. A tiny, reluctant motion.

And there it was—the heart of him, cracked open in a single gesture.

Because this was the version of Bucky that few ever saw. Not the assassin. Not the ghost Steve mourned or the asset Hydra forged. But the man in-between. The one still learning how to occupy his own skin. The one who watched your hands when you spoke, not to scan for weapons, but because he liked the way you moved. The one who hadn’t touched anyone in years—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t believe he deserved to.

He was confident once, you knew that. You’d read the files. The charming kid from Brooklyn who could smooth-talk his way into any bar or out of any fight. The man who’d winked at nurses and swaggered into battle like death had no teeth. But confidence was a muscle, and war had atrophied it. Hydra had severed it completely.

Now he was relearning. Piece by piece. Hesitant. Vulnerable.

But still—he was trying.

“I didn’t think you’d want someone like me,” he said suddenly, gaze fixed on the floor. “Not when I’m like this. No arm. All this history. All these… cracks.”

You moved before you could think, reaching for him. Your hand found his knee, grounding, steady.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re not broken.”

He glanced up. Just barely. His throat bobbed.

“I don’t feel whole,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said. “You don’t have to be whole for me to care about you.”

He exhaled then—like a storm letting go of the wind. His hand reached for yours again, trembling less this time.

“Every time you touched me,” he murmured, “I wanted more. Even if it was just the brush of your hand or the nudge of your shoulder… I… I felt it everywhere.”

You brushed your thumb across the back of his fingers, voice barely audible.

“Then take more.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

So you leaned in, kissed him again—gently, slowly, no pressure.

And this time, he didn’t pull back.

He leaned into it.

Opened his mouth under yours with a small, aching noise that shot heat straight down your spine. His hand curled into the fabric at your waist, tugging you a little closer, still unsure but needing something—needing you.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter how long he’d been silent. Or how many pieces he still hadn’t put back together.

Right here, with the soft press of his lips and the low, desperate catch in his throat—

He was present.

He was real.

And he was yours to hold.

He kissed you like he was afraid it wouldn’t happen again.

Slow, aching, breathless—like the taste of your lips was something he’d memorised in dreams but never believed he’d actually have. His hand—his only hand—moved from your waist to your side, unsure, then back again, like he didn’t know where to keep it. The fabric of your shirt bunched under his fingers.

You deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to part his lips and let your tongue brush his, and that was all it took—he gasped, a soft, guttural sound that punched from his chest and made your body tighten in response. His mouth chased yours before he realised it, breath stuttering.

His cheeks flushed instantly. “Shit—sorry—”

“Don’t be,” you whispered against his lips. “You’re doing perfect.”

That praise nearly broke him.

He looked dazed. His eyes were glassy, lashes fluttering, lips pink from kissing. You could see the war behind them—this tug-of-war between instinct and shame, between want and permission. His thighs were pressed together, rigid, and he kept shifting his hips like he couldn’t not chase friction.

“Can I…” he asked hoarsely, voice low, forehead almost touching yours. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, and he exhaled, like that one word cost him everything.

His palm slid beneath your shirt—bare skin to bare skin. Hesitant. Reverent. You felt the pads of his fingers trace along your ribs, the heel of his hand trembling as he moved higher. You kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the scarred edge of his neck. His hips jerked at that, and you felt the way his cock pressed against the inside of his pants—hard, twitching, aching.

“Fuck—sorry—I didn’t mean to—” He was already panting, already flustered, eyes wide and overwhelmed.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “It’s okay. Don’t apologise. That’s your body telling you what it wants.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “I haven’t wanted like this in so long,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not where it was mine to feel.”

Your heart cracked right open.

You climbed into his lap without thinking, straddling him gently, careful not to overwhelm. His breath hitched—sharply. His thighs tensed beneath you, his head falling back just slightly as your weight settled in his lap.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah—please.”

You cupped his face and kissed him again. This time he kissed back with more urgency, his lips parting beneath yours, his breathing already quickening. You let your hips shift, just a little — the barest drag of your body over his.

The sound he made was devastating. A low, desperate moan that caught halfway in his throat, as if it surprised him.

You did it again, slower this time. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“Feels good?” you murmured.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressing to yours. “Too good.”

You smiled against his mouth. “That’s the point.”

You rocked against him again, and the friction was undeniable — the heat of his body through the thin barrier of his pants, the way he shifted up into you instinctively. Each small grind pulled a different sound from him: a sharp inhale, a broken whimper, a soft curse under his breath.

“God—” he gasped, his voice rough and breathless. His hips twitched, chasing you without thought.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

His blush deepened, his jaw going slack as you moved against him in a slow, steady rhythm. You kept the pressure constant, the pace gentle, enough to let him sink into it without fear. But his body was already betraying him — trembling thighs, shallow breaths, the faintest, uncontrollable jerks of his hips beneath you.

“Fuck, I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t—”

You rolled your hips again, slower but harder this time, and his head tipped back against the cushions. A choked sound escaped him, high and helpless.

“Bucky,” you breathed, lips brushing his ear. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

His hand fisted in the fabric at your hip. “I—shit—no, I’m—”

“Let go,” you murmured, your voice firm and warm at once. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

That broke him.

He gasped — a ragged, desperate sound — and his hips jerked up into you in short, stuttering thrusts. The warmth spread quickly between you as he came, his whole body trembling violently. A strangled whimper caught in his throat as he buried his face in your shoulder, trying to hide.

You stayed with him, moving your hand to the back of his neck, holding him through every shudder.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good boy. So good for me.”

He was shaking.

His arm curled around you, fingers digging into your back, holding you like he was scared you’d vanish. His voice was wrecked against your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t think—”

You shushed him softly, stroking his hair.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured. “You needed that. Didn’t you?”

He nodded. Slowly. Breath still catching in his throat.

“I didn’t think it would feel that good,” he admitted, voice ragged. “I didn’t think I was allowed to have that anymore.”

“You’re allowed,” you said, pulling back to look him in the eye. “You’re allowed to want. You’re allowed to feel. It doesn’t make you weak.”

His eyes brimmed with something heavy. Gratitude. Relief. Grief.

You kissed his forehead.

“Next time,” you whispered, “we take our time. And I show you just how good it can be.”

He let out a small, wrecked noise in response. Something between a breath and a sob, though it never fully formed. You could feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin, the heat of his cheeks blooming pink under the dim golden light.

“I didn’t mean to make a mess,” he said quietly.

You kept stroking your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic.

“I like the mess,” you murmured. “It means you let go.”

He shivered—full-body—and you realised just how much he’d been holding in. Not just tonight. All of it. The months of silence. The years of suppression. The tight, angry coil of shame that wrapped around every thread of pleasure and told him he wasn’t allowed to want.

You leaned back slightly and cupped his jaw, gently guiding him to look at you.

His eyes were glassy. Red-rimmed. He looked undone in the most beautiful way.

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed,” you said, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Not with me.”

“I’m not used to… this,” he whispered. “Being touched like I matter.”

You felt it like a punch to the heart.

“You do matter,” you said, firm and low. “You’re not just something Hydra made. You’re not a soldier, or a weapon. You’re James Buchanan Barnes and you deserve softness.”

His throat bobbed.

Then—so quietly it nearly broke you—he asked:

“Can I stay here?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Of course you can.”

He exhaled shakily, and you could tell he was trying to keep it together. That old Winter Soldier reflex: contain, suppress, control. But it was slipping. He was raw and unguarded, and that was okay.

You kissed the side of his head. “C’mere.”

You helped him shift out from under you slowly, guiding him down to lay across the cushions. You tugged a soft blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his waist, then curled beside him, pulling his head into your chest. His arm wrapped around your torso automatically, instinctive, and the sound he made when you carded your fingers through his hair again was devastating—like he didn’t know people were allowed to be touched like that.

Like he hadn’t known until now that he needed it.

You scratched lightly at his scalp, whispered quiet affirmations as his breathing slowly steadied. Every once in a while, he’d whisper your name—not asking anything, not expecting a response. Just saying it. Holding onto it.

As if your name was the only anchor he had in a body that finally, finally belonged to him again.

You held him until he drifted off in your arms.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes @torntaltos @risingwolf97 @overwintering-soldier @doilooklikeagiveafrack @brelione @boomyoulookingforthis

Let me know if you want to be added!

#nice things #morning reblog

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mandoalorian · 12 days ago

Text

the life of a showgirl | bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: when the new avengers go undercover at the glamorous orange-lit club sunset mirage, bucky barnes is supposed to be gathering intel—not falling into an all-consuming obsession with the showgirl who owns the stage and, before long, his every thought.

warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact, no use of y/n, protected p in v, male recieving oral, fingering, riding, dry humping, male masturbation, voyeurism (lap dance with an audience), dirty talk, over stimulation, non-consenual touch (not from bucky), violence/physical fight, body worship, aftercare, misconceptions/stereotypes about dancers, mentions of sex work, mob/mafia themes, wilson fisk is here lol don't ask i've been playing spiderman on ps5.

word count: 11K

author’s note: today is my day off work, and the TS12 news that came this morning had me vibrating with excitement. so of course, i had to channel my inspiration into a bucky fic for you all. fun fact: one of my all time favourite movies is moulin rouge, so expect those sort of vibes. i hope you enjoy! & feedback is appreciated, always.

bucky barnes masterlist

You weren’t there to see how the city bared its teeth that night.

Vegas—no, not Vegas; something older wearing Vegas like a costume—glimmered beneath a sheath of neon, all vibrant orange seams and gold thread, a seamstress’s dream stitched over a bruise. Down on Kestrel Boulevard, where the air tasted like champagne and cigarette sugar, the club’s sign curved in cursive: Sunset Mirage. The promise and the warning in one breath.

Inside, the place was plush and sinful in a way that made men feel rich even before they’d lost a dime. Velvet booths, brass rails polished to a fever shine, mirrors angled to multiply every light and make the room look endless. Music lapped the walls—lazy horns, a piano with a sly grin. Waiters in white gloves sluiced between tables with bottles, the bubbles winking like secrets. A stage slept behind a curtain of glittering beads, a closed eye with a heavy lash.

Bucky and John walked in like sin had a dress code they were determined to obey. Tailored suits, cufflinks that caught the light, the solemn grace of men pretending to be the kind of men who threw money for sport. John was showier; he liked to be seen. Bucky was a bruise under a sleeve—present, quiet, impossible to ignore if you knew where to look. He carried the room with a stillness that turned heads, as if the noise bent around him out of habit.

“Play nice, gentlemen,” Valentina’s voice purred through the comm in Bucky’s ear, silk over steel. “Blending in looks a lot like money. Try to look expensive.”

“I am expensive,” John said, already flashing a smile at the hostess. “Tell ’em Walker’s here to lose a little dignity and a lot of cash.”

“More dignity than cash,” Yelena’s dry Russian lilt crackled across the channel, followed by the faint clink of rhinestones. “I am down a pair of earrings already. I hate this.”

Bucky’s mouth tipped at the corner. “You volunteered for feathers,” he murmured, eyes sweeping the room the way a current reads a shoreline—mapping exits, counting faces, weighing posture. He clocked the pit boss with a shark’s smile, the corner table with too much privacy for a club that sold spectacle, the balcony rail with a perfect vantage and no drinks left sweating on it. He catalogued the weight of the space in his bones. Whole, then hollow, then whole again.

“Yeah, better me in feathers than Bob,” Bucky could practically hear Yelena’s eye roll through the comms as she scoffed incredulously.

“Last time I was in feathers was when Alfredo’s Bail Bonds had me dressed in a chicken costume,” Bob muttered from somewhere on a different channel. Bucky hadn’t even realised he was part of this mission.

“Right, when you were addicted to meth,” Walker grumbled.

“Anyways,” Yelena interrupted. “I volunteered to outshine. Feathers are just a path to glory.”

A second voice joined hers: Ava, soft but amused. “Yeah, if glory is a ten-pound headdress that doesn’t clear the dressing-room doorway.”

“Beauty is pain,” Yelena replied. “Also, pins. Lots of pins. Bucky, if you step on my train, I will dislocate your shoulder.”

“Copy,” he said, not bothering to hide the warmth in his voice. Family had a thousand dialects; theirs was bickering on an encrypted channel.

Outside, Alexei revved the engine of a limousine so ostentatious it should have come with its own brass band. The paint job was a wet, boastful red; the chrome trim winked like it knew all your secrets and charged by the hour. RED GUARDIAN glowed on the dash in block letters, an overly dramatic threat and a promise of a ride.

“I am parked,” Alexei announced, proud. “The valet tried to take keys. I told him only a true champion drives this beast. He cried. From respect.”

“From fumes,” John muttered, accepting two glasses of whiskey from a passing tray and handing one to Bucky. “Here, Barnes. Toast to another night of pretending we like each other.”

Bucky didn’t toast. He lifted the glass, let the smell curl into his head—oak and smoke, memory and heat—and put it down untouched. His gaze continued its slow prowl, always moving without looking like it was. John sprawled in the booth like he owned it, knee jacked out, tie loosened with the impatience of a man allergic to collars.

“Eyes on the prize,” Valentina reminded them over the secure channel, grounded and calm from an unmarked van three blocks away. “We’re not here to get cute. Fisk runs a network that moves hardware and information under casino lights. We confirm the ledger. We get out.”

“Ledger,” Yelena echoed. “Small black notebook, raised emboss on the spine, smells like leather and laundering.”

Ava hummed. “Back office is keyed to a biometric. I’ll need a friend.”

“You have me,” Yelena said, and Bucky could hear the smile.

They were good, the girls. Soft where the world expected hard, bright where the world dismissed. The trick wasn’t feathers or lipstick. It was eye contact. It was knowing precisely when to let it slide away.

A hostess led Bucky and John to a corner booth with a clean line of sight to the stage. The table was shadowed enough to keep them unremarkable, but not so dark a security camera would wonder why. The lighting was intentional here—everything in this club was—because the house understood the power of suggestion. Give a man two-thirds of a picture and he’ll spend his fortune inventing the rest.

“You see the pit boss?” John asked, too close to Bucky’s ear, breath warm, tone pitched just for him. He’d learned spycraft, but he wore it like cologne—loud, for other people to smell. “That guy’s wired like a Christmas tree.”

“Mmh.” Bucky tracked the gleam at the boss’s wrist, the bump at his lapel, the habit of touching his right hip when someone laughed too hard. Not a weapon. A comfort tick. Holster memory. “Former security. Not military. Walk’s wrong.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” John said.

“You’re slouching,” Bucky answered.

John huffed. “Bite me.”

“After the mission,” Yelena said sweetly.

Ava’s laugh came like chimes. “Doors are coded but the runners chat. One mentioned ‘the King’ arriving late. Think that’s Fisk?”

“Kingpin,” Valentina supplied. “Yes. He’s not expected front-of-house, but his shadow is long. Don’t touch him if he touches you. Not tonight.”

Bucky’s hand, flesh and metal, went quiet on the table. Not tonight was different from never. He filed it. He filed everything to the back of his mind.

A pianist slid into something slow and honeyed. The mirrors behind the bar caught it and turned it to light. A trio of dancers crossed the back of the room, feathers bobbing like exotic birds migrating south for the season. Guests leaned in. Credit cards thought about their choices.

“House is seating the whales,” John murmured, eyes on the tuxedos drifting toward the rope line nearest the stage. “Show’s in five.”

“Copy,” Yelena said, voice suddenly lower, breath a little closer to the mic. Bucky pictured her in sequins, shoulders bared, posture perfect, a blade wrapped in velvet. “Ava and I are on the move.”

“Watch your corners,” Sam said.

“Watch your corners,” Yelena returned, and the channel crackled with fond exasperation that softened the edges of the night.

Bucky watched the staff, the exits, the way the air shifted moments before a curtain rose. He listened to the hush as anticipation slipped its hand into the room’s pocket, stealing breath. He felt John bristle beside him with a restless, competitive energy that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the way John wanted the world to see him—loud enough to drown the quiet parts.

Bucky didn’t need to be seen. He needed to see.

The club’s lighting dipped, as if someone had pinched the wick of the evening between finger and thumb. Conversations thinned to whispers. The bead curtain at the stage’s mouth shivered as if a gust had made it blush. A spotlight traced a lazy circle across velvet, slow as a heartbeat, then tightened like a promise.

“Positions,” Ava breathed, and there was a new note in her voice—anticipation’s cousin, nerves dressed as bravery. Somewhere behind that curtain, backstage lights seared white, hands smoothed satin, pins were checked and checked again. Somewhere a breath was held.

“Alexei,” Valentina said. “Engine.”

“Already purring,” Alexei replied, delighted. “She likes to be ready.”

John drummed his fingers. “Let’s get the ledger and go before I start tipping out of boredom.”

“You don’t tip,” Bucky said mildly.

“I tip when I’m pretending to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, this is you pretending to be a gentleman?”

John grinned, flashing teeth. “I prefer the term ‘artist’.”

“This club is adults only,” Yelena warned, and Bucky could hear the grin in her voice now. “So stop acting like kids before it draws unnecessary attention.”

A low laugh rolled through Bucky before he could stop it. It lived in his chest and warmed his throat and did nothing to slow the clocking, the methodical scanning, the weight of habit that kept him intact. He sipped his whiskey finally, just enough to look like he belonged, and set the glass down where a fingerprint wouldn’t matter.

On the balcony, a camera’s red eye winked. At the rope line, a guard shifted his stance to hide a key fob that wasn’t for show. Near the bar, a runner with ink on his fingers slipped a slim black book beneath a tray liner before vanishing toward the back corridor.

“There,” Bucky said, quiet. “Ava, your door’s about to open. Runner headed your way with a book. Black, embossed spine.”

“Copy,” Ava replied, and the flirt lilt fell away, leaving something sharp. “On him.”

“Yelena?” Sam prompted.

“Already moving,” she said, unconcerned. “Try not to miss me.”

The stage lights bloomed.

Sound gathered itself like silk being drawn through a ring; the room inhaled with it. The curtain’s fringe swayed, the brass rails caught starbursts, and somewhere deep in the structure of the building, the bass thumped like a second, larger heart.

Bucky didn’t know he’d been waiting for it until his pulse answered.

He didn’t know your name yet. He didn’t know the particular shade of red they’d painted your mouth, or the way your laugh would sound later when the audience had gone home and the glitter lay on tile like fallen constellations. He didn’t know the cadence of your steps or the way your gaze would skim over men who howled for you and land on the one who didn’t.

He only knew the room leaned toward the stage as if gravity had shifted—every eye, every breath, every dollar and sin—and that whatever stepped through those beads would change the night.

“On you,” Valentina murmured, and Bucky folded himself into the booth’s shadow, a patient line of tension from shoulder to ankle.

The music swelled.

The curtain parted.

The moment the beads parted, the room forgot itself.

The hush that had draped over the crowd broke apart, spilling into a wave of low whistles, appreciative murmurs, the clink of glasses raised instinctively toward the stage.

And then there was you.

Orange—not just orange, but the molten glow of a desert sunset—wrapped your body in sequins and silk. It caught every lick of light and flung it back into the room until the air seemed warmer for it. The color made your skin luminous, the way fire does when you stand too close. It bled into the long, arched plumes of your headdress, the tips of the feathers dusted gold so they winked when you moved. Every step sent a ripple of shimmer down the line of your legs, sheer stockings catching hints of light, rhinestones flashing like sparks along your hips.

The band hit a brassy, sultry note, and you walked like the music belonged to you—hips swaying just enough to make the crowd lean forward, shoulders back so the delicate straps of your costume curved against your skin.

Bucky wasn’t breathing. He was certain of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Valentina’s voice was a faint, “Yelena, status?” but it might as well have been happening in another universe.

“Would you look at that…” John’s voice came from just over the rim of his glass, lazy and smug. “I’ll take her over the ledger any day. Wonder what’s under—”

Bucky’s head turned just enough for John to see the flicker in his eye, the kind of cold that didn’t require words. John lifted both hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, Barnes. I’m just appreciating the view.”

But Bucky wasn’t appreciating. He was studying. He was learning.

You commanded the stage like you’d been born under its lights. Your eyes swept over the front tables, a playful pass that made strangers feel chosen, and yet—when you looked away—they seemed almost disappointed, as if they’d imagined the connection. You gave the crowd enough to keep them leaning in but never enough to take.

It was the armour of a woman who knew the difference between power and danger.

From his seat, Bucky tracked the subtle tells—the way you let a leering man’s comment slide off without so much as a twitch in your smile, the precise angle of your arm when you bent to lift a long cigarette holder from the prop tray, the half-second pause before you let one of the tuxedoed “high rollers” take your hand for the choreographed spin.

Orange sequins flashed as you turned, laughter spilling from your painted mouth, and Bucky’s whiskey sat untouched on the table.

“Ledger secured,” Ava’s voice came low and quiet in his ear. “Meet point in ninety seconds.”

Yelena followed, her own voice bright with the aftertaste of adrenaline. “I’m on the stairs. Pit boss didn’t even blink.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. The corner of his vision was full of you—your heels clicking against polished wood as you moved into the next sequence, a cascade of feathers swaying like they’d been trained to follow the curve of your body.

“Barnes,” Val prompted.

He blinked, tore his gaze from you with effort, and gave the barest nod toward the exit. John was already sliding out of the booth, smoothing his tie and muttering about “leaving before the real fun starts.”

Bucky stood slower. One last glance at the stage—at you, framed in gold light, eyes catching for the briefest heartbeat on the tall, broad-shouldered man leaving the shadows of the back corner. You didn’t falter in your step, but he saw it. A glint. A question.

And then the curtain beads shivered behind him, and you were gone.

Outside, Alexei’s limo door swung open like the flap of a magician’s cape. Yelena and Ava were already inside, their showgirl makeup still sharp, glitter clinging to their skin like it belonged there.

“Got it?” Sam’s voice was tinny over the comm.

Ava held up the small black ledger, triumphant. “Got it.”

John sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “Good. Now can we go somewhere less… feathered?”

Yelena smirked, settling back against the seat. “You looked. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Bucky said nothing. The club lights still burned in his peripheral vision, and the image of you—in orange, laughing under the weight of a thousand eyes—was already burned into the inside of his skull.

He told himself it was just a face. Just a performer. Just another night in another club on another mission.

But deep down, he knew better.

Bucky told himself it was nothing.

Nothing but the aftertaste of a mission, a leftover scrap of detail his mind hadn’t filed away yet. Just another performer in another club, the kind of distraction the city sold wholesale.

And yet…

The next night, his boots found the sidewalk outside Sunset Mirage without his permission. No comm in his ear. No team in sight. Just him and the low hum of the street, neon humming overhead like a siren’s low laugh.

Inside, the club hadn’t changed—why would it? The same dim brass glow. The same tangerine velvet curtains like a closed mouth hiding a secret. The same sour-sweet perfume of champagne and smoke curling into the rafters.

And the same table in the back, shadows just deep enough to swallow him if he sat still.

So he did.

A whiskey slid onto the table without him asking—same server as the night before. The man gave him a glance that said, I’ve seen your kind before. Bucky didn’t bother correcting him.

The stage was empty for now, occupied by a jazz quartet sawing through something lazy and low. Bucky’s eyes skimmed the crowd the way they always did, cataloguing exits, reading posture, noting tells. But the truth was, he wasn’t here for them.

When you stepped out—different costume tonight, silver and white with bursts of coral feathers—he felt it hit low in his ribs, that strange pull.

You didn’t see him. Not yet.

The crowd did what crowds do—leaned forward, called out, threw money like they could buy the way you looked at them. Bucky sat in the dark, hands loose around his glass, eyes never leaving you.

Night two became night three.

Night three became night four.

Always the same—he’d slip in just before your set, find that table, nurse the same drink, and let the rest of the club blur around the edges.

You started noticing him on night five.

Not because he was loud—he wasn’t. In fact, he was the only man in the room who didn’t whistle, didn’t shout what he wanted to do to you, didn’t flash money in some clumsy bid for attention. He just sat there, still as a stone, watching like the whole show was just for him.

By night seven, you found yourself looking for him before the lights came up.

And there he was—ocean blue eyes catching the stage lights when they swept over the crowd, steady and unblinking, following the line of your arm as you spun, the arch of your back when you dipped low.

It wasn’t the way most men watched you. Most wanted to take. He looked like he wanted to memorise.

You wondered what he’d do if you gave him something worth remembering.

The city was quieter by the time Bucky stepped out into the street, the club’s neon still bleeding into the slick black pavement. Sunset Mirage loomed behind him, all velvet glamour and gold filigree, like it knew it had secrets worth keeping. He tugged his jacket collar up against the night air and started the walk toward where he’d parked his bike.

He hadn’t spoken to you. Not once. He’d just sat there, same as every other night—nursing a single whiskey, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him while his eyes stayed locked on you.

And now, walking under the weak yellow glow of the streetlamps, he could still see you.

That night’s costume had been emerald green, sequins climbing over your hips in swirling patterns, feathers arcing over your shoulders like the wings of some exotic bird. Your smile—sharp, deliberate, meant for the crowd—had skimmed over him more than once. Or maybe he’d imagined that part.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

By the time he reached the New Avengers tower, the city’s hum had faded to a low murmur. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence swallowed the space—too still, too clean, too empty. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed the keys onto the counter, the clink echoing louder than it should have.

He didn’t turn on the main lights. Just left the kitchen lamp on, its golden halo spilling over the edge of the counter. He poured himself a whiskey, the sound of liquid against glass sharp in the hush, and carried it to the bedroom.

The place was bare—bed neatly made, no personal clutter. Functional. Which made the picture in his head all the sharper: you here, your laugh soft against the walls, the sequins from your dress catching on the sheets.

He sat on the edge of the bed, glass in hand, elbows on his knees. Tried to drink slow. Tried to think about something else. Anything else.

Didn’t work.

His mind went straight back to the way your hips moved when you turned on stage, the deliberate sway of your shoulders, the way you leaned into the mic like it was a secret lover. He thought about your legs wrapping around his waist instead of strutting past his table. Thought about how you’d sound saying his name in that low, teasing voice you used to make the crowd lean forward.

The whiskey glass clinked softly as he set it down on the nightstand. His flesh hand dragged over his face; his metal one braced against his thigh.

He gave in.

His fingers slid over the hard line already pushing against the front of his slacks, stroking lazily at first, just to feel the ache sharpen. He unzipped, pulling himself free, the heat of his own skin a shock against the cool air. Thick, flushed, already slick at the tip—he wrapped his hand around the base and gave a slow, steady stroke.

A breath hissed out between his teeth.

He thought about you leaning down into his lap, sequins brushing his thighs, your perfume curling around him. He pictured your dress hiked up, your bare skin hot against his palms as he pulled you down onto him, filling you inch by inch until you were gasping.

His strokes quickened, breath hitching as the image sharpened—your hands on his chest, your hips grinding, your voice breaking when he fucked into you deep enough to make the bed creak.

“Fuck…” The word was barely audible, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

He thumbed the sensitive underside, imagining your lips there instead, the wet heat of your mouth. His hips lifted into his own hand without thinking, chasing it. The thought of you looking up at him while you took him in made his grip tighten, made the muscles in his thighs go taut.

It didn’t take long. It never did, not when he’d been sitting in that damn club for nights on end, storing you up like ammunition. His head tipped back, jaw clenched, and he came hard into his hand, his breath ragged in the stillness.

For a moment, all he could hear was his own breathing, the faint tick of the cooling radiator, the echo of your laugh in his head.

He cleaned himself off mechanically, dragging his hand back through his hair.

The glass of whiskey was still waiting for him. He took a long swallow, the burn grounding him.

And he had no choice but to wait for tomorrow night, to do it all over again.

────୨ৎ────

You’d been dancing long enough to know the room before you even saw it. The heat of it. The pitch. The way men leaned forward when they were hungry for the next act, the way they slouched when they thought they’d seen it all.

Tonight, though, you weren’t reading the room. You were reading him.

There he was again, exactly where you’d come to expect him: the back corner table, half in shadow, one whiskey in front of him. Not a drop spilled. Not a second glass ordered. And those eyes—God, those eyes—blue in a way that made the lights jealous, tracking you like he could feel every step.

You’d started to anticipate him. In the dressing room, while the other girls laughed and pinned each other’s costumes, you found yourself wondering if he’d be there. Wondering if he’d notice the way the seamstress had let the hem out on your new skirt so it swayed a little more when you walked. Wondering if he’d feel the heat when you looked right at him.

Tonight, you decided to stop wondering.

The bassline rolled under your skin like warm honey as you made your entrance, sequins in deep orange catching the light like embers. You felt the shift in the room the moment you stepped into it—men straightening, eyes narrowing, mouths opening in practiced whistles.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But there was a tautness to his jaw, the faintest flex in the muscle there, that told you you had his full attention.

Halfway through your set, the music dipped, and the floor opened for the “audience number”—a quick, sultry tradition where you’d choose someone from the crowd for a little… personal attention.

The girls always picked the loud ones. The ones who’d play along and tip big. The ones who’d laugh about it later.

You walked past them all.

The crowd parted in waves of confused murmurs as you crossed the room. You could feel his gaze as you came closer, the stillness in him sharpening like a blade. When you stopped in front of his table, the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a warning.

You didn’t ask. You just slid onto his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, your hands finding the back of the booth on either side of his head.

Up close, you could smell him—clean soap under leather, whiskey he hadn’t touched, something faintly metallic you couldn’t place.

He didn’t touch you.

But you could feel him. Every inch of him. The heat through his suit pants, the heavy press beneath you that told you exactly how wound tight he was.

The crowd roared. Whistles and shouts, men egging him on, telling him to “get a handful.” But he didn’t move. His hands stayed on the seat, gripping the worn leather like it was the only thing keeping them there.

You moved slowly—hips rolling, spine arching, feathers brushing his chest. The music swelled, and you leaned in, close enough for your lips to nearly graze the shell of his ear.

“You’re a hard one to read,” you murmured, voice pitched low so no one else could hear.

His breath hitched, just once. Then, quiet enough that you almost missed it: “Not that hard, doll.”

You smiled like you hadn’t just felt it in the base of your spine and slid off him with one last deliberate grind, leaving him there—tense, silent, blue eyes following you all the way back to the stage.

When the set ended, you didn’t need to look to know he was still watching. You could feel it.

The show ended in a burst of applause, the kind that bounced off the velvet and brass until it became something heavier than sound—a haze you had to wade through to get backstage. You moved through it with the practiced grace of someone who’d learned to let hands brush your arm without flinching, who knew how to smile without letting the smile touch anything inside you.

You kept your head high, glitter still clinging to your skin, feathers bobbing with each step as you made your way toward the dressing rooms.

That was when you saw him.

Wilson Fisk was waiting.

“Beautiful,” he said, not as a compliment, but as a fact he thought he owned. His pale eyes swept over you, landing on the curve of your hips in that way men did when they wanted to make you feel smaller.

“Glad you enjoyed the show, Mr. Fisk,” you said, keeping your voice even, professional. You’d been trained in this—smile, acknowledge, move on. “If you’ll excuse me—”

His hand clamped around your arm. Thick fingers, grip like iron.

“I think we should enjoy something a little more… private.”

The hallway behind the stage was dim, lined with gilt-framed mirrors and racks of costumes. You knew every exit. Every camera. And yet your pulse spiked, because men like Fisk didn’t care about being seen.

“I’m not that kind of performer,” you said, trying to step back.

He didn’t move. “I wasn’t asking what kind you were.”

The room tilted—not literally, but in that way adrenaline can tip the whole world sideways. You were aware of the muffled music in the club, the distant sound of laughter, the cool press of the wall at your back as he started steering you toward the private corridor.

You thought about calling for security. You thought about running. But you knew the truth: the owner didn’t tell Fisk no. No one did.

The private back room was smaller than you expected when you’d first seen it weeks ago—low ceiling, leather couches along the walls, a round table with an ice bucket sweating in the centre. Dim amber lighting gave everything a warm glow that felt sickly under the circumstances.

Fisk shut the door behind you, the click loud in your ears.

“You’ve been on that stage, making all those eyes hungry,” he said, taking a slow step forward. “Now I get the first taste.”

“Mr. Fisk—” you started, keeping your voice steady out of sheer will.

“You can drop the ‘Mr.’” His smile was wrong—too wide, too sure.

You stepped back, the edge of the couch catching you behind the knees. Your palms went damp. This was one of those moments where you wished you could step outside yourself, become the version of you people saw on stage—untouchable, fearless, made of fire. But that version didn’t exist here. Not now.

“I told you, I’m not for sale, I don’t do this—”

Fisk had you cornered now, and the walls felt like they were closing in on you. “If you keep babbling like that, I’m going to have to shut you up myself.”

But you didn’t let up.

“Sir, please, I already told you—“

His hand shot up, fast enough that your body flinched before your brain caught up. Not to touch, but to strike.

And then something in the room shifted. An energy. A voice—low, steady, cutting through the heavy air like a wire pulled taut: “Don’t.”

You froze. Fisk froze.

From the shadowed corner by the coat rack, a figure stepped forward, and your brain did a double-take so hard it nearly tripped over itself.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “You?!”

Bucky Barnes—tall, broad-shouldered, looking like he’d just stepped out of some noir fantasy in that dark suit—walked toward you with the calm of a man who’d already decided exactly how this would end.

Fisk turned toward him, disbelief sharpening into anger. “Barnes? You think this is your business?”

Bucky didn’t even look at him at first—just kept his eyes on you, and there was something in them that made the walls feel less close. “You okay, doll?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I… what—how—”

Finally, he turned to Fisk, stepping between you. “Let her go.”

“She’s not yours,” Fisk said, his voice darkening.

Bucky’s tone didn’t change. “She’s not yours, either.”

For a moment, it was just the two of them staring each other down. Then Fisk made the mistake of trying to tighten his grip on your arm.

The vibranium hand came up like a flash, clamping around Fisk’s wrist and squeezing until the big man’s teeth clenched with the effort of not showing pain.

“You’re gonna walk away,” Bucky said, voice dropping lower. “Or I’m gonna put you down, and you’ll be lucky if you can still write checks with this hand.”

Fisk’s lip curled. “You don’t scare me.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here to scare you.”

The punch came without warning—short, sharp, all shoulder and precision. Fisk hit the couch, then the floor, cufflink popping loose and skittering under the table.

You were still standing where he’d left you, heart pounding in your throat. “You just punched Wilson Fisk?”

“He had it coming.” Bucky turned back to you, holding out his flesh hand, palm open. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your mouth worked. “I… I barely know you.”

“Right,” Bucky nodded understandingly. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m an Avenger. You’re safe with me, I promise.”

“An Avenger?” You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t recognise you.”

“A New Avenger,” Bucky corrected himself. “We’re like, really new. Don’t you watch the news?”

You stayed silent, squaring him up, and honestly? Bucky respected it.

“Please, let me take you home.”

“I’m fine—” you said quietly, your eyes darting between Fisk’s unconscious body and the door. In one long stride, you headed towards the exit.

“Doll.” The way he said it—quiet, but threaded with enough steel to cut—made you stop. “Please.”

You didn’t know if it was the please or the way he’d stepped in without hesitation, but your hand was in his before you’d even decided to give it. He sounded desperate. Like he was begging, almost. But he had just saved your life, and he was an Avenger, apparently.

And God, something compelled you to him. He was magnetic. Tall and broad and older.

The next thing you knew, you were outside, the air sharp and cool against your skin. A gleaming black motorcycle waited at the curb, chrome glinting under the streetlight.

Bucky swung a leg over the motorcycle and held out a helmet. “Hold on tight, doll.”

The engine roared to life, deep and throaty, and when you climbed on behind him, your arms wrapping around his solid frame, you realised you were already holding on tighter than you needed to.

The club disappeared behind you in a smear of neon and asphalt, the city lights bending into streaks as he pushed the throttle. The wind pulled at your hair, carried away the scent of smoke and perfume, left you with nothing but the pounding of your heart and the warm, unyielding line of him under your hands.

You gave him your address willingly.

The helmet felt heavier than you expected when he set it gently on your head, the strap snug under your chin. You could still feel the echo of Fisk’s grip on your arm, but the way Bucky’s hands had replaced it—steady, careful—was grounding.

“You ever been on a bike before?” he asked, his voice muffled under his own helmet.

“Once,” you admitted, glancing at the gleaming black machine beneath you both. “Didn’t end well.”

He gave you a look over his shoulder, a flicker of something like amusement in those piercing blue eyes. “You’ll be fine, doll. Just hold on.”

You swung one leg over, your dress hitching higher than you meant it to. Your arms wrapped around his middle, and he was warm under the leather, solid in a way that made you want to hold on even tighter.

The engine growled to life, deep and smooth, and then the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow.

For a few minutes, there was only the hum of the tires and the rush of wind. Then, his voice came back to you over his shoulder.

“You from Vegas?”

“No.” You shifted your grip slightly, leaning in so he could hear you better. “Came here a few years ago. Couldn’t resist the lights, I guess.”

“What got you into the club?”

You huffed a small laugh. “The money. The costumes. The stage. I like performing… most of the time.”

His head tilted slightly, like he was tucking that away. “You’re good at it.”

“Yeah? You watch a lot of showgirls?” you teased, your voice light, but your heart thudding at the thought of him in the crowd night after night.

“Just one,” he said without missing a beat.

The words landed warm in your chest, making you grip him a little tighter. “And why’s that? Professional interest?”

“Keeping an eye on things,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Things?”

“Maybe you,” he admitted, low enough that the wind almost swallowed it.

You leaned your cheek against his back, letting the thrum of the bike and the strength in his frame soothe the last of your adrenaline. “Guess I don’t mind that.”

When the city lights thinned and your building came into view, you almost wished for a longer route. The ride had been… safe. Not in the boring way—safe like the feeling you’d get if you were dangling off the edge of a building and someone caught your wrist in time.

He slowed to a stop outside your door, killing the engine. You climbed off, pulling the helmet free and shaking your hair out, suddenly aware of how close you’d been pressed to him the whole time.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, handing the helmet back.

“Thanks for trusting me,” he replied, his gaze steady on yours.

That was when you heard yourself say it—light, easy, like it was nothing. “Come up for a drink?”

His pause was brief, but the way his eyes darkened told you the answer before he even spoke.

“Yeah,” he said finally, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll come up.”

And just like that, the next part of the night was decided.

The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and someone else’s cooking, the faint rattle of pipes in the walls. You let him follow you up the narrow flight of stairs, the sound of his boots steady behind you.

Inside, your apartment was warm and a little messy—the kind of lived-in that didn’t need apologising for. Costumes hung on a rack in the corner, glitter clung to the edges of the rug from quick changes at home, and a half-finished mug of tea sat abandoned on the counter.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, shrugging off your jacket and kicking off your heels. Your sequined dress caught the light from the kitchen like it was still under the stage’s spotlights. “Whiskey okay?”

“Always.”

You poured two glasses and handed him one. He took it with a nod, his flesh fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to leave a trace of warmth against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sipped your drink, leaning back against the counter, watching him take in the room. He wasn’t restless—he was too controlled for that—but there was a charge in the air, like the coil of a spring.

Finally, you broke it. “You’ve been coming to the club every night.”

His gaze found yours, steady and unflinching. “Yeah.”

“You don’t whistle. You don’t shout. You don’t try to get me alone.” You tilted your head, curious. “So what is it you want, exactly?”

He set his glass down on the counter without looking away from you. “Wanted to see you. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not very good at lying.”

He stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that the heat from him reached you, made your skin prickle. “I’m not lying, doll.”

The pet name hit harder here, without the noise of the club to hide it. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice light. “You always this intense?”

“So I’ve been told.”

You laughed again, but softer this time. “You know, most guys would’ve just asked me out instead of stalking my stage for a week.”

“I’m not ‘most guys’.”

That was true. And the thought should’ve been unnerving. But instead, you found yourself leaning forward, testing the line between you.

His eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest moment before returning to your gaze. “You should get some rest,” he said quietly, but his voice wasn’t convincing—like the words belonged to a man trying to do the right thing, while the rest of him was waiting for you to close the space between you.

You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “What if I’m not tired?”

The pause that followed was thick enough to taste—heat and want and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

His jaw flexed, and he took a slow breath, like he was holding himself in check. “Then I’m in trouble.”

The words still hung in the air between you, low and weighted, like the bassline of a song only the two of you could hear.

You tilted your head, sipping slowly from your glass, letting the heat of the whiskey warm your throat. “Those nights when you watch me… You look at me like you want to ruin me.”

His jaw flexed, and he didn’t look away. “I’ve thought about it.”

You set your drink down on the counter and closed the space between you, your heels clicking against the floor. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“What you’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, stepping right into his space. “All those nights you’ve been sitting there, just… staring.”

He tilted his head, studying you the way he did in the club—like he was memorising every detail, storing it away for later. “Thought about getting my hands on you. Pulling you into my lap and not letting you go ‘til you knew exactly who you’ve been performing for all week.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, your hands coming up to the lapels of his suit jacket. “Then why don’t you?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Careful what you ask for, doll.”

“Careful’s not really my style.”

That earned you a quiet, rough chuckle, and when you slid your hands down his chest, you could feel the heat of him through the fabric. “Sit down,” you murmured, nodding toward the couch.

He obeyed without a word, leaning back against the cushions, watching you with that steady, unblinking gaze. You stepped in front of him, the sequins of your dress catching the lamplight, and began to sway your hips—slow, deliberate, the same way you’d done on stage but without the distance.

His eyes tracked you like a hunter tracking prey, his tongue flicking briefly over his bottom lip when you turned and lowered yourself into his lap.

This time, you felt his hands.

They were big and warm, one gripping your waist, the other sliding down over your hip to palm your ass through the thin fabric. He pulled you flush against him, and the hard line pressing into you left no doubt about what sitting in that club all week had done to him.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You rolled your hips slowly, biting back a smile. “And here I thought you were just there for the music.”

“Only music I hear is the sound you make when I touch you.”

You shifted again, your hands sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. “You gonna tell me what else you’ve been thinking, Barnes?”

His breath was hot against your jaw when he answered. “I’ve been thinking about peeling this dress off you, inch by inch. About getting you under me and hearing you beg me to make you come. About how many ways I can get you to say my name before the sun comes up.”

The words sank into you like heat in muscle, spreading low and sharp.

You smiled, letting your fingers toy with the first button of his shirt. “Guess we’d better find out, then.”

His jacket was the first to go, sliding off his shoulders in one smooth motion before you were tugging at the loosened tie around his neck. The sequins at your side brushed against his shirt as you shifted, and you could feel his hands start to roam—over your thighs, up your ribs, memorising the shape of you like he’d been starving for it.

“Been a long week, doll,” he said, his voice gone rougher now. “Don’t think I can take it slow.”

You smiled like you’d just won a bet. “Good.”

You shifted your weight forward, your knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of him, and rolled your hips down slow. His breath caught—just enough for you to notice—when your core pressed right over the thick, hot line straining against his pants.

Bucky’s hands tightened on your waist, thumbs stroking small, absent circles as if he was trying to memorise every dip and curve. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he murmured, voice low and frayed.

You rocked forward again, your dress sliding higher with each motion, the sequins whispering against his shirt. “You’ve been sitting there all week, watching me move like this,” you teased, dragging yourself over him with lazy precision. “I bet you’ve thought about it every night after.”

His jaw clenched, blue eyes dark under the shadow of his lashes. “Every damn night.”

The friction was maddening—heat building where his cock pressed against you through the barrier of your panties, the pressure growing with each grind. You felt him meet your movements, his hips pushing up into you in slow, deliberate thrusts.

One of his hands slid down from your waist, fingers skimming your thigh, over the curve of your hip, until his palm cupped you fully. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit through the thin lace, and you bit down on your lip to keep the sound in.

“Mm, that’s it,” he coaxed, his voice rasping like gravel under silk. “Let me feel you.”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders as his fingers slipped beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the damp heat they found there. His touch was confident but unhurried, middle finger stroking through your folds before pressing up into you, curling just right.

Your breath hitched, hips stuttering against his, but he didn’t stop—his thumb found your clit and began slow, deliberate circles, timed perfectly to the way his cock kept nudging against you through his pants.

“Fuck, Bucky…” you breathed, your forehead dropping to his.

“That’s it, doll,” he murmured, his other hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the tight peak through your dress. “So wet for me already. You like it when I talk to you like this? When I tell you what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ to you?”

You managed a shaky nod, the pleasure winding tight inside you with every flick of his thumb, every roll of his hips.

“Good,” he said, his voice dropping to something dark and possessive. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

Your muscles clenched around his fingers, and his gaze sharpened, sensing how close you were. He pressed harder, curling deeper, coaxing you toward the edge until you couldn’t hold back the soft, broken sound that escaped your throat.

“Bucky—”

“Come for me, doll,” he urged, the command hitting low in your belly. “Right here, on my fuckin’ hand.”

It was the way he said it—like it was inevitable—that sent you over. You came with a gasp, shuddering against him, his fingers working you through it until you were trembling in his lap.

When you finally caught your breath, he withdrew slowly, bringing his glistening fingers up to his mouth. His eyes stayed locked on yours as he sucked them clean, groaning low in his chest.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he said, and your whole body flushed hot at the admission.

You were still catching your breath when the thought slid into your head—wicked, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Pushing up from his lap, you let your palms trail down his chest, feeling the steady pound of his heartbeat under your hands. His eyes tracked every movement, blue and dark, the heat in them pulling you forward like a current.

“My turn,” you murmured.

Bucky’s brows drew together slightly. “Your turn?”

Instead of answering, you sank to your knees between his spread legs. The shift in height made his breath catch audibly, and you could feel his gaze drop to follow the motion.

“Doll…” His voice had an edge now—half warning, half want.

You just smiled, running your hands up the insides of his thighs, feeling the tension thrumming there. His suit pants were warm from your body, the fabric stretched slightly over the thick bulge straining against the zipper.

“You’ve been sitting in that club all week, looking at me like you want to devour me,” you said, your fingers brushing over the hard outline of him. “I think you’ve earned this.”

He let out a quiet, rough laugh. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Your fingers made quick work of his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet apartment. You slid the leather free, unbuttoned his pants, and tugged the zipper down. The tension in his body was a live thing now, coiled and waiting.

When you freed him, your breath hitched—thick, heavy, already flushed a deep pink, the head glistening in the low light. He was big enough that you had to take a second just to picture how he’d feel inside you.

“Christ, doll,” he muttered, watching your reaction with a half-smile. “Gonna stare all night?”

You arched a brow. “I call it my Bucky Barnes impression.”

You wrapped your fingers around the base, feeling the heat of him pulse under your touch, and leaned in to press your mouth to the tip. The taste was clean and faintly salty, the slick heat making your tongue curl instinctively.

Bucky’s head tipped back against the couch, his jaw tightening. “Fuck…”

You took him slowly at first, letting your lips slide down just past the head before pulling back, your hand stroking the length you couldn’t fit yet. The combination had him groaning, a sound low and ragged in his chest.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, voice hoarse, one hand coming down to brush your hair back from your face.

You hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms. You picked up the pace—deeper now, sucking harder, twisting your wrist as you moved, letting your tongue tease the sensitive ridge under the head each time you pulled back.

Bucky’s breathing was rough now, his free hand curling into a fist against the couch cushion. “Look at you,” he rasped, glancing down, his eyes burning into yours. “So fuckin’ pretty with your lips around me. Good girl.”

The praise hit like a spark, heat flaring low in your belly. You took him deeper, pushing until you felt the stretch at the corner of your mouth, your throat working around him.

“Shit—” His hand tightened in your hair—not pulling, just grounding himself. “You keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back just enough to grin up at him, your lips slick. “That’s the idea.”

Before he could answer, you took him back into your mouth, this time stroking him in rhythm with each bob of your head, your other hand cupping and massaging the weight of him below. His hips shifted subtly, a restrained thrust you felt as much as saw.

He swore again, the sound guttural, and you could tell by the twitch in your hand that he was close. But before he could reach the edge, you pulled away slowly, letting your tongue trail over the head one last time.

“Doll—” His voice was wrecked, and that alone was worth the smug smile tugging at your mouth.

“Not yet,” you said softly, climbing back into his lap, straddling him again so you could feel every inch of him, hot and heavy, pressed against you.

You were still flushed from the way he’d sounded, still feeling the weight of him in your hand and the slick heat on your lips, when you sank onto his lap again. This time, there was no teasing.

Bucky’s hands went straight to your hips, steady and firm, pulling you forward so the hard length of him pressed right against the soaked fabric of your panties. You both groaned at the contact, and then you were fumbling for the small foil packet he pulled from his pocket.

His smirk was fleeting, swallowed by focus as he tore it open, rolled the condom down over himself with quick, efficient movements.

You lifted yourself onto your knees, your dress bunched high around your waist, panties pushed aside with a quick tug of his fingers. The head of him nudged against your entrance, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you.

Bucky’s gaze locked on yours, his hands cradling your hips like he was holding something precious. “Take your time,” he murmured.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, feeling the stretch as your body took him in. He was thick, filling you until your breath hitched and your hands gripped his shoulders for balance. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the point where you joined, watching the way you took him.

“Fuck, doll,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You feel so good. Like you were made for me.”

When you finally settled into his lap, your thighs pressed to his, the fullness had your head spinning. You rolled your hips experimentally, the friction sparking bright in your belly.

“Just like that,” he said, thumbs stroking over your hips. “Ride me.”

You obeyed, lifting and sinking, your rhythm slow at first, savouring the drag of him inside you. Bucky’s hands roamed—over your thighs, your waist, up your sides to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric still clinging to you.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his head tipping back for a second before snapping forward again, his eyes burning into yours. “So fuckin’ beautiful. Been dreamin’ about this all week—having you like this, hearin’ those sounds you make.”

Your pace quickened, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the room, but the angle wasn’t enough—you wanted more, needed more. You were close to saying it when he suddenly stilled your hips with both hands.

“Not enough for you either, huh?” he said, his voice gone darker now, that rough edge back in it.

Before you could answer, he was moving—lifting you off him just enough to push you down onto your back on the couch. Your legs bent over the armrest, your dress shoved higher until it bunched around your ribs. He settled between your thighs, his hands pushing your knees wider as he lined himself up again.

“Bucky—”

“Shh, doll,” he said, sinking back into you in one long, deep thrust that had your mouth falling open. “I got you now.”

He started slow, each stroke purposeful, his hips rolling just enough to hit that spot deep inside that made your toes curl. Then he picked up the pace, the sound of his body meeting yours echoing off the walls, his breaths coming hard and fast above you.

One hand gripped your hip, the other came up to hold your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Keep your eyes on me,” he rasped. “Wanna see you when you come.”

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, your nails digging into the couch as you clung to him. His thumb found your clit, pressing and circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, and that was all it took.

“Bucky—!” Your climax hit hard, pleasure ripping through you as your body clenched around him.

His groan was guttural, his hips grinding deeper into you as he chased his own release. “Fuck, baby—” Two more hard thrusts and he was spilling into the condom, his forehead dropping to yours as he caught his breath.

For a moment, the only sound was the thud of your heart and the slow, uneven rhythm of your breathing. He stayed inside you, holding himself there like he couldn’t quite let go yet.

Then, softer now, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear: “Told you I couldn’t take it slow.”

Your breathing came in shaky little bursts, the kind that didn’t match the stillness settling over the room. Every muscle in your body felt like it was caught between melting and twitching, the lingering hum of too much sensation still sparking in your nerves.

Bucky stayed close, one hand braced on the couch beside your head, his chest still rising and falling with deep, steady pulls of air. His gaze swept over your face, lingering for a beat like he was checking you for something only he could see.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

You swallowed, your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he said gently, shifting his weight so his body caged you in without pinning you. “But you’re still shakin’.”

The fact that he’d noticed made something loosen in your chest. You hadn’t realised until that moment how many men never did.

He slid out of you slowly, careful like he was easing you away from the edge of something dangerous. The absence left you empty and a little too aware of the cool air against your skin. Before you could pull your dress back down, he was already gathering you up, tucking your body against his like you weighed nothing.

You let him.

The couch creaked under his weight as he sat back with you curled into his lap, one arm wrapped firm around your waist, the other smoothing over your spine in slow, grounding strokes. The steady rhythm of his hand, the quiet rasp of his breath, the faint scent of leather and faint cologne—it all worked its way into your body until the trembling began to fade.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The world outside could have been a hundred miles away.

When he finally did move, it wasn’t to pull away. He shifted you gently, murmuring, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let him carry you into the bathroom, your cheek resting against the solid line of his shoulder. The light in here was softer, golden, throwing long shadows over the tile. He set you on the edge of the counter like you were porcelain.

The warm cloth he fetched was damp and soothing against your skin, his touch slow and deliberate as he wiped you down. Not hurried, not clinical—just careful. He was quiet the whole time, not in an awkward way, but in a way that said he was making sure every movement counted.

When he finished, he pressed the cloth into the sink and reached for his shirt draped over the back of the door. “Arms up.”

You obeyed, and the fabric fell over you, soft and far too big, smelling faintly of him. It hung mid-thigh, covering you in a way that felt more intimate than being naked.

Back in the living room, he settled into the couch and pulled you with him until you were tucked under his arm, your legs stretched out across his lap. His thumb traced idle lines against your hip through the cotton.

For a long moment, the only sound was the slow, even rhythm of your breaths. Then you spoke, voice quiet but steady. “I’m… not the type of girl who just has one night stands.”

You felt him pause—not with judgment, but with that same listening stillness he’d had at the club.

“I know what people think,” you went on, keeping your eyes fixed on the faint pattern in the carpet. “The way I dress for work, the way I dance, the way I smile like that—it’s a job. But to them, it’s an invitation. They think I’m easy. That I go home with whoever asks. That I sleep around.”

He didn’t interrupt. He just let you talk, his hand steady on your hip.

“It’s not true,” you said finally, your throat tightening on the words. “But it’s easier to let them believe it than to waste my breath trying to convince them otherwise.”

His fingers flexed slightly against you. “I’m not the type of guy to look for one night stands either.”

You gave a quiet, tired laugh. “You could’ve fooled me tonight.”

That earned you a faint smile—one of those almost-hidden ones that didn’t reach his mouth so much as his eyes. “Wasn’t your body that kept me comin’ back to that club, doll.”

You blinked, glancing up at him. “No?”

“No.” He said it with a certainty that left no room for doubt. “It was the way you held that room like it was yours. The way you made every single person think they were the one you were singing to, and then walked away like you owned the place. The way you moved—not just on stage, but like you knew exactly who you were the second those lights hit you.”

You didn’t know what to do with the warmth creeping into your chest at his words.

“I want to get to know you,” he continued, his voice softer now. “Not just the dancer. I want to take care of you. Make sure you never have to be in a room with men like Fisk again.”

The sincerity in his tone left you off-balance, because it didn’t feel like a line—it felt like a vow.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt where it hung loose on you. “I don’t know if I’m used to someone wanting all that.”

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, the gesture almost absent but achingly gentle. “Then I guess we’ll take it slow.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink against him, your body no longer trembling but still buzzing in a different way. His arms tightened slightly around you, like he was making sure you wouldn’t slip away.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you didn’t have to.

────୨ৎ────

The next few nights felt different. Not because the stage lights burned any brighter or because the applause lasted longer—but because you knew he was there.

Even if you couldn’t see him past the glare of the spotlights, you could feel him. The weight of that steady, unblinking gaze from somewhere in the crowd, like an invisible tether holding you anchored in a room full of noise.

Bucky didn’t sit in the shadows anymore. He’d trade the whiskey glass for a vantage point just off the main floor, close enough to intercept any hand that might stray too far when you worked the crowd. The men who got too bold suddenly found their attention shifting elsewhere, a quiet but unmistakable warning in the way Bucky’s eyes met theirs.

It didn’t take the other girls long to notice.

“Your shadow’s here again,” Clarissa, one of the other showgirls, whispered in the wings one night, a teasing lilt in her accent. “You must be his favourite act.”

You’d only smiled, adjusting the angle of your headdress. “Maybe he just likes sequins.”

But when the curtain fell and the crowd dispersed, you always found him waiting—backstage now, leaning against the wall just far enough from the chaos of the dressing rooms, arms folded, hair curling faintly at his collar from the humidity of the club.

Some nights he’d walk you out, quiet but solid at your side, making sure you got to your car or your apartment without so much as a wrong look from anyone. Other nights, he’d just hand you your coat and murmur something low—“Good show tonight, doll”—before vanishing into the night like a shadow that belonged only to you.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

One evening, after a particularly rowdy crowd, you stepped offstage to find John Walker standing just outside the wings, hands in his pockets, wearing the half-smile of a man who thought he had a right to be there.

“Hell of a performance,” John said, his tone dripping with that drawl you’d heard him use on half the waitresses in the city. “You’ve got the whole room eatin’ out of your hand.”

Before you could answer, Bucky appeared from around the corner, eyes flicking briefly to John before settling on you. “Ready to go?”

John’s smile twitched. “You her driver now, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t bite. Just stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you and John without a word. “I’m whatever she needs me to be.”

You bit back a laugh, sensing the heat under John’s casual posture. “Play nice, boys.”

John held your gaze for a moment longer, then turned with a shrug, muttering something under his breath as he walked away.

Bucky watched him go, jaw tight, before looking back at you. “You okay?”

“Better now,” you said, and meant it.

From then on, it was a quiet rhythm: the shows, the crowd, the hum of the club—and somewhere in all of it, the certainty that Bucky Barnes was out there, watching. Always watching. Not like the others, who wanted pieces of you they hadn’t earned. His watchfulness was different. Steady. Protective.

The kind that didn’t fade when the lights went down.

The kind that stayed.

────୨ৎ────

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mandoalorian · 12 days ago

Text

this was me when i saw that you posted:

and for this to have only taken an hour? wow i’m so impressed. it was so sweet and such an amazing concept 🥹🧡 thank you for sharing it with us all

'Cause You Could Be The One That I Love

Bob/Reader

Summary: As a member of housekeeping staff of the New Avengers, you got familiar with them- especially Bob. While watching the sunrise with him one morning, you confess a wish, and Bob aims to fulfill it.

Word count: 2.4k ish

Warnings: Just sweet, sweet fluff! A couple swears, implications of Bob's rough nights, but otherwise all sugar.

A/N: I sat and watched the sunset tonight while listening to the "And baby that's showbizz" Taylor Swift hype playlist for TS12 and felt a familiar wish if wanting to be up in the clouds to see the sunset. Then I thought about Bob, and how he'd want to fulfill that wish. And, well, here we are! Enjoy <3 🧡

The Avengers Tower landing pad, originally used for Tony Stark's landings as Iron Man or, then, the Quinjets of the Avengers, hadn't seen much use since Valentina bought the building for her own uses through OXE Group.

So most nights, it was empty.

They had the sense to restore safety railings along the edge, but the surface was slippery enough when it rained or snowed that they didn't mean much- deciding for fashion over function.

Not like Valentina or OXE Group care much about the safety of a layperson.

But you went out on the stretch of metal anyway.

You had been hired- along witb a host of staff- or various work, but eventually landed in housekeeping.

And boy, did the New Avengers need to be picked up after.

Bucky was the most attentive to requests of "dude, this is the seventeenth time I've had to pick your clothes up off the floor", and Yelena never made much of a mess in her room (the kitchen was a frequent victim), but the others were... well, you always felt like you earned the wage you were paid.

Of course, you enjoyed getting the proximity to the heroes. After a little while, you realized that, especially Alexei, they would encourage your additions in conversation or waved you down to break a tie.

And you especially enjoyed getting to meet Bob.

He was a weird guy, to say the least. An unusual addition in the otherwise understandable (if not redacted-history resume prone) lineup of the New Avengers. He was the soft edge of their sharp corners and jagged reputations.

When the announcement first occurred after the New York Shadow, plenty of theories, rumors, and bad-faith reporting circled around him like sharks, eager for blood in the water to blame for the New Avengers not fitting with anyone's ideal team rosters.

But he was just Bob. Gentle, mostly quiet, and reserved. Like he was afraid of taking up too much space, or that he didn't believe he, as an Avenger, couldn't be kicked out of the tower.

But he always showed up when you came in late at night or early twilight hours of the morning to tidy up, straighten couch pillows, and sweep up before the new day could officially begin.

It was a nice gig.

You hadn't been in New York long before a friend of a boss somehow recommended you and your integrity's reputation for the job.

You had a small apartment with a roommate on one of the lower floors. Walking home to the Tower always felt like whatever the opposite of a Walk of Shame was, even if it was a bad day.

You were friendly with the security in the lobby- stone cold at first, but now many would smile and wave at you when you greeted them by name as they allowed you past.

It was one of these late nights you first spoke with Bob.

He'd shown up a few times before, silently watching and then coming to help with whatever task you were tackling. He didn't really ever talk, but he always followed the simple instructions you gave.

Sometimes, you couldnt help but notice the puffy skin under red eyes.

You'd seen enough of those in the mirror that you knew not to ask him about it.

But you took some sort of unlabeled comfort in knowing that Bob trusted you to see him so vulnerable.

Eventually, you guessed at why he was in the Tower- what role he played.

One of your guesses made him laugh, and the quiet, short chuckle made your stomach twist and heart flutter all at the same time.

It was the first sound in the whole world that you never wanted to cut off. A sound meant to be pure joy, in a way you rarely felt. Just the simple, goofy, affectionate fun at himself.

He made you laugh, too. The little things, even when he didn't talk.

He listened to you talk about your day, and about family drama and friend gossip. Sometimes he gave advice, sometimes he just validated your feelings about a situation.

He was pretty damn perfect, and the only reason you never asked him out was because, well, he was an Avenger, and you were pretty sure that despite his own lack of confidence in his place on the team, he could get you fired if he mentioned discomfort or awkwardness you brought him.

Your favorite thing about working at the Tower, really, was when you'd finish up your tasks just as the Sun was beginning to rise on the Eastern horizon.

The Tower wasn't the tallest building of New York City, but it was tall enough with a perfect angle to see the whole sunrise.

Today was the first time Bob came out onto the platform with you.

You sat down on the cool metal surface, looked up and patted the spot next to you.

He hesitated, but sat next to you, criss-crossing his legs, his hands in his lap.

There had been some rain the last few days, but finally there was a brilliant morning with clouds just the right sizes and positions to magnify the Sun's light and cast truly wondrous colors across the whole sky.

"This is my favorite time of day," you leaned toward Bob and bumped your shoulder with him. It wasnt often you indulged in a little physical touch with him, but it felt right. "The most beautiful thing, and it's always different and perfect. Don't you think?"

You glanced over at Bob, and then looked at him again.

He had been looking at you, not the sunrise. When you looked the second time, he was turning his head away, chin in his palm with his elbow on his knee.

Your cheeks burned pink-red more deeply than the Sun's rays lit up the clouds.

Had he just been looking at you because he was being attentive to what you were saying? Or was he thinking... that you might be beuatiful, too?

The awkward silence put a weird fuzz on thr sunrise, but it couldn't completely ruin your awe.

"For free," you sighed, gesturing up at the clouds. "All that for free. Can you believe it?" You looked at him again- the first time since the awkward catch.

He was observing the clouds carefully, and nodded. "Pretty nice."

"Understatement of the century," you laughed, then checked the time on your phone. "I should get going."

He got up quickly and held out a hand to you, offering you help up.

An apology for the awkwardness, maybe.

You accepted it, and he lifted you with surprising ease.

Before leaving the spot, you put your hands on your hips like a storm chasing surveyor. "One day, maybe, I'll be in a tiny little plane that'll make me feel like it's just me and the clouds up there."

"It's pretty cold," he shrugged.

"Sure, but still. To get to see the sunrise or set from up there? That's gotta be far more breathtaking than from even up here."

He didnt respond, but followed you back inside once you managed to pull yourself away from cloud-watching.

Yelena was in the kitchen, so that meant Bucky was probably awake too. Sometimes he was in the sparring part of the gym before breakfast.

"Good morning!" Yelena greeted you, eyes flicking between you and Bob as she smiled. "Nice sunrise?"

You nodded. "Sure was. I'll be heading out for the day, unless you need anything?"

She shook her head. "Get some rest, Buttercup."

The nickname came from a moment of confusion between the saying "what's up, buttercup!" and quoting a line from Princess Bride, which only John and Bob had recognized.

Originally, it *was* Bob who had called you Buttercup, but he hadn't called you that since. Mostly it was Yelena or Alexei who remembered the joke.

You said bye to Bob after he sort of followed you to the elevator, and waved as the doors closed.

A few days later, after some weird but quiet tabloid blog posts about sightings of a strange, small, flying figure above the tower Bob came out to help you again in the early morning.

This time, it felt like he wanted to say something.

But he didnt know how to start.

He went out onto the platfrom with you to watch the sunrise, but he didn't sit.

"Stay right there," he told you, before running back inside.

You laughed, confused, but it wasn't like you were going to go anywhere.

You couldnt help but stand with your hands on your hips again as he reappeared with a winter jacket, boots, and what looked like a harness.

"Um... Bob?"

"Just give me a second," he laughed nervously. He closed his eye and took a deep breath, and then explained. "You said you wanted to be up in the clouds as the sun rose."

"Is a mini Quinjet going to arrive?" You clanced around at the sky.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "No... no. Um..." he pursed his lips before finally revealing: "I can fly."

"A plane?"

"N-no, like. Like fly, fly."

"No way."

A second later, he was levitating above the platform.

You couldnt help it when your jaw dropped. "What the *fuck*???"

"I, uh. Yeah. I dont really want to talk about it, but, I can fly. And I... wanted to ask if. You would want to come up with me, to see the clouds. Sunrise, I mean."

You pointed at the harness. "What's that for?"

"Yelena suggested it. To make sure that you wouldn't be worried I'd drop you. Which I wouldn't, I swear."

"Honestly..." you looked at the coat, books, and harness, then up at Bob, grinning. "Let's do it!"

It was the craziest idea that had ever come across your mind.

But it was Bob. And, from your insider knowledge that would now seriously break all sorts of NDA's if you shared the truth about, he was probably your best bet.

You got the winter coat on and boots strapped securely before working out the harness to safely be attached to Bob as if you were going skydiving.

"I've been practicing-"

"Bob, tell me when we're back on the ground," you muttered as you pulled the straps tight. You were doing your absolute best not to freak out about the forced proximity.

From stolen touches to literally being strapped to your crush, who was about to fulfill one of your dreams, your mind was spinning and your feet were still on the metal.

"Um, can I put my hands here?" He asked after he's assured himself the straps connecting the two of you were as tight as could be, his hands hovered around your waist.

You nodded. "Yep."

"Ok," his hands gently rested over the coat. Even with the distance between his palms and your waist, you felt the heat there.

"Ready?"

"Uh-huh!" Your heart was *pounding*.

And like that, your feet were off the ground. The harness adjusted to the weight change, but held steady.

You were glad you were so tight against him, now. With your own arms wrapped around his middle, it took everything in you to not lift your legs around him, too.

"Oh my god, oh my god!" You mumbled, looking around yourself.

"Should we stop?" He asked.

"No, no, get me up there, Bob," you looked up at him.

His gaze was thoughtful and tuned in directly to you, and only you. He nodded, and you continued to rise into the sky.

"This is the craziest thing ever," you told him as the two of you continued to rise.

"It got better after I was used to it."

"I have so many questions," you admitted.

"You can ask," he offered.

You shook your head. "Not until we're back down."

This time, with the wind beginning to grow stronger the higher you went, you felt his laugh more than heard it. "Ok, Buttercup."

Eventually, the rising stopped, and you got your bearings to look Eastward.

The sunrise really was more beautiful from up this high. And unlike with planes or a helicopter, you were still, unmoving, even against the wind.

It was quite literally just you, Bob, and the sunrise.

You'd never forget this.

You didnt exactly feel weightless- you were incredibly aware of the reliance on the harness securing you to Bob. But there was a different sort of freedom and light.

"This is- this is-" you didnt have a word for it as tears pricked at your cheeks.

He wiped away your tears quickly. "It's cold up here, tears will freeze."

"Are you cold?" You looked at him.

Bob shook his head. "Not really. You're warm, and I run warm anyway."

"Right, because altitude and wind don't chill you."

"Maybe it's the whole flying thing."

You hummed, and returned your attention to the sunrise.

But it didnt really have your attention.

You could swear you heard Bob's heartbeat, or feel it against yours. It wasnt just the boots and coat that was keeping you warm, but him, too. His gentle touch on your waist, his legs against yours. His gaze, solely fixed on you instead of the sunrise.

This time, when you caught him staring, he didn't look away.

"Bob," you said quietly, and were almost afraid his name was blown away by the wind.

He just looked more attuned to you.

"Don't drop me, but... I really enjoy spending time with you. Even if you don't say anything, or you do. You're... you're a good presence to be near."

"I almost said you were the beautiful thing instead of the sunrise a few days ago," he admitted.

"Really?" It made your heart flutter- a boy confessing he thought you were beautiful.

"Yes." He was confident, his voice firm.

It was hot, and the confidence and assuredness made you warm.

"But you didn't?"

"I wasnt sure how you felt."

"Bob, I really like you," you blurted out the admission.

A soft smile grew into a grin on his lips. "Really?"

You nodded. "Really."

His hands felt a little firmer on your waist, and the sunrise was forgotten.

"I like you too," he said.

You glanced at his lips, and found his eyes doing the same to yours.

"Can I kiss you?" You both asked at the same time, laughed, and there it was- an excited but sweet kiss, who's only witness was the Sun, rising above the horizon and showing off a brilliant display of wonder and color for just the two of you.

Any question became unimportant as he kissed you, sweet and simple.

That's how things were between you and Bob. And you hoped, hoped, *hoped* it would only grow into something beautiful.

But with a sunrise as a backdrop, you were certain it couldn't be anything else.

-~☆~-

For @mandoalorian I Love You 🫶

If there's grammar or punctuation mistakes I do Not care (i'll fix it later) I wrote this in like. An hour. God bless.

#fic recs #I run warm anyway. // *steve rogers voice* I understood that reference

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mandoalorian · 13 days ago

Text

he’ll never see this but wishing the happiest of birthdays to the man who has brought me so much happiness during a time when i needed it the most.

i only became a fan of seb in march of this year, but the crazy thing is, i feel like he’s always been in my life.

when i was a pre-teen i watched gossip girl every friday evening. when i was in my first year of university, i watched black swan pretty much every single night (i related to it big time). and in 2022, i literally had the same recurring nightmare about steve kemp from fresh.

and yet it took me all this time to actually watch the mcu and fall in love with bucky barnes, and subsequently, sebastian stan.

i’m so grateful for him and the many, many smiles he has put on my face. and through him i met one of my best friends in the whole world, @notreallythatlost. life is crazy. but i am thankful to be alive, and thankful that i get to exist in the same universe as him.

happy birthday sebastian!

this is 43. ₊˚ෆ

#happy birthday sebastian stan #this is 43 #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #rach talks #personal #kind of?

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