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zaraomarrogers · 3 hours ago

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Coming back to this app after months and to find this Steve fic. I’m gonna come back with feedback once I finish reading it.

Thank you for writing and sharing 😊

the difference between love and longing ; steve rogers

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 10.5k

summary: you know that you will never be peggy carter. you are not her, and steve rogers is not the same man he used to be, but even when your heart tries not to hope, his gaze still lingers. his hands still find yours. his voice still softens when he says your name. so what do you do when the man you love still dances with a ghost… but holds onto you like you're real?

warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, one bed trope (kind of), found family dynamics, telepath/empath reader, mentions of peggy carter, interrupted kisses, soft confessions, steve rogers being sad and soft, reader being tony stark’s daughter (with overprotective dad energy), hopeful ending, and a lot of quiet moments that might just feel like love.

note: i am back on tumblr, baby. this is me giving steve rogers the softness he deserves and also projecting a little bit (a lot). english is not my first language so pls be kind. this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading and i hope it made your heart hurt in the good way. enjoy <3

masterlist

The Quinjet rumbles to a halt like it's sighing in relief. The doors creak open to reveal a world too quiet, too normal, too... soft for the blood on your boots and the ghosts still trailing behind you.

You step onto the gravel, gravel that crunches like it's trying not to break under the weight of six exhausted Avengers and one very pregnant secret.

“Is this a safe house?” Thor asks, clearly scandalized by the quaint barn and white fence vibes. There’s hay. Real hay.

Tony gives a dry chuckle. “Let’s hope.”

Clint, already halfway to the front porch, calls out with the most domestic line you've ever heard him say: “Honey, I’m home.”

You almost choke on your own tongue.

From the kitchen emerges the enigma herself—Laura Barton, barefoot, beautiful, glowing. The kind of peace you’d murder to experience for five whole minutes.

“Company. Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Clint adds, like he didn’t just bring a war into her living room.

She welcomes him with a kiss like this is just another Tuesday. The others shift uncomfortably, and your brain’s already starting to ache from the noise—the storm of emotions coming off your teammates like static electricity. Regret, fear, confusion... whatever that enhanced woman did back there, it cracked them open like glass jars.

But not you. Not all the way. You’re an empath and a telepath, which is either a cosmic joke or a tragic combo depending on the day. You didn’t see a dream because your mind is locked up tighter than Stark’s old lab vaults. But you felt everything.

Still do.

When Cooper and Lila come running out, all legs and laughter, it pulls a ghost of a smile from you. Cooper beams when he sees you.

“Y/N!”

You crouch to ruffle his hair before he can tackle you. “Hey, Coop, buddy. Missed me already?”

He nods too enthusiastically and your heart does a weird lurch. He has a tiny crush on you. He’s like… eight, or nine? You pretend you don’t notice, because what are you gonna do, crush a child’s soul?

“This is an agent of some kind.” Tony, meanwhile, is trying to process the domestic bombshell that’s just gone off. “These are... smaller agents,” he mutters to you as Clint sweeps his daughter up in a hug.

You tilt your head. “You say that like you didn’t just meet my kid pen-pal.”

Tony’s head snaps toward you. “Wait—you knew about all this?”

You blink. “What, you never asked?”

The look he gives you is somewhere between betrayed dad and malfunctioning toaster. You rolled your eyes.

Laura pulls Natasha in for a warm chat, touching her bump. Nat lights up for a second—she’s better with kids than she lets on. You lean into the doorway and try not to grimace at the ache behind your eyes. The emotional noise is deafening. Someone should really invent empath earplugs.

Outside, you catch Thor hesitating. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s seeing something none of you can. Then—woosh. Mjolnir lifts, thunder cracks softly in the clouds, and the god of thunder disappears into the sky.

You wince, because the second he’s airborne, the silence in his wake is loud as hell. Steve turns to follow him, but stops. You feel him freeze.

And then—Peggy.

You don’t hear the voice, but the emotion is strong enough to slam into your ribcage: longing, loss, the cruel comfort of almost.

Steve doesn’t go inside.

You don’t follow either.

Eventually, Clint rounds you all up. “Alright, listen up. House rule: no exploding, breaking furniture, or turning the fridge into a science experiment. Rooms are tight, so you’re bunking up.”

You’re about to throw your bag next to Natasha’s when she tosses a glance at Bruce and casually says, “I’ll bunk with Banner.”

You turn slowly. “You traitor.”

Nat just smirks.

You scoff dramatically, arms crossed, then glance to your right—only to see Tony perking up with that hopeful dad-face.

“No,” you say immediately.

“But I thought maybe—”

“I said no.”

His face falls like a kicked Roomba.

You don’t even look at Steve. You just grab his hand like it’s a totally normal thing to do and march toward the stairs.

“I’m with Steve.”

Steve lets you lead him up the staircase without a word, but you feel the way his surprise flares for a second—then settles into something warm. You don’t comment.

Clint watches you both, then shrugs. “Alright. Don’t break the bed.”

“No promises,” you call back, just to watch Tony short-circuit.

“Fine!” he yells. “More room for me since PointBreak bailed! Ugh!”

You and Steve follow Clint, Bruce, and Natasha up the stairs.

Your hand stays in his a little longer than it should.

And yeah, maybe—just maybe—your walls aren’t that high when it comes to him.

You were not a fool.

You knew exactly where Steve Rogers’ heart belonged, and it wasn’t here—wasn’t now. His soul echoed the name of a woman wrapped in sepia-toned memories, someone he danced with once beneath the shadow of a war.

Peggy. That name carried weight. Carried history. Carried love.

You could never compete with a ghost.

And you weren’t trying to.

You just… wanted to be near him. Close enough to feel his calm in the chaos. Close enough to steady your own mind when the screams of other people’s emotions got too loud. Close enough to pretend that maybe, just maybe, if the world was kinder or quieter, things might have been different.

But that wasn’t the game you were playing.

You knew your role.

You were the friend.

The teammate.

The one who always said “I’m fine” with a shrug and a joke and meant it less every time. You were the one who noticed when he didn’t sleep, who slipped him tea instead of coffee, who never asked him to explain the faraway look in his eyes when the world went still for a moment too long.

Because you understood silence.

And you understood pain that didn’t want a spotlight.

That was what friends did, right?

They stuck around.

Even when it hurts.

Even when your chest felt too tight and your name never sounded as sweet coming from his mouth as hers probably did. Even when he looked at you and saw loyalty instead of love.

You were still here.

Because he was still here.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You don’t know how long you sat by the window, brushing through the knots in your damp hair, untangling strands like you wish you could untangle the ache in your chest. Sunset was starting to paint the sky in hues of apology—soft peach bleeding into deep gold, like the world was trying to say sorry for being so damn cruel.

The house dress Laura lent you was a bit too big, soft cotton and floral print, nothing fancy—but comfortable. You hadn’t really packed for a spontaneous countryside war recovery trip. Clint had offered it casually, like this was all normal. Like the world wasn’t unraveling outside.

You exhaled through your nose, long and slow, feeling every fray at the edge of your sanity from today. From Wanda’s attack. From all the minds cracked open like eggs around you, except yours. Except yours.

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

Your spine straightened, brushing paused mid-stroke. You didn’t turn around immediately.

You knew it was him. It was Steve.

“I was wondering if you fell in,” you said dryly, brushing down another stubborn strand.

Steve chuckled, that low, quiet sound that always made your stomach pull tight in confusing ways. “I was debating if I should just hide in there all night.”

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

He was in a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. His expression was softer now, less weighed down. For the first time all day, he looked... human. Tired, yes, but real.

You hummed. “Would’ve been a shame. This room’s got all the ambiance. Trucks on the bedspread. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Real romantic.”

He smiled, stepping further in. “Kid’s got style.”

“Cooper’s got a Star Wars nightlight,” you pointed out, gesturing to the tiny plastic Darth Vader glowing faintly in the corner.

Steve followed your gaze, grinning. “That’s actually kind of impressive.”

You finally faced him fully, folding your legs beneath you on the windowsill seat. The brush dangled lazily from your fingers. “Better than any gear Stark designed. You can quote me.”

He laughed again, but it faded quicker this time. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else. Something deeper. You didn’t press.

“I didn’t see anything,” you murmured, breaking the quiet first. “Back there. When the girl—when she got into everyone’s heads.”

Steve looked up, brows lifting slightly. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head, setting the brush down in your lap. “My mind’s... closed. On purpose. Walls thick enough to keep anyone out. But I still felt everything. Every scream. Every fear. I just didn’t get a slideshow of my worst memories.”

“That sounds worse,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes. “Sometimes it is.”

He nodded slowly, taking a few steps closer. “Is that why you volunteered to room with me?”

You smirked, leaning your head against the windowpane. “What, because you’re emotionally constipated and I assumed I’d get a full night’s sleep?”

Steve cracked a grin. “You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Another beat passed. The orange sunlight spilled over his face, and you watched the way it made his hair shine gold, the way the lines around his eyes softened when he looked at you.

The bed behind him creaked when he sat down.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he said after a while.

You blinked. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“Stay by my side.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked back out the window.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

Steve didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the nightlight in the corner, watching Darth Vader’s tiny red saber glow against the shadows. It should’ve been funny. You should’ve made a joke about it. But something in his silence felt heavier than usual. Not tense, just... full. Like he was trying to breathe through a weight on his ribs.

You didn't push. That was the trick with Steve Rogers—he didn’t crack under pressure. He cracked under kindness.

So you waited.

The night buzzed with crickets outside, and the faint creak of the farmhouse settling into silence. You shifted slightly on the windowsill, folding your arms around your knees.

“I saw her,” he said at last.

You knew exactly who he meant. You didn’t even need your empathy to know. His voice cracked too softly to be about anyone else.

“Peggy,” you said.

He nodded.

You stayed quiet. Let him build the words the way he always did—slow, careful, like setting bricks.

“It was a dance hall,” he murmured. “Forties music. People are laughing. And she... she asked me if I was ready. Said the war was over. That we could go home.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His face was still turned away, but his jaw was tight, and his hands—his hands were clasped like he was trying not to let something shake free.

“She said we could go home,” he repeated, softer now. “And then everyone disappeared. The music stopped. It was just the two of us, dancing in an empty room.”

Your heart ached.

And you, stupid, foolish you, had the audacity to be jealous of a memory.

An old woman’s ghost had more of Steve Rogers’ heart than you ever would. And that should’ve made you bitter. But all you felt was... grief. Not for yourself. For him.

Because Steve Rogers never got to go home. He was at war. And the world never let him stop fighting.

You stood slowly, knees cracking a little from sitting too long. You didn’t know where your body was going until you found yourself walking over to him, quiet steps on the wood floor, until you were standing in front of him.

He looked up at you.

You looked down at him.

His legs were spread just slightly where he sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees like he’d been preparing to fight something again. But you weren’t something to fight. And neither was this.

You stepped forward. Right into the space between his legs.

His eyes widened just barely, lips parting.

You hesitated.

“Can I?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

You reached for him gently, hands rising to cradle the sides of his head, fingers ghosting through his hair with a touch so light it almost didn’t feel real. His breath hitched, just once.

Then the blue came.

It seeped from your fingertips like mist, like moonlight filtered through water—cool, soft, alive. Not the violent scarlet haze that haunted the others. Not chaos. Not fear.

This was calm.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Steve exhaled without effort. His shoulders dropped. His body stilled.

And then—his mind opened.

Not violently. Not all at once. Just... slowly. Like a flower at dusk.

You stepped inside gently, mentally and emotionally, your abilities easing you in like a tide rolling over sand. You didn’t rip memories apart. You didn’t dig. You read. Softly. Carefully. You let him show you what he couldn’t say.

And there it was.

The dance hall. The lights. The colors that looked too bright to be real. Peggy’s smile, so warm and whole. Her words: The war’s over, Steve. We can go home.

And then—emptiness. Her voice echoed in a hollow place. The ache that followed. The longing. You felt it so clearly it made your throat tighten.

He wasn’t just sad.

He was lonely.

Steve didn’t move for a long moment. Then—his head dropped forward. Right onto your stomach.

You stilled.

His arms, slow and careful, wrapped around your waist. A little desperate. A little tired. All vulnerability. He didn’t look up. Just stayed there, pressed into you, breathing like this was the first time in days he remembered how.

Your hands slid down from his hair to cradle the back of his head.

You held him there. Neither of you said a word, but you didn’t need to.

Not tonight. Not like this.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he sighed against you—soft, like a man who’s been carrying the weight of the world and just now realized he didn’t have to.

His head was heavy against your stomach, but you didn’t mind. His arms around your waist were loose, but steady. Not possessive. Just... present. Like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

His thoughts weren’t screaming anymore. The noise had gone quiet. You could still feel the edges of sorrow curling around the memory of that dream, but your presence had soothed the storm. Calmed the tide. The ache was still there—of course it was—but it wasn’t drowning him anymore.

You threaded your fingers gently through his hair, combing back the damp strands. It was still a little wet from his shower. Still warm from the steam. Still real, which is more than anything in his dream had been.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Neither did you.

But the voice in your head wouldn’t shut up.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. He doesn’t look at you like that. He never will. This isn’t a moment—it’s a mercy. He’s grieving, not reaching. Don’t mistake the difference.

You closed your eyes. And you stayed.

Not because you were hoping for more, but because you couldn’t walk away from him.

Not when he let himself break. Not when he trusted you with the pieces.

After a few long, aching minutes, Steve pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, but clear. Like whatever haze Wanda had left in him had been swept away by your soft little storm.

“You’re good at that,” he murmured.

You quirked a brow. “At what? Standing awkwardly while a supersoldier uses me as an emotional pillow?”

His lips curved upward, barely. “That too. But mostly... calming people down. You don’t just read minds. You make the noise stop.”

You shrugged, though your chest fluttered. “The side effect of being born weird, I guess.”

“You’re not weird.”

You tilted your head. “Please. You’re talking to a woman in a borrowed house dress with bare feet and psychic powers who just invaded your head with blue sparkles. If I’m not weird, the bar’s too low.”

His smile faltered. Not in a bad way—just softened. His hands were still on your waist, and he hadn’t moved them. You hadn’t either.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “For what?”

“For this. For staying. For... not looking at me like I’m broken.”

You blinked. “Steve, you’re not broken.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you.

So you leaned down a little, fingers brushing his cheek, grounding him again.

“You’re just tired,” you said. “You’ve been fighting a war that never ends. Everyone expects you to be made of iron—but you’re not. You’re just a man with a good heart and too many ghosts.”

His jaw clenched just a little.

“But guess what?” you added, softer now. “You’re still standing.”

You straightened again, and he stared up at you like he didn’t quite know what to say.

So you gave him an out.

“Now scoot,” you said, nudging his leg with your knee. “We’re both exhausted and this bed is like... child-sized.”

Steve let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was trying to figure out how we were gonna fit.”

“You sleep like a log, right?”

He shrugged. “I can.”

“Then I’m calling dibs on not being the one to fall out.”

He moved over, lying back onto Cooper’s little twin bed, his legs almost too long for it. You climbed in next to him, careful not to crowd. But not too far either.

You faced opposite directions, backs turned, the weight of the night still pressing soft and quiet around you both.

But you didn’t feel alone.

And neither did he.

You woke up to the sound of screaming.

Not in the air. Not in the halls.

In your head.

Thoughts—dozens of them, tangled and loud, pressing in from every corner of the house. Dreams turned into nightmares. Subconscious anxieties. Fears that bled into the walls. It was like the whole farmhouse had started humming at a frequency only you could hear.

You winced and blinked hard, groggy and disoriented.

The soft blue glow of the Star Wars nightlight spilled across the room. You squinted at the little digital clock on the dresser—red digits blinking quietly.

1:00 A.M.

Of course it was.

Your body had stiffened at some point in the night, but what caught your attention more was the arm wrapped around your waist. Steve. Still asleep. Still warm. Still holding you like whatever dream he was having hadn’t dragged him under again.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, grounding yourself. The noise was worse now. Thoughts tumbling over each other—dreams from Clint, Laura, the kids, even Bruce down the hall.

Steve’s mind, thankfully, was quiet. Like a lake after the storm.

You slid away from his arm slowly, inch by inch, holding your breath so you wouldn’t wake him. The bed creaked softly under the movement, but he didn’t stir. His brow stayed relaxed. His breathing deep.

You exhaled through your nose and gently rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor silently. The nightdress swayed softly around your calves as you moved toward the door, careful not to trip over a stray action figure on the floor.

The hallway was dark, moonlight slanting in through the windows.

The stairs creaked.

You winced at each step, weight pressed into your heels to soften the sound. You didn’t need Clint waking up and scolding you like a sitcom dad.

Downstairs, the kitchen was cold and quiet. You moved on autopilot—glass from the cupboard, fridge door swinging open, the hum of it briefly masking the thoughts rattling your skull.

You poured water with shaking fingers and drank it fast, letting the cold shock snap you back into your body.

Too loud.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, willing the noise to dial down, even just a little. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, breathing slow, glass against your lips, trying to steady the tide—

“Y/N?”

You jumped.

Your heart practically launched out of your chest as you spun around. “Jesus.”

There she was. Lila Barton. Tiny in her little pajama set, hair mussed from sleep, clutching a plush unicorn to her chest with wide eyes.

You blinked hard, trying to reset your face.

“Lila,” you breathed. “You scared the psychic outta me.”

She giggled a little, then rubbed at her eyes.

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, lower lip wobbling. “And I didn’t wanna wake Mom or Dad.”

You softened instantly. The noise in your head quieted for just a second.

You knelt down in front of her, setting your glass on the counter behind you.

“You okay, kiddo?” you asked gently.

She shook her head. “There were... monsters. Not real ones. Just... bad dreams.”

You nodded slowly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Yeah. I know those.”

Her eyes were glossy. “Do you ever get them?”

“All the time,” you admitted. “But I’ve got a secret weapon.”

She leaned in, eyes curious. “What is it?”

You smiled, raised your hands to either side of her tiny face.

“I can make them go away.”

She blinked, skeptical. “Like magic?”

“Sort of,” you whispered. “But better. It’s heart magic.”

She gasped. “That’s a real thing?”

“For you?” you said. “Always.”

You let your fingers rest lightly on her temples, and with a breath, let the power flow. Not the full thing—just enough. A ripple of soft blue shimmered between your hands, a light like moonlight on still water. It touched her mind gently, soothing the fear there, brushing away the leftover shadows.

Lila’s shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Her little body melted into a sigh, and she blinked up at you like you’d just fixed the sky.

“I feel better,” she whispered.

You smiled, pulling her into a soft hug. “That’s the idea.”

She squeezed you tight.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes.

“Anytime, Lila.”

The water helped, but it didn’t solve everything.

Standing there in the kitchen’s pale yellow nightlight, you realized that the voices that pulled you from sleep hadn’t just been background noise. They weren’t random. They weren’t just emotional echoes left behind.

No—your teammates were dreaming.

All of them.

The house was full of nightmares.

And your head, caught somewhere between psychic receiver and emotional sponge, had taken the brunt of it.

You glanced down at Lila, now rubbing sleep from her eyes, little fingers still curled around her unicorn.

With slow, careful movement, you bent down and scooped her into your arms. She didn’t protest. She just tucked her head under your chin, small body warm and trusting, as if this was something you’d done a hundred times.

The creaking of the stairs felt louder now, but you made the climb with practiced quiet, one hand against the banister to steady your balance, Lila's tiny snores soft against your collarbone. The farmhouse smelled like cedar and old laundry detergent, warm and lived-in, faint scent of something sweet baked into the walls—maybe muffins from the morning before.

At the top of the stairs, you shifted your weight and leaned close to her ear.

“Time to head back, agent,” you whispered.

Lila gave a sleepy little nod, eyes fluttering. You opened the door to her parents’ room with your foot, inching inside on near-silent steps. Laura stirred faintly when you laid Lila down, but didn’t wake. You pulled the blanket over the small girl’s chest, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Goodnight,” Lila mumbled, not fully awake.

You smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. “Goodnight, baby bird.”

She turned toward her unicorn and curled into it, safe again.

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled quietly. The house groaned gently beneath your feet—old wood and older dreams. The noise in your head still hadn't settled. You could feel it humming deeper now, like standing too close to an overloaded generator.

Your eyes tracked down the hallway, toward where the buzz was strongest.

Natasha. Bruce.

You didn’t hesitate.

Lila’s room was just a few doors down. The pink wooden sign with glitter letters hung a little crookedly on the door. You turned the knob slowly, expecting it to be locked—but it wasn’t. Of course not. It was a child’s room, and Clint was a father first. He didn’t believe in locking doors where little ones might need comfort.

The room was dim, lit faintly by the soft swirl of glow-in-the-dark butterflies on the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender, like stuffed animals and bedtime stories. There were teddy bears lined up on a shelf, some with bows. A small princess nightlight blinked from the corner.

And on the bed, Bruce and Natasha.

They were tangled up together in a way that made your chest pinch—in the sweet way, not the jealous one. Natasha had her head resting on Bruce’s chest, arm draped across his stomach. He was angled slightly toward her, forehead pressed into her hair. It wasn’t messy or suggestive. Just intimate. Familiar. Two tired people clinging to the quiet.

But their minds were screaming.

You didn’t see the dreams. Not exactly. But you felt them.

Bruce’s was full of shadows—cold, sharp, flickering memories of cages and labs and needlepoints that made your throat close. A green haze lingered at the edge, rage balled up tight in his subconscious like a caged animal pacing.

Natasha’s was colder—quieter. But somehow worse. Hers wasn’t rage. It was control. Pain masked as purpose. You felt sterile walls, red lights. Not that door, she was whispering, even in her dream. Don’t make me open it again.

You stepped closer. The floor creaked slightly, but neither stirred. They were too far under.

You didn’t want to invade. But this wasn’t about watching. This was about relief.

You stood at the edge of the bed, raised your hand, and let your fingers hover in the air between them.

The mist unfurled slowly. That soft, silken blue light—cool and quiet, like a lullaby sung by the sea. It wrapped around both of them in threads of calm, not erasing the pain, but smoothing it. Buffering it. Their breathing evened. The lines on Bruce’s forehead faded. Natasha’s grip on his shirt loosened.

The noise—blessedly—stopped.

And you stepped back, letting your arm fall to your side.

You smiled faintly at the sight of them. Somehow, it felt like seeing something sacred. You were going to absolutely tease them in the morning. Nothing cruel. Just enough to make Nat roll her eyes and Bruce stammer through a defense. You’d earned it, honestly.

You stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind you.

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

But the storm wasn’t over.

You turned toward the end of the hall. The last door.

Tony.

His mind wasn’t loud, not the same way. His nightmares came in like static—messy, scattered. Fragmented shards of regret and guilt. You could feel it already. You didn’t need to see his dreams to know the truth:

He never forgave himself for anything.

You padded quietly to the door. This one was cracked open slightly. Probably forgot to close it properly when he stumbled in earlier, still running off adrenaline and sarcasm.

You slipped in.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and motor oil. Old shirts lay draped over a suitcase, a half-packed bag on the dresser. A tablet blinked low battery from where he’d left it beside the bed. He hadn’t even changed out of his shirt—just kicked off his shoes and collapsed sideways.

Tony was sweating.

Not heavily, but just enough. A faint sheen along his brow. His hand twitched every now and then, fingers curling into the blanket. His jaw was clenched.

His dream wasn’t coherent.

You felt it in fragments: a pair of hands reaching up from under rubble, a flash of a child's shoe, Pepper walking away without turning back. His dad’s voice—cruel and cold—echoing in his mind like a scratched record.

You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.

You closed your eyes, teeth clenched. “Oh, Dad,” you whispered under your breath. “You idiot.”

You moved closer, careful not to make noise. Your feet sank into the carpet near the bed. You reached out—no hesitation this time.

Blue mist swept out from your fingertips, curling like smoke in the low light. It danced over his temples, behind his ears, down to his chest.

The noise faded.

His breathing slowed.

His hand, curled in a tense fist, unclenched slightly.

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You just stood there, your hand hovering above the man who built your life from scratch but never quite figured out how to show love without sarcasm. The man who once gave you a Rolex for a birthday you cried through.

The room fell quiet.

And your head, at last, stopped hurting.

You slipped back into Cooper’s bedroom just as the grandfather clock downstairs struck two, the low chime echoing up through the floorboards like a reminder that time was always ticking—too fast, too slow, never on your side.

The room was dim, moonlight cutting pale stripes through the blinds. Steve had shifted slightly in the bed. He was lying on his back now, one arm thrown across the empty space where you’d been, like he’d reached for you and missed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, your heartbeat still steady from calming everyone else’s storms.

And now here he was.

The one storm you didn’t want to calm.

Because he could break you if he wanted to. And you’d let him.

You crossed the room slowly, the worn floor soft under your feet, and slid carefully back under the covers.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Until—

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice thick with sleep but laced with something else. Something warmer. Something that made your stomach twist.

“I’m fine,” you lied, as naturally as breathing.

He was silent for a few seconds, and you thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep. But then—

“I woke up and you were gone.”

You hesitated. “Just needed a walk. Too much noise.”

He turned onto his side to face you, one hand supporting his head, elbow on the pillow.

“I figured that’s what it was,” he said. “It’s always noise for you, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Perks of being a glorified human antenna.”

His eyes searched your face, soft and unreadable. You hated when he looked at you like that—like he was trying to solve you. Like you were a puzzle he was too close to finish.

“You helped us,” he murmured. “I felt it. When you touched my mind.”

You looked away.

“It was gentle,” he continued. “Like... like someone putting their hand on your shoulder when you’re about to fall.”

You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “Because I care about you. About all of you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His voice was low now. Steady.

You froze.

He shifted closer. The air between you thickened.

“You didn’t just care,” he said. “You held me together. You always do. And I’ve been lying to myself for a long time, pretending it was just friendship. That it was just... teammates sticking together.”

You closed your eyes.

“Steve,” you whispered, warning in your tone.

But he didn’t stop.

“I keep thinking about that dream. About Peggy. About how it felt to see her again. And I realized it wasn’t about going home. It wasn’t about the dance. It was about the part of me that still wants something... that feels like home.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when I woke up,” he said, voice catching, “you were gone, and the bed was cold, and I panicked because I didn’t want you gone.”

Your eyes snapped open.

He looked at you then—really looked. And he said it:

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The air left your lungs.

You sat up immediately, fingers trembling, eyes burning.

“No,” you said, too fast, too sharp.

Steve blinked, confusion and hurt flashing across his face.

You shook your head, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Don’t. Don’t say that to me.”

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up too, voice strained now.

“Because I’m not her, Steve!” you snapped, louder than intended, but gods, it was too late to be quiet now.

His expression froze.

“You’re still holding onto her,” you whispered, softer this time. “Even now. You’re just trying to find pieces of her in me. Kindness. The loyalty. The sarcasm wrapped in warmth. And maybe I remind you of her. Maybe I move like her, talk like her, care like her. But I’m not her.”

Steve opened his mouth—but you didn’t let him speak.

“You want to love me? Then love me. Not the ghost of someone you couldn’t save.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He stared at you like you’d just punched him in the gut.

Maybe you had.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked away, fists clenched in your lap.

“You deserve something real,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “So do I.”

He didn’t answer.

And for once, you didn’t fill the silence.

You let it sit.

Between the two of you.

Like a wall neither of you were ready to break.

The silence in the room wasn’t just heavy.

It was crushing.

You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing like your ribs were glass—slow, careful, scared of shattering. You didn’t dare look at him. If you did, you might take it all back. And you meant what you said.

Didn’t you?

Across from you, Steve didn’t move. You could feel the tension rippling off him—could hear the thoughts in his head, loud as church bells and quiet as confessions. He wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. No, he was something else.

Wrecked.

You heard the way his breath hitched. The way his hands curled into fists, resting on his knees like anchors. The bed dipped under his weight, still too small for two broken people who didn’t know what to do with their pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

You flinched.

Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them.

Like he meant them for a thousand different moments he could never take back.

“For what?” you asked, still not looking at him. “For saying it? Or for meaning it?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. And that told you everything.

You turned to him slowly.

He was looking down, staring at his hands like they held answers. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking. His eyes were glassy, lips parted, like he had a hundred words he wanted to say but none that would make a difference.

“I don’t know how to stop comparing,” he admitted. “And I hate that. Because it’s not fair to you.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His broad shoulders slumped. His spine curled forward slightly, like the weight on it was just too much tonight. His whole body—always so strong, so steady—looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with regret.

“I keep looking for things I lost,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I see them in you, it... it feels like hope. But maybe it’s just me trying to glue the past to the present.”

“Exactly,” you said, choking on your own voice. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“But it’s not just that,” he said, more firmly now. “You think I don’t see you? That I don’t know who you are?”

You stared at him. “Then why now? Why after that dream? You see her, you wake up, and suddenly I’m what—convenient?”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. You’re not convenient. You’re everything I’m afraid to want.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you like he was pleading with you to understand. “You’re not soft and perfect. You’re sharp. You’re chaos and compassion all rolled into one. You challenge me. You make me feel like I’m not just a man frozen in time. And yeah, sometimes I look at you and I hear her voice, but more often than not... I hear yours.”

Your chest tightened so hard it ached.

“But I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared because what if I’m too broken to know the difference between love and longing? What if I already ruined this by seeing ghosts in your shadow?”

Tears stung your eyes—but you blinked them away. “You didn’t ruin it. You just made it real.”

Steve looked up.

You stared at him with all the pain in your chest cracked wide open. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And it killed me—kills me—to know I’ll always be second to someone who’s not even here.”

His expression crumbled.

“I tried to be okay with it,” you continued, voice trembling. “I told myself being near you was enough. Being your friend, your anchor, your whatever you needed. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Steve reached for you, but you flinched.

“I need you to love me for me,” you said, softly now. “Not because I’m safe. Not because I’m similar. Not because I made your nightmares go quiet.”

His hand hovered in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Neither of you moved.

The clock ticked in the background.

Outside the window, the sky was starting to hint at dawn—just barely. The kind of blue that isn’t day or night, but the ghost of both.

You sat there, side by side, not touching. Two hearts beating too loudly in the quiet.

And somehow, silence said more than either of you could bear.

You didn’t sleep after that.

Neither did he.

The silence between you stretched on, delicate as spider silk, humming with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t trust yourself to speak. You sat on opposite ends of the bed, feet dangling, bodies heavy with unshed grief.

Eventually, Steve turned away and laid down, but not to sleep. You could tell by his breathing—too steady. Too rehearsed. He wasn’t drifting off.

He was trying to disappear.

And you let him.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark constellations stuck to Cooper’s ceiling. They were shaped like tiny promises, and every one of them felt like a lie.

The room smelled faintly like the remnants of Lila’s bubblegum shampoo and Steve’s cologne. Warm cotton. Faint traces of cedar and something older, like dust on a forgotten letter. The scent of almost.

You didn’t cry.

There weren’t any tears left.

When the sky finally cracked open, painting soft gold across the old wooden floorboards, you climbed quietly out of bed, careful not to brush against him. Steve stayed still, eyes closed, one hand over his chest like he was holding himself together.

You tiptoed across the room, grabbed your jacket from the chair, and slipped into the hallway.

Downstairs, the farmhouse was still quiet. Clint’s kids weren’t up yet. Laura was likely curled into Clint’s side. Natasha and Bruce, probably still tangled in each other’s warmth—dreams finally quiet thanks to you. Tony, passed out and drooling into a pillow he pretended cost $600.

You moved like a ghost through the kitchen, fingers wrapping around a chipped ceramic mug. You poured yourself coffee—black, because anything else felt like trying too hard. The mug was warm between your palms, but it didn’t chase the chill out of your bones.

You sat at the table and stared out the window.

The barn caught the sunrise first. All golden wood and long shadows. Somewhere, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for a movie.

And then you heard it.

Steps. Barefoot. Soft.

You didn’t turn around.

Steve entered the kitchen with that same slow, unsure quiet he always wore after a battle. His hair was a mess. He looked like hell. And somehow, he still moved like a leader trying to figure out how to ask forgiveness without words.

He stopped at the opposite end of the table.

You still didn’t look at him.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

“Didn’t sleep,” you said softly, staring into your mug.

“Me neither,” Steve murmured, voice rough. “Didn’t really want to.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Steve moved to pour himself a cup. You heard the clink of ceramic, the slow gurgle of the pot. He sat down across from you, hands wrapped around the mug like it might burn away the things he couldn’t fix.

Another beat.

Then he said it.

“I meant it.”

You looked at him now.

His eyes were tired. Honest. Exposed.

“I don’t care if you think it’s too late,” he said. “Or if I said it for the wrong reasons. I meant it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Steve,” you said finally, “I can’t be someone’s second choice.”

“You’re not.”

“You just saw her. You danced with her in your dream.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t wake up wanting her.”

You froze.

He swallowed. “I woke up missing her, yes. But I looked over and I—” He faltered. “I looked over and I needed you. Not her.”

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I just know I’ve never felt this calm around anyone else. Never felt seen like this. You get into my head and you don’t run. You see the worst of me and you stay.”

You let the silence fill the space.

Then:

“I don’t want to love someone who’s still haunted.”

Steve’s eyes dropped.

“I want someone who chooses me. All of me. Not just the pieces that look like someone else.”

He looked up again. And this time—his voice cracked.

“Then let me prove it’s you.”

You stared at him.

Two mugs of cooling coffee. Two exhausted souls. One moment balanced on the knife-edge between breaking and beginning.

And for once, you didn’t know what to say.

So you just whispered:

“Then don’t disappear.”

And he whispered back:

“I won’t.”

away every crack in your chest with nothing but care.

Steve kissed you like you mattered.

Like you weren’t just a comfort or a memory or an afterthought—but a choice.

His lips were warm, patient, but there was something deeper beneath the softness—a tension held back, something he’d buried for too long. And when your fingers curled into his hair and your body pressed closer, he melted into you.

His arm slid around your waist. Yours moved up around his neck. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, the kind that steals the air from your lungs but gives you back your name.

And then—

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You froze.

Steve pulled back an inch, lips still ghosting over yours.

You both turned slowly toward the voice.

Tony Stark was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, holding a coffee mug mid-sip like he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF STARK INDUSTRIES IS HAPPENING HERE.”

You scrambled to sit up. Steve nearly fell off the chair. Your face went nuclear red.

“Tony—” you started, but he held up a hand like he was stopping traffic.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. I need therapy. I need bleach for my eyeballs. I need—I need Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth, only to immediately close it again.

Tony’s jaw dropped further. “You—you kissed my daughter?!”

“She kissed me,” Steve blurted.

You whipped around. “Excuse me?!”

Steve winced. “Okay, bad defense, but—mutual! Totally mutual!”

Tony gagged.

“OH GOD, I CAN HEAR YOU!”

That was when Natasha walked in, looking like a goddess in sweatpants, holding her mug like it was her morning sword.

“What’s happening?” she asked casually.

Bruce appeared right behind her, adjusting his glasses. “Did Tony scream ‘Jesus’ or was that my imagination?”

You were halfway to combusting.

Natasha glanced between you and Steve—your kiss-swollen lips, your guilty spacing—and immediately smirked. “Well well well.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

“Oh?!” Tony shouted. “OH?! You’re older than me, Rogers! Older than me!”

“Technically—” Steve tried.

“Do not say ‘time doesn’t work like that,’ I swear,” Tony groaned. “You wore suspenders unironically.”

From upstairs, Clint shouted, “Did someone die?!”

“I WISH I HAD,” Tony roared back.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is not happening. This is not real. I’m still dreaming. This is Wanda’s fault.”

Natasha walked over and ruffled your hair. “Relax, lovebird. You could do worse.”

Tony gasped. “Excuse you?!”

“Not helping, Nat!” you yelped.

Bruce patted Steve’s shoulder with tragic sympathy. “Good luck, man.”

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “I was a war hero.”

“You still are,” Natasha said, smirking. “Just not in Tony’s house.”

The kitchen exploded with laughter. Well—everyone but Tony.

Tony, who took a long, dramatic sip of his coffee, stared at the ceiling and muttered:

“God, if you’re listening… please smite me.”

Tony was still dramatically mumbling into his coffee like a man who had just watched his favorite sports team lose and then spontaneously combust. He paced the kitchen like a sitcom dad in full breakdown mode, muttering things like “My daughter’s dating a man who fought Hitler” and “Why didn’t I just build Ultron a girlfriend and retire.”

You sat back down in your chair, cheeks still a bit flushed, hair tousled from soft hands and even softer kissing, while Steve sat beside you, trying very hard to look like he hadn’t just been emotionally stripped and publicly roasted.

Natasha was still sipping her coffee, now lounging on the counter with all the smugness of a cat watching a dog get scolded.

“So, how long’s this been a thing?” she asked casually, gesturing at the space between you and Steve like it was a soap opera.

“It’s not a thing,” you said quickly.

Steve blinked. “I thought—”

“I mean not a thing thing,” you stammered, panicking. “Just a—like—we kissed. Once. That’s it. Calm your shield, Cap.”

Nat’s smirk widened. “Uh-huh. Sure. You looked like you were seconds from writing each other vows with that kiss.”

Bruce cleared his throat, ever the peacekeeper. “Let’s maybe not interrogate the new couple before coffee’s fully metabolized.”

“Not a couple,” you and Steve said in unison.

Tony groaned. “You’re finishing each other’s sentences now?! I’m gonna be sick.”

“Do you need a hug?” Clint asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen in pajama pants and an I ❤️ NY hoodie, a cup of tea in his hand.

“I need a restraining order,” Tony hissed.

Clint looked at Steve, then at you, then at the empty coffee mugs, then back at Steve. “Huh. Took you long enough.”

Steve blinked. “You... knew?”

Clint shrugged. “Come on, Cap. You look at her like she’s the Statue of Liberty and you just came back from war.”

Tony gagged again. “He did. That’s the problem!”

Nat grinned. “It’s true. You give her the look.”

Steve frowned. “What look?”

Bruce, deadpan: “The ‘I’d jump on a grenade for you and then bake you pancakes’ look.”

“Pancakes?” you repeated, grinning now.

Natasha pointed her spoon at Steve. “He literally made you pancakes last week.”

“They were protein pancakes,” Steve mumbled, ears turning pink.

Tony dragged his hands down his face. “Great. This is how I die. Betrayed. In my own kitchen. Watching my daughter make googly eyes at Uncle Sam.”

Clint snorted. “Steve’s more like Grandpa America, actually.”

You nearly spit out your coffee.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve said, his voice somewhere between amused and mildly offended.

Tony pointed dramatically. “That’s my line! That’s what I say when the team roasts me. You can’t just—oh my god, are you wearing socks with sandals?!”

Steve looked down at his feet. “They’re slippers—”

“Slippers are just socks with ambition.”

Bruce leaned against the fridge and tried not to laugh. “Tony, you’ve built AI, rebuilt your heart, and flown to space. You can survive this.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Tony huffed. “This is my daughter. This is like... betrayal. World War, Farmhouse Edition.”

Natasha raised a brow. “I mean... we do need a sequel.”

You leaned into Steve and whispered just loud enough for Tony to hear: “So, uh... wanna kiss me again just to see what happens?”

Tony shrieked, “I’M STILL HERE.”

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, and his hand found yours under the table again. This time, he didn’t let go.

The sun had fully risen now, stretching lazy golden fingers across the quiet farm. It was one of those mornings that smelled like dew and dust and warmth—like something old and kind. Birds chirped high in the trees, and everything felt like it had finally exhaled after a long, aching breath.

You stood just outside the barn, arms crossed loosely, wearing a borrowed hoodie that was definitely not yours. (Okay, it might’ve belonged to Steve. But no one needed to know that.)

In front of you, Steve was chopping firewood.

And you were... well.

You were shamelessly staring.

Not just at the strength in his arms or the way his shirt clung to his back in all the right ways (though, yeah, duh), but at the way he moved—focused, quiet, content. It was rare to see him like this, outside of the suit and the weight of a world expecting him to save it.

He lifted the axe again, brought it down with a solid thud—the wood split clean in two, scattering chips across the dirt.

You whistled low under your breath.

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, clearly trying (and failing) not to smirk. “You always make that noise when someone chops wood, or am I just special?”

You leaned against the fence post with a dramatic sigh. “I dunno. The lumberjack thing? Kind of doing it for me.”

He barked out a laugh and wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt—lifting it just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

You blinked.

He noticed.

And grinned.

“Oh, you’re evil,” you muttered, biting your lip and trying to look anywhere else. “How dare you use your super soldier abs against me.”

He walked over to you, grabbing a bottle of water from the post. “I thought I was Grandpa America?”

You shrugged, innocent. “Gramps can still get it.”

Steve choked on his water.

“Jesus,” he coughed, eyes wide, laughing through it. “You’re unbelievable.”

You took the bottle from his hands and sipped. “Takes one to know one.”

He was still smiling when he stepped closer, hands loosely on his hips, a little dirt smudged across his cheek. “You just gonna watch, or you planning to help?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, and ruin my new career as your personal eye candy appreciation society?”

Steve gave you a look.

You gave him one right back.

Then—slowly—you walked forward, closing the distance between you, until you were toe-to-toe. You reached up, thumb brushing the dirt off his cheek. He didn’t move—just watched you with those soft blue eyes that made your heart twist.

“Y’know,” you said gently, “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

You shrugged. “Here. Now. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just... you. Chopping wood and smiling at me like I’m not a complete disaster.”

He leaned in, just a little. “You’re not a disaster.”

You grinned. “I’m definitely a disaster.”

He reached for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours. “Maybe. But you’re my disaster.”

Your cheeks flushed, and your smile softened.

There it was again. That look.

Like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he never wanted to look away.

You rested your forehead against his chest and sighed. “God, this is stupid.”

“What is?”

“This,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna fall so hard for you it’s gonna ruin me.”

Steve tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours with that quiet intensity he always had. “Then let’s ruin each other.”

You laughed, soft and breathless, and leaned in to kiss him again—this time slow, warm, with the smell of pine and the sun on your face. His hands cupped your jaw, steady and grounding, and you melted into him like you were always meant to be here.

No chaos. No noise.

Just the two of you.

And for once, that was enough.

The work was done.

The firewood sat stacked in neat rows by the side of the porch, and Steve had finally tossed the axe aside with a satisfied grunt. His shoulders glistened slightly under the heat of the late afternoon sun, the edges of his shirt darkened with sweat. The farm had quieted—no Avengers stomping through the yard, no chaos spilling out of the house. Just birdsong, the distant murmur of a breeze, and the soft creak of the wooden fence where you now sat, legs dangling lazily over the side.

Steve leaned beside you, elbow propped up on the post, drinking the last of his water. His eyes weren't on the sky. They were on you.

"You've been quiet," he said gently.

You shrugged. “I like the quiet. It’s rare.”

He nodded. “It is.”

The sun had started its slow descent behind the trees, casting everything in that golden amber light that made even the worn-down barn look like something out of a painting. Dust motes danced in the still air. The breeze smelled faintly of hay and honeysuckle.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wood. “You ever think about what it’d be like if this was... it?”

Steve glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the open field, the house, the firewood. “Peace. A normal day. No aliens. No missions. Just... existing.”

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly. “More than you know.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

The lines around his eyes. The soft pink at the tip of his nose from the sun. The small smile he tried to hide when you caught him staring.

“You could have it, you know,” you said. “You could hang up the shield. Be done.”

His smile faltered. “You think I deserve that?”

You nodded. “I think you deserve more than that.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped to the ground, jaw working through something heavy.

Then—quietly—he said, “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this again.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

He looked at you, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“Hope.”

It hit you like a whisper and a storm all at once.

You sat there, blinking up at him, heart stumbling like it had forgotten how to beat on rhythm.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he added, voice rough around the edges. “Talking. Letting people in. But you...” He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You make it feel easy.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow,” he continued. “But right now—this—” He squeezed your hand. “—this feels real.”

You didn’t pull away.

You leaned in, your voice soft. “It is.”

The silence between you thickened, but not in a bad way. In a way that made your skin hum. The sunlight caught the edge of his hair, turning the golden strands even lighter. The light made him look impossibly soft—like a memory in motion.

And then—you did it.

You reached up, fingers brushing along the side of his face, thumb dragging gently across the line of his jaw.

He leaned into your touch without hesitation.

No more hesitation.

No more ghosts.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this moment.

Your forehead touched his, and for a long, sweet breath, you both stayed like that—eyes closed, hearts steady. The heat of the day melting into something calmer. Safer.

You whispered, “We could stay here a little longer, y’know.”

He smiled, barely. “I’d like that.”

Then, finally, he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Softer.

There was no rush. No adrenaline. No fear.

Just two people who’d found something quiet and good in the middle of chaos.

And for once, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t sure when you both ended up lying side by side on the patch of tall grass just behind the barn, but the stillness of it was a balm. The sun had begun to dip low, casting warm light across the world, catching in the strands of Steve’s hair, painting everything in gold.

You turned your head on the rough wool of the old blanket Clint had lent you and looked at him—his profile soft in the last light of day. His eyes were on the sky, calm and unreadable, but his thumb was tracing soft, distracted patterns on the back of your hand.

It was quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... peaceful.

Safe.

“Steve?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?” he murmured, not turning, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hesitated. Then: “Do you ever think about the future?”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stilling on your skin.

“All the time,” he said.

You shifted to lie on your side, propped on one elbow, watching him. His expression was unreadable at first—like he was still somewhere else. Then slowly, his eyes found yours.

“I don’t let myself get too far ahead,” he admitted. “But lately… I don’t know. It’s getting harder not to want something more.”

You swallowed. “More like what?”

He smiled, slow and unsure, like the words felt too delicate to say out loud.

“A house,” he said finally. “Quiet. Out here, maybe. Far from everything. Big porch. Two chairs. One dog.”

Your lips curled. “Just one?”

“Just one. I’ll name him something dumb like Sergeant Bark.”

You snorted. “Okay, first of all, you’re banned from naming anything.”

He laughed, head tilting toward you slightly, light in his eyes. “Fine. You can name the dog.”

Your heart clenched.

He was teasing, but there was something real under the surface. Something he wasn’t quite saying. You knew that tone. You knew what it meant to speak softly about things you didn’t think you could ever have.

You let your eyes drift to the horizon. “And kids?”

The question hung there for a second, caught on the wind.

Steve’s voice was gentler when he answered. “Yeah. I think about that too.”

You met his gaze again.

“I didn’t used to,” he added. “Back in Brooklyn, it didn’t feel like something people like me were supposed to have. Then the war happened. And after that… I just stopped letting myself want it.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers against the curve of his jaw.

“But now?” you asked.

His hand found yours again, curling around it like it was something precious.

“Now I want it with you,” he said.

You didn’t know what to say. The words hit like warmth and ache all at once. He meant it. He meant you.

“You’d be a good dad,” you whispered, the lump in your throat rising fast.

He shook his head slightly. “I’d be terrified. What if I mess it up?”

You smiled. “We’d mess it up together. That’s the deal.”

His eyes softened like he was memorizing you.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said, voice barely audible.

You blinked hard.

Then, because your chest hurt with how much this meant—this moment, this man—you tried to tease again, just to breathe.

“Let’s name one of the kids after Tony, just to mess with him.”

Steve grinned. “Only if we name the other one Natasha.”

You paused. “No joke, I actually love that.”

You both laughed. Not loudly. Not the kind that echoed. Just the soft, chest-humming laughter of people letting go.

The kind of laugh that tastes like home.

Steve rolled onto his side to face you, his palm resting over your heart now. His fingers curled there, like he could feel every beat. Maybe he could.

“Do you think we’ll get there?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to scream it. But your throat was tight, and your heart was full in a way that made it hard to speak.

So you whispered, “If the world lets us, I’ll build that life with you brick by brick.”

His hand slipped to the back of your neck and he pulled you in—slow, reverent, like the world had finally stood still long enough to let you breathe.

The kiss was softer this time. Less hungry. Less breathless. Just… full. Steady. Familiar. It felt like the answer to a question neither of you had ever known how to ask.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

You could feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady.

And then—he whispered it. Soft. Like a vow.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then you smiled.

Not because it surprised you.

But because you felt it too.

“I love you,” you whispered back, voice thick with something tender and raw. “I think I always have.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the war.

You both lay there under the fading sun, holding each other. No fear. No need to rush. The world was still out there. The chaos. The battles. The uncertainty.

But for now, it was just two hearts. A patch of sky. And the dream of something more.

A life not yet lived.

But close.

So close.

And maybe, just maybe—worth fighting for.

Later, as the stars carved quiet paths across the darkening sky and the barn lights flickered on in the distance, you stayed curled against Steve, the world hushed around you. There was no war at this moment.

No ghosts, no shields, no broken pieces needing to be picked up. Just skin pressed to skin, hearts aligned like constellations, and the shared breath of two people who had survived enough to finally let themselves want more.

You didn’t need promises. You didn’t need forever wrapped in certainty. What you had—this raw, beautiful now—was more than enough.

And if the future ever came with a house, a porch, a dog with a terrible name, and laughter echoing through hallways built from healing… you’d be there. Hand in hand. With him.

Building peace in the shape of each other.

#steve rogers x reader #avengers x reader #steve rogers #marvel cinematic universe #avengxrz #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers imagine #the avengers #fic recommendation

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violetstark3000 · 18 hours ago

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Doll, You’re Home 🎀

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Y/N) Word count: ~4,100 words Warnings: Fluff, slow burn, light angst, smut (explicit), swearing, some mentions of past trauma Summary: After years away, Y/N finally moves into Avengers Tower — and Bucky’s the first person she lets in. Between sarcastic banter and stolen glances, they navigate the subtle dance of old wounds, new beginnings, and undeniable attraction. But when late-night training sessions turn into something much hotter, neither of them can deny what’s been simmering beneath the surface.

A/N: i hope you guys like this its my first smut fic 🙈

The heavy door to Avengers Tower swung open before Y/N could even catch her breath. Boxes, duffel bags, and half a dozen awkward attempts at juggling her laptop, a tiny potted plant, and a giant coffee tumbler threatened to tip her balance.

“Need a hand?” came the familiar deep voice, smooth with that unmistakable Brooklyn drawl.

She looked up. Bucky Barnes was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, arms crossed but clearly ready to help.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said, but the laugh she let out wasn’t nearly as convincing as she wanted.

“Sure, you are,” he teased, stepping forward. “Looks like you’re hauling the Stark Industrial warehouse up here.”

Y/N grinned despite herself. “Well, you know, I like to make an impression.”

He took two of the boxes from her with ease and started up the stairs. “Come on, Stark’s daughter. Show me you can keep up.”

That was their first exchange — a perfect, natural mix of Bucky’s quiet strength and Y/N’s sarcastic charm. The way she rolled her eyes, how he watched her with something almost softer behind his guarded gaze.

Upstairs, on floor 23 — their shared domain — the rest of the team was waiting. Natasha was sprawled on the couch pretending to be bored; Wanda was flicking small sparks of red magic just for fun; Steve gave a solid thumbs-up from across the room; Thor, somehow, was munching on a Pop-Tart as usual.

No one had known Tony had a daughter until the announcement went public just a week ago, and Y/N’s arrival had been met with a surprising mix of shock and, well, a lot of “cool.”

“You really are Stark’s kid?” Natasha asked without looking up from her phone.

Y/N shot her a dry look. “Yeah, I’m the reason he’s grey. Sorry.”

“Fair,” Natasha said, smirking.

Wanda pulled her aside later that night, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re doing great. And if you need backup, I’m here.”

Bucky stayed by Y/N’s side more than usual, helping her unpack, fixing the Wi-Fi, occasionally catching her eye with a quiet smile. It was small things — but in the chaos of Avengers Tower, small things were everything.

The nights became their own rhythm — workouts, sparring sessions, quiet talks. One night, after a particularly grueling training montage, Y/N wiped sweat from her brow, her heart racing not just from the workout. Bucky caught her hand, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Doll,” he said softly, voice rough. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

And she didn’t.

When their lips met that night, it was slow, uncertain, but electric — a long overdue confession spoken without words.

The hours that followed were detailed and tender, their bodies learning each other’s stories, soft gasps and whispered promises filling the room.

Morning light found them tangled in each other’s arms, the world outside fading to white noise.

Y/N was home.

Bucky was hers.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

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moonlit-imagines · 3 days ago

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Headcanons for being Bucky Barnes’ child

Bucky Barnes x child!reader

warnings: SA IMPLICATIONS. guns violence death etc

a/n: this fic is slow to start bc of backstory/worldbuilding. bc it starts when bucky is in hydra theres not a ton of complex dialogue opportunities until the programming is broken. i tried to skip as much fluff (the unnecessary story, not fluff like cutesy stuff) as i could bc we’ve all watched the captain america movies at this point right? (i only changed a few main details too like zemo waiting for steve and tony instead of hiding and bucky not going into cryo when he goes to wakanda)

prompt: takes place from like pre-CACW to post endgame

ever since bucky had been captured by HYDRA, made into the winter soldier, he was no longer had autonomy

for anything

years of experimenting, testing, training, cryosleep, they all took a toll on him

and as HYDRA evolved new ways to exert their control and influence, they found new ways to torture bucky

now they were taking his DNA to create a new, better soldier—one who knew no old life

the child they’d genetically modified was implanted in another test subject with bucky’s dna

it was no use fighting it, bucky had to comply

you were born 9 months later, and as you grew you were subjected to more tests with hormones and serums that would make you as strong as the super soldier serum

bucky protested the moment he laid eyes on what would be his child

“that is me. that child is apart of me. you can’t expect me to stand by and let you torture them” -bucky

“you are in no position to make demands, or else you will face the consequences” -hydra

they were generous enough to let him name you

“y/n…” -bucky

“good, good. now y/n will be a good soldier for us, you will make sure of that” -hydra

“what? no—i can’t” -bucky

“stop it! you will do as i say or i will say the words to make you” -hydra

you were held over his head every time he strayed until he was a shell of himself

he trained you, but was not allowed to do anything more. he wanted to badly to be a father to you and take you away from this, but he’d disconnect the moment his trigger words were spoken

he was desperate to break free and take you with him

he coped in his dreams. in his dreams he was your dad and you were his child.

and even after mind wipes, he felt that connection to you

to you, that was the winter soldier. the man that trained you until he was put back on ice

you and him operated on opposite stints for a few years when you were skilled enough, around your mid teens

your first mind wipe came when you were sent to retrieve stolen information from a rogue hydra agent—that’s when you learned the truth and failed your first mission

“wait! please! i can tell you everything you didn’t know. you are the winter soldier’s child! i have the proof in that briefcase you’re holding. don’t kill me, please!” -defector

for the first time, you hesitated and decided to listen. your gun was still pointed at the man, you flipped through the files, you found your profile. and bucky’s.

“see?! i told you. they genetically engineered you to be their perfect soldier with his DNA! he was a prisoner of world war two, his real name is james barnes. you are y/n barnes. i watched them wipe his memory when he started to fight my superiors on how they treated you. he doesn’t remember.” -defector

you spared the man and took the files

and confronted your keepers at HYDRA

“the winter soldier is my father?! the man who trained me my whole life—and you removed that memory from him?” -you, slamming the files down on alexander pierce’s desk

“i am very disappointed in you…you’ve never failed a mission before. maybe it’s time for your attitude correction” -pierce

you were strapped down and mind-wiped but after the third time finding out and going ballistic you were still pretty lucid.

minds are harder to be broken when they come that way.

“you are my enemy. you hold me captive to do your bidding. you kidnapped my father and turned him into a weapon. you created me to be a weapon. and now, i’m going to kill you” -you

they quickly activated the winter soldier to subdue you, but you managed to drop a few bodies before you were taken down

they decided to put you on ice. permanently.

it was the mid-90s by now and with the loss of you as an asset, HYDRA decided to find new operatives

trained soliders were administered the serum and trained by the winter soldier to be better than him, but the project failed after they all turned on HYDRA

they were then put on ice like you, and stored with you in a HYDRA base in siberia

years went by and bucky was all alone, but when he saw steve again and broke from his trance, his mind started to uncloud

bucky fled to romania feeling something was missing. someone

but no matter what he did, he couldn’t figure out what was wrong. who he missed.

it kept him tossing and turning at night

and one day he risked trying to access the HYDRA files the black widow had leaked

he found his own file, and that led him to you

your picture. his kid. y/n barnes. born in 1960. put into cryostasis intermittently for testing and permanently in 1990. residing at the sibera base of operations.

he started to remember you. training you, caring for you, missing you.

fortunately or unfortunately, bucky was framed for a terrorist attack and steve tracked him down to clear him

and once it was safe to talk (after bucky was arrested and zemo activated the winter soldier and steve and sam got bucky to a safe location) bucky told steve everything

“steve. i have a kid. they need me.” -bucky

“are they like you?” -steve

“yes. they were an experiment, i trained them. HYDRA put them on ice after they broke from their programming. i found the files your friend leaked, i know where they’re keeping y/n” -bucky

“y/n? you always liked that name.” -steve

“they let me name y/n” -bucky, chuckling “i was never allowed to be a father, though. i want to be. now that im free”

“we can help with that. what can we do?” -sam

“i know where they’re keeping them. but there are more” -bucky

“more kids? jesus, man” -sam

“no, no. no more kids. other soldiers” -bucky

“super soldiers?” -steve

“after y/n failed as a winter soldier, they started a new program with an elite death squad. it didn’t work out, so they got put on ice with y/n” -bucky

and that sparked the effort to fix bucky’s image and get you back, all the while avoiding tony’s resistance

when bucky and steve finally broke through tony’s defenses, bucky felt so much relief that he’d soon see you again—regardless of the dire circumstances

he expected to fight the other winter soldiers as he arrived—and shocked to find each of them dead and zemo standing in front of you, still asleep, pointing a gun at your head through the glass

“don’t do this, zemo. what do you want?” -steve

“i want my wife and child back. you avengers are responsible for their deaths. sokovia, just a year ago. the avengers don’t care for collateral damage, why should i?” -zemo

“i want my kid back, too. that’s why im here” -bucky, looking at you

“why do you think you deserve them, winter soldier? you have caused nothing but pain and suffering to everyone you have come into contact with for decades, you are dangerous and so is this one” -zemo

tony charged him to save you

the gun went off and broke the glass of your pod, just missing you

but it ended your cryostasis and you slowly began to wake in an emergency protocol

while this happened, zemo activated the tape to distract tony—the tape of bucky killing tony’s parents

“you knew?” -tony

“i didn’t know it was him” -steve

by the time their battle concluded, you stumbled from your pod. you saw the dead soldiers stored beside you. you investigated your surroundings and there you saw it. the man with the metal arm

“dad?” -you, for the first time

“y/n…” -bucky, running to hug you

you’d never gotten a hug before. never been shown affection. barely been called by your name. you had no idea where you were or how you’d been woken up, but your dad’s arms were wrapped around you and the world stood still a moment

“i thought i’d never see you again” -bucky

“how is this possible? wait, what year is it?” -you

“2016” -steve

“i’ve been frozen 26 years?!” -you “hang on. is that captain america?”

“that’s my best friend, steve rogers” -bucky

“nice to meet you, y/n” -steve “buck, we gotta get out of here, its not safe”

t’challa, the prince of wakanda, granted you both sanctuary as bucky and you needed help acclimating to the world and undoing all that programming

you were a lot better off than him. you didn’t have trigger words because you’d been conditioned since birth—it didn’t seem necessary at the time. training in espionage helped you to act more like a normal person and not a russian super soldier. but your real issue was bonding, human connection, emotion. things that had been suppressed your whole life

you always felt connected to bucky though

bucky started from scratch with you. he told you about his childhood and his friendship with steve. his parents. trips to the fair. enlisting in the army. bad dates. good dates. what he wanted in life. his plans for you even though you didn’t come into his life the way he planned it

you were physically in your late teens at this point but chronologically you were in your late fifties. there were a lot of jokes made about it.

you definitely could make light of your situation, even if you missed out on pretty much every single normal thing imaginable

t’challa gifted a stuffed animal “from your home” to give to you

“it says ‘i heart new york,’ i thought it would be a nice gesture” -t’challa

“thank you, t’challa. i really hope y/n likes it” -bucky

“for someone with a background like that, they seem to be very well adjusted. i know it’s new being a father, but you are doing great” -t’challa

“that…means a lot. i really thought i was doing something wrong” -bucky

“do not doubt yourself, my friend. now go, you’re depriving your child of a teddy bear” -t’challa

bucky was beaming when he found you to give you this stuffed bear. and for the first time since you two finally became a family, you cried.

“thank you. it’s…it’s really cute. i love it” -you, beginning to sob like a switch inside you just flipped

“hey, hey, what’s wrong? why are you crying” -bucky

“i don’t know” -you

“it’s okay. i get it. it’s weird being a person again—your own person” -bucky

“i was never my own person though. i was always HYDRA’s” -you

“you’re right. i’m sorry. they never let you be a kid” -bucky

“i’m sorry for stabbing you when i was a kid” -you “i wouldn’t have done that if i knew you were my dad”

“it’s okay, i cherished the scar. it was sort of like a gift?” -bucky, chuckling

“don’t be weird. i stabbed you” -you

“and i trained you to stab me. that means you were doing well” -bucky

“you were holding back. now i know why” -you, staring at the teddy bear “are you sure you want to be a father to me? i’m sure i’m not ideal”

“of course i do. i don’t care how it happened. you are mine and i will always be here for you.” -bucky

“promise?” -you

“i promise, y/n. from the moment they let me hold you, i knew i would do whatever it took to keep you safe. and fifty years later, we’re finally free” -bucky

wakanda was nice. quiet where you guys settled. they did their work to help bucky, and shuri actually made an effort to help you feel “normal” and “modern”

“i picked some clothes out for you. they’re very american, but i tried to pick a style i think would suit you. none of that leather shit you wore when you were on missions. this is much more comfortable” -shuri “i also picked out some movies i think you and your father would like. well, some i wouldn’t watch with my dad, i put them in a separate pile”

that’s how movie nights started

“you know, when i was a kid we could only watch movies in theaters. and all the movies were in black and white. some were even silent” -bucky

“i get it, dad. you’re ancient” -you, exaggeratingly rolling your eyes

“hey, you’re even rolling your eyes like a normal kid. that’s what i call progress” -bucky

shuri snuck “the wizard of oz” into the stack, which got bucky super excited

“oh! this is the last movie i saw before i went overseas. we need to watch this one” -bucky

he hummed to the music and you couldn’t help but smile. especially when he started to mumble the words to “somewhere over the rainbow”

it made you jealous of the fact you were never a kid with a dad tucking you in at night and singing you to sleep

but you just smiled and kept your mouth shut, letting bucky enjoy his old memories and make new ones with you

shuri knew what she was doing with these movies for sure.

she gave you some music to listen to and shows to watch and taught you how to use social media to catch up on the times. basically anything to keep you busy while they worked on bucky.

and one day they said his trigger words and he was perfectly fine. no more winter soldier.

you cried with him

this was it. nothing more hanging over your heads. this was freedom in its purest form.

“we can finally build a life, y/n. what would you want to do first?” -bucky

“i honestly wouldn’t know where to start” -you

as badly as you were ready to have your dad for good, start a normal life in new york like he wanted, things weren’t so simple. he was a wanted fugitive and you were a ghost.

and then thanos happened

you protected wakanda as best as you could, but you failed

“dad? no! dad, i can’t lose you again!” -you as bucky dusted away

you were alone again

separated. torn apart. ruined. agonized. bucky was gone and you were alive and after all that work you were alone again.

steve sought to it that you were taken care of

and steve you knew. you knew him from stories. bucky was friends with him since they were kids. they fought in the war together. steve saved bucky and saved you.

“y/n. come to new york with me. i want to be there for you” -steve

you agreed, and for a short period of time you thought you could bring him back

but by the time you found thanos you knew it was over

steve tried to get you to stay with him, but you needed more than that

so he gave his blessing to nat to make you an avenger. train you to use what you were made for to be good and fight to keep the world safe.

“i’m doing this on the condition that you balance your life out. now that you live in new york, i’m here for you. i grew up with your dad, i know what he always wanted for his kid and i want to give that to you since he can’t” -steve

“you want to replace him?” -you

“absolutely not, y/n. i want to fulfill his wishes. i loved bucky, he was the only family i had growing up. now i want to be yours” -steve

you accepted steve’s effort, you accepted him as family. you listened to him, went to him for advice, made a name for yourself as an avenger, made memories with your chosen family

steve took you to dinner once a week to catch up, even if you guys weren’t feeling up to it he kept you in a routine

“what kind of food do you want to try tonight?” -steve

“i haven’t tried chinese food yet” -you

“oh, my god. why did i wait so long to get you chinese food. there’s so many things to choose from, you’ll love it” -steve “i remember when i was introduced to chinese food. best day ever.”

he always tried to make you feel better when you were down

“you know your dad shot me once when he was the winter soldier?” -nat, showing you her scar

“you know i stabbed him during training when i was a kid?” -you

steve told you the story about bucky blowing $50 trying to win a prize at a fair for a girl he just met

“he had the name ‘y/n’ picked since we were young, you know?” -steve

it was incredible that there was still someone alive from his past. what were the odds?

steve made you feel closer to him

as the world slowly healed, so did you

you trained with nat a lot and she always noticed which moves you taught yourself and which ones bucky taught you

and now she was teaching you black widow moves!

you slept with the bear bucky gave you in wakanda every night

you aimed to make him proud of you every waking moment

“i miss him” -you “why doesn’t anything ever work out?”

“i wish i had an answer for you, kiddo” -steve

you hadn’t seen tony stark since thanos died. and he wasn’t your biggest fan having been the son of a couple your father happened to murder.

but when scott lang, someone believed to have been a victim of thanos, appeared at the avengers compound, you didn’t have much a choice

tony gave you a weird look when you got to his house. you understood. but after shutting down nat, steve, and scott, he gave you a hug?

“i don’t hate you. i know that’s what you’re thinking. you’re a good kid and i’m glad you found your place in the world. i’m sorry for the hand you were dealt” -tony

you were stunned.

“before you ask me why i’m saying all of this—being a father changes you. weird, huh? i remember the day we found you in that pod. and i almost killed your dad for killing mine. but water under the bridge. i’m glad you guys got the chance to be a family, even if it was only brief” -tony

nat pulled you back to the car while you were tearing up. you got your hopes up. tony’s heart to heart made you even more emotional. and hey, nat had been teaching you to feel your emotions the way she was taught to when she was freed from the red room—now they were your biggest weakness

“tony meant well, y/n. he didn’t mean to upset you” -steve

“no, i know. i just wasn’t expecting him to be nice is all. it meant a lot. and i’m a little disappointed he didn’t help, but i get it. it was a big ask” -you

the way cassie reunited with scott when he came back, that’s what scott was thinking about. he wished you could have that with your dad. its a dad thing. scott was crying too. you were a bit confused by that.

“sorry. i just—im a little sensitive. please just ignore me” -scott

“i’m trying but you are ugly crying” -you

scott gave you a very tight hug. very fatherly.

“remember i’m a trained assassin” -you

“trained assassins still need hugs” -scott

“he’s right” -nat

all hope seemed lost

but a curious tony brainstormed a bit and ended up discovering the key to time travel and…the mission was a-go

you went to new york 2012 to get the infinity stones back. stuck with steve. you’d heard stories of this battle from steve and nat, it was entirely different to see it in person.

you didn’t have much to say here. the mission didn’t go as planned and you weren’t so connected to this event that it’d be significant. you panicked as everything went to shit.

“we have one more shot. but y/n, you can’t come with us” -tony

“what?! why not. we’re in this together!” -you

“he’s right, y/n. it wouldn’t be right” -steve

“where the hell are you going? why is this such a big deal?” -you

“SHIELD. 1970. they didn’t know HYDRA had infiltrated them and we cant risk you changing history” -tony

“you’re barring me from the most important mission of my life because you think im going to mess up the timeline?!” -you

“yep!” -tony, hitting the button on your arm to send you back to the present “what? it was good timing. wasn’t like y/n was gonna do it themself”

“it was a little harsh” -steve

“hey, i’m raising a kid of my own now. sometimes you gotta be stern” -tony

“yeah, it’s different when they’re in their 20’s and had no autonomy for fifty years” -steve

“what a dilemma…they’ll get over it” -tony

you spawned back at the avengers compound present day with the rest of them

“dick move, tony!” -you, lunging forward

“hey, hey, it’s over now, we did what we needed, everything is fine. take a breath” -steve, intercepting

then clint dropped to his knees

“where’s nat?”

your stomach dropped. she’s gone. another person lost to you.

you could have given up right there, you’d lost that last bit of willpower

but steve wouldn’t let you

scott was actually the one to try to comfort you while the rest of the crew mourned. you felt bad, you didn’t know her as long as everyone else

“hey, i know i haven’t known you that long, but i know you’ve known natasha for the past five years. just because you don’t go all the way back to 2012 with these people doesn’t mean you cant have feelings about it. she was your family too” -scott

“you know, your daughter is lucky to have a dad like you” -you

“i’ll have you know, i was a real idiot for a really long time. i got arrested when she was a kid, didnt see her for years, fought to get custody, saved her from an evil guy in a yellowjacket suit, went to germany to go fight with cap and your dad, went on the run, got arrested again, went under house arrest, and then got stuck in the quantum realm for five years. sometimes you just have to roll with the punches, okay? progress isn’t linear and life is rarely fair” -scott

“how’s your daughter?” -you

“really good. older. that part sucks. and when your dad sees you again—and he will—yours gonna be older too and he’s gonna look at you with so much pride, im sure of it. wanna know why? because you saved the day” -scott

steve finally found you and apologized for not comforting you sooner

“it’s okay, scott kept me company” -you

“uncle scott” -scott

“don’t push it” -you

“we’re ready” -steve

bruce did the honors and snapped the population back. and then past thanos showed up.

now it was time to fight

winning came at a cost—another life lost

you saw your dad again. felt whole again.

he grabbed you by the face

“you’re getting old” -bucky

“please, with these genes i’ll look like this forever” -you

you hugged him tight and for a second time in your life, the world stopped spinning

now was time for damage control

you gave steve a big hug and a “good luck”

“love you, kiddo” -steve

“what’s that thing dad says? ‘dont do anything stupid til i get back?’” -you

“you told them that?!” -bucky

“oh, he told me sooo much” -you

“hey, what can i say? i never listen” -steve

and then steve vanished. and panic ensued when he didn’t come back—until they noticed the old man on the bench

“why?” -you

“you guys don’t need me anymore. you have each other” -steve

“i’ll always need you, steve. you’re family” -you

you wanted to stop losing people. but at least this time it felt okay

“what now, dad?” -you, tears in your eyes

“well, what did i miss this time?” -bucky

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 // @lenaelleu //

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x child!reader #bucky barnes x daughter!reader #bucky barnes x son!reader #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier!reader #barnes!reader #avengers x reader #avengers imagine #avengers #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader

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waltermis · 11 months ago

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I miss them 🥹🥲

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tendertulip · 2 days ago

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SEND HELP IM TRYING TO FIND A FIC I SAW!!

ok so i don’t remember who it’s by but it’s bucky x reader and the only thing i remember is that the first chapter is about how reader accidentally called bucky ‘babe’ and the whole team hears it??? it’s like a 16 part fic and i fucking freaked when i found it bc avenger!bucky and the og team in the big ‘25??? YES!!! and then of course i accidentally refreshed the page before liking it so now i can’t find it and i’m crashing out send help i beg of you.

reward of a kiss to anyone who finds it i’m literally pleading HELP ME PLS

UPDATE: IT’S BEEN FOUND!! ‘you said what’ by @ilovolderman !!!

thank you @outoftheseine for finding it for me🫶🫶

#enlisting the fanfic girls gays and theys for this #PLEASE HELP ME FIND THIS FIC #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #avenger!bucky x reader #avenger!bucky #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #i love fanfiction #fanfic #mcu fanfic #marvel fanfic #avengers x reader

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yasministration · 8 months ago

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Bed side drawer - Peter Parker

summary: when Tony finds a box of condoms in Peter's bed side drawer, he doesn't expect Peter's girlfriend to walk into the room, causing an awkward interaction. a/n: my toxic trait is that i always imagine tasm!peter even tho it's in the avengers universe 0.6k wc

When Peter walks into his bedroom, the first thing his eyes lay on is the box of condoms in his mentor's hand. Tony Stark smirks from where he sits on his mentee's bed, drinking the cup of coffee Aunt May had so graciously prepared him. Peter's eyes go wide, flickering between his open bed side drawer and his mentor, and he dives across the room to get the box from him. Peter nearly hits his head against the wall when Tony tosses the box in the air, catching it in his hand when it falls down again. Peter's face flushes red as he scrambles back up, straightening his bed sheets where he haphazardly landed on them, mouth gaping open. Peter can hear you laughing with his Aunt May in the living room about another one of May's stories. She always had to tell you about the stories of how smitten he was with you, an attempt for your relationship to last forever. He needs to get that box before you walk in because that was not the situation he imagined you'd meet Mr. Stark in. He refused to let it happen.

Peter tilts his head to the side with desperate eyes, begging "Please give me those Mr. Stark." Tony grins teasingly, saying "You know these only work when there are two people involved, right?" Peter doesn't have time to react before the door to his room opens again and you walk in, saying something about the story Aunt May had told you before your eyes land on the older man in the room, prompting you to go silent. Oh no, Peter thinks. Tony quickly's eyes quickly scan you where you awkwardly stand in the doorway, and the obvious mortification that settles on your face at the realisation of who he is.

"Oh."

"Oh." Tony's tone is suggestive, and completely different from yours. He stands up from Peter's bed, slowly making his way across the room to you. His eyes flicker between you and Peter, the box of condoms still in his hands as you shoot a hand out in front of you, smiling nervously and saying "Hi, I'm y/n." in a lowsy attempt to ignore the box laying in the man's hand, eyes glancing down to it a couple of times. Tony shakes your hand, introducing himself, before asking "And who might you be y/n?" Gulping, you glance between your boyfriend, whose face has flushed a dark shade of red, and the avenger standing in front of you. "I'm Peter's girlfriend." You state, eyes widening as Tony puts the box of condoms in your hand.

"There are two people involved then..." You hear him mutter under his breath, but it's nothing as embarrassing as Aunt May walking into the busy room and observing the situation, attention immediately caught by the box of condoms that you throw at your boyfriend in a panic. The box hits Peter's chest and falls on the floor, and neither of you make a move to pick it up whilst you smile awkwardly at May, who follows Tony out of the room. You huff when they walk out, turning around to dig your head into Peter's chest in humiliation. Your boyfriend hugs you close, rubbing a hand on your back, and he's happy you can't hear Tony say "That girl seems too sweet to be having sex with your nephew." or his Aunt May's scoff of "Yeah until you come back home after a night with your friends and hear everything through those walls. She really knows how to talk dirty."

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that1geek06 · 8 months ago

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"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

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voxslays · 3 months ago

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ctrlzirl · 1 year ago

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me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst

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kylopen · 4 months ago

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In My Head

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Sunshine reader is always seen as sweet and innocent to the team, always happy to use her healing magic wherever possible. Bucky, touch starved and in love, discovers reader is not as innocent as she seems.

Word count: 8.2k words <3

Plus size reader safe! All body types are safe in this fic! Everyone loves Dom! Bucky I do too but good god I need whipped Bucky who will do anything for Reader. This is the longest piece I’ve written in so long! Enjoy and leave a note<3 I’m in my marvel era again so feel free to request anyone! I didn't proof read (i finished it at 1am)

Tags: There is a plot! (porn with plot lol) AFAB reader, The smut is pure FILTH tbh, Smut, Pining Bucky, no use of Y/N.

Smut warnings: Sub!Bucky, soft dom! Reader, use of ‘Good boy’, Bucky has a praise kink, pussy eating (lots of it), Needy/touch starved Bucky, Bucky has an Edward Cullen moment, Oral (female/reader receiving— THREE times hehe) penetration, Buck likes his hair pulled, Bucky dry humps, Reader squirts (third oral sequence so skip that part if you wish) needy creampie.

There were things in the modern world that baffled Bucky, Bubble tea, new terms for prejudice ending in 'phobia', babies with Ipads in their faces. And you. The first time he laid eyes on you, you gave him a blindingly sweet smile, and held your hand out for him to shake. When he didn't take it you didn't judge him or look at him funny, you smiled like you understood. From then on, you respected his boundaries and he began to feel safe. It made sense to him that someone like you had the power to help and heal others.

You’d always bring them things; vitamins, water, those weird orange flavoured things that dissolve in water, something a little sugary for a boost, with that sweet, innocent smile he'd grown to adore. He would never- could never admit that though, someone like him wasn't worthy of you. He could settle for some longing and pining instead.

Bucky is lounging on the sofa with Steve, some 50s flick playing that Steve had insisted on, something about a painter in Paris- he wasn't sure. And then, you walk in, your sweet voice drifting into his ear.

“An American in Paris, huh?” you asked, gently teasing as you moved closer to the sofa, catching sight of the movie they were watching.

Bucky shifted a little, his gaze flickering to you, then quickly back to the TV. He tried not to look at you too much when you were around, not because he didn’t want to, but because every time he did, it felt like something in his chest tightened. It certainly didn’t help that it was a hot day today, you’d opted for a cute pink and white sundress that stopped mid thigh.

“Yeah, Steve’s choice,” Bucky muttered, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out a little softer than he intended. He knew that you liked these kinds of old movies, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Steve grinned from the other end of the couch, catching the subtle shift in Bucky’s tone, but not saying anything about it. Instead, he glanced up at you with a friendly smile.

“You a fan of the classics too?” Steve asked, gesturing for you to sit if you wanted to join them.

You walked over, the scent of your shampoo reaching Bucky’s senses. Vanilla and coconut, coincidentally his favourite fragrance, something that had changed not long after he’d met you… coincidentally of course, and the more you lingered around, the harder it became for him to focus on anything but you.

“Reminds me of my dad. Some are super sexist but I’m a sucker for Marilyn Monroe” you said, sitting down at the edge of the couch, right next to Bucky. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of you, but still with enough space to respect his boundaries. You always seemed to know exactly how to balance that, without even trying. It amazed him.

Bucky felt his pulse quicken as you sat beside him. You were so close. Too close. Not close enough.

He grunted in agreement with your statement, nodding, though his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you—he just didn’t know how. What could he say that wouldn’t make him seem awkward or broken? Besides, talking might make him reveal just how badly he wanted to be near you, and he couldn’t afford that.

But then you spoke again, your voice soft and gentle, like you were speaking just to him. “How was training today?”

He cleared his throat, trying to push away the thoughts clouding his mind. “Same as always. Steve still hits like a truck.”

Steve laughed from the other side, “You’re the one with the metal arm, Buck.”

Bucky shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it. Just a distraction. He was grateful for it.

You laughed too, and that sound—it was like a melody that settled right under Bucky’s skin, making him feel warm in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He stole a glance at you again, just for a second, and you were looking right at him. That smile on your face, the one that had been seared into his memory from the moment you’d met.

“Let me guess,” you said, eyes twinkling, “you didn’t let him win this time either?”

Bucky’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, but he stopped himself. “Nope.”

“Good,” you replied, your voice soft again, almost as if you were relieved. “Can’t let Cap off easy.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but it hit Bucky harder than he’d expected. You cared. Not just in the way you handed out snacks and drinks after training or smiled when they passed by, but genuinely cared. For him. For Steve. And maybe, just maybe, that meant you’d be willing to see something more in him than he saw in himself.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward, but it was thick with unspoken words. Bucky could feel it. He wanted to reach out, say something—anything—but the words lodged themselves in his throat, like they always did when it came to you.

For a moment, Bucky let himself wonder what it would be like—if he could let himself believe he was worthy of you. Of someone so full of light and warmth, when all he felt was the shadows of his past.

But then the doubt crept back in, and he looked away again. He couldn’t let himself get too close. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could manage without giving too much away.

You didn’t push him, though. You never did. You just smiled again and settled into the couch beside him, watching the movie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for a fleeting moment, Bucky let himself pretend that it was.

The training room echoes with the sharp sound of fists hitting metal, the rhythmic thud of boots against the mat, and the occasional grunt of exertion. Bucky and Steve were sparring again; the same routine they'd run through countless times. It usually helped Bucky clear his mind, focus his energy on something physical, something he could control. But today, it was different.

“Come on, Buck, focus,” Steve says as he circles around, hands up and ready. His movements were fluid, precise. He was always like that—disciplined, unshakable. Bucky was too, usually. But not today.

His thoughts kept drifting, unbidden, back to you.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how close you had been on the couch last night, the way your voice had softened when you’d spoken to him, like you saw something in him that no one else did. That smile. It was haunting him in the best way.

As if to taunt him farther, his mind flashes with the image of you in your sundress, the way it swayed around the soft skin of your thighs.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice cut through his reverie, but not fast enough.

Distracted, Bucky moves just a second too late. He swings wide, and Steve, quicker than ever, ducked under his arm and swept his legs out from under him. Before Bucky could react, he hit the mat hard, air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

“Damn it,” Bucky growles, more at himself than at Steve. He stays on the floor for a moment, trying to shake the thoughts of you from his mind. He shouldn’t be getting distracted like this. Not during a sparring session. Not ever.

Steve stands over him, offering a hand, his brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, accepting the hand and letting Steve pull him back to his feet. His ribs ache from the fall, but it wasn’t anything serious. It was more the embarrassment that stung. Bucky didn’t like feeling off his game, and lately, thinking about you was doing just that.

“You weren’t focused,” Steve says, stepping back into position. It wasn’t a question.

Bucky wiped the sweat from his brow, shaking out his arms as if that could somehow reset his mind. “I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

Steve hesitates for a second, then nods, getting back into stance. He could tell something was on Bucky’s mind, but he wasn’t going to push. At least, not right now. Steve knew when to back off, and when to press—though Bucky had a feeling that conversation would come soon enough.

They start again, trading punches and dodges, but Bucky couldn’t shake the lingering thoughts of you. The way you made him feel—safe, seen. The way you’d praise him. God… the way you’d tell him he did a good job after training or a mission,

Just for a second, his mind drifts again— Your pretty eyes, the way they’d look at him like he was something amazing, the smile you’d give him and then he wonders what your face would look like as he dives down deep between your thighs-

Steve’s fist came in fast, and though Bucky manages to block it, he doesn’t account for the follow-up. Steve's knee connects with his side, hitting just below his ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

Bucky staggers back, holding his side with a grimace.

“Whoa, Buck!” Steve stops immediately, hands out in concern. “You good?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, nodding, though his side throbbed. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not fine,” Steve replies, taking a step forward, but Bucky waves him off, frustrated with himself more than anything.

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky snaps, turning away for a moment to catch his breath. He hates this. Hates how easily you get into his head, how much he let himself think about you when he was supposed to be focused. It wasn’t like him to get distracted, especially not in a fight.

Steve gives him a long, knowing look. He wasn’t pushing the subject yet, but Bucky could see it in his eyes—Steve had noticed something. And knowing Steve, it wouldn’t be long before he asked about it.

Steve lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “You need to go get that checked out.” He motions to the cut on Bucky’s cheek and his ribs.

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky mutters.

Steve doesn’t budge. “Buck, if you don’t get that cleaned up, it’s going to get worse. You’re already bruised, and that cut—” He gestured to Bucky’s face. “—needs to be looked at.”

Bucky was about to argue again when Steve adds, with a pointed look, “Go see her.”

He blinks, his heart suddenly beating faster in his chest. “What?”

“Go see her,” Steve repeats, his voice calm but insistent. “You know she can patch you up. She always does.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. You always did take care of them after training, offering vitamin drinks or snacks, your touch gentle and your presence calming.

“I don’t need—” Bucky begins, but Steve cuts him off with a significant look.

“Buck, you’re hurt. Let her help you. Besides, we both know she’d want to,” Steve says, his tone softening as he rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She cares, man. And you’re not doing yourself any favours by pretending you don’t need her.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, his chest tight with a mix of frustration and something else he couldn’t quite name. The truth was, he did want to go to you.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky nods, finally relenting. “Fine.”

Steve smiles, patting him on the shoulder. “Good. Now go get cleaned up. I’ll finish up here.”

Bucky hesitates for a second before turning to leave the training room, his side still aching from the hit.

All he knew was that when he saw you, when you smiled at him with that gentle, understanding look in your eyes, it was going to make it that much harder to keep pretending he didn’t feel anything.

Bucky’s footsteps echo softly through the hall as he makes his way to the infirmary. When he reaches the infirmary door, he gives a soft knock before stepping inside.

You’re there, sitting at your desk with one thigh crossed elegantly over the other, your attention focused on some paperwork in front of you. You’re dressed in your usual professional attire—a fitted dress that hugs your form just enough to hint at your curves beneath your white lab coat. The subtle click of your black heels against the floor when you shift is a small, but noticeable, sound that makes Bucky's heart beat a little faster.

You look up when you hear him enter, that sweet, welcoming smile appearing almost instantly. “Bucky,” you greet warmly, your voice soft. “What brings you in? Did you and Steve go a little too hard today?”

For a second, Bucky just stands there, distracted by how you look. His heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight of you. He notices, maybe for the first time, how the hem of your dress rides up slightly when you cross your legs. He forces himself to look away before you catch him staring.

“Uh, yeah,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to the cut on his face. “Just a cut… and maybe some bruised ribs.”

You arch an eyebrow, your smile turning a little coy. “Only maybe bruised ribs? Sounds like you need me to take a closer look.”

Bucky blinks, heat creeping up his neck as he tries to decide whether he’s imagining the playful tone in your voice or if it’s actually there. He clears his throat. “Yeah… probably.”

With that, you uncross your legs and stand up, heels clicking softly against the tile floor as you walk over to him. Your movements are graceful, confident, and Bucky feels his pulse quicken as you draw closer. There’s something about the way you carry yourself today—calm, collected, but with an air of subtle suggestion that makes him feel off balance.

You stand just inches away from him, reaching up to gently tilt his chin up so you can inspect the cut above his eyebrow. Your fingers are cool against his sweaty skin, and Bucky freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“It’s not deep,” you murmur “But it’s a little more than a scratch. Seems like you need my magic touch~” you wiggle your fingers and Bucky bites back a groan at the subtle implication.

Before Bucky can respond, you place your hand gently over the wound, and he feels a soft, warm tingling sensation spread across his skin. Your healing powers are subtle but effective, and within seconds, the pain is gone, the cut already closing up beneath your touch. He’s experienced your abilities before, but every time he feels a spark from your touch, it’s a simple move but he craves more.

“There we go,” you say softly, removing your hand from his face. Your fingers linger a little longer than usual, trailing down his jaw ever so slightly before you step back, your eyes locking with his for a brief moment.

Bucky swallows hard, trying to shake off the heat rising in his chest. He’s probably imagining it—just reading too much into things. You’re always sweet, always kind and innocent.

Your gaze drops to his side, and you gently brush your hand over his ribs. “Lift your shirt for me?” you ask, your voice light but carrying a tone of suggestion that makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat.

He hesitates for a second, then does as you ask, pulling up his shirt to reveal the dark bruise spreading along his ribs. You make a soft sound of sympathy, a small pout forming on your lips as your pretty eyes lock with his for a moment. You look back down, your fingers grazing his skin as you crouch slightly to get a closer look.

“You really got hit hard,” you murmur, your tone carrying a note of concern but it switches up subtly as you carry on: “Good thing I can take care of you.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. Did he hear that right? Is there something more in your words? You were just talking about the injury right? The way you said it, the way you moved—it feels almost sinful in a way he’s not used to, at least not from you. He tries to keep his focus, but with you this close, your fingers trailing lightly over his bruised skin, it’s damn near impossible.

You place your hand gently over his ribs, your touch soft but firm as you close your eyes for a moment, focusing on healing the injury. Bucky feels the familiar warmth of your powers again, spreading through his body like a gentle wave. The pain begins to melt away, the bruise slowly fading beneath your hand.

“There,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “All better.”

But your hand doesn’t move right away. Instead, it lingers on his ribs for a second too long, your fingertips brushing the edge of his abdomen in a way that makes his breath catch. Then, just as he’s about to say something—anything—you pull away, turning to your desk, palms flat and bending as if you’re looking for something. Bucky’s mind flashes to pulling up your dress and fucking you senseless then and there, his metal hand clenches and he shakes the thought away.

Bucky exhales slowly, trying to calm the sudden storm in his chest. He has to be imagining it, right? You’re just being your usual caring self- but that touch felt different. Everything you’re doing feels different. More intentional. And the way you’d looked at him just now—

He notices you didn’t actually pick anything up from the desk after you’d bent over it a little.

“Alright, just one last check,” you say as you come back to stand in front of him, a small, almost playful smile on your lips. “Let me make sure everything else is fine.” You reach up, your hand lightly brushing against his neck as if you’re checking for tension or soreness. But then, your fingers linger—soft and warm against his skin, trailing slowly down to his collarbone. The touch is innocent enough, but there’s something in the way you do it that makes Bucky’s entire body tense.

You meet his eyes, your expression still sweet and professional, but there’s a hint of something more—something almost teasing in the way you hold his gaze. “Hmm, seems like you’re all healed up,” you murmur, your voice soft but suggestive in a way that makes his pulse race.

Bucky swallows, his throat suddenly dry as he stares at you. For a moment, he can’t move, can’t speak—stuck between the need to figure out if what he’s feeling is real or just in his head. He tries to convince himself it’s all innocent, but the way your hand lingers on his neck, the way your eyes flicker to his lips for the briefest of moments… it leaves him wondering if you aren’t quite as innocent as he thought.

You finally step back, that same sweet smile on your face as if nothing happened. “Take it easy, alright? Don’t push yourself too hard next time.”

Bucky nods, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. “Yeah… thanks.”

You tilt your head, your smile widening just a little. “Anytime.” You sit down on your chair again, crossing one thigh over the other, it seemed deliberate.

You rest a pencil on your lower lip, teeth grazing it just slightly, pretty eyes on him. Bucky draws in a breath and feels a problem growing between his legs. He spins around to the door, hoping you don’t notice.

As Bucky begins leave you call out once more: “Let me know if you need me Bucky~ you can always come to me”

As Bucky leaves the infirmary, his mind spins. He came in with injuries, but now he has a different kind of problem, he attempts to calm down, the hardness in his pants making it hard to think. Something has shifted between you two, and whether it’s real or just in his imagination, Bucky can’t help but think back to it all. Did you want him too?

That night, Bucky stares at his ceiling, mind flashing back to you at your desk. Why didn’t you pick anything up? Did you forget what you were looking for? The look in your eyes told him you must’ve known what was going through his head.

He groans and pushes his face into his pillow, he thinks back to something that had happened a few days ago. You were giving out some sort of vitamin pill to everyone, when you’d leaned in, lips near his ear as you whispered:

“I saved you the last cherry flavoured one, don’t tell anyone” before winking slightly.

He shivers at the memory; he could smell every inch of you when you leaned in.

He grunts and pushes his face farther into the pillow. Why did you always save the good things for him? Was it on purpose? Whenever you baked you’d give him first pick- he thought you were just being nice, the sweet girl they all know. But the more he thinks about you the more he notices those little things.

Before he had even registered what he was doing, he was standing and making his way to your rooms. You did say he could always come to you. Bucky freezes outside the door when he realises where he was and what he was doing. Was he crazy? How could he come up with an excuse for being at your door at eleven at night? Before he can change his mind and turn around your door opens. There you stood wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top- with no bra.

Bucky freezes, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze locks on you. The soft glow of your bedside lamp spills over your frame, highlighting the way your sleep shorts hug your hips and your tank top clings to your chest. His mouth goes dry.

You blink at him. “Bucky?” your voice is soft, a hint of curiosity laced in your tone. “Is everything okay? F.R.I.D.A.Y told me you were stood outside my door.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. He knows he should say something, anything, but his mind is scrambling for an excuse—an explanation for why he’s standing at your door in the middle of the night. His thoughts drift back to your touch earlier, the brush of your hand on his neck, and the memory of your lips near his ear just days ago.

You tilt your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, and Bucky swears there’s something teasing in your expression. You step aside, opening the door wider as if you’re inviting him in. “You didn’t have to knock, you know,” you say with that same sweetness. “You can always come to me.”

His heart pounds in his chest, loud enough that he wonders if you can hear it. He swallows, trying to push down the tension, but something in your eyes—something about the way you're looking at him—has his feet moving before his brain catches up.

He steps over the threshold.

Bucky steps inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The room is dim, and the soft scent of your perfume lingers in the air, teasing his senses. He watches you as you turn back toward him, your smile still warm, still innocent—at least on the surface.

“So…” you say, your voice soft as you walk a little closer to him, “What brings you here so late, Bucky?” There’s a hint of playfulness in your tone, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it.

He shifts awkwardly, his eyes darting away from yours. “I… uh, I couldn’t sleep.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.

“We both know my healing powers can’t help you sleep Bucky. So what’s up with you coming to see lil’. ol’. Me.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. His mind is racing—unsure if you're playing a game or if he’s just reading too much into it. His eyes flick down to your tank top, the way it clings to you, the coolness from the hallway had made hard peaks appear on your chest he then glances back to your face. You’re watching him carefully, that same playful glint in your eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, voice soft but teasing. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately, haven’t you?” Your fingers brush lightly against his arm, sending a shiver through him. “About me?”

Bucky feels his pulse quicken. He’s certain now—there’s no way he’s imagining it.

“I—” He swallows hard, trying to find the right words. But before he can, you step even closer, your body inches from his now, your hand lingering on his arm.

“You think I didn’t notice?” You ask sweetly

Bucky’s breath hitches as your words sink in, and his chest tightens, the space between you suddenly feeling far too small. His mind is racing, but his body is rooted in place, drawn to you in a way he can’t explain. He tries to speak, to form some kind of coherent response, but his voice fails him.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you ask again, your voice low, sweet, but with a teasing edge that makes Bucky’s heart race. Your hand is still resting lightly on his arm, your touch burning through his skin despite the fabric of his shirt. The warmth of your body is so close now, and Bucky is overwhelmed by the scent of you—intoxicating, pulling him deeper into the moment. He can feel himself grow hard at the simple touch, he want’s your hands all over him. He just needs to feel you touch him.

He stares down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the way your lips curve into that soft, knowing smile. You tilt your head up slightly, your eyes locking with his, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, standing impossibly close, the air between you thick with tension.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, but Bucky hears every word. “I notice where your eyes go when I wear a skirt or dress, if I bend over or wear anything even remotely low cut.”

He swallows hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He wants to say something, to explain himself, to apologize, but he can’t—because the truth is, you’re right. He has been looking at you, watching you, craving your presence without ever fully admitting it to himself.

You shift even closer, your chest almost brushing against his, and Bucky’s breath catches as your fingers slowly trail up his arm, lingering at his shoulder. His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep control of himself. The way you’re looking at him, your lips parted slightly, your eyes holding his like they’re daring him to make the next move…

He’s losing it.

“You don’t have to hide it,” you whisper, your voice laced with that same soft, teasing edge. Your hand moves up to his neck now, your fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just below his jaw. “You can tell me what you want, Bucky…”

He whines.

Before the embarrassment can hit him you let out a low groan at the sound. “Fuck…”

Bucky’s breath comes out in a shudder, his self-control hanging by a thread. He feels the warmth of your hand against his neck, the way your touch lingers just a second too long, and it sends a wave of heat rushing through him.

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, closing the last bit of space between you. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and Bucky’s resolve crumbles. He can’t hold back anymore.

His hand reaches out almost instinctively, fingers gently curling around your waist, pulling you closer. He leans down, his breath mingling with yours as he hovers just inches from your lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You…” His voice is low, strained, as if he’s barely holding on. “You’re driving me crazy, doll.”

You smile, and the look in your eyes—soft, teasing, and just a little wicked—sends him over the edge.

Bucky leans to close the gap but your finger presses against his lips. A frown forms on his face, and then you speak.

“ah ah ah” you shake your head “we ask for what we want”

Bucky mentally scolds himself for not asking, he was in the moment.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

“Say please” there was an unexpected dominance to your tone, completely wiping out the innocence.

Oh fuck.

Bucky feels himself grow harder at the tone. He’s momentarily stunned. Your pretty eyes are on him, feigning innocence but there’s something sinful hiding in them. His beautiful blue eyes look down at you, filled with need.

“Please?”

You let out a moan at the word, your body heating up, your core dampens your shorts.

“Fuck… Bucky…” You say breathily before you pull him down a little to reach your height and kiss him. It’s gentle, as though you’re teasing him, giving him a glimpse to what he can have. He just needs to ask politely.

“Doll… please… I…” He struggles to get his words out, brain fogged over from all the sensations hitting him at once. You run your hands along his abs and he whines again. The whine shoots straight through you. Bucky Barnes, the worlds most accomplished assassin is whining for you.

“Please what? Good boys use their words.” You say in a sinfully soft voice that sends a shiver down his spine.

“I need… more… please” He whispers your name at the end and you hum, satisfied. You grasp his hand and it feels so good to him. Too good. He follows you as you pull him towards the bed.

“Sit there. Lean against the headboard” you hum and he immediately does as he’s told. Sure, he was a super solider who could overpower you in a second, you were both aware. But you were both also aware that he didn’t want that. He needed you to guide him.

You plant yourself in his lap, straddling him, before letting out a soft hum as you feel his hardness push against your core over your sleep shorts. Bucky lets out a moan at the contact but you’re quick to swallow it with a deep, heated kiss. His hands claw at your hips and you gasp slightly as the metal of his hand touches your skin. He’s quick to pull it away but you’re quicker, gripping his wrist and shaking your head, guiding it back in place.

You continue the kiss, before taking his lower lip in between your teeth. You open your eyes to see his blue ones are locked onto your own in what can only be described as the hottest, neediest way, his pupils dilated. You lick over his lip before your hand snakes around the back of his neck and up to his hair. You gently tug, its light, testing the waters and his lips part, head nodding. You pull his hair back a little harsher and he moans. You laugh, the sound dark and sinful in Bucky’s ears.

Your lips kiss his earlobe. “You like your hair pulled? Dirty boy~”

He moans again and nods, hands gripping your hips a little harder, pulling you down to grind on him. You make a ‘tsk’ sound and he freezes, quickly remembering your rule.

You get off him and he groans at the loss of contact, his needy eyes falling onto you. You slowly pull down your shorts, revealing your core to him. His breathing quickens, cock twitching and straining against his sweatpants.

“Take your clothes off, honey” your sultry voice fills his ears and he does so immediately, stripping off his shirt first, exposing the honey toned abs with numerous scars here and there. He is beautiful and you let it show on your face. He drags down his sweatpants leaving him in his grey boxers. There’s a dark damp spot on them from his arousal, pre-cum weeping through from the tip. You make a gesture for him to keep going and he obliges, dragging the boxers down. He stands there, glorious cock hard against his abdomen, looking at you, waiting for your next command.

“What do you want? You just need to ask” You inquire, goading him to tell you.

He swallows, looking down at your dripping core and then back to his cock. You fully expect him to ask to fuck you based on his expression, but he shocks you.

“Can I taste you please?”

Your eyes widen briefly, stunned at his choice.

“I’m sorry— if you don’t want—“ He begins to speak but you cut him off with a finger to your lips and standing up. You slowly peel off your shorts, leaning against the wall.

“You asked me so nicely.” You beckon him and the speed in which he’s on his knees in front of you has your legs weak. His hands skim over your thighs, leaving Goosebumps in their wake. “Is this what you want?”

Bucky looks up at you with desperate eyes, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yes, please” His voice is hoarse.

“You wanna make me feel good?” You coo.

Bucky groans, his hands gripping your thighs a little. “More than anything” He confirms.

You nod, giving your permission and he settles in between your thighs. He grasps your ass, pulling you up so your legs are over his shoulders, his head cradled by your thighs. You’re momentarily stunned, briefly forgetting he’s a super soldier with insane strength. The thought goes right to your core. Your back is against the wall, his hands still firm on your ass, keeping you in place. Bucky’s breath ghosts across your core before he looks up at you. The sight was nearly enough to make you come. With a firm squeeze on your ass, he dives in, licking a stripe up your lips, making you gasp and weave your fingers through his hair. He groans and begins to lap at your clit like a man starved. He occasionally moans and groans, letting you know how much he’s enjoying being between your legs.

“Bucky— oh my god” You moan out. This only drives him more, he focuses his tongue on your bundle of nerves and you see stars.

He is good at this.

Really fucking good.

Too good?

It doesn’t take you long to come at all, you grasp his hair tighter, thighs squeezing around his head in a way that makes his cock twitch against his abdomen. He rides you through your orgasm until you’re squirming and too sensitive.

He pulls back, holding you up still, and looks into your eyes. The lower part of his face is sinfully wet, he gives you a charming smile, eyes still betraying his neediness.

“You did so well… so good for me…” You breathe out and a strangled noise escapes him.

A praise kink.

“You did so so good for me Bucky~ You deserve a reward” You coo, getting off his shoulders and standing up. You tilt his head up with your finger. “You want a reward baby?”

Bucky lets out a breathy noise and nods.

“What do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want”

Bucky Looks up at you, standing up. He shocked you again.

“Please doll… sit on my face… if… you want…” He adds the last part, unsure. All he knows is that being in between your thighs, hearing you, feeling you, giving you pleasure is all he wants right now.

You bite back a groan and nod, watching him scramble to the bed, laying on his back. He’s gloriously naked, thick cock incredibly hard and standing to attention. You crawl up his body, making sure to brush up against his length to hear those delicious whines from him. His hips buck a few times against you and then you’re settled just above his face. You look down at him and he looks ravenous— His desperate eyes flicking from your core to your face. His hands keep flexing as he struggles, wanting nothing more than to pull you down onto his face and hold you there until he can’t breathe.

“You can touch me Buck” you say softly and his hands hesitantly settle on your hips. He pauses before it eventually becomes too much and pulls you down onto his face, groaning at the impact. You don’t move much, assuming he wants to take the lead when he speaks, muffled against your core.

You giggle and look at him innocently. “Sorry honey what was that? I can’t understand you~”

His eyes grow even more needy, looking up at you. He speaks, muffled again before he decided to lift you up just enough to speak.

“Move— please. Grind on my face. Use me to come please”

How could you say no to such a beautiful request?

You settle back down and rock your hips. His tongue moves with the same finesse and you can’t help but wonder if he’s tired. He doesn’t look tired. You move his arms so he’s holding them up and you entwine your fingers, using his arms to keep you upright, moving against him. His eyes are fluttering shut in pleasure and you groan. You make quick work of your shirt, leaving you both naked now.

“Eyes open Bucky~ I thought you wanted to see what you do to me?~” You tease.

His eyes shoot open again, pupils dilated, his eyes more black than blue now.

“Good~ So good to me” You breathe out and he moans against you, making you gasp and your hips stutter. You grip his hands tighter. His pretty eyes are begging you to come and you do, thighs once again squeezing around his head, making him feel dizzy. Your hips are bucking against his face not even thinking about his breathing— but that isn’t on Bucky’s mind either. You ride out your orgasm and get off him, falling on your back, breathing erratic.

Bucky lays there with the lower half of his face wet, stubble and all. His breathing is erratic and his cock is painfully hard against his abdomen.

“Holy shit Bucky” You huff out and a hoarse moan leaves his mouth.

He slots himself between your legs, kissing your shoulder, slowly moving down your body until he’s at your hip, kissing it softly.

“You are so beautiful doll” His eyes are sincere and your cheeks feel hot at the compliment. “One more time? Please?” He asks, eyes pleading.

Sweet mother of Jesus.

“You want— you seriously— you want to eat me out again?” Your eyes are wide.

Bucky nods, nuzzling and kissing your thigh before focusing on your face again. “And to fuck you with my fingers if that’s alright with you doll?”

Sweet. Mother. Of. Jesus.

Your brain short circuits for a moment at the words leaving his mouth and you mindlessly nod, your gaze heated and intense.

He runs a finger along your dripping core and he moans. Was he really getting this much pleasure? You hadn’t even touched him at all. He teases your entrance before sinking a finger in softly. He hisses at how tight it is, his cock twitching. You let out a soft breathy moan at the feeling, instinctively reaching for his hair. Bucky peppers kisses on your thighs before he begins pumping his finger.

It’s not enough.

“More” You demand, gripping his hair. Bucky is happy to oblige, pushing a second finger in, your toes curling. “oh god yes”

Bucky begins to curl his fingers, brushing up against your sweet spot as he increases his pace a fraction and you cry out.

“Am I doing good?” His husky voice asks, desperate for praise.

“So good baby, so fucking good. You’re so good to me” You moan out and he snaps, thrusting his fingers into you with a little more force and latching his mouth onto your clit. You’re so sensitive at this point you let out a whine, your words not coherent. You didn’t even know it was possible to come this many times before being fucked. The coil in your stomach feels more intense than you have ever felt before, you tighten around his fingers and before you could warn him, he pulls away, watching the liquid squirt from you in awe. You, on the other hand are glassy eyed and trembling afterwards.

Bucky gives you a few minutes to settle before he brings himself back up to your face, you pull him in for a messy kiss. His cock is settled on your thigh, Bucky whines into the kiss and you can feel him jutting against it. You grasp his chin as he kisses you, feeling his length as he desperately claims whatever friction he can get.

Bucky is surprised at himself. There has never been a time in his life where he has felt the need to dry hump a woman. But you have the best ways of bringing new feelings and actions out of him.

“Please” He says softly.

“Oh you’re so worked up honey. After doing such a good job. Take what you want Bucky” you coo, stroking his cheek and he leans into it before settling his hips between your legs.

“Can I… are you okay if I…” He begins and you nod.

“You’ve more than earned it” You rake your hands through his hair, nails scratching his scalp.

In an attempt to ground himself, He places his hands on your headboard, letting you guide his cock into place. He pushes in and groans, immediately shattering the headboard where his hands were.

Oh lord.

You squeeze around him and let out a breathy, aroused giggle. Bucky on the other hand looks mortified.

“Oh my god doll I am so sorry—“ He goes to pull out of you but you grasp his arms and shake your head. He doesn’t take much convincing before he pushes into you fully. He’s panting and rests his forehead on yours. Even with the fingers stretching you earlier, you need to adjust. The super solider cock is no joke.

You moan encouragingly in his ear and he pulls back softly before pushing back in. Your eyes flutter and Bucky has his trained solely on you and your reactions.

“Am I hurting you, doll?” He asks, breathily, stopping his motions.

You shake your head immediately. “Please don’t stop”

He keeps his strength in check, bracing on the half broken headboard again, his hands slotting into the Bucky sized hand holes in them. He uses a leisurely pace that does hit the spot, but it’s not quite enough. You could tell he was holding back for your sake but you needed to see just how much he needed you.

“Harder Bucky~ Fuck. I can take it— please”

The headboard crushes even more at your words, your legs were wound around his hips, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around you, his face buried in your neck as he desperately thrusts into you. It’s hard and fast, a string of moans and curses leaving your mouth as you can’t move in his grip, all you can do is take it. You’re seeing stars now, as Bucky is whining and muttering praises in your ear.

“You feel so good doll”

“I would do this forever… beautiful beautiful girl”

And lastly:

“Oh god thank you” He repeats the phrase a few times and your head spins.

He’s fucking thanking you.

You manage to moan out a few praises that are punctuated by his sharp needy thrusts. He pulls his face away from his neck when he’s close. You can see it on his face, begging you to come first. He slips his metal hand down to your clit, stroking the already sensitive bundle of nerves and your eyes widen at the coolness against it.

“Please come” He moans and it doesn’t take you long to oblige his plea, the metal hand on your clit, the whines from Bucky and his cock hitting you deep pushes you over the edge and you come, clenching him hard.

“You’re so beautiful” He says in awe. “Please can I come— please doll” Bucky’s thrusts are faltering.

“fill me up Bucky~” You moan and that’s all it takes, his thrusts become harder, your body jolting from the force, you’ll feel this in your hips in the morning. You could always heal it away. But you probably won’t. You place a hand over his neck holding it loosely, your other hand raking through his hair.

Bucky thrusts into you hard and deep, with hoarse moans of thank you as he comes inside you, filling you up. He simply stays inside you after, his body moving with his deep ragged breaths before he collapses on top of you, making sure to use some strength to stop him crushing you. You stroke his hair, muttering soft praises.

He rolls off you, his honey toned skin covered in a sheen of sweat that made him look godly. Your legs are jelly; you aren’t even sure you can use them for the next few days. Bucky stands and walks to your bathroom, giving you the perfect view of his sculpted ass and returns a few moments later with a warm wet cloth to clean you up with.

When the both of you are cleaned up, Bucky begins to wipe away the crushed pieces of headboard from your bed sheepishly.

“Sorry doll” He says quietly.

“It’s okay” You assure. “It was hot. Made me feel like Bella Swan” You joke.

Bucky looks at you, not understanding the reference.

“From Twi… never mind” You hum, helping to brush off the little pieces of wood. He lays back down and pulls you into his arms.

“Doll… I… I have never felt like that before. What did you do to me? I am under a spell when it comes to you.”

You yawn and let out a sleepy laugh. “You’re telling me. I don’t think I could sleep with a regular dude again after that”

It’s not long until exhaustion rushes through you. Super solider stamina is no joke. You drift off, head on his chest. Bucky watches the soft rise and fall of your chest, your soft snores filling the room.

And for the first time in what feels like forever; Bucky has a deep, dreamless sleep. His nightmares paused as he slumbers beside your soft, warm body.

It’s late when Bucky wakes up. Your side of the bed is cold. He glances at the clock on his phone, reading 11:07am, and a text from you, timestamped two hours ago:

‘Morning sleepy head. I didn’t wanna wake you. You looked too comfortable ;)’

He smiles at the text and looks for his clothes, only to find you must have taken a trip to his room to grab some fresh clothes. There is a towel on a chair with a new set of clean clothes and a pair of boxers.

When he’s all cleaned up and dressed he makes his way to the kitchen. You’re talking to Wanda, Steve and Sam.

“Bucky good morning!” Your sweet voice drifts over to him. “You slept in late. Are you feeling okay? Late night?” It’s an innocent question, no one bats an eyelash at it. You’re the healer of the team, and you’re concerned. But Bucky bites back a groan at the implications they both know is behind the sweet words.

Before Bucky can respond, Tony walks in.

“Hey Hippocrates” Tony calls out to you. “Why did F.R.I.D.A.Y tell me you needed a new headboard for your bed?

Oops.

-END-

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