maplesyrizzup

[maplesyrizzup]

bullseye.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you survived yelena’s cross-examination, bob’s toaster theories, and the world’s most excruciating elevator ride. now you’re just trying to cook dinner without burning the building down. bucky comes home smelling like smoke and salvation, you’re in an apron, looking like everything bucky could ever possibly want, and bob—sweet, oblivious bob—gets back to the watchtower a little too early. oops. word count: 8.1k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, oral (f! receiving), fingering, marking kink, bucky being possessive, rough sex, kitchen sex, sex on the counter, licking and kissing everywhere, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bucky begging you for more, service top bucky, soft dom, dom/sub undertones, getting caught (again... these freaks), elevator make-outs, size kink series masterlist!

You’ve never met anyone else quite like Bob.

Bob is the sort of person who knocks before entering an empty room. Who once paused a movie to apologize to the fictional cat that dies offscreen. Who calls Ava “buddy” with such sincere fondness that she pretends not to like it but never tells him to stop. He says “thank you” to the automated coffee machine and sometimes—sometimes—you catch him giving the laundry detergent bottle a little encouraging pat like it’s done a good job.

He’s sweet. You love him. You worry about him.

Especially after everything with the Void.

That’s the shadow that trails behind him—the capital-V Void thing. He doesn’t talk about it, not really, but you can feel it sometimes, this old weight pressing behind his smiles. He’s gentle in that careful, self-correcting way people are after they’ve scared themselves. After they’ve looked at the inside of their own soul and gone, Oh. That’s in there? Better not touch anything sharp.

He’s not reclusive, exactly. He wants to be around people. He laughs at John’s terrible jokes. He watches baking videos with Alexei and calls the contestants “brave.” He brings back an extra donut from every mission run and always says, “In case someone’s having a rough day,” like it’s a reasonable, universal kindness and not a tiny love letter in powdered sugar.

And yet, despite all this warmth, all this kindness—you’ve come to realize, with increasing dread, that Bob is quite possibly the most oblivious man alive.

Not in a malicious way. Not even in a clueless, frat-boy way. Just in the floating, serene way of someone who truly believes the best of people. Who sees two extremely sweaty and flustered teammates standing six inches apart in a suspiciously fogged-up elevator and genuinely thinks: they probably just did cardio.

Which is a problem.

Because you and Bucky are not subtle.

You're trying, obviously. In the aftermath of The Yelena Incident™, your life had sort of… spiraled into mild servitude.

.

By the time you stumbled out of the car after your activities in the parking garage, one shoe half-on, bra clasp still dangling somewhere in the ether of your shame, Yelena was already halfway up the stairs, shaking her head like God herself has disappointed her.

“Yelena—wait—” you call, stumbling after her.

“No,” she says over her shoulder, voice icy and doom-soaked. “I do not want to hear your love noises in Dolby Surround while I go to refill my chamomile.”

You chase her up three flights like a contestant on a reality show called So You Think You Can Apologize, and find her in the kitchen, arms crossed, wooden spoon in hand, wielding it like it’s legally registered.

She’s staring at you with the expression of a war general who’s just discovered betrayal in her ranks. “I am not mad,” she says. “I am deeply disappointed.”

You open your mouth to speak.

“And also mad,” she snaps. “What the fuck, dude?!”

“I—it was late! And private!”

“In what universe is the Watchtower basement private? I have knives in the floorboards more subtle than that.”

You gesture vaguely toward the ceiling. “We were careful.”

“He was moaning like he was cuntstruck.”

You pause. “That’s not a word.”

“It is now. I invented it to describe him.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, which is the understatement of the year. You’re still adjusting your shirt.

Yelena steps forward, spoon raised. “If I have to scrub sin out of upholstery,  you will not survive the week.”

You drop to your knees. Not metaphorically. You actually drop. “I’ll do anything. Literally anything. Just please don’t tell Ava. Or Alexei. Or—God forbid—Walker. He will never let me live it down.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

You nod. Desperate. Humiliated. Already mentally calculating how many hours of Watchtower labor are equivalent to absolution.

She thinks for a moment. Considers. Then points the spoon at your forehead. “Again—you will bring me one rotisserie chicken. From the good place. No substitutions.”

You scramble up. “Done.”

“And dessert.”

“Double done.”

“No raisins.”

“Yelena, I would die before bringing you a raisin cookie.”

She squints at you. A long pause. Then, finally: “Good. I will decide your punishment tier after I taste the chicken.”

Now, every Thursday, you sample her cooking. “Taste this,” she says, thrusting a spoon into your face.

You oblige.

“No, again. Is it too much fennel? Say it.”

You do the laundry. You handle trash duty. You avoid eye contact with Ava just in case she’s heard things. You’ve also started casually volunteering for missions just to put distance between yourself and Yelena’s increasingly psychological brand of war crimes. She hasn’t told anyone. Which, honestly, is scarier. She’s holding the secret like she’s fermenting it.

“Bucky was humming again today,” she says, dicing onions with a frankly surgical level of aggression. “You are poisoning his mind with joy.”

You blink. “He was humming?”

“ABBA,” she says grimly. “There is something wrong.”

And then looks at you like you’re the one she has to put down for behavioral reconditioning.

.

You swore since then that you’d be careful. Discreet. Professional. Normal.

(And for the record, you have been trying. You’ve limited your shared hallway loitering. You no longer sit right next to him during team movie nights. You don’t sneak kisses between mission briefings or press your forehead to his in the kitchen when you think no one’s looking. You’ve stopped—mostly—leaving your stuff in his room. You even agreed to text instead of just showing up at the gym during his 4 a.m. boxing therapy.)

But Bucky… Bucky is a problem.

Because where you’ve gone tactical, he’s gone feral.

In quiet, emotionally repressed ways, of course. He’s still Bucky. He still folds his laundry with military precision and talks like he’s afraid of being too much in front of anyone who isn’t you. But the man is yearning. Openly. Apologetically. Like he feels bad about dragging you into this mess, but not bad enough to stop looking at you like you’re the last safe place in the world.

You’ll be doing completely normal things—loading the dishwasher, taking field notes, trying to remember if you left your clothes in the communal washer for too long—and then you’ll catch him staring.

Not in the casual, distracted way most people look at their partners.

No. He looks at you like he’s picturing a life together. Like the mere existence of space between your bodies is offensive to his soul. Like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth just so he can sketch it in the margins of his strategy notes later like a war-scarred high schooler with a crush.

And worse—worse—is the tenderness.

How he brings you an extra water bottle before every mission and never says it out loud, just leaves it near your station like it appeared there by divine intervention. The way his hand finds yours under the table sometimes, out of nowhere, like he just needs to touch you for a second or he’ll combust.

You’ll be in the Watchtower gym, standing three feet apart during a sparring session, and you’ll feel his eyes on you. Not assessing. Not tactical.

Hungry.

And you’ll say, flustered and out of breath, “We agreed, remember?”

And he’ll nod. He’ll say, “I know. I know, sweetheart, I just—fuck, you looked really good throwing that last punch.”

You’ll narrow your eyes. “Don’t say that while I’m trying to elbow you in the face.”

And he’ll grin. “Too late.”

Or worse, he won’t say anything at all. He’ll just smile, soft and stunned, and reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it doesn’t completely undo you every time he does it.

And then you’ll have to pretend like nothing is happening. Like you’re not made of static. Like your entire body doesn’t lean toward him when he’s near, like a plant toward sunlight.

But he doesn’t make it easy. No. He follows you with his gaze when you leave rooms. He brushes past you in hallways like you’re magnetic. And every time he does that thumb-on-your-cheek thing—just the pad of it, feather-light, reverent—you find yourself tilting into it like a goddamn fool.

You’d be mad if it weren’t so achingly gentle. If it weren’t so clear how much he means it.

That’s the problem. It’s not just lust. It’s not just stolen kisses and backseat fondling and the horrible joy of being touched like you’re not a liability.

It’s that every time he looks at you like that, it says mine.

And every time, your heart says yes.

And well—Bob? Bob walks into all of it like he’s entering a Hallmark movie with zero subtext.

.

It's a little after a mission when something finally gives out.

You smell like sweat and gunpowder and three kinds of smoke—maybe four. Something chemical, something burnt, something forest-fire adjacent, and something that might’ve been hot dogs at one point. Bucky smells worse. Like scorched leather and bad decisions. The elevator smells worst. Like mission aftermath and team morale circling the drain.

You’re crammed into the back corner, shoulder to shoulder with a national liability turned New York's most tragic thirst trap, trying very hard not to lean into him even though your knees are buckling and the floor of the Watchtower elevator feels like it's vibrating at a frequency specifically tuned to your exhaustion.

Bob stayed behind to “oversee tower operations,” which is polite for “make soup and alphabetize the emergency contact board by astrological sign.” He's the only one with self-preservation.

Yelena is chewing gum like it personally wronged her. She’s leaning one shoulder against the elevator wall and scrolling through a folder titled “Fun Homicide Shit :)” with the kind of casual detachment only a former child assassin can muster.

Walker is manspreading like the ride is a performance piece. One boot braced wide, one elbow planted across the back railing like he’s getting ready to deliver a TED Talk about how heroism starts in the glutes. He hasn’t stopped adjusting his collar since they pulled you all out of the field. It is his sixth time today trying to flirt with Ava and his sixth time getting shut down.

Ava is slouched against the other corner, hood up, headphones in, pointedly staring at the elevator ceiling like she can’t believe she once almost died and came back for this. She looks cool. Unbothered. You saw her take a bullet and keep going two hours ago. Now she looks like the only thing she wants to fight is whoever designed these cheap overhead lights.

And Alexei—Alexei is talking. Which is the first warning sign of any truly cursed group dynamic.

“I am telling you,” he says, waving one arm wide and nearly clocking Bucky in the face, “there is no need for tactical sunglasses. Why are we hiding the eyes? The eyes are the windows to the soul! You want to intimidate someone? Let them see your anguish.”

“I want to take a nap,” mutters Yelena, deadpan.

“You’re just mad I looked better in them.”

“You looked like someone got kicked out of a Blade reboot.”

“I was Blade.”

“Sure. And I’m Anne Hathaway.”

Alexei beams. “You are very talented. Also I loved you in Princess Diaries.”

Yelena doesn’t even blink. “I’m going to kill you with a pencil.”

You, meanwhile, are watching Bucky attempt to pinkie flirt.

He tries it once. Just a brush. You ignore him.

He tries it again—more intentional this time. Like, hello. hi. remember how we’re in love?

You shift, just slightly. Glance around. Walker is making intense eye contact with his reflection. Ava’s got her eyes closed. Alexei and Yelena are halfway to another full-blown philosophical debate about murder. You’re safe. Technically.

You nudge back.

Bucky catches it like he’s been waiting all day. Loops his pinkie around yours like it's the last thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

It’s insufferably tender.

You look over, give him your best seriously? face. He meets it with wide-eyed innocence, the absolute bastard.

The elevator shudders. You sigh. You’re leaking sweat from places you didn’t know had glands. Your sports bra is doing something illegal. You feel like a half-drowned sock puppet and you know your eyeliner melted off somewhere over Eastern Europe.

And yet.

Bucky is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like this post-mission, semi-feral, possibly concussed version of you is the best thing he’s seen all week. You whisper, “I literally smell like fear.”

He leans in. Barely. A breath. “You smell like you made it back.”

You blink. Your throat goes tight. That’s not fair.

And then—ding.

The elevator halts.

Ava’s the first one out. Doesn’t even look back. She’s a blur of black hoodie and disdain.

Walker follows. He takes one last moment to adjust his jacket like a man about to deliver a keynote speech at AlphaCon. Then he disappears.

Yelena and Alexei linger just long enough for Alexei to get punched in the gut with a combat boot.

“Gentle touch, my little cucumber!” he wheezes, grinning as she drags him out by the shoulder.

And then the doors close again.

Just you and Bucky.

Still holding pinkies. Still acting like horny Victorian ghosts. He turns his head slightly. “You know,” he says softly, “I was gonna behave.”

You snort. “You were never gonna behave.”

He raises your hand—linked fingers and all—and presses a kiss to your knuckle. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s claiming territory.

“Not with you standing there looking like that.”

“Like what? Like a post-apocalyptic trash panda?”

He smiles, close enough for you to feel it. “Like you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens. Your knees wobble. You might cry, or kiss him, or both. He’s crowding into your space now, a wall of heat and soft danger, and your heart is making actual whimpering noises. He cups your jaw with the hand that used to hold guns shakily. Cradles your face like you’re breakable. You don’t move.

He leans in and kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet. Not the kind of kiss you’d offer in the hallway of a federal building with camera sensors tucked discreetly behind ceiling panels.

It’s filthy.

He kisses you like he’s losing something. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you. Like you’re the only solid thing in a world that’s always pulling out from under him.

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat—a half-whimper, half-gasp—and that’s all it takes. His hand fists in the fabric of your jacket like he can’t decide if he’s trying to pull you closer or keep himself upright. Your back hits the elevator wall with a low thud, but you don’t care. You barely notice. You’re too busy clawing at the front of his shirt like you can feel the heat of his skin through the tactical mesh.

His other hand slides down, palm bracing against your waist, then hips, fingers tightening like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you in his grip. He kisses like a man on borrowed time. Like he’s been starving for weeks and just remembered how food tastes.

Your lips part and his tongue slips in, shameless, and you make a sound that absolutely should not be allowed in this kind of facility.

He groans—quiet, guttural, wrecked. The kind of sound that makes you feel hunted. Worshipped. Something in between. His hand slides under your shirt, warm and callused and unforgiving, fingers dragging up over your ribs like he needs the reassurance of skin. Of you. Of real.

You pull away just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to his, panting, lips swollen, your pulse rattling like a live wire between your teeth.

“This is so wildly inappropriate,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

“Uh-huh,” he says, immediately diving back in.

Your mouths crash again, sloppier this time. Needier. His teeth catch on your bottom lip and you gasp, and then you’re both just gone.

This is not a kiss.

It’s a breakdown.

It’s the unraveling of restraint, the proof of every missed second, every stolen glance, every time you had to pretend that his fingers brushing yours didn’t feel like the whole world tilting. He presses his thigh between yours and you grind down on it, automatic, helpless, like your body’s decided survival depends on contact.

He’s breathing hard now, panting against your jaw, and you can feel his pulse everywhere—under your hands, against your chest, beating like it’s synced to yours. His lips drag down your neck, hot and desperate, and your knees actually buckle.

“Buck,” you whisper.

“Say my name again,” he says, voice guttural, mouth still against your throat.

You do. You say it like a prayer. Like a curse. He groans again, one of those deep-chested sounds that makes your stomach clench and your hips stutter against his.

And then—

ding.

You freeze. Both of you do.

The elevator doors start to slide.

Bucky leaps back like he’s been shot. Your shirt’s rumpled. His hair is a mess. Your mouth is wet and your face is flushed, and you’re both panting like you just ran a mile with a bomb strapped to your chest.

The doors open.

Bob steps in, holding a tupperware of soup like it’s a sacred artifact. He's wearing socks with cartoon avocados on them. His smile could power a small city.

You and Bucky stand there. Utterly wrecked. One breath away from damnation.

“Oh, hey!” he says brightly. “You guys smell like... fire? That’s fun.”

You hastily wipe your mouth like you’ve been doing literally anything else besides giving your ex-assassin boyfriend the make-out of your lives in a government elevator.

Bob hits the button for the common floor and beams. “I brought extra spoons.”

You consider launching yourself through the roof. Bucky visibly swallows a laugh.

Bob just hums to himself, completely unbothered, and says, “So what movie are we thinking tonight, guys? Paddington 2 again?”

Bucky just gives you a side-eye, and mouths later.

You're going to die here. And it’s going to be his fault.

.

The next morning, when you walk into the kitchen still wearing Bucky’s t-shirt—slouchy, faded, tragically identifiable—you feel a familiar jolt of terror crackle down your spine.

Bob is already there.

He’s perched at the counter like a man waiting for his toaster to open up about its feelings. Bowl of cereal untouched. Hair sticking up slightly like he’s been awake since five. Wearing one of his many “Be Kind” t-shirts in Comic Sans font and mismatched socks (ducks and the planet Saturn).

The worst part?

He looks happy.

Which is how you know something bad is about to happen.

“Morning,” you say carefully, like you’re approaching a toddler with a loaded Nerf gun. You’re not trying to startle him. Just blend in. Be calm. Normal. Shirt? What shirt? Could be anyone’s. Totally generic. Never mind that it says “REP. JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES — New York’s 9th District” and smells like cedarwood, gun oil, and Bucky's neck.

“Hey,” Bob says brightly, swiveling slightly to look at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Do you think the toaster knows when it’s being watched?”

You blink.

“I—what?”

He turns back to it, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I just think it’s weird how sometimes it takes way longer. Like, the same setting. But it’s different every time. You think it’s a confidence thing?”

You stare at him. This is your punishment. Bucky made good on his promise of "later." This is divine retribution for letting Bucky mark you up like a Renaissance fresco in his bed last night. You tug the hem of his shirt down subtly—though it’s not much use. Your thighs are on full display and the side of your neck looks like you lost a fight with an octopus. An extremely horny octopus.

As nonchalantly as you can muster, you make a noncommittal noise and inch toward the coffee. Maybe if you move slowly enough, you won’t set off his latent observation skills. Maybe you can get out of this conversation without—

“Oh, another thing,” he says suddenly, like he’s remembering something vitally important. “Bucky made those cookies again last week. The shortbread ones. Did he use the almond extract this time? I thought I tasted almond.”

Your hand twitches on the coffee pot. You force a smile. “Maybe.”

Bob nods, satisfied. “They were really good. You should tell him that. I feel like he listens to you.”

Oh my God.

“Yeah,” you say faintly. “I’ll do that.”

There’s a long pause. You spoon coffee grounds into the machine with trembling hands, trying not to think about the fact that your bra is currently somewhere on Bucky’s floor and it's… getting awfully cold.

Bob’s staring off now. Not at anything in particular. Just… into the middle distance, like he’s having a staring contest with the multiverse.

Then, softly—too softly—he says, “Do you think people know when they’re safe?”

You freeze, one hand hovering over the ‘brew’ button.

“Safe?” you repeat.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Like… when they’re around someone who makes them feel okay. Even if everything else isn’t. Like the person is a... blanket. Or soup.”

Your brain short-circuits. Because, on one hand—wow. That’s beautiful. And heartbreaking. And strangely poetic, especially from someone who once got locked in the pantry trying to organize the rice alphabetically.

On the other hand, you are standing in front of him wearing a shirt that absolutely does not belong to you, with a constellation of visible hickies across your collarbone like you’ve been attacked by a very determined vampire. You can still feel Bucky’s teeth in your skin if you think too hard about it.

Your heart stumbles.

But before you can answer, he grins and adds brightly, “Anyway, I washed your Avengers mug for you! It had, like, a weird honey ring around the inside. But no judgment!”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Bob.”

He looks up, eyes guileless and wide, cheeks puffed slightly from the cereal.

“You are the most emotionally dangerous person I know.”

He beams. Beams.

“Thank you!”

And the worst part—the actual worst part—is that he means it. He means it like it’s the highest compliment you could give him. Like you just told him he reminds you of golden hour or warm bread. You sip your coffee. You don’t correct him.

Instead, you pull the collar of your shirt higher, glance at the toaster—still untouched—and mutter, “You should say something encouraging. I think it’s scared.”

Bob turns to it solemnly and pats the counter.

“You’re doing great, buddy,” he whispers. “Take your time.”

You walk out of the kitchen with coffee, a pounding heart, and the crushing knowledge that Bob might never figure it out. But if he does—if he ever connects the dots—you're done for.

.

A couple nights later, you are, technically, in a mission pre-brief.

This would imply focus. Discipline. Mental engagement with the subject matter. And you are listening—sort of. The words are wording. The hologram is glowing. The seating is semi-circular, very official. Alexei has already spilled protein shake on his briefing packet and Yelena has already judged him for it.

But your attention? Tragically and completely fixed on Bucky. Because you’ve finally got a window of time. A rare, golden, New Avengers-less window of time.

Yelena narrows her eyes. “You are too excited.”

You grin. “I’m always excited about watching the Tower. So many fire safety drills.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yelena, you’ll be leading Team Two with Ava. Alexei’s on recon. Walker, stay away from anything flammable. Or mechanical. Or sharp.”

“I’m starting to feel targeted,” Walker says, not incorrectly.

“You are,” Bucky says. “Brief’s over in five. Load up.”

The room begins to shuffle. Folders close. Ava disappears without a sound like some kind of vengeful specter. Walker immediately opens his phone and starts drafting a tweet. Alexei reaches for a third protein bar. Bob, bless him, is in the city today. Something about finally getting the full "New Yorker" experience.

You stay in your chair, waiting until they’re mostly gone.

And Bucky glances back. That look again. That unbearable, quiet knowing.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says low, just for you.

And you flush. Just slightly. But enough.

Yelena, from the doorway, calls, “Bring back rotisserie this time. I want proof of life. And marinade.” You flip her off without turning around.

And when Bucky finally exits—calm, confident, the living embodiment of every one of your worst ideas—you can’t help but grin.

Because he’s yours. He’ll be back by sunset. And tonight? Tonight, he’s not briefing anyone but you.

.

You don't know why—but it feels like everything always leads back to the kitchen for the two of you.

It’s not the first time you’ve cooked for him. Not even the fifth. But something about tonight feels more fragile. Like if you name it out loud, it’ll vanish. You don’t have a word for it, but you think maybe it’s just stillness. The kind that only shows up after the noise has passed.

And right now, it’s just you, in the kitchen, trying not to screw up a meal that reminds him of a version of himself long buried. 

A version that once stood barefoot on cold tile in a one-bedroom apartment in Bucharest, six years old and all elbows, scolded in sharp Romanian by his mother for eating the bread crusts while the stew was still on the stove. A recipe that came from her own mother, who brought it from Tulcea in a suitcase with one working zipper and a handful of Orthodox icons. A recipe that predates wars. That survived immigration, and hunger, and a son who wouldn’t stay dead.

You never asked him for it. He wouldn’t have known how to share it, not in words. But months ago, at a crowded potluck for OXE employees, you watched his face soften around a mouthful of something unfamiliar to everyone else. A glint in his eye, unguarded, like a ghost had brushed past him and nodded hello. 

And you stored the moment like a treasure. You hunted down recipes. You read cooking blogs in translated Romanian. You asked quietly, once, in bed, whether his mother used smoked paprika or sweet. His answer was just a sleepy murmur — “both” — and you tucked it away.

You want to give him something that says: I paid attention. I know where you come from, and I love that place too, even if I’ve only touched it through you.

You’re elbow-deep in your own kitchen disaster. One burner going too hot, another stubbornly cold. The parsley's still in the grocery bag by the sink, untouched. You can’t even remember why you set the timer, but it’s blinking zeroes in judgment.

And then suddenly—he’s there.

You flinch slightly when you feel him behind you. Not out of fear. Just startled, because it’s him. Home. Already. And you meant to be ready — hair brushed, table set, sauce stirred with calm domestic competence instead of this half-panicked whirlwind of oil splatters and forgotten herbs.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets two mismatched plates at the table, quiet and unceremonious, like slipping into rhythm with you is something he can do in his sleep. Like he's always known this place by heart.

Then his hand finds your waist. Warm. Steady. Real.

“You’re back,” you say, breath catching a little. A stupid thing to say, but it’s the only thing your mouth remembers how to do.

He hums low in your ear. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”

“I forgot the parsley,” you admit, like it’s a confession. “I got distracted—trying not to kill the garlic and then the timer went off and—God, I don’t even know what this is anymore—”

“Hey,” he says, voice low, the kind of voice that moves through you like warm water. “It’s okay. I like it like this.”

You don’t turn around. Just blink at the sauce. “Like what? Mildly chaotic and herb-deficient?”

His lips brush your temple. “Messy. Real.”

You exhale through a half-laugh, half-grumble. “If you say ‘because I’m messy too,’ I’m actually kicking you out. Dirty boots and all.”

He snorts. The sound of someone unwinding at the edges. “No. But I might say, ‘because it tastes like something you made just for me,’ and then you’d have to marry me.”

Your breath catches. He says it like a joke. Mostly. Probably.

You reach down and tug at the frayed hem of your apron instead. “I’ve had this since college. Bought it because the pattern was ironic. Now it’s just covered in sauce stains and emotional baggage.”

“I like it,” he says simply.

“You like everything,” you mutter, a little helpless.

“Not true,” he murmurs. “I don’t like Walker’s new cologne.”

That earns a snort from you. Relief loosens your shoulders.

“But I love this,” he adds, quieter now. “You. The kitchen. The fact that your spoon drawer is a lawless hellscape.”

“It builds character,” you mumble.

“Exactly,” he says, and then, after a beat: “I missed you all day.”

And there it is. The thing that levels you faster than burnt garlic ever could. You close your eyes. Feel the shape of him against your back — broad and solid, fatigue-worn and steady. He’s not wearing his tac gear anymore. Just a soft shirt and socks and the weight of someone who came back from somewhere hard and decided, again, to keep coming back to you.

Dinner is simple. Sarmale, not quite textbook, but warm and familiar. A little too much tomato, not enough bay leaf. But he eats it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Like it’s a secret passed down, just for him. Like it’s proof.

At one point, he stops chewing just to look at you.

“What?” you ask, lips twitching.

He shrugs. “Just like seeing you. Like this.”

You glance down. Sauce-smeared apron. No bra. Hair a disaster. “If ‘like this’ is code for feral house gremlin—”

“It’s code for mine.”

Your chest tightens. Not from panic. From something else. Something quieter, more dangerous. The dangerous thing that your heart does everytime the word "mine" escapes from his lips.

“You’ve got really weird taste then,” you whisper.

“Andn you’ve got great hands,” he replies. “Even when they’re holding a spoon instead of a weapon.”

You don’t know how he does that — makes softness sound like strength. Makes you feel like you’re not failing by being tender.

After dinner, you clear the plates. He insists on doing the dishes, and you let him, mostly because you like the way he hums while he works. Like he’s memorizing the rhythm of a life he never thought he’d get to live. You wipe the counter beside him. He flicks soap at you.

You flick back.

It escalates. You’re both too tired to keep score, but the water on your shirt says you lost. Or maybe you won.

“You started it,” he grins.

“You’re a menace,” you shoot back, breathless with laughter.

He dries the last fork. Sets it carefully in the drawer. You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped.

The kiss is inevitable. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just earned.

It lingers.

You taste the salt from dinner, the faintest hint of mint on his breath, the ache he doesn't say aloud.

He groans quietly, a ragged little sound in the back of his throat, and it shoots straight down your spine. He breaks the kiss for half a second, his forehead pressed to yours, and mutters, voice shredded and wrecked and low:

“Been thinking about this the whole mission.”

You can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. There’s a knot behind your ribs and it’s tight and urgent and full of too many days of not touching.

His lips find yours again, messier now, faster. Like restraint’s something he only vaguely remembers. His mouth moves like he wants to memorize you. Like he's starving.

One hand slips down to your waist, gripping firm, dragging you in with a quiet urgency that leaves no room for confusion. You end up caged between the counter and his body, and it’s not a bad place to die.

“I missed your mouth,” he murmurs between kisses, and it’s so much—too much—but also not enough. “You got no idea how many nights I fell asleep thinking about this. About you, standing here. Smelling like onions and rosemary. Looking like home.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower—down your throat, slow and tasting—and your knees go a little weak.

“You always smell like this,” he says, a little hoarse, like it's a revelation. “Like something sweet that got burnt a little.”

His hand's on your lower back now, sliding up under your shirt like he's asking, not taking. Like he wants to feel your skin, not just hold it. His fingers press into you like he’s learning your shape all over again.

“I want dessert,” he whispers, biting gently at your earlobe.

You blink, dazed. “There’s, uh—brownies in the oven. Kind of. They might be salvageable.”

His laugh is low, strained, against your throat. “Not what I meant.”

And then he kisses you again, properly, and all the air leaves the room.

It’s rushed now. Bruised and gasping and edged with something deeper than lust. Not just want. Need. You can feel it in the way his hands shake slightly when they run up your sides. In the way he kisses you like he might not get to again.

You push up on your toes, chasing him, and he lets out a broken, breathless, “Fuck—baby, wait,” but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Just rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“You’ve got no idea,” he mutters, voice barely there. “You’ve got no fucking idea what it does to me. Coming back to you. Coming back and finding you like this.”

“Like what?” you whisper, throat dry.

He kisses you again and you swallow the words in your throat, hard and open-mouthed, his hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. You kiss him back like you’re burning. Like it’ll kill you not to.

You drag your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feel him shudder. He pushes you a little further into the counter, slotting his body against yours, chasing every inch of contact.

“You taste like tomato,” he rasps, biting gently at your lip. “And salt. I fucking love y–it."

You kiss him harder. He groans, like you knocked the air out of him.

Then you pull back just barely—just enough to look him in the eye. His mouth is kiss-swollen, pupils blown, jaw clenched like he’s barely holding on.

“I’m not fragile,” you murmur.

And he says, “I know.” But his voice is so full of awe, like he can’t believe you’re real, like the only way he knows how to worship anything is with his mouth and his hands and the breathless way he says your name in pieces.

“Can I?” he asks, already kissing along your jaw again. “Can I just—God, let me taste you, sweetheart.”

You’re breathless, already nodding, already pulling him in.

But you don’t make it to the bedroom. Not yet.

Because he lifts you—effortless, like you weigh nothing, like his hands were made for this—and sets you on the edge of the counter, your thighs falling open without ceremony. The laminate is cool under your legs, and he’s warm everywhere else: crowding in, pressed between your knees, his palms spread wide on your bare skin like he’s grounding himself there. Like if he doesn't touch you, he’ll float off the fucking earth.

You feel him shift, one hand moving to your waist while the other traces up your spine, patient but burning. The pads of his fingers graze under the hem of the apron and you feel your breath hitch, your stomach contract.

“Could make a man cry, y'know?” he murmurs against your mouth. His voice is wrecked. “In this lil’ apron and all. Straight out of a dream.”

You hum, just barely managing to keep your cool. You try. God, you try. “Innocent dreams, I’m guessing?”

He laughs—soft and feral, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being hunted and adored in equal measure. “Sweetheart,” he says, thumbing along your jaw like he’s memorizing it by pressure alone, and then he kneels. Drops down to the floor.  “I don’t have innocent dreams about you anymore."

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. His stubble scrapes your legs and you shudder, eyes fluttering. You can feel him chuckle under his breath, and then your pants, along with your panties off in one fell swoop. And then you're exposed.

For a second, you look down, just as Bucky looks up. His eyes, when he pulls back just enough to look at you, are blown dark and reverent. You see the need in him, and it’s not clean. You're the one undressed on the counter, but the angle makes him look so painfully exposed, the way his lashes flutter.

And then he leans in, the flat of his tongue meeting your folds in earnest, and your mouth falls open in a lewd, lewd moan.

Before Bucky, you'd never met anyone who'd eaten pussy this—this enthusiastically. Like he needs it like oxygen, like he needs it just to exist on a molecular level. He's gripping onto your thighs so tight, scooting you closer and closer to the edge. 

His tongue curves and rubs around your clit, your hips jerking with every time he hums or gets sloppy with it, skirting around your folds like he needs to suck up every last drop of you.

This man is so good to you. He's so, so, so fucking good. You don't know if you somehow cured cancer or saved a thousand lives in your last life, but whatever it was, whatever you did, it must have been really fucking special—to end up here, in this kitchen, on the counter, his face pressed against your pussy like it's his salvation.

You come to your first orgasm that night with his name on your lips like a silent scream, holding on to his soft brown hair for dear life, losing yourself in the sensation.

Moments later, he's still sucking you up, like he intends to clean you dry. Distantly, in the haze of your thoughts, you can hear him—his voice striking a chord. Almost as if amazed.

“You’re in me,” he says, thumb skimming your thigh like a benediction. “You get that? You’re in me. You’re every breath, every fuckin’—I can’t sleep without picturing your face. I can’t breathe without wanting you closer.”

You feel your chest stutter, your fingers tangling in his hair. It's so hard to focus—it always is, after your first orgasm but for him—for him, you try your absolute hardest.

“I’d give you everything,” he tells you, reverent now, mouth soft at your legs. The low hum of his voice sends tingles up your spine, and it's like you're hyper-aware of every sensation. His beard brushing against your skin, the tiny little pinpricks, the way his nails are just ever so slightly digging into the plush of your thighs. “If I was a better man, I’d give you the world.”

“You are,” you whisper. “You’re mine. That’s better.”

His eyes flutter closed like he can’t bear to hear it. "Say it again."

"Mine. All mine, Bucky, I'm—fuck, I'm so fucking lucky I get to call you mine, I'll never—"

You don't get to finish your sentence, words dying in your throat because he's back—back to devouring you whole, mouth relentless and pacing like he never stopped. And you're already so sensitive, to a point where every little suck and pull and tug has you curling your toes, but then—

"Buck, I��I don't know if I can do another one, baby, I'm—my legs are literally shaking."

In response, he just tuts. Shakes his head, like. Hm, "You can take another one. For me?"

"I'll help you, sweetheart. Just let me do all the work."

The moment you nod, the world spins suddenly, and you've been whirled around to face the other side of the counter.

This new angle—it's cruel. You can't see him, that's the worst part, the part that gets pinpricks under your skin. You don't even have to look to know he's smiling, with the way he strokes one globe of your ass so tenderly, so lovingly, despite your vulnerable position. 

You go to turn around, to try and get a look at him, and you're rewarded with a tug to your hair. 

"Did I say you could turn around?"

The words die in your throat. The heat of his breath fans across your pussy, and you hear it—his sharp inhale. Then he's back like he never left, mouth slotting against where you're dropping.

And oh, you're going insane. There's no other way about it, with the way the flat of his tongue continues its assault on your pussy, everything inside you contracting against his motions.

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks—and it's, holy fuck, the heat, the friction, the suction, all of it—makes you jump forward, yelping. And you probably would've fallen off the counter if it wasn't for the way his grip on your hips goes tighter and he groans into your cunt. His hands squeeze again, like a warning. Don't you dare get away.

And you don't. You lay there, on your stomach, facing the beautiful, beautiful New York City skyline, hands grasping and reaching for nothing—and then it hits, your orgasm, full-force, gushing and overflowing. It's a full body reaction, and you can vaguely register the noise of utensils and a plate, no, several, hitting the floor.

Distantly, you can hear him, swearing under his breath. That low laugh you've learned to simultaneously love and hate.

You stay like that, limp and dazed and mind swimming, while he cleans you up on his tongue with painstaking detail. It's a stark contrast from just moments ago. 

Bucky moans from the taste—long and drawn out—licking his way up your body. 

From your thighs, to the plush fat of your ass, then up, up, up your spine, so slow that it makes you whine, until he's by your shoulder, and then he's breathing down your neck. His next words almost give you a heart attack.

"Can I get a third one out of you, sweet girl?" He's looking at you in earnest, with so much open affection in his eyes. "Please, I'll make it so good. I can make it so good for you. All you gotta do is lay there and keep looking pretty, please."

You’re gasping, still pinned to the kitchen counter with his hands under your thighs like he’s trying to carve your name into his palms. And you want to answer him—you do. Your legs are shaking. His breath is ragged—he’s so far gone he doesn’t even flinch when one of the bowls gets knocked over.

But then you nod. Against all your better instincts, because you could never, ever, get enough of him. Never get enough of this, ever.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, voice hoarse and reverent, “Please, baby, I need to hear you, use your words—”

The entire kitchen goes still, except for the slow drip of sauce sliding off the edge of the counter and hitting the floor with a tiny, damning splop.

Then—

“Hey guys! I’m back early!”

Bob.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, trying to shove Bucky back, who is absolutely useless right now, still clinging to you like he hasn’t quite accepted that two—no, three orgasms on the counter is absolutely where you guys are stopping for the night.

“I brought souvenirs!” Bob’s voice gets closer. “There was this lady on 48th who hand-paints little figurines of pigeons dressed as firefighters and I thought, wow, that’s New York for ya.”

You’re off the counter in a full-body scramble, nearly wiping out on a pool of soapy water near the sink. Bucky grabs your arm instinctively, probably to stop you from busting your head open, but in doing so knocks the toaster off the counter with a metallic clang.

“Get it together,” you whisper, which makes absolutely no sense because you are covered in tomato sauce and your pants are still off and Bucky has suspicious amounts of shininess covering the lower half of his face. The kitchen is a warzone. There’s a wooden spoon on the ceiling fan. One burner’s somehow on. There’s a belt in the fruit bowl.

Bob walks in mid-step, mid-sentence, bright-eyed and radiating wholesome Floridian joy, then stops cold.

His mouth opens. Then closes.

In his arms: two crumpled souvenir bags, one already halfway on the floor. A tiny plush Statue of Liberty rolls dramatically across the tile.

You make a strangled sound that might be a scream. “Bob, I am begging you, go back outside.”

Bucky finally speaks, voice muffled into your shoulder: “I’m so sorry.”

“It looks like you guys fucked so hard the toaster gave up and killed itself,” Bob says, voice high-pitched with the sincerity of someone who’s trying very hard not to be traumatized.

Then he bends down to start picking up the mess he made with the dropped gifts, and you notice the poor guy’s hands are shaking a little. “I just wanted to give you guys your pigeon,” he says, a little wounded. “I picked out one wearing a tiny firefighter hat.”

You kneel down to help him, guilt and secondhand embarrassment flooding your bloodstream like battery acid. “We really appreciate the pigeon, Bob. Seriously. We’ll name it after you.”

“I don’t think I want that,” he mutters, setting the figurine on the table and not quite looking you in the eye. “You guys do know you live with me, right? Like, this isn’t a hotel. There are consequences. For example—”

He pauses to pick up a sticky spoon from the floor, holds it up like he’s inspecting a murder weapon.

“—someone’s going to have to clean this. And it’s not going to be me, because I already did dishes this week.”

You glance at Bucky, still frozen in place, then back at Bob. That was not the way you were expecting things to go. “You’re… taking this really well.” Better than Yelena, goes unsaid.

Bob looks genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I? Besides the… well. I really shouldn't be surprised. You’ve been in love with each other since, like, week two.”

You and Bucky blink in sync. “What?”

Bob just starts pouring a bowl of cereal, completely unbothered. “Was I not supposed to know? You two are, like, the worst at pretending not to be together. The Rep. Barnes t-shirt? The matching coffee mugs? The way you make heart eyes at each other when you think no one’s watching?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Bucky looks personally offended on behalf of his espionage skills.

“I’m very discreet,” he mumbles.

“You called her by her first name in the middle of a team meeting,” Bob says. “You never ever refer to us by anything other than our last names.”

“That’s—” Bucky falters. “Contextually intimate.”

“And one time I heard her say, ‘I don’t care about the news, can you just tell me if Bucky ate breakfast,’” Bob adds, wringing his hands like it could possibly wipe away the memory of this.

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Bob shrugs. “Honestly, I thought you two were just trying to create plausible deniability in case HR ever got weird about it.”

You stare at him. “We… we don’t have HR.”

“Exactly,” Bob says, like that proves his point.

Then he disappears into his room, muttering something about pigeons and getting compensation for therapy, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

You turn to Bucky. He’s leaning against the counter, dazed, looking like a man who just walked away from a car crash and won the lottery in the same day. Then he grins. Proud. Absolutely smug.

“Well,” he says, “That went better than I thought it would.”

There’s a long, stunned pause where you and Bucky just look at each other, half-dressed, ruined, embarrassed beyond repair. The kitchen still smells like garlic and impending lawsuits. You stare at him for a beat, sauce drying on your shoulder, and say, “You’re bleaching the counter.”

He shrugs. “I’d bleach the whole building if it meant eating you out like that again.”

You throw a dishtowel at him.

He catches it. Smiles like a menace.

And you already know—next time, the toaster will probably fucking die for real.

[maplesyrizzup]

saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”

[maplesyrizzup]

★ ⎯a date like real people.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader. Bucky Barnes x fem!reader.

Tags: Fluff. Date. Bucky is a gentleman. Boyfriend!Bucky.

Synopsis: REQUESTED. A date with the one and only Bucky Barnes shows you what dating truly means. Think of this as the reader from my 'a soldier's solace' series, but before they got married.

Warnings: Possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Canon divergencies. Not proofread. Silly little 1k words long to inspire me into writing the big fic I'm working on.

Taglist: @balladofareader @lovethornes @viqwxcs @raineraspberries1 @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @faiszt @sra7riddle-malfoy @eeflux

A/N: Probably shorter than my other works. I had to write this to get out of the writer's block. I was about to lose my mind. I think it's important to mention I took some inspiration from @/ceriseheaven, who had some really cute takes on Bucky's reaction to modern dating. Enjoy <3.

I do not consent for my work to be uploaded onto other platforms or translated. Reblog to support. Comment to be added to my taglist.

Back in the day, in the 1940s, Bucky Barnes was a name synonym of charm. The stormy-blue eyes, the brown hair, and the signature smirk with the wrinkled nose was a sight every lady wished to see.

He knew how to dance, and he knew exactly how to hold a woman's hand to make her swoon. But most importantly, he chose his words rather wisely.

Every compliment, every witty remark was carefully curated, making sure they never failed to achieve their intended goal; to charm.

Time and time again, whatever dame he took out on a date, walked home with a dreamy smile on her face, thinking about the amazing time she just had.

For a while, that was how Bucky assumed dating worked. At least in the 20th century. He would pick his girl up, compliment her on how she looked, and smile as she rambled about whatever. He would take her hand while they walked, and buy her something sweet to eat.

Much to his surprise, you seemed to have a completely different idea about dating. This afternoon was supposed to be something more casual, a simple date to pass time. You didn't think much of it, while Bucky was busy making his ice cream order, you took your credit card out of your wallet, and reaching out to hand it to the cashier.

Almost instantly, and as if it were some sort of reflex, Bucky's head flew to the side, raising an eyebrow in quite genuine perplexity. “What are you doing?”

“I'm… paying?” Now it was your turn to look confused, frozen in place.

“This is a date.” He stated plainly, and almost offended. He moved forward, taking out cash from his pocket instead. “You're not supposed to pay on dates.”

“That's a little old-fashioned…” you murmured under your breath, somewhat amused.

“Yeah, newsflash, sweetheart. I was born in 1917.” Bucky grumbled, taking your ice cream and handing it to you, before taking his own.

His silent frown and defensive words brought a bigger smile to your face. When he caught it, from the corner of his eye, his expression crumbled. You were the prettiest thing he had seen in a long time.

Not just on the outside. Your heart, your soul, he also appreciated those—the way you would smile at him despite everything you knew about his past. You would hold his vibranuim hand, and kiss his cheek.

A few nights ago, you had stayed over for the first time ever. That very same night, he had found out just how far the lengths of your comfort went.

As you slept soundly beside him, one of his worst fears came true; he had one of his heart-wrenching nightmares, one that was considerably darker than usual.

He jolted up, out of breath, his eyes darting around frantically. Without second thought, he stood up from the bed. It had been a long time since he had last slept in his bed. Usually, he just lied on the floor with a blanket and some pillows—the mattress felt like it would swallow him whole if he was not vigilant enough.

Naturally, all the abrupt movement woke you up as well. You called out his name, rubbing the sleep off your eyes. At that very moment, he could not bear to look at you. His hands were clenched, his nails digging into his flesh hand.

In his stomach lurked a deep-set feeling of shame. This was not a side of him he wanted you to see. He wanted you to believe he was healed, that he could be the boyfriend you needed—that he could be the partner he wanted to be.

What would you think now that you had seen just how deeply his past affected him? Now that you had witnessed the stranglehold the ghost of the Winter Soldier still had on him.

Yet, against all his beliefs, you did not leave. You did not run out of the apartment with fear in your eyes. You did not yell at him for having woken you up. You did not glare at him in disgust for being so weak.

Instead, you gently grabbed his hand, pulling him into the bed again. You sat next to him, and brought his head to your chest. You trailed your fingers through his hair, and placed small kisses on his hairline.

And for that, he had grown to love you.

Bucky extended his arm to pull a chair out for you, and only when he was sure you were comfortable, he took a seat himself.

“You love that, don't you? Being a gentleman.” You grinned, lightly teasing him with your foot under the table.

“I'm just doing my job, doll…” his shoulders shrugged, as if stating the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, all the guys I've dated never did those things. Holding doors, paying, walking on the outside of the sidewalk.” Your head moved as you ate your ice cream, sneaking glances at your boyfriend's questioning gaze.

“Is that what dates look like nowadays?” He inquired, waiting for your next words, almost urging you to carefully choose what you were about to say.

“Generally,” you bit your lip, waiting for his reaction. “Bills are usually split 50/50.”

“That's bullshit.” He frowned again, leaning closer, curious to know more. “Those don't count as real dates if he didn't treat you right.”

“Don't make too much of a big deal out of it, Bucky.” Your gaze softened, and your hand reached out to brush with his. “They were okay.”

“And you deserve more than just 'okay'.” His voice was firm, baffled by the manners of modern men, and leaving no room for argument. His gaze was set into yours, pouring all his feelings and the silent oath of treating you better.

“That's what you're here for. You're the best boyfriend I've ever had. A true gentleman, if there even is such a thing.” You laugh, managing to —yet again—bring a grin out of him.

“Damn right.”

[maplesyrizzup]

Bucky Barnes and Temperature Play

18 + fingering, nipple play, eating out, fem reader.

He runs his vibranium fingers over your burning skin when you get worked up

He could have been taking his shirt off cause he's sweaty after working, sweat glistening over his skin and he catches you crossing your legs to get more pressure on your cunt.

He walks over to you so he can run his hands up and down your arms. You shiver at the temperature differences which makes you squeeze your thighs together more.

OR

Sometimes he doesn't notice he's working you up with his arm.

He'll cradle your face for an innocent kiss not realizing the temperature differences turns you on. God and you loved it.

Sometimes you would have to scoot past Bucky in the kitchen or bathroom. When you walk past him your nipples rub against his vibranium arm immediately making them hard. You blamed it on wearing a thin shirt and it being cold.

Until Bucky realized you would only walk past his left side. No bra, thin shirt, and a little whimper. You'd also kept the temperature cooler than usual your excuse was "It's been so hot James. Gotta keep it cold." Bucky didn't mind because it was the truth.

One day it really was hot. You had stayed in bed all day with a fan in front of you and no clothes. (Which was normal)

Bucky walked in after trying to fix the air conditioner, "Hot?" He already knew the answer. He stripped his clothes and then lay behind you. Your back to his chest.

Everything was normal like always. Until he slung his left arm over your waist. The coldness on your hot skin felt good. The cold plates of his vibranium arm had run over your nipples making them hard.

Bucky already knew.

He kisses at your bare shoulder, "What's wrong hm?" He moved his arm so it would hit your nipples again.

You let a whimper out.

His vibranium thumb swipes over your right nipple that's when you roll your hips back on his hard cock, "You like the temperature difference. Hot skin. Cold arm."

He flips you on your back fast. He's already hovering over you. Straddling over your hips but not putting his whole weight.

His cock stands tall.

He grabs your breasts. His thumbs roll over your nipples.

One hand cold. One hand warm.

He smirks down at you as you whimper loudly, "Knew it." You let out a huff as he smirks.

He moves down your body. Between your legs. Your pussy is wet. He runs his flesh finger through your folds. Your pussy is hot.

He bends your left leg so it stands on the bed so he can have more room to lay.

Fuck he can see you're getting wet by the second.

He blows cool air on your pussy and he watches your hole clench. He hears you moan a "Please"

His left arm wraps around your right thigh to hold you down. Not only for that reason. So he can reach around and play with your clit.

He blows more cold air watching as your pussy clenches over and over again. Then he starts to rub your clit.

You try to roll your hips, "Fuck. James."

While he plays with your clit and blows a cold breath on your cunt, his flesh hand starts to prod at your sopping hole.

Fuck you're already close and he knows it.

You start to buck your hips again but Bucky doesn't allow it.

He moves his vibranium arm off of you completely.

You were about to whine then his lips wrapped around your clit.

Your whine immediately turned into a loud moan.

You start to buck your hips into his face. Your fingers lace into his hair.

You're getting desperate to cum.

All of a sudden you're full of his vibranium fingers.

They slam in and out of you hitting your gspot.

You pull at Bucky's hair to keep him sucking and licking your clit.

Your hips buck up forcefully then you cum with a loud moan.

Bucky doesn't stop finger fucking you or sucking on your clit. He loves making you cum.

Bucky finally lets up and looks at you from between your thighs, "So you like how cold my arm is?"

@witch-oftheflowers

[maplesyrizzup]

𝙾𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

✮ Summary: Bucky knows you’ll come back. But his brain doesn’t always believe it. So he texts. Calls. Leaves voice notes. And keeps a little Polaroid of you in his wallet—just in case he needs to remember you exist.

✮ Genre: emotional!Bucky, PTSD comfort, clingy & vulnerable, deep love, soft reassurance, trauma-aware fluff, established relationship

✮ Word Count: ~1.5k

✮ Author Notes: Not all love is loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet text, a trembling voice note, a picture you hold onto like a lifeline. This is that kind of love. 🥺📸

He doesn’t like when you leave. Not in a possessive way. Not in the “you’re mine, don’t go anywhere” kind of way.

More like… if I can’t see you, how do I know you’re real? It’s something he doesn’t say out loud often. But you know. You always know.

Especially when the voice notes start.

“Hey,” his voice says, soft and a little cracked. “Just checking in. Still love me?”

You pause in the grocery aisle—box of pasta in one hand, heart breaking in the other. You reply without hesitation.

“Forever,” you whisper. “Not going anywhere.”

✦✦✦

You never tease him for it. Because it’s not funny. It’s fear. It’s trauma. It’s Bucky trying to logic his way out of a panic spiral and still losing.

He knows, in his brain, that you’ll come back. But his body? His body goes cold. His chest tightens. His hands shake.

It’s like you disappear and every scar he’s ever carried tells him you’re being left again. Prepare for it. Even if it’s only ten minutes.

✦✦✦

So he copes the best way he knows how. Sometimes that’s sending you six texts in a row, all different versions of

“You good?” “Need anything?” “Just checking the world hasn’t stolen you yet.”

Other times it’s a blurry picture of Alpine with the caption “She misses you. (Me too.)”

And lately? It’s the Polaroid.

You remember the day you took it—warm sunlight, hoodie weather, your legs draped across his lap on the fire escape. You laughed at something dumb he said. He caught it with a click. Didn’t tell you he printed it. Didn’t tell you he started carrying it.

You only found out when he left his wallet open one night and you saw it tucked behind his ID—creased at the edges, the corners soft. Worn in like it had been kissed.

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him instead. And he whispered, “It helps.”

✦✦✦

One night, after a hard mission, you come home to find him sitting on the floor beside the bed. Knees drawn up. Polaroid in hand. Your heart sinks “Bad?” you ask softly.

He nods. You kneel beside him “Do you want me to talk or just sit with you?”

He leans into your side. “Sit. Just… be here.”

So you are. Your hand finds his. His fingers find your photo.

And slowly—slowly—his body starts to remember You’re real. You’re here. You’re home

✦✦✦

Sometimes, he still sends the voice notes. Even when you’ve only gone downstairs.

“Hey. Sorry. Just… can you tell me again?”

You always do “Still love you. Still yours. Always coming back.”

And sometimes you throw in,

“Come down and help me with the laundry, clingy.”

He laughs “You love it.”

You do. God, you do.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[maplesyrizzup]

Sticky Summer Cuddles

Drabble

Bucky x Females reader Warning: smut, cockwarming, fluids... cuddle fucking

A/N: I woke up to this having been talked about on the Discord... so @sergeantbarnessdoll, @buckybarnesfic @sunday-bug @soelstress @daydreamgoddess14 @artficlly @navybrat817 (and anyone one else in the chat that I missed) The fan hummed uselessly above, stirring thick, humid air as you lay tangled with Bucky on the bed, skin tacky with sweat, your thighs still trembling from the last round. You hadn’t climbed off him, you hadn’t wanted to. He was still buried deep, his cock softening but not quite slipping free, the stretch of him a lazy, perfect ache.

His metal arm was cool against the small of your back, the only relief in the summer heat. The rest of him was flushed, sticky, just like you.

Neither of you moved. Not really.

Just the slow, lazy grind of your hips, slick skin sliding against his as you rocked minutely. Barely more than a sigh of movement, but it was enough. Enough to feel the soft friction, the warm, weighty press of him inside you beginning to shift.

You stilled when you felt it.

The faint twitch. The stretch deepening ever so slightly. A subtle fullness building again.

Your breath hitched. “Bucky…”

He groaned, long and low. “Yeah… feel it too.”

His hand slid down, gripping your hip, holding you in place as he slowly swelled inside you. No thrusts. Just heat and pulse and pressure as his cock hardened again in the wet, willing cradle of your body.

“Fuck,” he breathed into your hair, voice shaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You whimpered, grinding down in response. “You’re already ruining me.”

His lips dragged across your cheek, then your mouth, soft, dragging kisses, breath hot and shallow. His cock throbbed, thick now, swelling fully again inside you as your bodies moved in tiny, exhausted motions. Rocking. Wanting.

He twitched again. You clenched around him, and both of you groaned, low and helpless, your foreheads pressed together in the heavy heat.

You smiled against his mouth. “Too tired.”

“Too fuckin’ hot,” he muttered. Then, with a shaky little exhale, “Feels good though…”

“Yeah…”

A pause, a shared breath, and then his lips brushed yours again, slow and sticky and lazy. “We can just do this for a bit… cuddle fuck…”

You huffed a breathless laugh, curling your fingers into the damp strands at the back of his neck. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Sure it is.” His hips rocked up, just barely, enough to drag a slick gasp from your throat. “It is now.”

And you let him, let him roll into you slow, deep, lazy. No rhythm. No urgency. Just the humid, golden haze of want and warmth and the soft, perfect stretch of being full of him while the summer heat closed in around you.

[maplesyrizzup]

Bucky Barnes

Minors DNI 18+ below

Taking Care of Him

Warnings: Sub Bucky, praise, dirty talk

One of my many Bucky drafts that I never got around to finishing- This was one of my first attempts at writing submissive Bucky

Minors DNI 18+ below

"Ah fuck- right fuckin' there babydoll," Bucky grunted and panted into the side of your neck. The desperation in his voice had your thighs rubbing together looking to relieve the ache settling in between them. "Fuck- let me- let me touch you," his needy tone bordered on begging as he reached a hand over to slide into your shorts. You quickly slapped his hand away and scolded him, "Not yet James." You continued with a purr, "Your patience will be rewarded."

Before Bucky could pout about being told no your hands returned to wrap around his aching cock. He let out a small gasp as you lightly squeezed the base and leaned over to kiss and bite at his shoulder. "Just let me take care of you," you whispered against his sensitive skin. His head fell back in surrender as he gave in to the pleasure that only you could bring him. "So perfect Buck. You have such a pretty cock," you marveled as your hands stroked him quicker.

His hips jumped and a moan caught in his throat as you bit down harder on his shoulder and simultaneously ran your thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing a bead of precum under your touch. "Oh God- you are so fuckin' responsive baby," you moaned as his hips began thrusting up into your touch.

Another moan fought its way through Bucky's tense body as your hands stroked him faster. "Yeah? Like that?" your questions were cruel as Bucky could only let out broken moans and stutters in response. He knew you were taunting him, but he couldn't deny how well you were making him fall apart. To Bucky your hands felt like magic as they tugged at his sensitive cock.

"Aw come on honey, use your words," you continued to taunt him as he writhed in pleasure. "Tell me how good I'm making you feel," you smirked wildly as one of your hands trailed down to cup his balls. Immediately his back arched off the mattress and a whimper echoed in the room around you.

"So good- so- so- please!" he cried out as he felt his orgasm building, burning in his veins. "Please don't stop- g'nna fuckin' cum," he whined. You hummed in response and sped up the pace of your hand stroking and tugging his cock while gently massaging his balls with the other. His body twitched and jerked in your hold, but your movements never stopped or slowed.

"Come on James, cum for me baby. I want you to cum for me," you encouraged in a tone mirroring his begging one from earlier. That was all Bucky needed to finally let go, cumming all over your hands and his abdomen. You stroked him slower as the aftershocks made his body tremble and shake. His whines slowly quieted as your hands came to a stop.

Before you could taunt him again Bucky grabbed you, dragging you across the bed and pulling your body underneath his. "Oh, doll it's my turn now. Wonder how long it'll take to have you shaking underneath me," he growled as he wrapped your legs around his waist.

[maplesyrizzup]

Love is a Twisted Dance of Shadows

“What do you want to do?” Theo’s too close, turning his head so he can nose at his neck, a spine tingling sensation, and a soft groan confirms Liam’s a damn fool.

“Me?” He startles, closing his eyes, but he still doesn’t know how to move, Theo’s fingers tapping his jaw, and all he does is touch him, making him blush, weakening his anger.

Rated E

Read Chapter 18

Moodboard by @thiamsxbitch

[maplesyrizzup]

[maplesyrizzup]

Foggy moments in San Francisco, California

@adam_ali91

[maplesyrizzup]

I FUCKING LOVE THIS

Hi! You're writing is great! I keep coming across it in the tags and reading some. What really has caught my eye is “Worth Fighting For”. And you're under no pressure for this, but I am wondering if you plan on making a part 2 for it

Again, no pressure or anything. Its your decision. I don't wanna impose. I'm a writer so I understand shit takes time or having writers block, or simply that it doesn't need anything more. Whatever you decide will be perfect. It is truly a good as a one-shot.

I just really enjoyed it and am wondering

Hello there! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying some of my work, that makes me so happy to hear! Most of the time, I’m usually able to create additional parts to my work but only do so if someone requests it. If not, it’s something I only do if I really loved it or it was too long and I had to break it into smaller parts lol. So, don’t worry! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

All of the Time

Summary: You start to build a quiet friendship with Steve, finding comfort in someone who understands your struggles, but when you fall and face cruel laughter, your confidence shatters and you pull away. Meanwhile, Bucky’s fierce protectiveness boils over, leading to a vulnerable moment where he promises to stand by you, as someone who loves every part of you. (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Worth Fighting For (Original Fic)

It started with small things, simple moments that stitched themselves into the quiet rhythm of your days.

Bucky still walked you everywhere. Always showed up early and stayed later than he needed to. But lately, Steve Rogers had started appearing too.

At first, it was by coincidence. A passing nod on the street. A shy smile when you visited the corner store. But Steve was thoughtful in ways that surprised you, gentler than most and always listening. You found yourself drawn to him in a different way than Bucky: calm, understanding, like he recognized something in you without asking questions.

One afternoon, when Bucky got pulled into something across town, Steve offered to walk you home. You were hesitant at first, but he didn’t press, just waited while you adjusted your grip on the crutch and fell into pace beside you.

You both talked about things you usually didn’t discuss with Bucky, like your legs and his lungs. Like the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t watching, the unsolicited advice, or the way strangers treated you like a sad story instead of a person.

“I get it,” He said, voice low and dry. “They all think I’m fragile, too. Like if I breathe too hard, I’ll fall over.”

You laughed, and he smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

It was easy, talking to Steve. And you knew it the second you saw Bucky waiting outside your building, arms crossed and jaw tight, watching the two of you approach like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Steve caught it too. “He’s gonna scowl me to death, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” You muttered, amused. “You’re the one who stole his job.”

“I didn’t know I was being recruited.”

“You weren’t,” Bucky said before either of you could reach the door.

You raised a brow. “Bucky.”

He looked at you, then at Steve. “Appreciate you stepping in,” He said flatly. “Won’t be necessary again.”

Steve just gave you a little shrug, like well, you warned me, and offered a quick goodbye before turning down the street.

You turned back to Bucky. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He doesn’t know how to pace with you.”

“Neither did you once.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held the door open with a tight jaw and followed you up the steps, his hand hovering behind your back like it might catch you if you slipped even though you didn’t.

You thought the tension would fade over time, but it didn’t.

It built slowly, like steam behind a radiator. Bucky brought you more things now: fresh rolls, a knit scarf he swore he didn’t buy but you knew he did, and little things that made you feel warm and heavy with affection.

But something in him had twisted tighter since that day. He stood closer, watched more, and didn’t laugh as easily when you talked about walking alone.

So, one morning, you did.

You hadn’t meant to leave without him. You just needed to prove it to yourself, that you could still do this. That your legs might tremble, but they still moved. That you didn’t need anyone.

The air was brisk as you stepped out, crutch steady under one arm, purse swung across your chest. You took the quieter route, the one that curved behind the main square.

You didn’t even hear them at first, the boys your age loitering by the steps of the butcher’s shop. Laughing and smoking. One of them was the same kid Bucky shoved into a lamppost last month. Of course.

“Hey, it’s the hobble girl!” Someone barked as you passed.

You kept going.

“Where’s your guard dog, sweetheart? Don’t think you’ll make it far without him.”

You didn’t look back. You didn’t give them a reaction, but your foot caught the edge of a broken curb. Just slightly. The crutch hit an uneven crack in the concrete and your knee twisted, causing you to fall.

You didn’t cry out, didn’t scream. But the shock knocked the air out of you and scraped your palms bloody against the sidewalk. You lay there for a breathless moment, too stunned to move.

And then came the sound.

Laughter.

From behind you, from above.

You tried to get up. The brace dug into your shin as you twisted, slipping against your own balance. You were halfway to your knees when someone appeared beside you, not Bucky.

“Easy,” Steve said gently, already crouched. “I got you.”

His hands were steady, warm under your arms, and he didn’t pull you up right away. He just helped you sit, giving you space to let you breathe.

“I’m fine,” You muttered, heart pounding in your ears.

“I know,” He said. “You just don’t have to be alone while you are.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, and your eyes burned.

Then–

“WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY?”

The voice tore through the square like a lightning crack.

You whipped around just in time to see Bucky storming across the sidewalk, eyes blazing, and fists already clenched. The group scattered in a heartbeat, but Bucky was faster. He caught the mouthy one by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough that a window rattled.

“I told you once,” He growled. “Now I’m telling you twice, if I so much as hear her name in your mouth again, you’ll be drinking through a straw for a month.”

“Buck–“ Steve called out.

“I mean it,” Bucky snarled, shaking the kid like a ragdoll before dropping him onto the concrete.

By the time he turned back, his hands were shaking. But his voice, when he knelt beside you, was quiet.

“Hey,” He said, brushing your hair out of your face. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

He touched your scraped palm gently. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked at him finally. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

“I don’t,” He stated, voice hoarse. “I look at you like someone I’d kill for. That’s different.”

You blinked, stunned.

Steve stood nearby, silent but present. He didn’t say a word, just nodded once and stepped away, letting you and Bucky have a moment.

Bucky helped you to your feet with slow, careful hands as he tucked your crutch into place like it was something sacred. When you leaned into him subconsciously, his arms went around you in a way that made all the tension in your body fade.

He spoke softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time, sweetheart. You’re allowed to fall, just let me be the one who helps you up.”

But no matter how sweet words Bucky tried to tell you or how he and Steve both tried to lighten the mood on the way back home, you didn’t sleep that night.

The fall kept looping in your mind over and over. The sound of laughter, the stares, the sting of your knees hitting concrete. You could still feel the scrape on your palms, raw under the bandages. Still feel Steve’s arms helping you sit up, still hear Bucky’s voice when he screamed.

But worse than all of it, worse than the pain or the crowd, was the way they looked at you.

Both of them. Steve, with concern. Bucky, with fury. Both looking at you like you were fragile.

And you hated it.

So, you canceled plans the next morning, told Bucky you weren’t feeling well when he knocked, and left the curtain drawn even when you heard him waiting outside longer than usual.

You knew he meant well, but you couldn’t take the weight in his voice. Couldn’t stand how fast he moved when he thought you needed help. How many people he was willing to fight just because they looked at you wrong.

You didn’t want to be something he protected. You wanted to be something he wanted.

And by the second day, you stopped answering the door entirely.

Across town, Bucky was cracking.

He paced the alley behind the corner bar like a caged dog, jaw clenched, knuckles already bruised from the wall he’d punched earlier.

“You’re gonna get yourself arrested,” Steve muttered from the edge of a crate, arms crossed as he watched Bucky burn through another lap.

“She won’t even look at me, Steve.”

“She’s embarrassed.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“She’s scared.”

Bucky stopped. “Of me?”

Steve met his eyes. “Of what you’ll do or of how angry you get.”

Bucky’s fists curled. “What am I supposed to do? Let them laugh? Let her think falling makes her less than–”

“No. You’re supposed to show her that she’s still her. Still the same girl you wanted to walk home three weeks ago. Still the one who doesn’t need to be hidden behind your fists.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a rough whisper. “She thinks she’s a burden.”

“She isn’t.”

“I know that,” Bucky snapped. “But if she won’t let me show her, if she keeps pulling away… I don’t know how to make her believe it.”

Steve stepped forward, quieter now. “Then stop yelling it with your fists, Buck. And start whispering it where it matters.”

That night, you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your bedroom window.

He wasn’t moving. Just leaning back on the cold metal, head tilted toward the sky like it could give him an answer. His hands were scraped, bruised, wrapped in a torn bandage that looked like he’d done it in a rush.

He didn’t look at you right away.

You opened the window quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” He said simply.

You swallowed.

He still didn’t look over. “Steve says I’m doing too much… that I’m pushing you away.”

You sat on the windowsill carefully, still quiet.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to do this, sweetheart. I see you hurt, and I lose it. I see you scared or embarrassed, and something in me just–snaps. I know it’s too much sometimes. I just…”

He finally turned, eyes tired.

“I don’t want you to ever think I’m here because I feel sorry for you.”

You looked down. “I don’t… think that.”

“I want you to know that when I look at you, I don’t see weakness. I don’t see your crutch. I see you. All of you. And I–” He broke off, jaw tight. “I like you so much it’s ruining me.”

You blinked, chest twisting.

“I don’t care that you fall or that you limp. Or that some days you don’t want to talk. I care that you think those things make you hard to love.”

A silence stretched between you.

Finally, you reached out, gently tracing the fresh bruise on his hand.

“Who was it this time?” You asked.

His smile was small. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t say another word.”

“Bucky–”

He caught your hand in his, kissing your knuckles softly.

“I’m trying,” He whispered. “I’ll stop throwing punches if it helps, but I won’t stop showing up. I won’t stop being yours.”

You pressed your forehead to his, heart thudding.

“I don’t want you to stop showing up,” You said. “I just want to believe that I’m not dragging you down.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” He murmured, brushing your hair back with fingers too gentle for someone who fought like he did. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing some days.”

Then, with a small smile: “Besides, you don’t even weigh enough to drag me down, doll.”

You laughed, and the tension finally broke.

He pulled you into his lap right there on the fire escape, blanket wrapped around both of you, his arms warm and firm around your waist.

And for the first time since the fall, you didn’t feel like a burden. You just felt like his.

You didn’t fall again that week.

Bucky never said it out loud, but you knew he noticed. He started walking half a step ahead of you instead of beside you, close enough to catch you if needed, but far enough to let you breathe.

He didn’t ask if you were alright anymore. He just knew you were. And maybe more importantly, you knew you were too.

One quiet afternoon, he showed up at your door holding something behind his back.

You squinted. “What is it?”

“No peeking.” He grinned, backing up as you stepped out. “I have a surprise.”

“Bucky.”

“Trust me.”

You did. So you let him inside and waited with your back turned, listening to him set up something. When he finally gave the okay, you turned to find the surprise was music.

More specifically, his old record player set up in the tiny living room of your apartment, now spinning. The radio crackled softly as a slow jazz melody filled the air, warm and golden like molasses.

You stared at him, blinking. “Is this a setup?”

He didn’t deny it.

“I thought maybe you’d let me have one dance,” He said, offering his hand, eyes teasing. “I mean, I did get beat up for you. It’s the least you could do.”

You snorted. “You didn’t get beat up. You beat them up.”

“Still counts.”

You glanced down at your brace, hesitant. “I’m not exactly graceful, Bucky.”

His voice lowered. “Doesn’t matter, you’re mine and I’m yours. That’s all I need.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer. “Let me show you.”

And he did.

You didn’t dance, not really. It was more like swaying in slow circles, his arms firm around your waist, one hand curled gently around yours. He moved slow and patient, guiding you like he could feel every bit of hesitation in your body and answered each one with a touch, a smile, or a whisper in your ear: “You’re doing perfect, doll.”

You were laughing by the second song. Spinning awkwardly as he dipped you in the most dramatic fashion, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.

“Okay, that one was your fault,” You huffed, holding onto him as you regained your balance.

He didn’t let go. Just leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “I like you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Laughing, moving, being… you.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You never needed to walk perfectly. You just needed someone to see you.”

You leaned into his chest. “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Good,” He said, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Later into the night when you were wrapped in his arms, half-asleep in the hush of your room, he whispered, “I used to think I needed someone perfect, flashy and put together; but I was wrong.”

You stirred, smiling sleepily. “Oh yeah? What do you need now?”

He kissed the side of your neck and said simply, “You.”

And you knew then, without a single doubt, you had never once been a burden to him.

You’d been the center of his world all along.

[maplesyrizzup]

Bucky: I don't want to be disturbed while I sleep.

Bucky: Or after I wake up, for that matter.

[maplesyrizzup]

[maplesyrizzup]

reblog if you’re a sick fuck

[maplesyrizzup]

just a dress “Doesn’t matter what you wear,” Bucky murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

There are a few constants at Avengers Tower.

Tony’s ego. Steve’s early morning runs. Sam making playlists no one asked for. Bucky Barnes sitting across from you every morning at breakfast. Waiting, always waiting, with a second mug of coffee he’d never admit was specifically for you. And you showing up on time.

Which is why it makes sense that every morning at breakfast, Bucky Barnes is already sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. One for him. One for you.

“You’re cutting it close today,” he says one morning, flipping the page of his book as you slide into your seat.

“It’s 9:01,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

He grunts. “Still late.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he mutters, but hands you the coffee like always.

It’s a ritual neither of you talks about too much. It started months ago. You’d show up late to breakfast, blaming your alarm or your book or that “one last video” at 2AM. Bucky would already be there, freshly brewed coffee in front of him… and a second one just happened to be sitting next to it.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. But then Sam teased him about it. Loudly. And Bucky stopped denying it.

Now it feels like a fixed point in the universe. Just like how you always sit beside him during meetings. Just like how he always makes sure you get home safely from late-night gym sessions. Just like the way he glances over when you make a bad joke, just to smirk when you laugh at yourself.

You aren’t anything. Not really.

But you move around each other like planets stuck in orbit. Quietly, consistently, unspoken.

And everyone notices.

It’s a Thursday when Stark makes the announcement.

Tony Stark stands on the lounge coffee table in his socks and dress shirt, arms spread like a game show host.

“Formal gala next Saturday!” he declares. “Right here in the penthouse. Black tie. String quartet. Be sparkly, be charming, be fashionably unarmed.”

“Another one?” Sam groans.

“It’s an annual Stark tradition,” Tony replies. “You’ve survived worse. Plus, open bar.”

You blink.

You try to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But something in your stomach flutters.

Fancy events aren’t exactly your comfort zone. You’re more a “cozy café and soft playlists” kind of person. The thought of gowns and heels and being watched makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You give a little nod, mostly to yourself. “Cool. Sounds fun.”

Across the room, Bucky looks at you from where he leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow like he’s already reading your mind.

You pretend not to notice. You’re getting very good at pretending.

The days leading up to the party pass in a blur of missions and meetings and movie nights on the couch. Somewhere in there, Nat and Wanda stage a coup.

“You’re not wearing something you already own,” Wanda declares. “This is not a ‘recycle your last wedding guest outfit’ situation.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Yes, you were,” Nat says, cutting you off. “We’re going shopping. You’re coming.”

“I have dresses.”

“Non-negotiable,” Wanda says sweetly, tugging you toward the elevator.

You open your mouth to argue but are immediately handed your jacket and pushed toward the elevator.

It’s a whirlwind. Nat is a force of nature, striding through boutiques like she owns every mannequin. Wanda flits between colors and fabrics like a kid in a candy store. You mostly follow, trying not to get overwhelmed.

Until you see it.

It’s tucked behind a rack, almost hidden. Deep sapphire blue. Long. Satin. High neckline. And when you pull it out, the back dips low. Dramatic, elegant and beautiful in a way you don’t usually let yourself wear.

You hold it up, hesitant.

Nat appears behind you. “Oh, that’s the one.”

You laugh. “No, it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect,” Wanda says. “And so are you.”

You blush. “I’ll try it on."

You do try it on. Alone. And when you turn toward the mirror, your breath catches. It fits like it’s been made for you. The satin clings and drapes in all the right places. Your hair, loose and natural, spills perfectly across your shoulders.

For a second, you see someone else in the reflection.

Someone effortless.

But then the light shifts, and the old doubt creeps in… quiet, uninvited. Not loud or cruel. Just a whisper.

The dress is beautiful. You’re just wearing it.

You step out of the fitting room slowly.

Still, when you step out, Nat and Wanda audibly gasp.

“That one,” Nat says. “No contest.”

You smile back, but your voice is soft. “Okay. Just in case I don’t chicken out.”

They don’t argue.

Back in the tower, nothing changed… on the surface.

You had breakfast with Bucky. Teased Sam during movie night. Trained with Steve and actually knocked him off his feet once, which became a three-day bragging right.

But in the back of your closet, behind your “safe” black dress… that sapphire gown waited.

And sometimes, when you were alone, you took it out and ran your fingers along the satin.

The week passed in fragments.

Mission briefings. Morning coffee. Shared elevator rides. Stark’s party was all anyone could talk about, mostly because Tony wouldn’t shut up about the custom glass champagne tower being shipped in from Paris. Steve had started practicing his waltz “just in case.” Sam was planning a pre-party playlist “for the vibe.”

But if someone looked closely, if they knew where to watch, there was something else underneath it all.

Something unspoken.

Something that looked a lot like almost.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had started, the slow unraveling of comfort into longing. Maybe it was the way Bucky always poured your coffee first without asking. Or how he lingered at the edge of rooms when you laughed too loud, eyes flicking toward you like it was a sound he didn’t want to miss. Or how his voice always softened when it was just the two of you, even if his words didn’t.

He was still Bucky. Still sharp-edged and dry-humored, still grumpy in the mornings and skeptical of movie nights. But with you… he was something else, too.

And with him… you let yourself be a little more, too.

You didn’t tell anyone about the flutter in your chest when he passed you a protein bar without looking, knowing exactly which kind you liked. Or the way your heart stalled when he leaned close during training, murmuring corrections just low enough for only you to hear.

“You’re dropping your left shoulder,” he said on Monday, fingers brushing your arm to correct your form. “You’ll get thrown off balance.”

You nodded, distracted not by the advice, but by the feel of his touch, light, careful, familiar.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Anytime,” he replied, already a few steps away.

He didn’t say much. Never did. But his presence lingered like a gravity field. Constant, quiet, and hard to pull away from.

On Tuesday, you walked into the lounge to find him asleep on the couch, book splayed open on his chest, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie.

You stood there for a moment, just watching. His features, usually guarded, were softer in sleep. Less worn down by memory. More like the man he let you see in glimpses.

You sat beside him without waking him, gently pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

He mumbled something. Your name, maybe.

You didn’t ask.

Wednesday, he found you in the kitchen at midnight, digging through the fridge.

“You always eat like this before missions?” he asked, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.

“I get hungry when I’m anxious,” you said, holding up a half-eaten leftover taco. “Don’t judge me.”

He smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. “Not judging. Just wondering why you never share.”

You slid the other half toward him. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is awful.”

You laughed. “You’re welcome.”

By Thursday, the party talk has fully taken over the tower.

Tony hands out gold-foiled invitations (dramatic, unnecessary, very Stark). Wanda drags Sam to a tailor for a fitted tux.

And you… pretend you’re not thinking about it.

“Do you have something to wear?” Bucky asks over lunch.

“I’ve got dresses.”

“Multiple?”

“Yeah. I bought a new one with Nat and Wanda but I don't know if I'm gonna wear it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not really… me.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“I liked it!”

“Then it is you.”

He gets you.

Saturday comes fast.

The tower transforms. All warm lights and string music, trays of champagne and crystal bowls of things no one can pronounce. Everyone looks like movie stars.

Wanda curls her hair into soft waves and wears a wine-colored dress that makes her look like royalty. Nat, of course, wears black. But somehow manages to make it look like it belongs in Vogue.

The guys are in suits. Steve somehow looks both uncomfortable and handsome. Sam gets complimented three times by the catering staff.

And you?

You’re upstairs. In the dress.

Frozen in place.

The clock ticks. Time passes.

And for the first time in months, you’re not there.

You can feel the nerves setting in.

It’s the dress.

It’s always the dress.

You keep pacing your room, staring at the mirror, biting your lip. The makeup is done. The heels are on. The earrings are clasped. But still, you hesitate. Looking at yourself feels like holding your breath.

The dress looks the same as it did in the store. A deep sapphire blue, smooth satin, the neckline high and elegant, the back open and dramatic. It clings to you in a way that should make you feel powerful. Beautiful.

But tonight… it just feels like it isn’t yours.

You’re not panicking. Not exactly.

It’s quieter than that. A slow, creeping sense of not belonging. Like the longer you stare at yourself, the more the magic unravels thread by thread. The dress is stunning. That isn’t the problem. The problem is how perfectly it fits.

Because sometimes, when something fits too perfectly, it feels like it’s shining a light on everything you wish it could hide.

You sigh and stand, adjusting whatever you think could be wrong with it.

Downstairs, Sam glances at the elevator again.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.

“Probably fixing her hair,” Wanda says, sipping a drink.

“She’s never late,” Steve adds.

“She’s not,” Nat agrees. “You want me to go check?”

Before anyone else can answer, Bucky stands up from the leather armchair near the bar.

“I’ll go,” he says, too fast. “She’s probably wearing heels. Better if I go.”

No one argues.

Not even Sam, who raises a brow but says nothing.

Bucky adjusts his suit jacket, smooths down his tie, and heads for the elevator, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

You brush your hands over the fabric. The material shimmers when you move. Your heels are black and slim, your earrings match. On paper, it all works.

So why can’t you walk out the door?

You glance at the clock. Nearly 40 minutes late.

Your stomach drops.

“Damn it.”

You move toward the chair, where your backup dress still waits. The black one. Safe. You’ll throw it on, pull your hair into a low slick bun, and no one will even-

Knock knock.

You freeze.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your heart jumps. Bucky.

You nearly trip over your own heels rushing to the door.

“Coming!” you call, trying to gather yourself. You crack the door open, just wide enough to peek out.

And then forget how to breathe.

Bucky stands in the hallway in a tailored black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to be unfair. His hair is slicked back slightly, but still soft. He looks like he’s walked out of a noir film. And he’s staring at you.

Staring.

His eyes drop, slowly… from your face, to the curve of your shoulders, to the way the blue satin hugs your waist and falls in a soft, perfect line. His lips part just slightly.

He blinks once.

“Wow.”

You flush immediately. “What- what are you doing here?”

He clears his throat. “You’re late.”

Your brow knits. “What?”

“You’re never late,” he says softly. “Sam, Nat, Steve… everyone noticed. They were worried. Natasha was about to come up, but I figured… heels. Safer if I came.”

“Oh.”

You glance at the clock again and wince. “I didn’t realize. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, voice gentle.

You reach for the door. “You should go. I’m just going to change dresses. I’ll be down in five-”

His hand, cool metal, presses gently against the door.

“Wait.”

You pause.

“What do you mean, change?”

“I…” Your voice falters. “I don’t think this is the right dress.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly. Not judging, just reading you.

“Why not?”

You look down at your hands. “It’s just too much. I thought it looked better in the store. It's fine.”

The words are barely a whisper.

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

Then he steps closer, just slightly, enough that the air between you shifts.

“Y/N.”

You look up.

“You’re already wearing the dress,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “And you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look incredible.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

He tilts his head, eyes warm. “You walk into that room tonight, no one’s gonna be able to look at anything but you.”

You blink. Your chest aches in that soft, quiet way that comes from being seen — really seen.

He lets the moment breathe between you, then offers you a small smile.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

And then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaving you breathless in the doorway.

Five minutes later, you’re still staring at your reflection. The dress hasn’t changed.

But maybe… you have.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the room stills.

You step into the penthouse, the soft click of your heels echoing beneath the music. The lights are low and warm, spilling golden across the polished floors. Glass clinks, laughter hums, and in the middle of it all—Bucky looks up.

His heart stops.

You move slowly, a soft wave of deep sapphire satin sweeping around your legs as you walk. Hair swept to the side, silver glinting at your ears, that impossible dress catching the light with every step. But it isn’t the dress that stuns him.

It’s the way you hold yourself.

Quiet. Glowing. Real.

Everyone notices. Sam gives a low whistle. Nat smirks like she’s known this moment was coming. Even Steve, standing near the drinks, raises his brows in quiet approval.

But Bucky?

He doesn’t move.

He just watches you cross the room, like time has slowed and sound has faded and the only thing that matters is you.

You find him near the balcony doors, where the crowd is thinner, the music softer.

“Hey,” you say, voice light but a little breathless.

His gaze travels over you again, slower this time.

“You came,” he says, as if there had been any doubt.

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Took me a while.”

He offers his hand, not breaking eye contact. “Dance with me.”

Your breath catches.

The music shifts into something slower—something with strings and soft piano. You hesitate for a moment, then place your hand in his.

He pulls you gently toward the floor.

You fit together easily.

Your hand on his shoulder, his at your waist. The press of satin and silk. The low hum of music. And somewhere beneath it all, the quick, fluttering beat of your heart — mirrored in his.

Bucky doesn’t speak for a moment. He just sways with you, moving like the rest of the world has faded behind you both.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m old.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

He chuckles, low and quiet. “You almost didn’t come.”

You shrug, trying to play it off, but your voice betrays you. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is,” he says gently. “You are.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

The dance ends, but neither of you let go.

The music shifts again. Someone laughs near the bar. A camera flashes. But here, in this small space between breaths, you stand close. Too close. Not enough.

“Wanna get some air?” Bucky asks softly.

You nod.

The balcony is quieter. Cooler. The city stretches out below you, lights twinkling like a second sky. You lean against the railing, your hands brushing the cold metal.

He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest.

“It’s not cold,” you say.

“You’re still getting the jacket.”

You smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. It smells like him — clean soap, something warm and familiar. The sleeves are too long.

“I feel like a kid playing dress-up.”

“You look like a goddess.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

You turn to face him, the night wind catching your hair, your cheeks flushed from dancing, from nerves, from him.

“I meant what I said,” Bucky tells you. “Downstairs.”

You bite your lip. “About the dress?”

“No,” he says. “About you.”

There’s a beat of silence, full and fragile.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it for a while now,” he admits, voice low. “You’re not just part of the team. You’re not just… around.”

You blink.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “And that dress didn’t change that. It just made it harder to keep pretending I don’t want to hold you like this all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

And then?

You kiss him.

It’s soft, barely more than a press of lips. But it carries months of unspoken things. Warmth. Tension. Relief. All of it wrapped in satin and city lights and the sound of your heart racing like it finally has somewhere to go.

When you pull back, he’s already smiling.

“I should’ve worn this dress a long time ago,” you whisper.

He leans in again, forehead resting against yours.

“Doesn’t matter what you wear,” he murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

The tower feels different the next morning.

Maybe it’s the way the sun comes through the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy gold streaks. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pad quietly into the kitchen, still wearing soft pajama pants and one of your oversized sweatshirts. Hair a little messy. No makeup. Bare feet against the tile. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to shrink yourself.

You’re not glowing. You’re not dressed up.

You’re just you. And it feels… enough.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You turn, startled, to find Bucky leaning against the counter, mug in hand, already dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, the picture of quiet calm. His hair is a little rumpled. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s probably been up for hours.

“You’re up early,” you say, grabbing a mug of your own.

“Old man body clock,” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes and step closer. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Since last night,” he replies, voice lower now, softer. “Wanted to see you again.”

And just like that, you melt.

He hands you the coffee. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

The rest of the team trickles in slowly.

Wanda first, hair tied up and looking far too put-together for 9 a.m. She spots the two of you leaning together by the counter and arches a brow.

“Good morning,” she says, sing-song.

You sip your coffee like it’s not obvious. Bucky stays still beside you.

Then comes Sam, dramatically hungover. “If anyone mentions classical music or champagne, I swear I’ll jump off the roof.”

Steve follows, clean and annoyingly alert. “Nice party.”

Natasha, last, in her I don’t do mornings sunglasses, grabs toast and mumbles, “You two looked cozy on that balcony.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “What?”

Nat doesn’t even look up. “Relax. We all saw it coming.”

You blink. “Saw what?”

“You and Barnes. I mean, please,” she says, waving her toast. “The tension has been driving everyone insane for months.”

Sam nods, dead serious. “I literally bet Steve ten bucks it would happen before the end of the year.”

“I won,” Steve says, smugly.

Bucky chuckles beside you. Quiet, amused.

He reaches down under the table and laces his fingers through yours.

And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing doesn’t matter. The looks don’t matter.

All you can focus on is the warm weight of his hand, the soft pressure of his thumb brushing the back of yours.

You turn to him, lips tugging up.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… didn’t think it would feel this easy.”

Bucky smiles, small and sincere.

“It was never supposed to be hard,” he says.

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you softens.

For weeks, months, maybe, you’ve been carrying this quiet ache around like armor. The weight of feelings you didn’t know what to do with. The fear of hoping too much. Of reading into things that weren’t there. Of thinking you mattered more to him than you did.

But now, standing in the golden spill of morning light, fingers still twined with his under the table, you don’t feel foolish anymore.

You feel… known.

And that scares you more than anything.

“You’re always so calm about this stuff,” you murmur, eyes on your joined hands. “Like you already knew.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hoped.”

You blink, surprised. “You?”

His smile turns a little crooked. “You think I spent all this time saving you the last cup of coffee every morning just because I’m a gentleman?”

“You don’t even like mornings.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s how serious this is.”

You laugh then, a soft, genuine sound that makes something in his chest ease.

“I guess I thought I’d have to be… different,” you say after a beat. “To be noticed. To matter. I’m not the loudest or the strongest. I’m not Nat. Or Wanda. I’m just-”

“You’re you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And that’s always been enough.”

You swallow hard, throat tightening around the words you don’t know how to say.

“I notice everything about you,” he adds, quieter now. “The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re reading something complicated. The way you hum off-key in the lab. The way you always walk out of the room last because you’re checking that everyone else is okay.”

You look up at him slowly.

“You think no one sees you,” he says. “But I do. I always have.”

Something unspoken passes between you. A slow, electric stillness.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, eyes soft. “I didn’t want to risk losing what I already had with you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d rather risk it than pretend anymore.”

You blink fast, like that might keep the emotion at bay. It doesn’t work.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second, not quite a kiss, just… closeness.

“I’m in this,” he murmurs. “Whatever it looks like. However slow you need.”

You nod, the edges of your smile trembling.

“I’m in this too,” you whisper.

The kitchen fades away.

The clinking dishes, the sunlight, even the teasing voices echoing from down the hall. It all fades. There’s only the soft grip of his hand on yours and the quiet warmth building between you, solid and real.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not wondering what comes next.

You’re just here.

With him.

A Tuesday Morning, Three Weeks Later

The tower is quiet.

Not silent, the way no home is ever truly silent, but the kind of soft hum that means the world is at peace for a little while.

The sun has barely risen, casting a warm gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimes. In the distance, the coffee machine gurgles to life.

And in the kitchen, you stand barefoot in one of Bucky’s sweatshirts, stirring cream into a mug with your eyes still half closed.

Behind you, footsteps.

You don’t need to turn around.

“You’re up early,” you say, voice husky with sleep.

“Technically,” Bucky replies, stepping up behind you and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, “I haven’t slept yet.”

You lean back into his chest without hesitation.

“You brooding again?”

“Just watching the sky.”

“Romantic.”

He kisses your temple. “You bring it out of me.”

You snort and hand him his mug. “Don’t lie to me before caffeine.”

You move through the morning with the ease of something settled. Something earned.

He leans against the counter while you make toast. You sit cross-legged on a barstool while he recaps an old dream he can’t make sense of. You pass each other plates and comments and quiet smiles like it’s always been this way.

Like there was never a time you weren’t his favorite part of the morning.

At some point, Nat wanders in, squinting at the sunlight. She takes one look at the sweatshirt you’re wearing and smirks. “That’s not yours.”

You sip your coffee, unbothered. “It is now.”

Nat grabs an apple and mutters something about “finally” before disappearing again.

Bucky looks at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Subtle.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “She’s not.”

You lean into him again, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He smells like coffee and clean soap and something that just feels like home.

“Did you think it’d feel like this?” you ask softly.

He considers it. “I hoped.”

You tilt your face up toward him. “Me too.”

His eyes drop to your lips, but he doesn’t move just yet.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “You know what I see when I look at you now?”

“What?”

“Everything I ever thought I couldn’t have.”

You blink, chest tightening, not with fear, not with nerves, but with something whole. Something steady.

“You always had me,” you say.

“I know,” he whispers. “Took me a minute.”

You smile, eyes crinkling, and then he kisses you. Slow, soft, like he has all the time in the world.

Because he does.

Because you do.

Because after all the waiting and wondering and quiet hoping…

This is the part where everything begins.

[maplesyrizzup]

Selkirk mountains, Revelstoke, British Columbia, Canada

[maplesyrizzup]

We wouldn't need to fire up the jets if we had a Sentry who could fly.

THUNDERBOLTS, 2025