#bucky x reader slow burn

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

1. First Encounter || Next

Bucky’s never been sure if normalcy is something he’s cut out for. But when he meets you—a baker with a pretty smile—he starts to think maybe he could try.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (1.4kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI, mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers a/n: happy new year! this year i'd like to actually begin and complete a multi-parter story so this is my attempt!

---

“Welcome in!” Bucky heard as he stepped into the bustling cafe shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, and baked bread quickly engulfed him. He looked around for the source of the voice while taking in the neatly curated shelves of novels, mismatched wooden tables and the large handwritten chalkboard menu boasting about an array of the day’s specials. Despite its charm, Bucky felt heavily out of place in his chipped leather jacket, and mud cracked boots. 

With the patrons weaving past him like he was another display in the shop he continued scanning the area noticing a few stray cats lounging throughout the space. They basked in the early afternoon sunlight that poured through the large windows. One, a sleek gray cat with white mittens and socks stretched lazily on the windowsill, while another a white cat with piercing blue eyes, watched the room with curious intensity.

The customers greeted the felines as they entered the shop and followed the line that formed at the counter where a young man with boyish charm and unruly brown hair was expertly managing the register. Meanwhile a man with a clean shaven jawline and an infectious grin moved confidently between the counter and the coffee makers. 

“You need some help?”

Bucky turned to the voice, finding himself at the end of the display case with a woman on the other side. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, a few stray strands escaping to frame her face. She barely paid him any mind as she deftly unloaded a giant tray of assorted pastries and bread into the glass showcase, her movements quick and practiced. The faint smudges of flour on her apron and the way she handled each item with care hinted at her role in crafting the delicacies.

“You look a little lost,” she said without looking up, her tone teasing but not unkind. "Can I help you find something, or are you just here to admire the cats?” she asked, finally glancing up at him. Her gaze was sharp but warm, assessing him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

 Her teasing tone caught him off guard, making him glance up sharply. His ears seemed to perk slightly, before he quickly refocused. “Pick up,” he said, his voice low and clipped, offering her a tight-lipped smile that was more reflex than intentional. 

She let out a small hum. “Name?” 

“Steve.” 

“Oh yes–” Her demeanor instantly changed as she put the tray down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me get that for you.” Her hands masterfully opened a paper bag with clear cellophane, and slid open the sliding door to the showcase.

“Sam!” She yelled, causing Bucky to jolt. “I need Steven’s special.” She called out, and Bucky's eyes flicked back to her. Steven.

He heard a faint reply from across the cafe commotion and watched as she used the metal tongs to grab two bear claws from the wax paper lined tray. Bucky almost let out a snort but instead, he opted to shove his hands in his pockets, glancing down to his boots. He watched as crumbs of dirt crumbled from his shoe and littered the linoleum floor.

“What’s the Steven Special?” Bucky suddenly heard himself say. He looked at her through his lashes. He watched a small smile sneak across her lips. 

“A medium white chocolate macchiato, with two bear claws.” She said, fingers crinkling the bag shut as she slid it across the clear surface. This time Bucky let out a snort. Before he could thank her, she went back to unloading her discarded tray. He hesitated on grabbing the bag. 

“So you’re the new guy then?” She asked suddenly, quickly glancing at him. He looked at her. “Stevie's mentioned he’s expecting a new comer, and I’ve never seen you before so—” she explained. Stevie.

“Then yeah.” He gave a curt smile, reaching for the bag on the counter. 

“Thought so,” she said, her tone a hint lighter now as she turned back to her work. “He’s been talking ‘bout you for weeks, you know.”

“Nothing bad I hope.” 

 She turned to set down the now empty tray, glancing over her shoulder, a glint in her eye. “Depends on your definition of bad.” Her tone was playful but laced with just enough intrigue to make him pause. She spins swiftly, closing the display case. 

“Nah,” She shrugs with a smirk, “He’s just psyched you're here, it’s kinda cute.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. She waves a hand in the air.

“He’s just got this way of talking about things—”

“Order up.” 

The sudden burst out causing the both of you to abruptly turn toward the man holding out an oat-colored to-go cup.

The woman cleared her throat, shifting back to allow space for the man to step in. Her smirk faded into a polite, neutral expression, her focus now on adjusting a tray of napkins nearby.

“Steven’s special,” the man announced, his grin wide and easy, breaking through the tension that had lingered just a moment earlier.

Bucky’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned toward the man, who was now leaning casually against the counter, holding the cup out as if he were presenting a prized trophy.

Bucky nodded and reached for the cup, his movements deliberate. “Appreciate it,” he said, his voice steady. 

“No problem,” the man replied, his tone light and teasing. “Better get it to him quick, he’s been talking about the claws all morning.” 

“Noted,” Bucky muttered, though his gaze flickered back toward the woman, who was now bent over another display, her attention fixed on her work as if the earlier exchange had never happened.

The man cleared his throat sharply, drawing Bucky’s attention. When Bucky turned toward him, he was already side-eyeing the woman before shifting his gaze back to Bucky with a deadpan expression. It wasn’t accusatory, but there was a challenge in the look—like he’d caught Bucky doing something he shouldn’t be.

Bucky’s brow twitched in response, his face otherwise impassive, and he adjusted the bag in his hand.

“Thanks again,” he said curtly, stepping back from the counter.

Sam held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned his attention away from him.

Bucky stepped toward the door, the hum of the café enveloping him once more. His grip tightened slightly on the bag as he moved, but something tugged at his attention, making him glance back one last time.

The man was now leaning against the counter, his posture relaxed, but his head tilted toward the woman. Whatever he’d said caused her to laugh softly, her shoulders shaking with the motion. The earlier ease in her posture had returned, her movements efficient and unbothered, as though their exchange had been nothing more than a routine part of her day.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face as she replied, her voice lost in the café’s hum. They shared another laugh.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing as he turned back toward the door. Pushing it open, he stepped into the cool air outside, the bell above jingling faintly as the door closed behind him.

As he walked down the street, the warmth of the café began to fade, but the soft intensity of the exchange lingered. He shook his head with a quiet huff of air, the bag crinkling faintly in one hand while the other held the to-go cup. His boots scuffed lightly against the pavement as he approached a sleek, dark car parked a few steps ahead.

Bucky unlocked it with a press of a button, the quiet beep breaking the stillness. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he set the paper bag on the passenger side and the cup in the holder before resting his hands on the steering wheel.

For a moment, he sat there, the hum of the café replaying in his mind. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it.

With a twist of the key, the engine purred to life, the quiet power of the car grounding him. As he pulled out onto the street, the cool air rushing through the window carried away the lingering warmth of the café—but not entirely.

---

Next

a/n: I know there's barely anything there but I have an idea and im jsut trying to roll with it -- so if you have any ideas let me know! i’m begging — pls reblog to support!

[pommeauromarin]

I'm sorry, but for me, friends to lovers is the superior trope. I love me a little enemies to lovers, but it doesn't hit the same. The tension, will they won't they, the angst, the fact that they know each other so well and that's why they won't confess, too scared to ruin what they have, or they just believe it's all they CAN have ARGH YES PLEASE SPECTACULAR GIVE 14 OF THEM RIGHT NOW

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump masterlist

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, grumpy Bucky, awful boss, mistake identity trope, kinda fake dating trope, snowed-in trope, fluff?

MAIN STORY

How to cure a grump (1)

How to cure a grump (2)

How to cure a grump (3)

How to cure a grump (4)

How to cure a grump (5)

How to cure a grump (6)

How to cure a grump (7)

How to cure a grump (8)

How to cure a grump (9)

How to cure a grump (10)

How to cure a grump (11)

How to cure a grump (12)

__

SNIPPETS

Htcag - A post Christmas snippet

TBA

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Lakeside Cabin

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Y/N Use, swearing

Summary: The hate you and Bucky have for each other has gradually increased throughout your time knowing each other. This time, things went too far. Thanks to your arguments, you get sent on a unique consequential mission: You will both live together in a secluded cabin until you're able to come together and settle your differences. You're screwed.

This doesn't really follow the movies or shows.

*Not Proof Read*

No mentions of body type, skin color, or details of reader's appearance. Reader is able-bodied.

Pt. 2

□□□□□□□

My mom always told me hate is a strong word.

It's not strong enough to describe the way I feel about Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes.

10 percent muscle. 90 percent jackass.

I never wanted to hate Bucky. He just makes it very difficult to like him.

We have different personalities-I like being loud and outgoing. I love the spontaneity life has to offer and being around people. I can be rebellious and don't like it when people tell me what to do.

Bucky's the opposite. He lives in silence and routine. Everything has to go his way. He's grumpy and constantly has a gloomy grey cloud of isolation that surrounds him.

He does fine with everyone else. He's not exactly their best friend, but he's civil. He's willing to work together with them.

Just like he pisses me off, I piss him off. We trigger each other. We're always looking for an in -a way to catch the other when they slip up and help drag them down.

It doesn't help that some people on the team think the only reason we fight is due to some extreme sexual tension. The way they make stupid remarks or exchange looks when they see Bucky and me fighting makes my blood boil.

Don't get me wrong, Bucky Barnes is an attractive man. He's got beautiful eyes and an amazing physique. He's strong and mysterious -the kind of bad boy type guy that makes girls swoon.

But the attraction ends there. His personality totally kills the mood.

Things have definitely escalated since Bucky joined us at the compound last year. It started out with small, snarky comments and evolved to full-on verbal warfare: no filter, no tact, just venom and fire.

"Are you always this loud, or is it just when I’m around?"

"Only when I’m trying to scare off emotionally stunted super soldiers."

"You know, I’d rather face Hydra again than spend another second dealing with your miserable ass."

"I’d gladly leave you to rot with them if I didn’t know you’d screw up the escape plan."

"You know, for someone with a metal arm, your grip on reality is weak."

"And for someone with a mouth like yours, it’s a miracle you’re still breathing."

Sometimes I don't even mean to fight back. I try to take the upper hand, face his words like a champ, and not let them bother me. It's just so difficult. When he starts the fire, I need to make sure it burns.

I know it bugs the team. We've been warned multiple times by Steve and Fury.

It's just so hard to stop.

I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's to get his reaction. Maybe it's because I like to get the last word. I don't know.

It's rare that the team pairs the two of us up on missions. They know the way things will play out.

We're only paired together in extreme situations in missions -situations where they need the best shooters in the group.

Situations like the one today.

Bucky and I haven't said a word to each other in half an hour.

The air is beginning to chill with the change in time. The sun is setting, casting a beautiful orange and pink glow over the chaos we're supposed to cover. If this were any other situation, I would be sitting down and admiring the beauty of nature. I love sunsets.

But this isn't any other situation.

Bucky and I are lying on the roof of an abandoned building a few feet away from each other. Our eyes are trained on the deteriorating warehouse across from us, fingers hovering above the triggers of our guns. The building, which looks like it's holding a bunch of secrets, is definitely holding a bunch of secrets -kidnapped human experiments and top secret information regarding planned attacks. The shady, untrustworthy exterior definitely matches the vibe of the horrors happening inside.

Outside of the warehouse are parked cars without license plates and scattered pieces of junk and broken machinery lying on rough gravel and yellowing grass.

Steve walks into my view from the left. He quietly guides, who are closely behind him. They stop behind one of the cars, using it as cover while Steve scans the area for any dangers. After the area is secured, the three begin making their way into the building through a side entrance.

Through my scope I briefly spot Tony as he enters through the other end of the building.

The comm in my ear gently crackles as Natasha's voice comes through. "I've got visuals on the northwest entry."

Steve's voice follows. "I'm placing charges."

"All right, folks," Sam chimes in. "Let’s make this fast and quiet. I’ve got eyes in the sky, but our rooftop lovebirds better stay sharp."

There he goes again, our number one shipper. He's so adamant about there being something between Bucky and me. It's annoying.

I choose not to let his words ruffle me, biting the inside of my cheek harshly instead.

Bucky ignores the jab as well.

The only sound between us is the soft click of his rifle adjusting. He ignores me, just as he always does.

The tension between us is strong. We're both annoyed. Neither of us wants to be here with the other one.

I try to focus on the task at hand. Observe. I need to observe.

It's difficult.

Every few minutes, I feel my attention shifting to the man in my peripheral vision. I watch him lie perfectly still, the only movement coming from his jaw, which he clenches and unclenches every so often like he's trying to hold back.

He probably is holding back. Something I did pissed him off. Something I do always pisses him off.

I shouldn't be distracted. I can't afford to be, not when the lives of innocent people are at stake. I need to stay focused.

This isn't about me or Bucky. This is about freeing civilians.

Because HYDRA is HYDRA, all hope for a smooth, easy mission is thrown out the window about 5 minutes later when Tony's voice breaks the tense silence.

"Cameras are down," Tony’s voice is quiet. "Something triggered the internal defense system—doors locking. They’re trying to cage us in."

"Bucky, Y/N, keep the perimeter secure." Steve orders, his voice more urgent than before. "Watch for backup."

I force myself to focus on the building below, knowing this could turn into a life-or-death situation. "Copy." I reply calmly.

Bucky stays silent beside me. He shifts his scope lower.

"You could at least pretend we’re working together," I mutter, frustration laced in my tone.

"Didn’t realize babysitting you required small talk." He snaps back without looking at me.

I roll my eyes so hard I practically see stars. "Right. Because you’re just so pleasant when you’re brooding in silence."

"Silence is better than listening to your constant whining."

"Whining?" I let out an annoyed laugh. "God, you’re insufferable."

"And you’re loud. Even when you’re trying to whisper, you’re loud."

We both freeze at the same time.

Footsteps.

Close and fast.

Fuck, just what we need.

I turn my scope, just in time to see a group of Hydra agents breaching the stairwell two floors below us.

"Oh, shit," I breath.

Bucky moves first. He's up in seconds, his rifle in hand. "We’ve got company."

"Team, rooftop’s compromised," I say sharply into the comms. "We’ve got Hydra climbing the building."

"How many?" Asks Steve.

"At least six, maybe more. All armed and in tactical gear." I get up, clutching my rifle securely in my hands.

"Get out of there. Now."

Bucky moves towards the door we entered onto the roof from. His steps are light but purposeful. He stands to the side of the door, barely waiting for me to get to the other side before opening it quietly.

Of course, he didn't wait.

He doesn't give a shit if I'm shot down. One less problem for him to deal with.

"Sacrifice me, I guess," I mutter snarkily. "It's not like I mind getting shot. Thanks for asking."

"Have you ever considered shutting up? You're going to give our location away." He hisses, still not sparing me a glance.

I can't resist. "Have you ever considered thinking about anyone but yourself before? I know it's a new concept for you -possibly a little difficult for you to wrap your brain around, but I promise you'll be slightly more tolerable."

"Ha ha." Bucky's tone is unamused. "Thanks for the life advice. I'd try it but I really just don't give a shit about what you have to say or your opinion."

We continue making our way down the stairs, eyes constantly scanning in front of us.

"Fuck you." I huff, annoyed by his presence. I just want to go home and get as far away from this man as humanly possible. I've spent enough time with him for today -for a lifetime.

"Very mature. What, can't think of anything better to say-" Bucky is cut off by the sound of gunshots echoing through the room.

Immediately, he's quiet, his lips tightly pressed together. He's pissed we drew attention to ourselves. He's so going to give me shit for this.

The next ten minutes are a blur. Everything happens so quickly.

Gunfire cracks through stairwells. We move, dodging, weaving through offices. We take down the agents who come at us, neither of us needing to speak a word. It's about survival right now.

Then Bucky has the nerve the piss me off again.

"I said left, Barnes!"

"You want to lead? Be my guest," he snaps, ducking behind a filing cabinet as bullets tear through drywall. His lips are pursed into a tight frown, his eyes crinkling with anger.

"I am leading! You’re just too busy trying to look cool to listen! Newsflash, Bucky. We're not in a fucking action movie. No one gives a shit if you look cool and mysterious." I hiss back, pressing myself tightly under a desk as the bullets continue to come.

"Right, because this is such a great time for your little ego trip!" He quickly shoots down two agents with ease before retreating behind the filing cabinet again.

"My ego? Oh, please -like you don’t walk around with a six-ton chip on your shoulder and a martyr complex the size of Manhattan!" I manage to take out the last agent left shooting at us.

"You don’t know the first thing about me." Bucky brushes past me, his shoulder roughly knocking into mine.

I don't let it faze me. I quickly follow him, still keeping my eyes searching the room. "And you don’t know the first thing about working with someone who doesn’t worship the ground you stomp on!"

"You think I wanted to be paired with you? You think I asked for this?" For the first time all day, Bucky's head snaps towards me. His striking blue eyes are dark and narrowed at me. His face is tense and clearly angry. "You're the last fucking person I want to be paired with."

By now, we're screaming. Our boots thud down staircases as we duck another volley of shots. He's pissed. I'm pissed. We're on the verge of quite literally killing each other.

And through all of it—

The comms were still on.

-------

When we finally burst out onto the street, smoke in the air, Hydra agents down for the count, I am heaving. My hands are shaking from adrenaline and rage. I can't stand one more minute with this asshole.

Bucky is beside me, jaw clenched like it might crack. We storm across the lot to where the Quinjet is freshly landed and waiting for us, steam hissing from its wings. The team is standing and waiting.

Sam crosses his arms slowly. "Well, that was subtle."

"Shut up, Wilson." I roll my eyes, wiping a little bit of blood from my hand onto my shirt.

Steve looks like he aged five years in ten minutes.

Natasha just raises an eyebrow. "You two done with your little lovers’ quarrel?"

I blink. "What—?"

And then it hits me.

The comms. The fucking comms.

"Oh, god."

Sam smirks. "Not gonna lie, I was really rooting for one of you to throw a punch. Or kiss. Hard to tell with you two."

I scoff. "Keep your fantasies to yourself."

"You’re both exhausting," Steve mutters.

Bucky looks like he wants to dig a hole with his metal arm and crawl into it. His face is slightly flushed -most likely from a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

I lift a hand. "I didn’t mean ...he’s just -this whole thing-"

"Sexual tension like that could level a building," Natasha deadpans, eyeing the two of us. "And apparently did."

"I hate him," I state.

"Right back at you," Bucky growls.

We glare at each other for a moment.

And then we both walk in opposite directions while the rest of the team stares after us like exasperated parents watching their toddlers throw tantrums.

The mission was a success.

Our dignity? Dead on arrival.

------

The silence on the Quinjet is suffocating.

We are barely five minutes in, and already I feel the tension crawling across my skin like static. No one is speaking. No one is even pretending to make small talk. Even Tony is quiet (Something I thought was impossible), which meant we had officially fucked up.

I sit with my arms crossed and my jaw clenched, staring furiously at a very interesting spot on the floor. Across from me, Bucky sits in his own simmering silence, eyes fixed straight ahead, metal fingers twitching like he wants to strangle a ghost.

Every bump of turbulence feels like a passive-aggressive nudge from the universe.

I get it. What the fuck else do you want from me?

Steve is seated beside the cockpit, flipping through a report like it owes him an apology. Natasha leans against the wall by the hatch with her arms folded, wearing the expression of a woman who'd just listened to two coworkers have a very personal argument on speakerphone.

Because she has.

Because everyone has.

Sam lets out a long, theatrical sigh from the back bench.

"Just say it," I snap without looking at him. I tightly clench my fists, waiting for his remarks.

"What?" he asks, all innocent.

Fucker.

"Whatever comment you’ve been chewing on since we left the ground."

He grins. "Oh, I wasn’t gonna say anything. I’m just wondering who’s gonna crack first and scream ‘I love you, you emotionally constipated bastard!’ because honestly, I’ve got twenty bucks riding on Y/N."

I open my mouth. Close it. Turn to glare out the window instead. If I could kill Sam legally, I would. At this moment, he's on the same level as Bucky on my shit list. "I hate you."

"You've said that a lot today," Bucky mutters.

I snap my head toward him. "And you keep earning it. Care to earn another one?"

He finally looks at me, face hard. "I didn’t ask to be stuck on a roof with you."

"Believe me, if I could’ve picked anyone else on this planet to crouch beside for two hours of pure hell, I would’ve!" I tear my eyes away from him as I roll them.

"Oh my god," Natasha mutters, dragging a hand down her face.

Steve stands up abruptly, closing his folder. "We’re debriefing in an hour. Separately."

He's tired of our shit.

Tony, from the cockpit, calls back, "Debrief? Nah, just show me the footage of their comms again. That was way more entertaining than the mission feed."

"Delete it," I hiss. "Or I swear to-"

"I enhanced the audio," he replies brightly.

Of course he did. Why wouldn't he?

Sam wheezes. Natasha covers a snort with a cough.

Bucky is back to brooding in silence, but I can feel the heat rolling off him. Or maybe that's me. I can’t tell anymore.

We don’t speak for the rest of the ride. But I can feel his anger in my bones.

This has been the worst day of my year.

------

When we arrive back at the compound, we're all instructed to fill out our mission reports. Of course, I fill mine out as honestly as possible.

According to Bucky, he does, too. Sure.

Then we're called into a meeting by Nick Fury. Of course we are.

I sit with my arms crossed, refusing to look at Bucky, who’s already slouched in the chair across from me like he’s being forced to endure a root canal. His jaw flexes. Mine probably looks the same. The silence stretches like wire, taut and ready to snap.

Fury walks in, holding two tablets. He doesn’t sit. He just stops in front of the table, stares at us for a second, and looks like he’s calculating how hard he’d have to throw them for one to hit me and the other to clock Barnes. His glare is sharp enough to slice a block of metal.

“Alright,” Fury says, voice low and loaded with irritation. “Let’s recap.”

He lifts one tablet and reads.

"Agent Y/L/N: 'Mission compromised due to Barnes' refusal to follow sniper protocol. Irresponsibility put my safety in danger. Verbally hostile. Referred to me as, and I quote, "a trigger-happy liability with the patience of a caffeinated squirrel.'""

My arms fold tighter. I stand by my words. "Accurate."

Fury doesn’t react. Just switches tablets and reads again.

"Sergeant Barnes: 'Agent Y/L/N compromised positioning with unnecessary movement, broke radio silence to argue during enemy fire, and nearly shot me during an escape maneuver. Refers to me as having, quote, "the emotional range of wet drywall.'""

Bucky shrugs. "Still stands."

I scoff. "Only because I didn’t include 'walking splinter with a martyr complex.'"

Bucky snaps, "Maybe if you'd shut up for two seconds—"

Sure, maybe it's a little immature, but we're both already in deep shit. I scowl as I mock him.

"Enough," Fury barks, slamming both tablets onto the table like they’ve personally offended him. His glare shifts between the two fo us.

The silence that follows is blistering. Bucky looks like he wants to say something else, but I throw him a glare that could slice through vibranium.

Fury pinches the bridge of his nose like this briefing is physically draining him. "You two do realize your comms were on the entire time, right? While you were sniping. Escaping. And—what did the tech guys call it—oh right: 'screaming like a divorcing couple on Judge Judy.'" He spits. His brows are furrowed in anger.

My face burns. Fucking tech guys.

Bucky mutters a sharp curse under his breath.

"And thanks to that little performance," Fury continues, "Tony enhanced the audio. Sam made a remix. Natasha uploaded it to the team drive under the file name 'The Sound of Sexual Tension.'" His eyes narrow. "Not to mention, you put yourselves and your teammates at risk."

"I’m going to kill him," I mutter. "Actually, all of them. I'm going to kill all of them."

"You’ll have to beat me to it," Bucky growls. His posture is stiff and straight. He looks ready to jump up and hunt them down the second Fury excuses us.

Fury claps his hands once. Loud. Final. "Great! You'll have plenty of time to coordinate the murder. Together."

My stomach drops. What does he mean? Together. I don't want to spend another minute with Bucky. "Wait, what?"

"You’re both being reassigned to Safehouse Bravo-Tango-Twelve,"Fury says, way too casually, "for a mandatory cooling-off period."

Bucky and I speak at the same time.

His tone is annoyed. "You've got to be kidding me." For a moment, he closes his eyes like he's wishing this was all a bad dream.

"You’re locking us in a cabin?" I demand, staring Fury straight in the eye. I'm ready to fight. No way am I staying in a cabin with Bucky, we'll kill each other in minutes. I'm not kidding.

"No. I’m locking you in a lakeside four-room, twenty-camera, panic-button-equipped safehouse with 2 weeks' worth of rations and no mission clearance until I get a report that doesn’t read like it was ghostwritten by a Real Housewives producer."

"You've got to be fucking with us!" I groan, leaning back further into my chair. This is a nightmare. "Tell me you're fucking with us."

Bucky leans back, arms crossed like he’s bracing for a fall. "I'd rather bunk with Hydra."

Fury leans down, voice low and lethal. "Don't tempt me."

He grabs the tablets, heads for the door, and pauses just long enough to twist the knife.

"Oh -and if either of you so much as touches the surveillance cameras, I’m putting you in a room with Loki for a week of trust-building exercises. You are not allowed to leave the premises. If this isn't sorted out by two weeks from now, someone will bring you more supplies until it is. You two decide how long you want to let your egos get the best of you."

The door slams.

I whip my head toward Bucky. He turns at the same time. We both have a similar glimmer of rage in our eyes.

"This is your fault," we snap in perfect sync.

This is a nightmare.

------

Taglist: @buckysdoll85

[levanswrites]

In the Mood

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: He tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list.  His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

warnings: angst. aka the tortured mind™ of james buchanan barnes. sexual frustration, internalized guilt. mention of erectile dysfunction/anxiety around intimacy. eventual fluff.

word count: 1.5k

Bucky’s got… a list. 

Steve’s the one who planted the idea in his head—ways to keep his feet moving, even when his mind couldn’t. Granted, Bucky’s list isn’t tucked into a literal pocket-sized notebook, but it's there.

Some parts are harder than others—debts, loose ends, reparations.

Others, more straightforward. Try sushi. Learn how to download that album Sam won’t shut up about. Figure out the whole ‘zodiac sign compatibility’ thing.

And then there’s the… in-between. Somewhere between the boring and the impossible.

Pieces of normalcy that don’t sit quite right. Loose shrapnel from the fallout of who he once was. 

Like learning how to smile at strangers without feeling like he’s giving something away. Or making small talk that doesn’t spiral into awkward silence.  

Some things feel closer to second nature, though he still needs the safety net of familiarity and trust, like that time he flirted with Sarah just to rile Sam.  

But then again, the prospect of anything with real stakes, like when that blonde barista slipped him her number, sends him running for the hills. 

And between all the tiger photos on Tinder and—again, what the fuck was the deal with all the zodiac signs?—he’s quickly discovered that ‘dating’ in the 21st-century isn’t quite like it used to be. 

You ever hook up with a girl?   

He had just stared at Sam, then, with a slow lift of his metal arm like it was explanation enough.

Of course, there was the whole other issue of… mechanics. 

Something so unspoken and personal he’s barely admitted it to himself.

And he’s tried just about everything short of pills to fix it.

Articles, advice columns. Porn. Even dug out an old magazine or two for nostalgia’s sake, half-hoping it’d jog something loose. 

But most nights he’d come up limp, staring down a bottle of cheap whiskey as restlessness swallowed him whole.

And he tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. 

His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

Caught him off-guard one night, in the produce aisle of some corner bodega, when he was busy frowning at a peach that didn’t look like a peach.

Donut peaches. Crazy, right?

Cocked him an easy smile, a basket full of groceries by your hip as you plucked a different fruit off the stand, its skin leathery smooth and blush pink. 

They’re out of season, though. Might wanna try these nectarines. 

Your smile stayed with him longer than it should’ve. 

So did the sound of your laugh, bright and untroubled, when you apologized for what he could only assume was an irresistibly charming grimace on his part. 

Shoot, sorry, occupational hazard. 

I like your jacket, by the way. 

And just like that, you had him.

The next few weeks were a blur of excuses to visit your small bakery, down by 22nd street. Setting up his laptop like he actually had work to do, just so he’d feel less like a creep when you’d step out from behind the register and spark up easy conversation. 

And somehow, between testing all your newest bakes and staying back till closing to walk you home, he’s missed that fragile window where it felt appropriate to tell you who he is—was. Whatever.

That the gloves weren't some quirky fashion choice, or because he’s got poor circulation. 

But then again, maybe it wasn’t all that accidental.

Because you’re virtually the only person alive who knows him as Bucky—only Bucky—and he thought offering up the truth would change things.

The way you smile, call him handsome. Tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissed him outside that wine bar in Brooklyn, then fixed his hair and the corner of his mouth where your strawberry lip gloss smudged. 

Grabbed his hand and draped it deliberately over your thigh, that one time he took you to see a picture about aliens and space wars—though he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single plot point afterward. 

That memory is a warm thing that turns cold fast. A flicker of heat curling low in his stomach, his hand twitching instinctively toward the space between his legs. 

Then, the spark would fizzle out, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his thoughts.  

And that’s when the spiral would start, the endless rabbit hole that is sex advice by strangers on the internet. Hunched over a dim screen, browser history stacked a mile high with unanswered questions about modern dating, with one particular query searing into his thoughts:

How long should you wait before having sex with someone for the first time?

Because, supposedly, the internet says three dates. To see if you’re really compatible. 

After that point, why even bother? 

And he had to lean back and hold his breath at that, because, shit—tomorrow was date #3. 

So when he showed up to the jazz bar you’d been wanting to try, at exactly ten minutes to 8, the bouquet in his gloved hand was quivering. Like the time he asked out Lucy Ann from the 7th grade.

He'd sought temporary reprieve in the way you gasped, delighted, branding a smile on his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just like you had for the flowers on the first date, then again at the second.

(Because, apparently, no one does this kind of thing anymore, and he had scoffed because—jesus, did guys make it this easy to impress a date nowadays?)

Later, you’d pulled him close under the neon glow of a sidewalk marquee, kissing him soft and slow like you had all night.  

Taste of merlot and something sweeter on your lips when you'd muttered: my place?

And that brings him here, in the narrow hallway of your apartment, just a couple steps from the door because you couldn’t wait for the couch.  

He’s got you pressed against the wall, lost in the plush yield of your lips, the smooth curve of your cheek under his thumb. Because he loves this part, he really does—the way you arch into him, slide your hands under his jacket. Your breaths, shallow and sweet, mixed in with the heady scent of your perfume.

How you smile, for no apparent reason other than the fact that kissing him seems to make you happy. 

But then there’s that quiet thought, again.

And he desperately wishes he was holding your hips for a different reason than to pull away. 

“Maybe,” he pants, swallowing hard because your eyes were making it hard to focus, “maybe we shouldn't…”

Your gaze settles on him for a brief moment, hazy and heavy-lidded. From the wine or from something else, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Then, you pull back promptly, slipping under his arm and disappearing somewhere behind him. 

Now, he’s blinking, staring at an empty wall. 

Convinced that he’s fucked this all up, heart leaping to his throat, something pounding in his head—

Until he realizes that the vibration drumming against his ears is music. 

The soft croon of a clarinet, the brassy blare of trumpets—a familiar melody sweeps over him, and it makes his brows pinch because he knows this one.

A tune he can recognize, for once, wedged somewhere between humid nights on Coney Island and crowded USO dance halls. 

“C’mon!”

Your high pitched laugh against his ear, a gentle tug at his wrist. 

It hits like whiplash, then, the realization of what you’re asking him to do.  

And he feels like an assuming jerk for all the scenarios he’s been playing through his mind since last night—because while he was busy coming up with excuses for why he couldn’t get hard, or why he’s got a metal arm, or why he wakes up in the middle of the night hearing screams that might be his own—you had wanted to… dance. 

He lets himself be drawn by your radiant smile, into the tiny pocket of space where your kitchen meets your living room.

His heart stutters when your hand slides to his back, the other lacing around his gloved fingers. He’s supposed to lead, isn’t he?

Yet, his steps flow in tune with yours, falling into place like they never strayed in the first place.

“Not too bad,” you tease, eyes sparkling, body swaying. 

“…I gotta be honest, I—oh!” A high, happy sound tickles your throat when he spins you, arms arching high over your head. “—didn’t peg you for a dancer!”

His fingers itch to hold you closer. Adoration humming under his skin, threaded with disbelief, because how the hell did he manage to find this? To find you?         

“Guess I’ve got a few surprises left.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Mm, I like that. I’ll have to see what else I can get out of you.”

And the way you say it—all innocent and just a hint too sweet—sends a sudden rush of heat through him.

His breaths halt, feet frozen to the floor.

Shit, is that…?

Heat licks at his nerves, sparks jumping under his skin, and before he can stop to question it, it’s there. 

And instead of running, he leans in. 

The next twirl is deliberate, his hand steady against your waist as you come spinning back to him. 

He grins, the thrill of something new rising to the top of his list.

“Just try to keep up, huh?”

a/n: my first bucky fic! was a bit nerve-wracking branching out into other characters, but this was a lot of fun :) lemme know what u think!

[drabblesandsnippets]

Sunshine - Part 1

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 5

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Plus-size female character (unnamed)

Prompt: “We’re…” | [Friends with Benefits | Exes | Enemies to Lovers] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (2k) Series Masterlist Ramblings of the first few months of having Bucky as a roommate. In this AU, Bucky owns a photography business.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine Trope. Happy Bucky (is that a warning?) - he's a photographer in this AU. Female character’s nickname is Sunshine. Mention of anxiety and insecurities - she’s also no-contact with her family (there’s trauma that will be mentioned later in the series). Very brief mention of porn. Brief mention of masturbation.

---------------------------

The first time she met Bucky, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She was already desperate to find someone after her last roommate had left her in a lurch, suddenly moving out of state. After several weeks of searching, her list of requirements had been narrowed down to two things - pay rent on time, and don’t try to kill her in her sleep.

Through a network of friends and acquaintances, Bucky’s name came up - a previous coworker’s best friend who had been looking for a place and seemed to meet her criteria. She wasn’t exactly excited about living with a man, but Bucky came with great references and bringing his sister to their first meeting definitely earned him points.

Not that she had much of a choice, given her limited options, but she felt fairly confident about Bucky. Even with his overly-positive demeanor and extroverted nature - a glaring contrast to her shy, anxious, introverted personality - they got along almost instantly. 

While usually uncomfortable with strangers, Bucky managed to put her at ease, more than happy to keep the conversation going without ever making her feel like she was being put on the spot. Their differences seemed to compliment each other - she’s a homebody and he enjoys going out. They’d rarely cross paths.

It was perfect.

-------------------

Two days after Bucky moved in, she woke up to him singing. 

To his credit, he didn’t actually wake her up with the singing - it was just a lot to take in at 7 o’clock on a Monday morning. A 30-something year-old-man singing and dancing in her - their - kitchen while he made coffee.

Bucky had every right to be there, but it didn’t stop her from getting secretly irritated. How could he have that much energy so early in the morning? She could barely open her eyes and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. He looked like he was ready to tackle whatever the day brought.

He didn’t even take offense when she couldn’t muster more than a couple words and grunts for responses. He just continued on with his singing, and when she returned from her shower, there was a thermos of coffee waiting for her.

It was unexpected.

-------------------

It quickly became a routine for him. Whether he had a late night out, or an early morning himself, Bucky would leave her coffee. And, after the first couple of weeks, it became lunch too.

She wasn’t used to people doing things for her - even her friends knew not to offer because it made her uncomfortable - but no matter how much she tried to resist, Bucky always had an answer.

“I was already fixing some for myself,” he had told her with an easy-going smile. He enjoyed cooking, and this way none of it would go to waste.

Bucky even bought her an insulated bag for the days she had to go into the office, with the explanation, “It was a buy-one-get-one thing.” 

If it were any other man, she might think there was some sort of ulterior motive. But, it quickly became clear that this was just who Bucky was. A kind, considerate person who enjoyed life to the fullest and made it his mission to bring as much happiness as possible to the people around him.

It was exhausting.

-------------------

It’s not that she wasn’t a happy person. She just enjoyed her quiet solitude after a life of hardship and strife, and sometimes it was hard to watch Bucky be so carefree.

He was close with his family, whereas she had no relationship whatsoever with hers. He spent most nights out with his friends, and even though she had a couple of good friends, it mostly consisted of texts and sporadic get-togethers. 

She wasn’t jealous, or complaining about her own life, it was just a lot to take sometimes. Not only Bucky’s constant positivity, but that nothing ever seemed to bother him. When things would go wrong, he refused to let it get to him, instead deciding to see the silver lining in everything. 

If he came home drenched because it started raining during his walk, he’d still have a smile on his face. He’d talk about how he loved the smell of the rain, and how much the plants needed it.

A friend canceling at the last minute was just a sign that he was supposed to be doing something else. Like, cook her dinner, or work on his business.

If a client flaked or asked to reschedule a photo shoot, he’d take the opportunity to send them a card or edible arrangement, as if the scheduling conflict was his fault.

When she accidentally spilled a drink on the new rug he bought, he made a joke about finally getting to try out the stain remover tool he bought on a whim.

Nothing seemed to faze him. 

It was irritating. 

-------------------

Bucky’s nickname for her started about a month after he moved in. After an unplanned late night of binge watching a new show together, they both had an early morning. She, of course, woke to him doing his normal song and dance in the kitchen.

Due to no fault of his own, she found it extra frustrating that morning - probably because her period was about to start - and she was unable to hide her mood. When he was nice enough to ask if he could fix her breakfast, all he got in response was a slow blink and a slight shake of her head before she left to take a shower.

Bucky, of course, took it all in stride, finding her hatred of mornings amusing. It made him try even harder to get her to see the beauty in watching the world wake up, much to her chagrin. 

And the next morning, she found a new travel mug waiting for her on the counter, the words “Good Morning Sunshine” etched across the front.

Ever since, it’s been nothing but that.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he’d call out as he passed by her closed bedroom door while her alarm blared in her ear. She’d groan and ignore the smile that threatened to grow on her face.

On the mornings he’d be gone before she was awake, he’d come home later with a, “Heya Sunshine, you give anyone hell today?” They both knew that no matter how much people annoyed her, she was too shy and self-conscious to ever tell anyone off, but it still made her laugh and roll her eyes.

Every night would end the same way. Bucky telling her, “Goodnight Sunshine, try not to stay up too late.” She was a night owl and Bucky was a - well, essentially, an every-hour-of-the-day kind of person. No matter what time of day it was, he’d always have the energy to have a good attitude.

It was unnerving. 

-------------------

After several months of living with Bucky, she still wasn’t used to it, but at least there was no longer any part of her that thought it was an act. 

Bucky was genuine, and he was nothing but consistent - not just with how laidback and happy he always was, but as a roommate too. Paying his rent on time. Offering to buy groceries for both of them. Cleaning up after himself (even her, sometimes). Pitching in with the chores. Giving her space. 

While she still found herself occasionally irritated by his positive demeanor, she couldn’t deny that it had started to slowly rub off on her. 

One morning she found herself humming a song while she was drinking her first cup of coffee, even before her morning shower. She hadn’t even noticed she was doing it until Bucky started humming along with her, and it immediately made her groan, accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll.

“What are you doing to me?”

With a soft laugh and a shake of his head, Bucky told her, “I’m just along for the ride, Sunshine.” As if he wasn’t responsible for making her subconsciously try to see the good in things after a lifetime of waiting for the next shoe to drop.

It was confusing.

-------------------

She didn’t really have anything to complain about. She’d spent most of her life with roommates, sharing her space with others - even people she didn’t really get along with - so if her only issue with Bucky was his boundless energy and enthusiasm, she was doing pretty well. 

He rarely even had people over, telling her more than once he preferred to go out. It wasn’t immediately clear if he was just telling her that to assuage any guilt she might feel about being uncomfortable with having other people in her home, but it was easy to accept his explanation.

Despite his exuberant personality, it never felt like he was blowing smoke up anyone’s ass. If he didn’t like something, he never seemed to lie about it. He just managed to spin it into a positive, making the other person still feel comfortable with their opinion. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met.

It still took her some time to feel comfortable letting her guard down around him, to really let him see the person she was underneath all the masks she felt like she had to wear with others. There were parts of herself that she still hadn’t been ready to share with him, but she didn’t really mind when he’d stay in to spend the evening with her.

They were friends, and soon the invitations started. 

“A few of us are hanging out at Steve’s, wanna come?”

“Heya Sunshine, you feel up to a movie night at Sam’s?”

“We’re doing a casual dinner thing at Nat’s, everyone’s been asking about you.”

She had yet to accept any of the offers, but as the weeks went by, it was hard to pretend she wasn’t at least a little curious. Bucky spent so much time with his friends and she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to spend time with him outside of their apartment.

Especially after the things she gleaned about him from his friends, during the brief encounters she’d had when they stopped by. Like when Steve laughed after she made an offhand comment about Bucky never getting mad. “That’s because you’ve never given him a reason to be mad.” She had been hoping for an example, but the conversation got cut short.

There was also that time when Sam made a joke about Bucky’s dating habits. “You go any longer and you’re going to forget how it all works.” From what Bucky had already shared with her, he got out of a relationship last year and now he was more interested in focusing on his friends, his family, and his career. 

It wasn’t lost on her how attractive Bucky was, but it also wasn’t something she gave much thought to. They were roommates, and friends, and it would be absurd to think about him in any other way. 

Even if she did accidentally overhear him in the shower the other day. She had come home early and just as she walked by the bathroom door, she very clearly heard him moaning. For the briefest of seconds, she had felt frozen in place, but after hearing him again, she quickly went to her room, ignoring her racing heart and flushed skin.

It turned into days of pretending she never heard anything, days of pretending that it didn’t make her think about other things. Like what he had been imagining. Or, what kind of porn he might watch. Or, what kind of lover he’d be. 

It was ridiculous.

-------------------

Since the moment Bucky met her, he’d felt an undeniable pull. There had been something about her that called out to him. That made him want to get to know her, to help her, to do whatever he could to bring happiness to her life.

Unbeknownst to her, at the time he learned she needed a roommate, he had been crashing in a friend’s spare bedroom for free. There had been no intention to move, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her being stuck with someone that might take advantage of her situation.

Besides, his business had been going well and he could more than afford the rent. It just made sense for him to move in with her. 

Bucky knew he wasn’t the perfect roommate by any means, but he did everything he could to make her feel like it was still her home too. There wasn’t anything about her that he wanted to change, he just wanted to bring some positivity to her life.

The coffees, and the lunches, and the dinners were all a part of that. As were the Netflix marathons and late night conversations they started to share. Becoming friends with her had always been a goal of his, and it had never been about more than that.

It never even mattered that he thought she was attractive because he’d never let his eyes linger or his thoughts wander. They were friends, and all he wanted was for her to be a part of his life, including becoming friends with his friends.

Somewhere along the way though, something changed. The attraction he had for her started to grow and he found himself having to resist the urge to smell her hair when they’d sit on the couch to watch TV.

He started having to force himself not to look her way when she forgot her robe and had to rush from the bathroom to her bedroom wrapped in just a towel that barely covered her luscious curves. 

The times at night when she’d be alone in her room with music playing, he’d lock himself in his own room and workout, trying not to imagine her touching herself and the sounds she might make.

As hard as Bucky fought it, not wanting to ever do anything to make her feel uncomfortable in her own home, he eventually convinced himself that it would be better to lean into it. To allow himself to think about her, to fantasize about her, as long as he kept his eyes and his hands to himself, he’d eventually get over it and she’d never have to know.

She’d never have to know that he’d spend his walks thinking about what turned her on.

She’d never have to know that he started taking longer showers so he could fantasize about what she might taste like.

She’d never have to know that he ended every night the same way, fucking his hand while he imagined it was her. 

It was wishful thinking.

---------------------------

Series Masterlist | Next Part

Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[nexiva]

Masterlist

Bucky x reader

You made me hate you

Summary: Y/N has lost everything. Her only family. What happens when the man who had killed her sister is now a part of the avengers and they have to work together?

Series status: in progress

Last updated: 26.03.2025

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

[arcadia-smith]

One touch

Part 1 // Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life carrying pieces of others—memories, emotions, pain. A single touch is all it takes. You never meant to fall for Bucky Barnes. Not when one touch showed you the full weight of his past—every wound, every scream, every drop of blood spilled. But the problem with avoiding someone is that it only makes you want them more. And Bucky is just as drawn to you as you are to him.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Bucky's memories, kinda slow burn.

Note: Might be inspired by that one POV I saw ages ago. Finally, wrote smth on it.

You’re careful, always. Gloves in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, avoiding unnecessary contact. But you weren’t expecting to meet him that day. You weren’t expecting his steel-blue eyes, the hesitant way he reached for you, the calloused warmth of his palm.

James Buchanan Barnes. You thought maybe it would be something vague, like the usual flickering memories you caught from strangers—forgotten birthdays, the feeling of laughter in their ribs, the taste of their last sip of coffee.

But the moment your hand slipped into his, you knew you had made a mistake.

Pain.

It surged through you in an instant, stealing the air from your lungs, making your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. The sharp bite of a knife slicing through flesh. The suffocating grip of restraints against metal wrists. The echo of voices shouting commands in Russian, the chilling sensation of being stripped down to nothing but a weapon. The screams. The red star. Blood, so much blood—on his hands, on his soul, dripping onto snow-covered ground. The sensation of metal replacing flesh. Terror. Rage. Regret. The unbearable weight of loss.

You ripped your hand away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Bucky was staring at you, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, but his concern was genuine.

You force a smile. A lie. “Yeah. Just—just got a little dizzy.”

It’s the first of many lies.

You avoided touching him after that. It was difficult. Bucky's a tactile person, more than he realized. A hand on your back when guiding you through a crowded space. Sitting beside him on mission briefings, careful not to let your knees brush. You handed him files with your sleeves pulled over your fingers. You trained in the same room but always kept your distance. It was exhausting, this careful, deliberate avoidance, but you had no choice.

He was kind, in a quiet, unassuming way. He made you coffee in the mornings when you were both in the compound kitchen too early for anyone else to be awake. He told you about the books he had been reading when sleep didn't come. He listened when you talked, really listened, like what you were saying was the most important thing in the world.

He made you want things you shouldn’t.

But you knew what was inside him. You felt it. You felt him break, over and over again, and you didn't know how to hold that without breaking too.

Bucky wasn't just the things Hydra made him do. He wasn't just the broken memories and the pain. The way he always waited for you to enter a room first. The way he softened when he talked to Sam’s nephews. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

He remembered things about you, little things you barely noticed about yourself. And it terrified you because you were falling for him.

And worse? He was falling for you, too.

“You don’t like touching me.”

You froze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. You were both sitting in the compound’s common area, the glow of the city outside casting long shadows across the floor.

“I don’t like touching anyone,” you corrected.

Bucky didn’t look convinced.

"Steve told me you have some kind of.. gift or whatever he called it." He huffed.

"A gift," you shook your head. It was all but a gift. "i can see.. and feel... memories of a person, whenever I touch them."

“What did you see, when you shook my hand that first time?” Bucky questioned, not knowing if he really wanted to hear the answer.

You hesitated. He deserved an explanation, an answer, but how could you explain something like this? How could you tell him that touching him had nearly broken you? That you’d spent weeks trying to separate your own thoughts from the pain you’d absorbed? That even now, sometimes, you woke up gasping, ice spreading through your veins, memories that weren’t yours pressing against your skull? He didn't deserve that. After all he'd been through.

"You were quite a skirt-chaser back in the day." You shrugged, hoping he'd let go of the topic.

Bucky let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what you saw?”

You forced a smile, lifting your cup to your lips. “That’s what I’m telling you I saw.”

You weren’t sure if he was buying it, but either way, he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, stretching his metal arm along the back of it, close but not touching.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I might’ve been a flirt, but I was always a gentleman.”

You raised a brow. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked. “Always asked for a dance first.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “How chivalrous.”

Bucky chuckled, but you could feel the shift in the air. He hadn’t forgotten your deflection. The momentary ease between you wasn’t enough to erase the unspoken weight of his question.

What did you see?

What did you feel?

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

The ice-cold metal of an operating table. The burn of a shock collar. The sting of a fresh wound being ignored, a voice barking orders in Russian. The absolute, gut-wrenching terror of realizing—over and over—that you weren’t in control of your own body.

And beneath it all, buried so deep it nearly went unnoticed—loneliness. A yearning for something, someone, anyone to remind him he wasn’t just a weapon.

You couldn’t tell him that.

So instead, you clung to the lighter pieces, the moments before the pain, before the war. The golden haze of 1940s Brooklyn, the warmth of laughter, the way the air used to hum with the promise of something better.

“Steve always said I was a pain in the ass back then,” Bucky mused, snapping you back to the present.

You glanced at him, offering a small smile. “Some things never change.”

That made him laugh, real and genuine this time, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lightened.

The next few days were a blur of subtle moments, quiet exchanges, and the uncomfortable tension that lingered between you and Bucky. You tried to keep your distance, pretending that everything was fine, but the truth was far harder to swallow.

Every time Bucky walked into the room, the pull was undeniable. You’d find your gaze drawn to him, and when he caught your eye, you’d quickly look away, as if your body was betraying you, desperate for something you couldn’t have.

And then there were the little things—the way his presence seemed to fill the space around him, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like he was trying to break through some invisible barrier that you’d put up.

You didn’t want to feel that pull. You couldn’t afford to. Because no matter how much your heart ached to close the distance between you and him, you knew the consequences.

That afternoon, when you were leaving the training room, you almost collided with Bucky in the hallway. He stepped back just in time, his eyes flashing with surprise as you tried to regain your balance.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice low but steady, his hand brushing your arm to steady you.

You froze. The moment his fingers made contact with your skin, everything came rushing back. The sharp pain of a bullet slicing through muscle, the flash of a bomb exploding too close, the heartache of losing everything that had ever mattered. The memories of the wars he’d fought, of the things he’d been forced to do, filled your mind so quickly you barely had time to breathe.

You pulled away instinctively, your body trembling, your chest tightening as you fought to keep it together.

“I—I’m sorry,” you gasped, avoiding his eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you might just break, and you couldn’t do that. Not with him. Not when you already knew the kind of pain he carried inside him.

Bucky took a step forward, his expression softening as he reached out, his hand hovering just shy of yours. “You’re not okay,” he said quietly, his voice full of concern. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head, willing the storm inside you to settle. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just… tired. Long day.”

Before either of you could say anything more Steve appeared at the end of the hallway, calling out to Bucky.

“You coming, Barnes?”

Bucky hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer, as if he was torn between walking away and staying.

Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said to Steve, before turning back to you. “We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

You noded and you couldn’t breathe until he was gone.

The next day, Bucky found you in the courtyard, sitting by yourself, your eyes distant as you stared at the horizon. He walked up slowly, as though unsure of how to approach you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a free country.”

Bucky settled next to you anyway, the quiet between you comfortable for a moment, but not for long. He was too aware of everything. Too aware of you.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice low.

You shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His tone softened, and you finally turned to meet his eyes.

“I told you, I don’t like touch. And it’s not something I can just turn off. And it's hard to be around you... when all I want to do is touch you, for you to touch me, kiss me..”

You got up on your feet but before you could turn, you felt the weight of his hand on your arm, gentle, but firm. Your breath caught, heart pounding in your chest. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the icy remnants of war that had scarred him, but you still felt the sharpness of his past pressing against you like a shadow.

You looked down at his hand, at the way his fingers barely brushed your sleeve. It was a simple gesture, but to you, it was more than that. It was the invitation. The risk. The question you both had been dancing around.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sudden wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. But when you met his eyes, the vulnerability there, the honest want for connection, it nearly broke you.

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to stop, to keep him at arm’s length, but something inside you shifted, and you found yourself taking a step closer, just enough for your fingers to brush against his.

The world tilted.

The memories flooded you—faster, sharper this time. The face of a man who wasn’t quite Bucky anymore, wasn’t quite the soldier he’d been. The ache of betrayal, the desperate longing for redemption. The faces of people he’d loved and lost, the quiet rage of a man who had been turned into a weapon and was still trying to find his humanity.

Your chest tightened as the memories crashed over you, and you gasped, pulling your hand away, stumbling back like you’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice ragged. “I—I can’t…”

Bucky’s face twisted, a flash of pain crossing his features “I’m sorry if I—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “It’s not you. It’s me. I just… I can’t keep doing this.”

[moniquesha]

exfil masterlist

congressman!bucky x avenger!reader (in progress)

The past was never meant to catch up to you. Yet, no matter how far you ran, it always found a way back; This time in the form of a message, a threat, and ten stolen cases of something that should’ve never existed. The old world you abandoned is closing in, forcing you to rely on ghosts you once called allies.

Warnings: 18+, violence, trauma, angst, strong language, smut.

part one: ghost of the past.

part two: to hell with that!

part three: first job back.

part four: happiest birthday, stark.

[magical-reid]

Ricochet

Pairing: Bucky x Fem! Reader

Slow Burn/ Enemies to Lovers

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: Bucky and the reader's relationship starts off rocky, marked by tension, mistrust, and bickering, especially due to their shared past with Hydra. However, over time, their interactions soften as they begin to understand each other better, with moments of respect, mutual concern, and subtle attraction emerging amid their fiery exchanges.

Reader’s POV

The elevator ride to the top of Avengers Tower was too quiet, too long, and too nerve-wracking. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—I was supposed to be excited, grateful even. Joining the Avengers was a big deal. The deal.

But all I could think about was the man waiting on the other side of the shiny metal doors.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier, they used to call him. The Ghost. The most terrifying assassin in history. Now, they called him an Avenger. A hero. A man trying to rebuild his life, just like me.

Except, he hated me.

The elevator dinged, interrupting my downward spiral. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag, straightened my back, and stepped into the common area.

It was bustling. Clint Barton was leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. Wanda Maximoff was cross-legged on the couch, nose deep in a book. Sam Wilson was half-shouting something about a sparring session.

And then, there he was.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, piercing blue eyes narrowed in a look that could melt steel. Bucky Barnes.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

I saw her before she even got off the elevator.

The new recruit—great. Another kid with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove. Fury had said she was talented, promising even. But Fury said a lot of things, and I wasn’t buying it.

Especially since she was Hydra-trained.

I crossed my arms tighter, keeping my mouth shut as the others greeted her. My stomach churned as I watched her, trying to read her body language. She stood tall, confident, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Good. She should be nervous.

“You’re the new girl, huh?” Sam said, clapping her on the shoulder like they were old friends.

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing my way for half a second before looking back at Sam. “I guess I am.”

Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight clench of her jaw. She knew who I was, knew what I thought about her being here.

“Welcome to the Tower,” Sam said, oblivious. “What’s your specialty?”

“Close combat,” she said. “And infiltration.”

“Great,” I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear. Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” I said, pushing off the wall. “You’ve got ‘infiltration’ written all over you.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

It took every ounce of restraint not to throw my duffel bag at his head. He was testing me, pushing my buttons, and it was working.

“Okay,” Sam said, stepping between us with a strained smile. “Let’s just… ease into this. No need to kill each other yet.”

Yet.

The tension lingered, thick as smoke, as Bucky gave me one last icy look before brushing past me and disappearing down the hall.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

The new girl—Y/N. Fury had mentioned her name in passing—was trouble. I didn’t need Steve’s optimism or Sam’s over-the-top friendliness clouding my judgment. People didn’t just walk away from Hydra clean.

I knew that better than anyone.

She was going to slip up. Eventually, she’d prove me right.

The problem was, part of me almost didn’t want her to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Two Weeks Later

Reader’s POV

I’d managed to avoid Bucky for the first couple of weeks, which was harder than it should have been considering we lived under the same roof. But there was no avoiding him in the field.

Our first mission as a team had gone sideways fast. Hydra—not that it was surprising—had set up a trap, and now half the team was scattered in the woods outside the compound while Bucky and I were stuck together.

“Stay close,” Bucky barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

“I know how to stay alive,” I snapped back, dodging behind a tree as bullets tore through the air.

“Yeah, but for how long?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I slid my knife from its sheath, took a deep breath, and bolted toward the nearest Hydra soldier. The element of surprise worked in my favor. I took him down quickly and efficiently, just like I’d been trained.

But the second soldier saw me coming.

“Damn it,” I muttered, raising my blade, but before I could strike, a blur of black and silver tackled the guy to the ground.

Bucky.

He stood over the unconscious soldier, shaking his head. “You’re reckless.”

“I’m fine,” I bit out, wiping blood from my cheek.

“For now.”

“Why do you even care?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him as more soldiers approached.

“Stay behind me,” he growled.

I wanted to argue, but something in his tone made me listen.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She was going to get herself killed.

I didn’t trust her—not even a little—but I didn’t want her blood on my hands. She was brash, stubborn, and reckless, but she wasn’t incompetent. That’s what made it worse.

Because if she wasn’t Hydra anymore, if she really had turned her back on them, she didn’t deserve to die like this.

“Bucky, behind you!”

Her voice snapped me back to reality just in time to block the incoming blow. The Hydra soldier hit hard, but I hit harder. I turned and delivered a swift kick to his chest, sending him flying into a tree.

When I turned back to Y/N, she was watching me, something unreadable in her eyes.

“You okay?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Good,” I muttered. “Let’s keep moving.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later

Reader’s POV

By the time we made it back to the jet, I was running on adrenaline and pure spite. Bucky hadn’t let up the entire mission, barking orders and criticizing every move I made.

But he’d also saved my life. Twice.

“You’re lucky I was there,” he said as the jet doors closed behind us.

I rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Clint, sitting in the pilot’s seat, let out a low whistle. “This is gonna be fun.”

Bucky ignored him, his focus entirely on me. “You want to survive out there? Start listening to people who know what they’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I snapped.

“Do you?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

“Better than hiding behind everyone else.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might actually yell. Instead, he turned and stormed toward the back of the jet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She was infuriating.

She didn’t know when to quit, when to listen, when to shut up. But damn it, she had fire.

I hated that I noticed it. Hated the way my heart skipped when she called me out, the way my mind replayed her voice when I was alone.

I hated the way she looked at me, like she was daring me to prove her wrong.

But most of all, I hated the thought of something happening to her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Weeks Turn to Months

The missions kept coming, and so did the tension. Every time we worked together, sparks flew—anger, frustration, heat. But somewhere along the line, the edges softened.

It started small: a hesitant “good job” after a successful mission, a shared smirk when Tony made a particularly bad joke.

And then, one night, everything changed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

The training room was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists hitting the punching bag. I’d come down to clear my head, but I wasn’t alone.

Bucky was there, shirtless and focused, his metal arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

I froze in the doorway, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.

“Gonna stand there all night?” he asked without looking up.

I scowled, stepping into the room. “Didn’t know you owned the place.”

He smirked, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “You here to train or to sulk?”

“Both,” I admitted, grabbing a pair of gloves.

We worked in silence for a while, the air thick with unspoken tension. It wasn’t until I landed a particularly satisfying hit on the bag that he finally spoke

Part 2

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

2. Second Impressions || Previous - Next

a simple favor for Steve leads to an unexpected second encounter and a lingering trace of powdered sugar that's harder to ignore than it should be.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (3.9kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI; mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers. a/n: NOTE!!! If u see "{{...}}" then that means i think u can skip it and be fine. and i think i finally decided on a weekly schedule.

“White chocolate macchiato?” Bucky called out as he pushed the glass door open with his back, swinging around to face an empty storefront. 

“Don’t judge!” He heard from the back room, as he set the bag and cup on the counter. 

“Never pegged you for the type.” Bucky smirked, watching his best friend practically float towards the pastry on the counter. He watched in bewilderment as Steve tore the bag open and took an enormous bite. 

“Yeah well, how many years has it been?” Steve asked with a mouth full of bread, crumbs of almond slipping from his lips. Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve took a swig of the hot coffee and melted into the seat beside him. 

“It’s like Christmas in a cup.” He held the cup with both hands to his chest, a dopey grin plastered on his face. Again, Bucky just stared.

“Listen, you may not get it but once you actually slow down you start to find things you never even knew you could enjoy.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky held his hands up in defense as he leaned across the counter. 

“You didn’t have to, I know that look on your face.” 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically jizz in your pants over a cup of coffee, and a danish.” Bucky jabbed at the blonde in front of him.

He watched as Steve stilled in his throat before groaning, dragging a hand down his face as he shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And you’re apparently unpredictable,” Bucky shot back, slouching against the counter with a smirk. “White chocolate macchiato? Really? Who are you, Steven?”

Steve glared at him, from the corner of his eye. Eyebrows furrowed. 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically cum in your pants over a cup of coffee and a bear claw, is all Stevie,” Bucky quipped, emphasizing the name as he rocked forward against the counter, arms crossed.

Steve froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing slightly before he set the cup down with exaggerated care. “Guess you met Y/N,” he said, his tone casual, though there was an edge of something unspoken.

 “Y/N,” Bucky repeated, testing the name as he tilted his head, studying him. “That the baker?”

Steve nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. She runs the café with this guy Sam. They’re partners. She handles the baking and the day-to-day stuff; he’s the coffee guy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, tutting his jaw forward. “Didn’t realize you were so invested in her business model, Steven.” He continues to study his face, resting his leather padded elbows against the granite. 

Steve gave him a dry look, shaking his head. “They’re good people, Buck. Been going there for years since before this place opened up. Y/N’s always just somehow been there for me. You know how it is—some people just stick.”

Bucky just stared. He locked eyes with Steve, and watched as the jewelry attached to the end of his eyebrow quirked up as he silently questioned him.

“What’s the big deal anyway? Why do you even care?” Steve finally blurted out, his fingers crinkled the paper bag in his hands, signalling that not only he was getting irritated but that Bucky was behaving strangely. He stepped back, and blinked.

“Nothing—I don’t care—just didn’t expect you to have something like that going on,” Bucky said, his voice quieter now, though his words still carried a pointed edge. He put his hands against the counter, studying Steve’s reaction.

Steve blinked, his head tilting slightly as if trying to figure out what Bucky wasn’t saying. “Something like what?” he asked, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp.

Bucky hesitated for a beat, his jaw working as he tried to shrug it off. “I don’t know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the coffee cup. “This whole… thing. The bear claws, the macchiato, the… normalcy.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, his tongue brushing lightly over the ring adorning his lip, though a slight furrow creased his brow. “It’s not a thing, Buck. She’s a friend—a good one. Don’t make it weird.” He took another swig of his sweet drink. 

“I’m not making it weird,” Bucky shot back quickly, his voice defensive. He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable under Steve’s gaze. “Just didn’t peg you for it, that’s all.”

“For what?” Steve pressed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.

Bucky straightened, his smirk returning though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For someone who’s got his coffee order memorized by a baker, Steve. That’s all.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re reading way too much into this,” he said, but there was something unspoken in his tone, something that made Bucky’s jaw tighten again. 

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered, pushing off the counter as he adjusted his stance.

The sound of the door swinging open cut through the moment, the brass bell bouncing sharply against the frame. Bucky glanced toward the entrance, catching the figure stepping inside, but his attention quickly shifted back to Steve.

Steve’s gaze flickered to the newcomer, then back to Bucky. He squinted slightly, as if assessing something unspoken, before pushing himself up from the chair. Grabbing the remains of the danish, he took one last bite before tossing it casually onto the desk. Without another word, he moved to greet the client, leaving Bucky standing there, the earlier conversation still hanging heavily in the air.

“But it’s still a hell of a danish, apparently,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering to the discarded pastry before walking towards the back office.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, watching as Steve greeted the newcomer with that same easy grin he gave everyone. The client, a guy in his early twenties, handed over a folded piece of paper—probably some Pinterest-inspired design that would drive Steve nuts later.

Steve took the paper with a nod, already slipping into professional mode, but Bucky’s thoughts stayed stuck on their earlier conversation. The weight of Steve’s words hung in the back of his mind.

He leaned against the office door frame, absently running his thumb along a faint tear in the leather of his jacket. It wasn’t the baker herself that was bothering him, he told himself—it was the way Steve had talked about her. Like she was more than just someone who made a good danish.

Bucky huffed quietly, glancing toward the counter where Steve was already sketching something out for the kid. He tried to brush it off, but the thought lingered, like a splinter under his skin.

Pushing off the doorframe, he headed toward the back. He didn’t need to stay and hear more—it wasn’t his business anyway. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

{{As you threw your head back to laugh at a joke Sam had suddenly thrown out, the bell above the door jingled lightly catching your attention. You glanced up just in time to see him—the man in the leather jacket—pushing the door open, stepping into the cool afternoon air.

Your gaze lingered briefly, watching as he walked past the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. There was something about the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like he didn’t quite belong here.

Sam’s voice cut through the café’s hum as he leaned against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind the man in the leather jacket. “What was his deal?”

You looked away from the window, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

He gestured toward the door with a sharp nod. “Steve’s “friend”. Looked like he was ready to bolt the second he walked in.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you placed loose napkins back in their holder. “Maybe he’s just not an outside person.” 

Sam scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right. Like that explains the way he was looking at you.”

That made you pause, your hand hovering over the counter as you turned to him. “Looking at me? He wasn’t—”

“He was,” Sam interrupted, his tone flat but edged with something harder. “Like he was trying to figure you out or something.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you turned back to your work. “You’re imagining things. He didn’t even say more than a few words to me.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t looking,” Sam muttered under his breath, the smirk tugging at his lips doing little to mask the irritation in his voice.

Your lips pressed together as you glanced toward the counter, catching Peter juggling cups and fumbling with the register, his expression one of barely concealed panic. You exhaled sharply and jutted your chin toward him. “I think Peter needs your help,” you said, keeping your tone casual, but the shift was deliberate.

As the café settled back into its usual rhythm, you found yourself distracted, your hands working on autopilot as you adjusted the remaining pastries in the display. It wasn’t like you to dwell on customers—especially not ones who had barely spoken a word to you—but something about him stuck.

It had to be the contrast, you decided. Steve was always so easygoing, the kind of guy who fit in anywhere, his warm demeanor making even the busiest days feel manageable. But his friend? He couldn’t have been more different if he tried.

Where Steve carried himself with an open confidence, the man in the leather jacket had felt... closed off. He hadn’t looked uncomfortable, exactly, but there had been something guarded about him. Like he didn’t belong here and was painfully aware of it.

You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you wiped your hands on your apron. That’s all it is, you told yourself. The difference has you caught off guard, that’s all.

Still, as you moved to refill the sugar containers, you couldn’t shake the image of him standing at the counter, his quiet presence somehow filling the space. You huffed softly to yourself, determined to let it go. You had more important things to think about than some friend of Steve’s who probably wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.}}

“Please, please, please.” You crossed your arms over your chest and rolled your eyes, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Steven, I have a shop to run.” You said, switching the “open” sign to “closed” after locking the double doors. 

“It’s Wednesday. You guys close early on Wednesdays—Please.” Steve begged over the phone, his tone dripping with exaggerated desperation. 

“I already did you a favor by ordering the books for you, and now—“ 

“I’ll owe you one.” 

“That’s what you said last time,” You deadpanned, switching the phone to speaker, so you could begin counting the money in the register. 

“And I still mean it. Just add this to the tab,” He said, his obnoxious smirk practically audible through the phone.

“Fine, Rogers you win.” You scoffed, reaching for your phone “I’ll stop by when I’m done.” You hung up and pocketed your phone with a sigh. 

“You headin’ over to Steve’s place?” A voice behind you asked, making you jump. 

“Sam, you scared me,” you said, counting the last of the dollar bills in your hand before compiling it into a neat pile and handing it off to your colleague. “And yes. I have to drop off that box over there.” You nodded toward a medium sized box on a folding chair in the corner of the back room. 

Sam swiftly took the stack from your hand and switched spots with you. “And he couldn’t come because?” 

“Said something about back-to-back bookings,” you replied, standing off to the side and wiping the counter for any remaining crumbs.

“You think his friend is gonna be there?” 

You paused, your movements halting mid-swipe. “I-I don’t know—” The sudden stutter caught you off guard, and you tensed. “What’s with all these questions anyway?” you added, more annoyed than curious.

“Nothing, just…I can take it if you want.” Sam said, slipping some money into a plastic bag and putting the rest in the register before shutting it with a soft click.

“Oh,” you said, feeling silly for your earlier outburst. “Thanks, but that’s okay. There’s some stuff I have to talk to Steve about anyway.” Was that a lie? Sam looked at you. Crap. It was. 

———

The entire walk there, you wracked your brain trying to think of anything you actually needed to talk to Steve about. The books were already paid for, and the pastries were an afterthought—a gesture more for your own sense of courtesy than anything else. There wasn’t anything urgent, not really. 

If you were being honest, Sam could’ve just as easily dropped the box off himself if you’d let him. 

You adjusted the boxes in your arms, and the purse on your shoulder, feeling the rough edge of the worn cardboard dig lightly into your palm. The other box, filled with leftover pastries from the café, teetered slightly on top as you shifted your grip.

The early afternoon sun filtered through the trees lining the sidewalk, casting dappled shadows that danced at your feet. The air was crisp but not biting, a faint breeze carrying the warm scents of bistros and freshly fallen leaves. It was a pleasant enough walk, you supposed, though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were overthinking it. 

Maybe it was Sam’s question that had thrown you off. Or maybe it was the memory of Steve’s friend—the man with the leather jacket and the sharp blue eyes. The way he’d lingered at the counter, quiet and guarded, but somehow impossible to ignore.

You exhaled, shaking your head as if to dislodge the thought.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself firmly. You’re just doing Steve a favor. That’s it.

Still, as you neared the shop, you shifted the boxes in your hands again, noticing the faint warmth building against your palms. The moisture made the edges of the cardboard feel slicker than they should have, and you tightened your grip to steady them.

When you reached the door, you nudged it open with your back, the faint chime of the bell ringing overhead as you stepped inside.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the tattoo machine in the distance.

You looked around the small tattoo parlor, the black furniture standing out in contrast to the white walls. More stuff had been added since the last time you’d stopped by—large and small plants now decorated the interior, their vibrant greens softening the otherwise sharp and minimalistic space. A new piece of art hung on the far wall, bold lines and intricate designs that drew your attention for a moment before your gaze shifted.

The space felt more lived-in now, more personal, like it wasn’t just a shop but a place someone cared for. The faint hum of the tattoo machine came from one of the rooms in the back, mingling with the subtle scent of antiseptic and something faintly woodsy, maybe a candle burning somewhere out of sight.

“Steven?” you called again, balancing the boxes in your hands as you glanced toward the counter.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be tied up with a client, but the shop felt quieter than usual. Setting the boxes down carefully on the counter, you adjusted the pastry box to the side  before looking around again. 

“Steve?” you called again, your voice louder this time as you leaned slightly over the counter, scanning the back area.

The faint hum of a tattoo machine that buzzed steadily suddenly stopped in the back room, but no one answered. You sighed, stepping back and glancing around the shop once more, your eyes lingering on the plants and new art pieces scattered throughout.

The soft creak of a door caught your attention, and you turned just as someone stepped out from the back.

It wasn’t Steve.

Your breath hitched briefly when you recognized him—the man from the café. Except this time there was no leather jacket adorning his figure, he wasn’t wearing it, just a black t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His sharp blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“Oh,” you said finally, trying to mask your surprise. “I thought Steven would be here.” 

“He had to step out.” 

You nodded, pursing your lips as you glanced toward the counter. “I just brought some stuff for him,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the boxes. “Books he ordered. And some leftover pastries from this morning.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the counter before returning to you. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your hands off on your jeans, though they weren’t dusty. The silence stretched for a moment, the faint echo of the tattoo machine still lingering in the air. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the box of pastries before blurting out, “You… can help yourself too… if you want.”

His brow arched slightly, his sharp blue eyes holding yours for just a second longer than you expected. “Appreciate it,” he said simply, his tone even, though you thought you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

You felt your cheeks warm, and your hand drifted to the seam on the side of your jeans, fidgeting with the fabric as though it might keep you steady.

He didn’t move from where he stood, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His steady gaze made your fingers itch, and your nail dragged against the denim fabric audibly now.

That’s when you noticed the black latex glove on his left hand, the stark contrast of it catching your eye. His arm, adorned with intricate tattoos you hadn’t noticed before, drew your attention—the sharp lines and shading that curved around his forearm and bicep were as striking as they were detailed.

When he crossed his arms, the movement only emphasized the muscles beneath the ink, the casual strength in his stance making it hard to look away.

“You’re Steve’s friend, right?” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. You’re startled by your own voice, and for a moment you wondered why you hadn’t just left right then and there. 

He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding whether or not to engage. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate.

Silence stretched between you again, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You nodded as you shifted your weight. “Well... I should get going,” you murmured, your tone quieter now. “Just let Steven know I stopped by.” 

You turned, ready to make your exit, when his voice cut through the stillness.

“Bucky.”

The name came softly, but it carried weight, stopping you mid-step. You froze for a moment before turning back, your brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

His arms were still crossed, the black latex glove on his left hand catching your eye again as he adjusted his stance. “My name,” he said, the words simple but steady. “It’s Bucky.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling the word catch awkwardly in your throat. You glanced at him, searching his face for a moment, then straightened slightly. “Nice to meet you... Bucky.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest feel a little tight. “And you are?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him your name, the sound of it hanging awkwardly between you as you watched for a reaction. 

“Y/N,” he repeated, the weight of your name on his lips making your cheeks flush. Before you could respond, Steve’s voice rang out from the back.

“Hey, glad you made it!”

You turned to see him emerging from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag, his grin easy and familiar. “Y/N, can you bring the books back to my room? I just need to finish cleaning my station.”

“Sure thing,” you replied quickly, eager for something to busy yourself with.

“And Buck, mind ringing up this guy while I handle things over here?” Steve added, gesturing toward the lone customer waiting at the counter.

“Got it,” Bucky replied simply, stepping aside to let you pass.

As you moved toward the back room, you felt his gaze linger a little too long, the weight of it brushing against your skin in a way that made your steps falter slightly. You didn’t look back, though the heat crawling up your neck made you wish you had.

Bucky’s focus only shifted when Steve cleared his throat, nodding toward the counter. His sharp gaze flicked toward Steve, a quick, pointed look passing between them, before he turned to handle the transaction, his movements deliberate but unhurried.

You stepped into the back room, the soft scuff of your shoes blending with the faint hum of the tattoo machine in the distance. Steve was already moving to clear off a cluttered table, his grin easy as ever.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, nodding toward the box of books you carried.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, setting the box down carefully. “Though you might want to remember I’ve been keeping track, and it looks like you’ll be paying me back for the rest of your life.”

Steve let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

You smirked. “And you’re lucky I’m nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teased, pushing off the doorframe. “Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously.”

His sincerity caught you slightly off guard, but you brushed it off with a shrug. “No problem, Stevie.” 

He raised his hand, palm out, and you met it halfway with an easy high five, your fingers curling briefly around his in a quick dap before you stepped back with a small smile. “See you later,”  he said with a grin as you turned toward the doorway.

Pausing just before stepping out, you peeked your head into the front room, your eyes scanning the space. The customer was gone, and so was Bucky. The faint creak of the office door swinging shut must’ve been him slipping into the other room.

Relieved, you stepped fully into the front of the shop, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you made your way to the front. Walking past the counter you caught sight of the pastry box slightly skewed with the lid ajar, the faintest crack catching your attention. Frowning, you reached out to fix it, fingers brushing over the edge as you led it back into place. That’s when you noticed it—a missing pastry. 

Your hand stilled, your pulse quickening despite yourself. Powdered sugar clung to the rim of the cardboard box, and littered the counter surface, a subtle, almost careless trace left behind. 

Your chest tightened, a flicker of heat creeping up your neck. It could’ve been the customer... but your mind stubbornly circled back to someone else. You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you made sure you had your things. The stillness of the space was broken by the low hum of the tattoo machine, its steady buzz filling the air once more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped out into the cool air, the lingering warmth of the shop clinging to you. Even as you walked down the street, the faint image of sharp blue eyes and a missing pastry hovered in your mind, refusing to fade completely.

----

Next

a/n: please reblog to support! I also love feedback, and comments :)

taglist (lmk if you want to be added!) : @cheezemanz @shirukitsune @miharuwrites

[lyssa-rina]

Project Xerox.

Synopsis: Hydra has managed to clone the winter soldier, you, a handler, managed to escape with your ward after their downfall. Now after the scattering and reassembling of the avengers; trying to put themselves back together they uncover a lost secret.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader (slowburn!)

Characters: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, OCs, Reader

Warnings!: fighting, stabbing (it's not serious).

word count: 3.3k

AN: Ngl bro, I totally forgot I was writing this for a second bc my mom was in the hospital, but I digress. This is for fun plz be chill. enjoy!

The last time you heard of the Avengers they were fighting in an airport in germany. You were fueling up at a gas station the news broadcasting on the convenience store tv showed airport security footage. Blows traded by both sides, back and forth, explosions and a giant man. The news anchor spoke over looped clips of fighting, something about ‘holding heros accountable’. You didn't care, no one at hydra was ever held accountable for what you went through, so who gives a shit? As long as they left you alone. Natasha was there, you hadn't spoken to her since she escaped the red room. Unbeknownst to herself and the captain, they were the reason you were able to escape hydra all those years ago.

It had been two years since hydra's downfall and you were still moving, trying to keep them off your trail by never staying in one place too long. Alexander Pierce’s death coupled with the incident in Washington created a domino effect across all of hydra.

They might have fallen but a hydra always rises from the ashes they said. A few patrons stopped to watch the news both in shock and feigned disinterest.

He was there too, the soldier, the asset, the blueprint. His face became a constant in your life after you were traded to hydra by the red room. Blue eyes that followed your every move, now watching you with curiosity.

"What's wrong?" You sat on the boardwalk, side by side with your ward, fishing poles waiting for the dark water to cough up a few more fish. A cold wind rustled the trees as a chill ran up your spine, that was all that you could hear besides the lapping of lake water.

"I think it's time for us to head back to the house." You received an annoyed whine in return.

"But- I haven't caught anything yet!"

"I know, but we've been out here all evening, I want you to get some studying in before dinner time" those eyes, staring back at you in disbelief.

"What?! Why?" Despite his protest, he knows to follow orders. That training has been ingrained into his mind since birth.

Reeling in his line with a pout. "Why do I have to study if I already know everything?"

You hum in answer as you smile at the kid. He looks so adorable with his oversized jacket and unruly hair.

"Do you think fish have dreams isaac?"

Those eyes again, swirling with so much curiosity, intrigue and as much scepticism as any eight year old could muster. How was he supposed to know that?

"See? You don't know everything." The walk back to the house was spent with Isaac trying to prove that he did in fact know everything. He did, kind of. Growing up under Hydra’s thumb meant he had to know everything, be anything. To survive you had to be the best of the best and he was. Surpassing dozens of other clones. Alexander Pierce had personally congratulated you on shaping their best new asset, it was sickening the way scientists marveled over their creation. They said he was perfect, genetically, physically, mentally and academically. But who cares how smart you are when they need mindless soldiers. But most of all he was profitable.

It was silent, the only sounds were leaves rustling in the trees and crunching under your feet. The weather was getting colder and the lack of birds chirping didn't seem too alarming. But still, the feeling stayed. The feeling reminded you of the first times they ever went outside. More than half of the kids were terrified, seeing the sky for the first time. Issac was amongst those scared kids but he adapted the fastest and now you can barely keep him inside.

You locked every door and window as soon as you got back to the house. Drawing each curtain as you moved through the cabin, they wouldn't do much for protection, unless there was a sniper they would at least keep you out of view. Even after you prepared dinner, that feeling of unease was there.

"Issac?" He was at the coffee table. Rereading an advanced algebra book for the fifth time.

“Yes?”

“Go tell your brother dinner’s ready.��

The soft thumping of a walking stick became familiar. It was like hearing your own heartbeat in the dead of night. The whirring of a breathing machine was white noise when your thoughts traveled too far, pulling you back to the present as you poured your stew over rice. The heat of the stew was a comfort in a life that always seemed to be moving, rice was cheap and convenient, but versitial.

When you turn to set the table Ben is already in his seat. He usually helps you with cooking but recently the cold makes his leg ache. Since then he’s been listening to the radio frequencies, waiting to hear anything suspicious but thankfully there's been nothing so far.

‘smells good.’ Ben signs as you place his bowl in front of him.

He then turns to Issac, who’s standing beside him. ‘Let’s hope it tastes good too.’

“Hey!” You say feigning offense. “ I was trained to be a spy, not a cook.” The two boys burst into a hearty laugh.

Dinner was peaceful, well, as peaceful as any dinner could be with two young boys debating theoretical cartoon physics in sign language. The boy's dynamic was the same as any other pair of siblings. Brainwashed or not every sibling has pulled a knife on the other, there was that intense push and pull of love and hate. According to the scientists at the hydra facility, they wouldn't exactly be classified as siblings. They were identical, even more than twins. They were the same person, exactly the same. The same person living different lives. When the experiments started you pondered if a singular soul could be split into two, maybe three? But how far can a singular soul stretch? Can a soul even be shared?

“Are you coming to bed?” Issac asks, his big puppy eyes stare back at you. You can tell he senses your unease the way he fidgets on your shared bed.

“I’m not tired yet, I’ll come to bed in a little bit. Okay?” He pouts, crosses his arms and looks away. He’s getting such an attitude these days. You’re thankful that he is, it means he’s not afraid of you. You don’t think they ever were scared of you, maybe by a fraction. Growing up in that place breathes hesitancy, it breathes fear. One guard's bad day could lead to your worst.

“Ben. . . ” You threw him a look, you haven't told him about the unease you felt at the lake. But the eyes tell it all, you’ve both developed a sort of telepathy over the years. Something wasn't right and as he looked back at you from his mattress on the floor he understood completely. Ben knows the drill, he’s been doing this for years.

They look just like him, soon enough you might not even be able to tell them apart from him. They might still be kids but they were under hydra's control for so long. You’re afraid that they might end up back there, end up like the asset, like the soldier that can’t say no and won’t ask questions; because that’s exactly what they were made for.

He nods.

“Goodnight boys.”

You stayed awake, sitting in front of the fireplace with your piece. The fire crackled. It’s light dancing across your eyes and then you heard it, a creak. Wood bending under the pressure of some sneaking intruder, it was the back door. You eased off the couch and sneaked behind a wall armed and ready, when you saw another shadow walk across your front window. You could handle them, sure, but you’d like to stop running someday, find somewhere safe enough to feel normal. Somewhere you didn't have to look over your shoulder after every step.

You suspected it. But you wouldn’t believe it, you hoped they hadn’t found you.

You had a slight upper hand, as small as the cabin was, you’d been living here for weeks. You knew the layout. So waited, back against the mantel wall. Waiting for them to cross the threshold of the hallway. Their steps light, you could hear the subtle drag of the sole of their shoe. If you hadn't known they were there you would think nothing of it. Before the intruder could check their periferal you striked. Grabbing their arm you threw them over your shoulder, they slammed onto a wooden armchair destroying it. You aimed your piece and missed as they kicked you in the chest. When you stumbled they rolled out of the chair limbs and kicked your legs from under you. The both of you were on the ground fighting over the gun when you fired again, it grazed their side. They launched at you and you kicked them off and kicked up into a standing position.

Before you could take aim again, they kicked your gun out of your hand. They tried to climb onto your shoulders, it was a predictable move. You reached for a vase on the window when their calf landed on your shoulder, they backed off after it shattered against them. You were able to keep up as you traded blows, it was a dance you were familiar with. When someone grabbed you from behind, trapping your arms to your sides. Right! There was another one. You lifted your legs and kicked the first intruder in the chest, sending them flying into the broken chair. Yourself and the second intruder flew into the side window from the force of the kick. The glass cracked with a web leaving a big hole in its centre. This was starting to get tedious, but you realised they weren't trying to hurt you but maybe distract you. What if some else was trying to get to your boys while you were stuck here fighting.

You leapt over the first intruder to get to them but the second one grabbed you from behind again. Your window trick wouldn't work again so you head butted them and their grip slackened.

“Ah! Shit!” they hissed.

That was a familiar ‘shit!’. It definitely stood out against all the grunting from the struggle. You froze when the lights came on a second later and you were released. In the corner of the room stood your long lost fellow captive, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, Natasha Romanoff, the widow that escaped. When you turned around the second intruder you came to find out was just Clint Barton. Your entire body sagged with relief but before you could say a word, Clint cried out again gripping his thigh. It was Isaac, armed with a small knife. His eyebrows furrowed, his teeth bared, like a kitten with a crazy smile. He’d stabbed him in the thigh thinking you were in danger, you honestly don’t blame him but he shouldn’t have too. He’s just a kid.

“Isaac no!” you cried out, as he pulled his arm back to strike Clint again. You managed to grab his hand before it came down. Grabbing him by the torso and dragging him away. Confusion brewd on his face as his small frame fought against you. He wouldn’t dare use his real strength against you but why were you stopping him? He was trying to protect you.

“Issac, stop!” his hesitancy was written all over his face. You could tell that he was sacred. He was on the verge of tears, his breath trembled.

Ben stood at the threshold of the room, eyes wide, breath rasping, balancing on his walking stick.

‘I tried to stop him.’ His hands shook as he signed. His breath was ragged, his chest pumping rapidly but not so much from fright but lack oxygen. Rushing after Issac he wouldn't have had time to put his oxygen concentrator on.

“It’s okay. I know you're scared but these are my friends-“

“But they attacked you!” Issac wheezed out.

“ They surprised me- and I got scared and I reacted without thinking.”You really weren't thinking, even with the light from the fireplace you’d ignored all recognizable features and just focused on the fight.

“Remember what we talked about?” His eyes darted between the three adults but avoiding eye contact.

“ . . .I’m sorry.” He murmured.

“You don’t need to be sorry issac. You were just trying to protect me.” you breathed a sigh of relief as he curled into your chest. Silent cries shook his tiny frame, you tried to sooth him, rubbing circles into his back. “But, you don’t need to protect me, I’m the adult, I’m supposed to protect you.”

“Don’t feel bad, kid. I’ve stabbed him by accident too, he’ll be fine.” Natasha snickered out.

“Hilarious.” Clint mockingly hissed and turned to you to ask for a first aid kit.

“It’s under the sink and I’m trying to teach him to not stab people anymore.” The cut on leg definitely wasn’t deep but the drama queen still clutched his thigh in pain.

“Well, you're doing a terrible job.” Clint whined as he sat at the kitchen table.

“Cut me some slack, we’re practically hermits.” you grinned slightly.

The boys wouldn’t go back to bed after all the commotion, so you all settled in the front room, well, what else was left of it; While Clint stewed the small connected kitchen. The cold breeze streamed through the broken side window chilling the room. The cabin was only eight hundred square feet, if you would even call it a cabin,It wasn’t made for long ‘vacations’ but you managed.

You felt safer with Clint and Natasha here but something still wasn’t right. They wouldn’t be here without a reason. You sat in the centre of the couch, Issac’s head in your lap and Ben curled into your side, both eagle eyed.

“Sorry about your window.” Nat poked at the fireplace trying to heat up the room.

You waved her off. They wouldn’t be here if they didn't intend to take you all to wherever they were staying. Your time here was limited anyways, if they hadn't come you would’ve left soon anyways. “That was Clint’s fault, it’s fine”

“My fault?!” Clint gawked, but you ignored him.

“You should take care of that.” Gesturing to the bullet graze you gave her. She nods, her back to you, her focus was on the fireplace.

“We’ve been tracking you for months.” The flames from the fireplace rose, glowing ashes floated up as Nat added more wood. She was floating on an air of disquiet, her posture was rigid, feigned calmness. You’d known each other since you were kids, you were trained to pick up on weakness, even eachother’s.

“Hhm, guess I’m getting lazy.”

“With two kids? I’m surprised we took so long.” Ben and Issac were trained in the same ways you were, hiding in plain sight was something that came naturally to everyone in this room. Moving through life without leaving a trace wasn't just a skill, it was survival. You don’t know why she would point that out.

“Cut the bullshit. Why were you looking for us? What happened?”

“I can’t check on an old friend?” Trying to ease the tension she turns to you and gives a small smile.

You raised a brow. “We’ve been out for years and no one but Hydra lackeys cared about us until now.”

Nat postures to speak again but hesitates.

“General Thaddeus Ross happened.” Clint answered, digging into one of the kitchen cupboards. “Com’on, You guys don’t have reeses?” he mutters to himself.

“Latvia doesn’t have reeses- what does Ross want?” you ask Nat.

“You ask that everytime we’re Latvia Clint.” Nat rolled her eyes feigning annoyance.

“What does Ross want, Natasha?” She doesn't speak but her eyes say it all as they linger on your fingers combing through Ben’s hair. Ben tenses under your palm, he already knows what’s going on.

“Issac, go help your brother back to your room.”

“He has his cane-” he tries to whine.

“Issac, please.”

Ben takes Issac under the arm, the three of you sit in pregnant silence waiting for the sound of the bedroom door to shut. They would probably still hear you because of their super hearing but this was an adult conversation, they're just kids.

When you hear the sound of the door shut Clint breaks the silence with a chuckle.

“Stubborn, that one.”

You knew why the Avengers fell apart, because of the accords. That general Thaddeus Ross wanted superheroes under his thumb and tried pressing their team into signing the accords, they disagreed and things got messy. You also knew when Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D fell all their secrets were strewn onto the internet, hidden behind their plans, strategies and weapons testing there were documents out there that detailed your time in that hell hole. Everything about the experiments that wasn’t on paper was out there and had been out there for a long time. Their weight, height, progress and even their ‘date of birth’. It was all there. Someone was going to get their hands on it eventually.

“You know what happened.” Nat sighs, wiping the exhaustion off her face.

“That doesn't explain why you're here! The last time I saw you two, you were fighting each other on tv.” You rise from your seat on the couch to see them both. To look them both in their eyes.

This vagueness Natasha was operating in, especially with you of all people, was freaking you out.

“First of all, we’re always fighting. Secondly, that was six months ago and I forgave her.” Clint puts it matter of factly, with one finger pointed and a pack of saltines crumpling in his hands. You really wished he wouldn’t eat your snacks but you’d be leaving soon anyway, so who cares?

“Nat, you need to tell me if they’re in danger. Please. . .” She does.

She spills her guts and in turns sours yours. After the accords fell the general started digging up anything he could to get the avengers to hand over their power. He was trying to stretch himself far and wide to get back any semblance of power and he landed on project xerox. He concluded that all ‘weapons’ produced by the experiments were legally property of the US government because of S.H.I.E.L.D’s involvement. Natasha explained that a ‘friend’ that worked for the government leaked the information to her. The mad man wanted your kids in custody, presumably to be child soldiers.It was like deja vu, your story wasn’t changing.

What was left of the ‘dubbed by media’ team cap were all still on the run, hiding out in eurasia and africa. When Nat got the tip she left the safety of their group without warning just to come find you, which meant Thaddeus Ross probably already knew where and by extension so did his enemies. You were bugs caught in a spiderweb of agendas and every arachnid wanted a piece.

“Where were you staying before you came here?”

“A couple towns over.“ Nataha’s slight grin gives the inclination that they’ve been following you closer than you initally thought. So much so that Natasha and Clint were able to stop a military squad before they were able to intercepted you and the boys.

“And I’m guessing you didn’t just bring Clint here to annoy me.” Clint rolls his eyes.

“No, I came to take you on a field trip.”

“To where?” The three of you swivel to the boy’s heads peeking out of the bedroom door in the hallway.

“Boys! What did I say?”

Taglist: @impoeticbeauty

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam Wilson hires Bucky Barnes to guard you in an isolated safe house. This causes tension as you both get on each others nerves in an increasingly dangerous situation. But, you slowly come to realize you're more alike than you thought. Will it be too late when you finally let yourself trust him?

Word Count (for Part 1): 2.3k

Tags: Slowburn, reluctant attraction, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, bodyguard, hired to protect, fluff and angst, nightmares and comfort, eventual smut, reluctant attraction.

T/W: Some non-graphic depictions of violence, guns, eventual smut.

A/N: Hello. This will be just a few parts. I'm envisioning 5. Who knows though. Will be posted on my AO3 as well (linked here). Also, feel free to send short one-shot requests. I may not answer them all but if one inspires me, I'll write. Enjoy!

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to sprint down the hill into oncoming traffic.”

“There is no oncoming traffic.”

“I’ll keep running until I find some.”

“Good luck.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking another swig of your coffee. Bucky Dumbass Barnes leans against the porch railing, watching you. You flip him off and he rolls his eyes, looking instead at the dirt road ahead.

The day is calm and cicadas are buzzing loudly. You draw your knees up to your chest as you watch the wind play with the grass, making it flatten and swirl into ever-changing circles.

It’s so incredibly boring out here, away from the city. There’s no coffee shops, or long walks down busy streets, or movie theatres. The lack of movie theatres hurts the most. All you want to do is sit with people, too many people, anonymously sharing a laugh or a cry in a dark room. Free people don’t appreciate the amount of community that is shared within the walls of a theatre. The insight gleaned from hearing their murmurs to their friends about the attractiveness of the actors or the stupidity of the dialogue. You miss connecting with them and feeling, finally, like one of them. Anonymously. With the ability to leave afterwards, free to go about your business.

But now, all you do is watch the grass as Bucky watches you. Solely because of one stupid person with an obsession.

You chug the rest of your coffee and get up, limping past Bucky and letting the screen door slam behind you. He huffs, but you couldn’t care less.

The safe house has a rudimentary kitchen. Though, fancier than your own due to the coffee machine Sam brought as an apology for forcing you here. As you start another cup of coffee, you tap the counter with a finger. Sam said this would only be for a month. Just until they found out how He was tracking you. Then you could go back to your blissful anonymity in New York.

That is, if they could even find who He is.

That’s the flip side of the coin. You can disappear, until someone wants to find you. Then, it’s all that much easier for them to never appear to you at all, except when they want to. The little voice in the back of your head whispers his name to you, but you close your eyes and silence it. He’s gone. He must be.

The coffee drips from the machine. It’s been overworked the past two weeks, both from you trying to cling on to whatever sense of normalcy you’ve cultivated outside of this house, and from Bucky trying to stay awake.

How long did Bucky say he was going to stay here for? Couldn’t have been more than a month. He’s always been sick of you within the hour in past missions. It’s a miracle he’s still around two weeks in. Once he’s decided he’s done, you can go back. Or when whatever Sam bribed him with is gone. And then, who else does Sam trust enough to know where the safe house is? He barely let you know. You’ll be going back in no time.

Sure, there’s a homicidal maniac after you, leaving traps that have caught you twice already and broken your leg both times, but now that you know his M.O. you can catch him. You’ve handled yourself before, who’s to say you can’t again?

The coffee machine beeps, and you take a sip from the cup. Your bad leg twinges, angry at supporting you for this long, and you grit your teeth. Your own body doesn’t believe in you. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

The screen door slams again as Bucky comes inside.

“There’s no more coffee.” You mutter, and he reaches into the cupboard by the door and pulls out a bag. Opening it, he comes over to the machine to refill, and you move gingerly out of the way. He doesn’t notice, or care, and continues.

“This is the last bag, though. We’ll have to go into town to get more.” He says to the coffee machine.

“I don’t think it’ll answer you.” You say.

“You don’t want me looking at you. I’m happy to grant that request.”

“I don’t want you watching me. That’s very different.”

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Thank god. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know who’s stalking you, but it must be the only person in the world who could put up with your bullshit.”

“At least someone can put up with mine. I don’t think anyone can handle this long with you.”

“I’m okay with not having a psycho leaving bombs on my doorstep.”

“My balcony. He left them on my balcony.”

“Touchey. Or however the fuck you say it.”

“Touché.”

He rolls his eyes, not answering you and instead methodically glancing over the sparse living room. After two weeks you know what he looks at. The boarded up back door, the windows with trip-wires stretched across the sills, the cameras blinking red and pointed at every egress point. If he wasn’t such an ass, you’d be impressed by the level of care he’s putting into his job. You know it’s just about the money, though. Money that’s quickly running out.

“How much did Sam pay for?”

“Coffee? Two months supply. You’ve been drinking it like the damned Energizer bunny, though.”

“No, your money. For your ‘services’, or whatever you call the peeping tom bullshit.”

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. His neck muscle flexes beneath his collar. You’d think it was attractive if it wasn’t his jaw.

“That was one time. I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I told you to always answer. I didn’t ‘peep’ at anything, anyway.” He finally says after a minute of counting.

“You’re not my keeper.”

“For the next two weeks, I am. And then it some other poor idiots job to watch you.”

That makes you freeze, putting your coffee down.

“What?” You say, and he glances over at you.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

“No! What do you mean someone else will be watching me?”

“Well, if Sam and them don’t find Him, you’ll still need to stay here.” He’s talking slowly, as if talking to a particularly dumb child.

“That wasn’t the agreement. Sam said a month.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Sam. Besides, you want to go back there? Back to your apartment, that He knows about? Hell, He knows the security camera blindspots. And you want to waltz back in like everything is fine?” Now, he’s looking at you. You really hate it when he does that. He seems to always be studying you, picking you apart with his ice-cold eyes. It makes your heart jump into your throat.

You break the eye contact by looking into your coffee.

“I just want to go home.” You finally say into its dregs. You swallow the rest of it, putting it on the counter harder than you meant to. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to come in, weirdo.”

“Easy enough.” He mutters as you walk up the stairs.

- - -

That night, you’re running.

You don’t need to look behind you to know He’s there. You’re barefoot again, running on the rough cement of the lab, scraping your bare skin against the walls as you round the corners of the never-ending basement prison. The burn from your wounds is nothing to the one in your head. It’s making your vision blurry and your eyes red-hot, and you know he’s closing in on you.

Sprinting now, the lights behind you close one by one with an electric thud, like a giants footsteps getting closer to stomping on you by the second.

Thud. You’re blinking back fire. Thud. Your heart is giving out.

Thud. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine as he finally-

Crash. You startle awake, a scream still ripping through your throat. You grab the closest thing to you -another coffee cup- and throw it towards the door that just smashed open. It narrowly misses a barely clothed Bucky as he ducks backward.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Don’t surprise the guy with a gun! Gun safety 101!”

You notice now that he is holding one, its metal nose glinting off the moonlight coming through the bent blinds. His steel fingers share the same gleam.

“Don’t break into a sleeping woman’s room!” Is the only thing you can manage to yell back, turning away from him to wipe hot tears from your face quickly.

“I think the fact you were screaming loud enough to wake the dead is reason enough to come in here! I told you to not lock this door, by the way, so the whole breaking and entering thing is your fault.” He barks.

“Shut up, Bucky.” You whisper.

“Is someone in here? Why were you screaming?” The floor creaks under him as he steps into the room, looking around the corners.

“No one is in here, just go back to bed.” You’re gripping the mattress now, trying to calm down. He’s not making it any easier as he stops to stand behind you. There’s a soft ting of a bullet hitting the ground as he uncocks the gun, but he doesn’t leave.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“There were two questions.”

“I’m glad you know how to count.” You need to breathe. 1, 2, 3- shit. 1, 2- shit! Do you know how to count?

He’s quiet for a moment, and you almost think he’s left until he speaks again.

“Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I need to be.” You say breathlessly. Running a hand through your hair you stand up shakily, moving around the bed and going to the door. He’s standing in front of the doorway, not moving. In the dim light of the moon, the only part of him not shrouded in shadow is his metal arm. You try to avoid looking at it, knowing somewhere deep down that he hides it from you for a reason, with long sleeves even in the harshest sunlight. But the only other place to look is his chest or his face, which makes your cheeks feel hot even now. You settle on looking down at the bullet on the ground between you both.

“I need some water.” You murmur after a moment of him staring down at you.

“You need to answer me.”

“Please, Bucky.” You plead. Your defences fall for just a moment, but your lungs are starting to collapse. The world is starting to swim, and you’re not sure if its panic, tears, or the pain in your leg screaming at you to sit back down. Whichever one, you really don’t want Bucky to see it.

“Go back in bed. I’ll get it for you.” His voice is calm now. Quieter. Exhausted, the only answer you can manage is a nod, doing as you’re told and laying back down. You stare at the crack in the blinds and try to blink away tears as you listen to him rummaging in the kitchen.

He comes back too soon. He sets the glass on the nightstand behind you, but you don’t hear him leave. Sighing, you turn around, and finally look at him in the face.

His eyebrows are knit together, and as he looks at you, you can feel him studying you again. This time your stomach flutters.

You break eye contact again, sitting up and sipping the water quietly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sorry for crashing in.”

“Sorry for screaming.”

“Not for the coffee mug?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

You flick your eyes up at him, and you think for a moment you see a smile, but it quickly falls away once he looks in your eyes. You both look at each other for a second, two, three, before its his turn to break contact. He runs his metal hand through his tousled hair, glancing down at his gun, the bed, the window, anywhere but you.

“When I, hmm.” He takes a deep breath. “When I have a bad night, I have to ground myself.”

“Ground yourself? Like a naughty kid?”

“No.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “My senses. Y’know. Five things I see, three things I hear, one thing I feel. Until I calm down.”

“Oh.”

“Are you still on edge?” He glances down at your free hand gripping the mattress. You loosen it.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to stay in here?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in here. To...watch over you.” He’s still looking away from you.

“Aren’t you already doing that? Hence the gun?”

He rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll just-”

“Yeah. If you can. Stay here, that is.” The permission comes from a part of you that you’ve shoved down. Or thought you shoved down. Now, it’s speaking from the middle of your throat, stealing any breath you have with it.

He finally looks at you again, then slowly nods.

“Okay. I can. Let me grab a blanket.” He walks out of the room, and you’re finally able to breathe again.

Laying back down, you try to ground yourself. You see the armchair across from the foot of your bed, the window, the bent blinds, the broken patch of ceiling above you, the barely touched glass of water on the nightstand. You hear the croon of an owl outside, the orchestra of a grasshopper, the creak of the floorboards as Bucky comes back in. Closing your eyes, you try to focus on sleep.

You feel Bucky’s warm hand brushing against your skin as he pulls your blanket up to cover you, leaving you cold when he moves away.

Your muscles relax as you hear him settle into the armchair. Inexcusably, your brain tells you, he calms you. Happily, your heart slows, letting you fall into a dreamless sleep.

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Soldier's Baby Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized fem!reader

Series Warning: Y/N use, swearing, mentions of sexual assault (Not graphic just mentioned a few times) & the word rape (No one raped reader, there was just confusion on what happened), fatphobia, trauma, abuse, insecurities.

Pt. 2 Summary: Things between you and Bucky are beginning to change. He's embracing his role as a father well, making sure to connect with you along the way. Are you developing a crush? Does he like you back?

After Captain America TWS, Not cannon to movies just some things from the movies mentioned.

*Not Proof Read*

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)

□□□□□□□

You sit across from Bucky, still clutching the mug you’ve long since forgotten to drink from. The living room is quiet, sunlight spilling in through the windows in hazy golden streaks. Daisy plays on the floor in her usual chaos—stuffed animals scattered, blocks dumped out, her bunny lying on its side like it’s recovering from a long day.

Bucky’s there too, something that's become a usual sight over the past few weeks. Not right beside her—but close. Sitting a few feet away, legs crossed, his arms draped loosely over his jean-covered knees. He’s just… watching. Not in a weird way. Just kind of soft. Thoughtful. Like he doesn’t want to intrude, but can’t help being near her.

She doesn’t seem to mind. Every so often, she glances at him, then returns to whatever she’s doing—lining up blocks, then knocking them down. He offers her a little smile once or twice when their eyes meet. She grins back.

Then, out of nowhere, she stands up, wobbling on unsteady legs, and toddles over to him with purpose.

“Build fort?” she asks, looking up at him with her big, bright eyes.

He blinks, clearly caught off guard. “A fort?”

She nods seriously. “With blankies.”

Bucky looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do. He glances toward me—just briefly—then looks back down at her. “Uh… sure,” he says slowly. “We can try.”

She beams and immediately grabs a throw blanket off the couch, dragging it behind her like a cape.

He follows her without hesitation now, kneeling on the floor and scooping up a few pillows. “Okay, kid. Where are we building this masterpiece?”

“Right here,” she says, plopping down beside him.

And then, it starts.

Bucky pretends the cushions are impossibly heavy, making exaggerated groaning sounds every time he lifts one. “This one’s the size of a mountain,” he mutters, flexing his metal arm dramatically. “Might need backup.”

Daisy giggles. “You're strong!”

“Only because I had my oatmeal this morning,” he tells her, deadpan.

It earns a small chuckle from you. You watch from the side now, your mug still untouched. The fort takes shape slowly, with blankets stretched across the backs of chairs, cushions propped upright, and Daisy offering creative direction with every step.

He lets her lead. Never takes over. Just helps, asks questions, follows her excited little ideas without hesitation.

She crawls into the half-formed space, pats the floor beside her. “Come in!”

“I think I might be too tall,” he says, glancing up at the blanket ceiling. “But I’ll try.”

He ducks inside, legs sticking out awkwardly as Daisy shuffles in with her bunny and one of her books. You find yourself smiling—genuinely, this time. The sight of it… It’s strange and gentle and a little unreal.

After a few minutes, the fort begins to tilt ominously and Bucky eases out, letting Daisy settle in alone. He sits just beside it, his back to the couch.

You move slowly, walking over and lowering yourself to the floor a few feet from him. Not too close. But close enough to talk.

“She really likes you,” you say quietly.

He glances toward the fort, then back to you, something small and sheepish in his expression. “She’s funny,” he murmurs. “Kept handing me things like I knew what I was doing.”

“You did alright.”

“I’ve built a few bunkers in my day,” he replies dryly. “Guess forts aren’t that different.”

“She doesn’t usually warm up to people this fast,” you admit. She's had a hard time not being shy around many of the other Avengers. When they come around, she insists on being near you.

He tilts his head slightly, arms draped over his knees again. “Guess I’m lucky.”

“No,” you say, meaning it. “You’re just… careful with her. That matters.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then: “I don’t really know how to be around kids,” he admits. “ I haven't delt with them since my younger sisters were around. Didn’t expect it to be… like this.”

“Like what?”

“Easy. Kinda,” he adds quickly. “Not all the way. But… she makes it easier.”

You nod. That familiar warm feeling fills your chest.

“I, uh… I don’t wanna mess this up,” Bucky says after a moment. “Being around her. Or you. I like being with you guys.”

Your breath catches a little. He doesn't mind being around me. At first, I was worried he wouldn't like talking to me. The truth is, I haven't had friends in years. Kinda hard to make them in captivity. I don't really know what to say or do anymore. I was worried things would be extremely awkward between the two of us, the only thing keeping us connected being Daisy.

“You’re not,” you manage. “Messing it up, I mean.”

He meets your eyes briefly. Doesn’t say anything, just nods.

Daisy crawls to the edge of the fort again, poking her head out. “More blankies!”

Bucky chuckles and leans over to pass her another one.

You sit there a little longer, watching them. Watching him. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like you need to brace yourself for something bad. For once, the room safe.

----

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, your back propped against the edge of the couch while Daisy babbles softly beside you. She’s got her little plastic doll cradled in one arm, trying her best to mimic what you just showed her—gently brushing its hair with the tiny pink comb from the toy set. You’ve got another doll in your hands, holding it upright and giving it a “very serious” voice for the tea party you’re clearly late to.

“And where is your invitation, Miss Daisy?” you ask in your best snooty British accent.

Daisy giggles. “I dunno!”

You laugh softly, heart warm and aching all at once. There’s something so fragile and beautiful about these quiet moments. The soft buzz of the compound feels a million miles away. It’s just you, your daughter, and a pair of overworked plastic dolls.

Then you hear his footsteps.

You glance up to see Bucky hovering in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s not sure if he should come in.

His gaze lands on you and Daisy, and something softens in his expression.

You smile at him—tentative, but real. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you say quickly, shifting to the side and patting the floor near you. “Wanna join the tea party?”

He huffs a quiet laugh but stays standing. “I, uh, actually came to ask something.”

You tilt your head, curious. Daisy is completely absorbed in brushing the doll’s hair again.

Bucky shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “Would you… wanna go out with me? I mean—not like that,” he adds quickly, eyes wide. “I just mean… would it be okay if I took you and Daisy out? For ice cream. Just a short trip.”

Your heart jumps, panic and wonder flaring all at once.

“Out?” you echo, your voice thinner than you’d like.

His brows knit together, like he’s trying to read your face without scaring you off. “Only if you want to. We’d stay close. I found a little place with outdoor seating and—thought it might be nice.”

You look down at Daisy, who’s now dressing her doll in a sparkly piece of mismatched plastic clothing.

She’s never really been outside before.

You haven’t been outside in what feels like forever.

But you see something in Bucky’s eyes—patience, not pressure.

You swallow thickly and nod. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds… nice.”

The smile that spreads across his face is small but genuine. “Alright. I’m going to go get ready. You can take your time.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “Also, there’s a car seat already in the car. Just so you know. You don't need to worry about it.”

Your heart twists in your chest. “You thought of that?”

“Course I did,” he says, almost shyly. “Her safety's important.”

You watch him go, stunned. Over the past few weeks he's really shown up. From the moment he found out about her, he's done his best to offer some sort of presence in Daisy's life. He thinks about her. He considers what's best for her. For the both of you.

You glance down at your daughter.

She holds up her doll with a proud smile. “Ice cream, Mama!”

You chuckle and brush her curls back from her face. “Yeah, sweetie. Let’s get you ready to go.”

----

By the time you manage to corral Daisy’s wild hair into two fuzzy buns and coax her into socks and shoes, there’s a gentle knock at the door.

“It’s just me,” Bucky calls, his voice low and calm through the frame.

You shift Daisy to one hip and open the door.

He’s standing there in jeans and a dark henley, sleeves pushed up, hair tucked neatly behind his ears. His metal hand catches the hallway light. It should make him look dangerous. It doesn’t. Not to you. Not anymore.

He gives Daisy a small smile, eyes crinkling. “You ready, kiddo?”

“Ready!” she says brightly, gripping your shirt with one hand and waving the other at him.

Bucky chuckles—quiet, like the sound still feels unfamiliar—and glances at you. “You ready?”

You hesitate. The world outside feels like another planet entirely.

“I think so,” you say. “Yeah.”

He nods and steps back, giving you space. You follow his steady footsteps into the hallway, closing the door behind you.

The walk to the garage is quiet. Daisy hums a tuneless melody and babbles to her stuffed bunny—“Bunny, we go bye-bye!”—waving at everyone you pass. No one stares. That’s new. It's not often there's children in the compound. Daisy tends to draw attention.

Then, stepping outside, the sunlight hits you like a wave. You blink up at the sky. It’s so blue. So open.

You stop for a second, stunned. The breeze brushes your shirt, gently kissing the skin underneath, and somewhere, birds are chirping. You forgot how loud the world is. How beautiful the earth can be.

Bucky slows beside you, his eyes gentle. “You okay?”

You swallow. “Yeah. Just… taking it in. I haven't been outside like this in a long time. It's a little overwhelming..1”

He doesn’t rush you. Just waits. And when you nod, you both keep moving.

You reach the car—a dark SUV, plain and sturdy. Nothing flashy. You like that.

Bucky opens the back door, and you lean in to buckle Daisy into her car seat. She kicks her feet against the seat and clutches her bunny tight. “We goin’ ta ice cream!”

“Yes, we are,” you murmur, adjusting the straps and brushing hair from her forehead.

You shut the door gently and find Bucky holding the passenger door open for you.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I wanted to,” he says simply.

Your cheeks warm as you climb in. That's definitely something you weren't expecting.

The car smells clean—new leather and a faint trace of mint and Bucky's cologne. The radio’s off. Everything feels still.

He starts the engine. “Let me know if I drive too fast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that something I need to worry about?”

He smirks. “I’ve been told I’m heavy on the gas.”

“Noted,” you mutter, buckling up.

The compound fades behind you as the drive begins. The world outside unfolds like a pop-up book—streets, people, cars, color. It’s overwhelming. And beautiful.

Daisy presses her face to the window. “Big! So big!”

You can’t help but whisper, “You’re not wrong.”

“You okay?” Bucky asks, glancing your way.

You nod. “It’s just… loud. Fast. I forgot.”

He nods, eyes flicking back to the road. “I remember the first time I came back to the city. Everything was too much.”

You glance over at him. “How’d you deal with it?”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “I went home and hid in my room for three days.”

A laugh slips out of you—sharp, surprised. Real.

He smiles softly. “That’s a nice sound.”

You look away quickly, heart thudding.

A few more turns, and you pull up to a little ice cream shop with pastel trim and a crooked sign that says “SCOOP!” with a cartoon cone. It looks like something from a picture book.

Bucky parks and gets out, jogging around the front of the car to get to your side. Once again, he opens the door for you. He keeps a comfortable distance as you climb out of the car, thanking him. You open the back door and unbuckle Daisy. She clings to you for a second, then spots the sign and gasps. “Ice cream, Mama! Pink one, please!”

“We’ll see, baby,” you say with a small laugh.

Inside, the shop is warm and colorful. Chalkboard menus line the walls. A bell jingles as you enter. The girl behind the counter has glittery eyelids and a big smile.

You freeze.

The menu blurs in your vision—chocolate explosion, birthday cake crunch, mango swirl. Too many choices.

“You okay?” Bucky’s voice is beside you again, steady.

You nod, embarrassed. “It’s just been a while. I don’t know what’s good.”

“Mint chip’s solid,” he offers. “Or cookies and cream.”

You nod slowly. “Cookies and cream. That sounds nice.”

Daisy jabs a finger toward the bright pink tub. “That one!”

“Good choice,” Bucky says. “Matches your spark.”

You order, grab your scoops—yours and Bucky’s in paper cups, Daisy’s in a tiny cone—and find a seat outside beneath a striped umbrella.

The breeze tugs at Daisy’s hair. She kicks her legs and hums to herself, getting more ice cream on her cheeks than in her mouth.

Bucky hands her a napkin. She squints at it, puzzled.

He chuckles. “Here. Let me.” He leans across and gently wipes her cheek. His touch is tender and soft. Like he's afraid to somehow accidentally hurt her.

“Thank you.” she chirps, fingers sticky.

“No problem, peanut,” he murmurs.

Your chest aches at the sound of the nickname. He started calling her nicknames a few days ago, a sign he's getting more comfortable with her. It makes you feel happy.

You sit quietly. The noise around you—cars, birds, laughter—feels like the kind of thing you used to take for granted.

Then he turns to you.

“You ever think about what it would’ve been like… if HYDRA hadn’t taken us?”

You nod. “All the time.”

He stirs his ice cream with the little spoon. “I used to imagine a normal life. Brooklyn apartment. Maybe a dog. A job that didn’t involve blood.” He says it quietly, almost shyly.

You glance at Daisy. She’s squishing her cone now.

“I think about that too,” you whisper. “I had so many goals. Dreams. Things I wanted to do. But then I look at her… and I realize, I wouldn’t trade her for anything. Not even for a normal life.”

His eyes find yours. “That’s how I know you’re strong. Most people would wish the pain away.”

“I do wish the pain away,” you admit. “But not her. Never her. I’d go through it all again if it meant having her.”

There’s a pause. Then he clears his throat.

“You wanna take her to the park before we head back?”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

He nods. “I know a quiet one. Not far.”

The park is tucked behind a bookstore and apartment complex, half-hidden by trees. A small playground sits beside a patch of wildflowers.

Daisy runs wild with wonder, darting from flower to flower. A squirrel makes her shriek with joy.

Then the guilt creeps in.

She’s never seen this before. And it’s your fault.

“She was born in a lab,” you whisper, not even sure why you’re saying it out loud. “She deserved better.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You gave her everything you could. You kept her alive. That’s not nothing.”

You look at him, eyes burning. “But it still feels like not enough.”

He nods. “I feel that too. I didn’t know.. If I had—I would’ve found you. I swear I would’ve.”

You believe him. God, you do. You regret not telling him.

But today is supposed to be happy. You can’t stay in that place.

You kneel beside a patch of white flowers and call out, “Hey, kiddo. Come here.”

Daisy skips over, eyes wide.

“That’s what you’re named after,” you tell her, brushing a petal. “You’re my Daisy.”

She gasps. “Me?! I’m speshul!” She grins.

“You really are.”

Bucky smiles and carefully plucks two of the flowers, handing one to each of you.

“For you ladies,” he says.

Daisy giggles at the word ladies but clutches the flower tight.

Your heart does something dangerous.

You look at the flower. Then at him.

He’s kind. Gentle. Thoughtful.

And you think you like him.

You haven’t liked anyone in a long time—not like this. Not in the way that makes your stomach twist and your chest ache and your brain spiral all at once.

Especially not someone who notices you.

No one ever really noticed you before. You were the smart one. The soft one. The big one.

The girl boys didn’t flirt with. Didn’t even glance at. And now? You’re even softer. More changed.

But Bucky sees you.

And somehow, that terrifies you more than anything.

He doesn’t notice you’re lost in thought—he’s crouched beside Daisy, showing her a tiny roly poly crawling across his palm.

She squeals in delight.

Eventually, you head back to the car. Daisy falls asleep the second you buckle her in.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, watching the road blur past. “For taking us out. I needed it. Just… didn’t know how to do it alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore,” he says gently. “I’m going to help you.”

Those words nearly bring you to tears.

Back at the compound, he opens your door. This time you're expecting it. You unbuckle Daisy. Then you look at him.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Would you like to carry her in?”

He pauses. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

You’ve seen who he is. What he’s like. And it’s time you let him know you trust him.

He nods. “I’d love to.”

You pass her over, and she melts into his arms like she was always meant to fit there. The image makes you smile.

Inside the room, he lays her on the bed and tucks her bunny beside her. She murmurs in her sleep. He lingers, brushing a curl from her forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” you whisper back.

“For letting me be part of this.”

“Of course. She's your kid, too.”

His eyes meet yours, and something unspoken stretches between you.

Then he straightens, glancing around at the room—at the small pile of toys, the neatly folded clothes.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “I’m finding you two a real room. Not this.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he says firmly. “You’re both my responsibility. And you deserve better. It’s the least I can do.”

Your heart flutters.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, then quietly excuses himself.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the daisy from earlier still in your hand, your heart pounding.

You think you might be starting to really like this man.

And that thought… that thought terrifies you.

But it also makes you feel alive again.

----

That night, sleep doesn’t come easy.

You lie still in the dark, the soft sound of Daisy’s breathing beside you offering some comfort. But your own breath feels too shallow. Your skin feels too tight. The room, though warm, feels hollow. Like the walls are closing in.

You close your eyes, try to force it—sleep, peace, anything. Instead, memories flicker behind your eyelids. The sterile white walls. The flickering overhead lights. The voices that twisted your thoughts. The coldness of being completely, utterly alone.

You sit up quietly, careful not to disturb Daisy. She doesn’t stir, curled into her blanket, her bunny tucked beneath her chin. You tuck it a little closer, just in case.

And then, without thinking too hard about it, you step out into the hallway.

You wander until the quiet hush of night leads you outside to one of the patios. The air is colder out here than you expected—sharper, but not in a bad way. The kind of cold that feels like it keeps you present. Alive.

That’s when you see him.

Bucky’s already out there, sitting on a long stone bench under a light that flickers slightly. His jacket is draped over a thin white tank, sleeves rolled up, the rest of him still and thoughtful. His fingers are laced together, resting on his knee. He looks lost in thought as he stares out at the plants on the patio.

I wonder what he's thinking of?

You hesitate.

“Hi,” you say quietly, your voice barely more than a breath.

He looks up, snapping out of his trance.

You falter. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can go, I just—”

“It’s okay,” he says before you can finish. “You don’t have to leave.”

You blink, surprised. “Are you sure?”

He nods, eyes warm under the dim light. “C’mere. Sit.”

You cross the patio slowly, sliding onto the bench beside him. Not too close. But not far, either.

The silence stretches a beat before he speaks. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “No. I, um… I have nightmares sometimes. Flashbacks.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see something shift in his eyes. Recognition. Understanding.

“It’s hard to feel safe falling asleep,” you admit. “Even here.”

He nods, looking straight ahead. “I know the feeling.”

You glance over at him.

“That’s why I’m out here too,” he says softly. “Some nights, it’s like I can feel it all again. The chair. The cold. The words they used to say to me before I forgot everything again.”

You stay quiet, letting him speak.

“They wiped me so many times, I don’t even know what’s real anymore. I’ll remember something… a voice, a smell, a face… and then it’s gone. Or I’ll think I made it up. There’s so many gaps, it drives me crazy sometimes. It's like living in a confusing movie.”

Your chest aches for him. “That sounds unbearable.”

He exhales slowly. “It was. Still is, some days.”

You nod slowly. “They played a lot of games with me, too. Psychological stuff. Isolation. Manipulation. They tried to convince me I didn’t exist unless they needed me to.”

Bucky turns to look at you, his expression dark with empathy.

You swallow. “I thought I was going to die in there. And then… one day they told me I was pregnant. The embryo had taken.”

He goes still.

“I didn’t even understand how it had happened at first. I mean, I knew the process, I did a study on in vitro in high school. But the whole experience was hazy from the drugs they gave me. I was just so numb. And scared. I didn’t know what to think, or how to feel.”

You look down at your hands.

“It was hard at first. Every change my body went through… I didn’t have anyone to ask questions. No one talked to me. They just watched. Studied. Like I was some experiment they forgot to write the purpose of.”

His jaw tightens.

“But then… then she kicked,” you say, your voice cracking. “And for the first time, it wasn’t just me in there anymore. I wasn’t alone. There was a real baby.”

You feel your throat tightening, but you push through it.

“I started talking to her. Telling her stories. Whispering about the world. I think… I think she saved me. Just by being there.”

Bucky’s gaze never leaves you.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper. “She kept me going.”

He’s silent, letting your words settle in the air between you. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost reverent.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

You laugh, a wet sound. “Sorry for trauma-dumping.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately. “I wanted to know. I needed to. I wasn’t there when it happened, but… this helps me understand. Helps me feel closer to Daisy. To you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink away the tears, the cold air stinging your cheeks.

“I didn’t want this to be the way things went,” you say honestly. “But I’m glad… I’m glad I’m not doing it alone now. I’m glad it’s you. That you’re her father. You care so much about her, and it really shows.”

His eyes soften, and there’s something in his expression—something so deeply sincere it knocks the wind out of you.

“She’s lucky,” you continue, voice shaking. “You’re kind. And patient. And you’ve been… you’ve been nothing but understanding. I haven’t had that in a long time.”

He leans forward slightly. “I’m grateful you’re her mom. You love her so much. I can see it. And you… you were there for her when I couldn’t be. You saved her. You saved both of you.”

You don’t know what to say. You just sit there in the silence that follows, heart beating too loud.

Then a breeze blows through, colder now, and a shiver sneaks up your spine.

Bucky notices immediately.

“You cold?”

You try to shake it off, but he’s already shrugging off his jacket.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You freeze.

It’s such a sweet gesture. Kind. The kind of thing no one’s done for you in so long.

But your brain kicks in.

What if it doesn’t fit?

What if it clings in the wrong places?

What if he sees?

“I—” you stammer. “It’s alright. The cold… it helps ground me.”

He pauses. His hand stays outstretched for a second longer, then slowly lowers it to his lap.

“Oh,” he says. His voice is careful. “Okay.”

You glance at him. He doesn’t look angry. But there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of hurt, maybe. Not from rejection, but from knowing you don’t feel safe enough to accept something as simple as a jacket.

You feel awful.

He doesn’t push. Just keeps it on his lap, just in case.

You both sit in quiet for a moment longer. Then you sigh softly.

“She really likes you, you know,” you say. “Daisy. She talks about you all the time.”

He smiles, something soft and real. “She’s… amazing. I don’t even know how to describe it. I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to… feel this.”

“You’re good with her.”

“I’m trying to be.”

You nod.

Then a thought crosses your mind, and your stomach flips.

“I should check on her,” you say quietly. “It’s been a little while.”

Bucky straightens. “I’ll walk you.”

You don’t say no.

The walk back is quiet but comfortable. Your arms brush once, and you don’t pull away.

When you reach your door, he hesitates. Then says, “I talked to Tony.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“You’re getting moved,” he says. “Out of the hospital wing. Into the residential part of the compound. With the rest of us.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I really… I don’t know what to say. Thank you—”

“You don’t have to,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s okay.”

You linger at the door.

“Goodnight,” you say softly.

His smile is warm. “Goodnight.”

You step inside, heart beating far too fast, and shut the door gently behind you.

Daisy is still asleep.

But you?

You’re wide awake—this time for a different reason.

------

The next morning, there’s a knock at your door just as the first pale light of dawn begins to seep through the blinds. It’s soft—barely more than a gentle tap—but it cuts through the quiet like a bell. Your eyes flutter open, the haze of sleep clinging stubbornly to the corners of your vision. You blink once, then again, and slowly sit up, your limbs heavy with the weight of half-shed dreams.

Daisy stirs beside you, her tiny body curled like a comma beneath the blankets. She must have climbed into your bed at some point during the night. Her hand rests lightly on your side, her fingers twitching as if chasing something in her dreams. She lets out a small, contented sigh before settling again.

Careful not to disturb her, you slide out of bed, the cold floor a shock against your bare feet. You pad quietly to the door and open it just a crack, still adjusting to the way the fluorescent hallway light stings your sleepy eyes.

Bucky stands there with a stack of flattened cardboard boxes in his arms. His hair is messy—flattened a bit on one side like he slept hard—and his gray t-shirt clings loosely to his frame. He looks like he’s been up for a while, though. Alert, steady. His face is unreadable at first, then softens when his eyes meet yours.

“Morning,” he says, voice gravelly and quiet so as not to wake the child behind you. “Brought some boxes.”

Your gaze flickers down to the stack in his arms. A twinge of nerves stirs in your stomach. Today’s the day.

“Morning,” you murmur, voice still husky with sleep. “Thanks.”

He tilts his head toward the boxes. “Figured we’d get started early. Thought you might want a hand.”

You step aside, opening the door for him. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

He nods once and walks in, setting the boxes down near the foot of the bed. His eyes drift toward Daisy, who’s still snuggled beneath the covers, her dark hair splayed across the pillow like a halo. His expression shifts—gentle, something soft you haven’t seen on his face often, but it’s there now. He lingers a second longer than necessary, like he can’t help it.

Daisy’s eyes flutter open.

She blinks at him sleepily, then beams. “Hi.”

Bucky offers her a rare, lopsided smile. “Hey, trouble.”

Daisy giggles and wriggles out from under the blanket. She runs to him, arms outstretched, and he doesn’t hesitate. He accepts her hug, gently crouching down to give her a hug back.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs to her.

She leans her head against his shoulder, already halfway to dozing again. You watch them with a strange ache in your chest, a mix of gratitude, fear, and something else—something warm and tentative and terrifying.

Packing doesn’t take long.

You don’t have many possessions to begin with. Most of what you own fits into two cardboard boxes: one for you, one for Daisy. A few changes of clothes. Her stuffed animals. The blanket Natasha gave you that she clings to when she’s scared. Some books, a worn hairbrush, and a handful of drawings you and Daisy have done together. You press your thumb against one, trying to smooth the bent edge, your heart catching in your throat.

Bucky doesn’t let you do much of the heavy lifting. Every time you reach for something too large, he’s already moving it. You try to argue, but he just gives you a look—not stern, exactly, but firm. Protective.

“I’ve got it,” he says. “Just take care of Daisy.”

She’s toddling around the room, chattering to herself and occasionally picking up things she’s decided are hers. A sock. A pen. Your water bottle. She tries to carry all of them in her tiny arms, swaying like a baby deer as she waddles across the floor.

When it’s time to move, you follow Bucky down a quieter hallway—one you’ve never really had a reason to walk through before. It’s warm here, the lighting dimmer, softer. The walls are lined with muted artwork instead of sterile metal. You notice how Daisy keeps glancing up at him as you walk, like she wants to make sure he’s still there.

“She does that when she’s nervous,” you say quietly.

Bucky glances down at her and reaches out his vibranium hand, fingers twitching slightly. Daisy hesitates, then takes two steps forward and clasps it without saying a word. The way he looks at her—so focused, so still—it makes your breath catch.

You stop in front of a door.

When he stops in front of a door, he shifts the box in his grip and glances toward you, almost sheepish. “So… this one’s next to my room,” he says, eyes flickering to the door beside yours. “I thought it might be good to be close. In case Daisy ever needs anything… or you do. But if you want more space, I totally get it. I can show you some other options.”

You blink at him, heart catching on the thoughtfulness laced in his tone. “No,” you say quickly, then softer. “No, Bucky… This is perfect. Really.”

He looks relieved, nods once, and opens the door.

He steps aside so you can enter first. The moment you enter, your breath catches in your throat. It’s beautiful.

The room is… different. Nothing like the cold, temporary space you’ve been staying in. This one is soft, warm, welcoming. The walls are painted a calming off-white, and the huge windows let in golden morning light that makes the space glow. There’s a couch in the corner, not regulation-issue like the rest, but something plush and lived-in. A thick rug sprawls across the floor, perfect for little feet and afternoon naps. There’s even a small wooden table set low to the ground with tiny chairs—and already scattered with coloring books and blunt crayons.

You spot the beds next. One large one with a thick, quilted comforter. And a smaller one, clearly made for Daisy. It’s painted a pale shade of pink, with soft star-shaped pillows and sheets printed with tiny moons. Above it, hand-painted onto the wall in elegant lettering, is her name: DAISY.

You stare at it, your throat going dry.

“I—I didn’t know what kind of theme she’d like,” Bucky says awkwardly behind you. “But stars seemed… safe. Not too much.”

You turn slowly. “You did this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “She needs a place that’s hers.”

You look at him, really look, and there’s something in his face that’s both raw and uncertain. Like he’s hoping—maybe—this was the right thing. Like he’s not sure if he overstepped.

Daisy lets out a squeal and darts across the room, launching herself onto her little bed. She hugs one of the star pillows tight, then immediately starts jumping, giggling with abandon.

“She loves it,” you whisper. “You… you didn’t have to do all this.”

His eyes meet yours. “Yeah, I did.” He clears his throat. “I’d also like to take you out. Get you both some clothes of your own, maybe some toys for Daisy. Whenever you’re ready to go back into the city.”

You open your mouth to argue, to say you’ll pay him back somehow—but he cuts you off before you can. “Don’t worry about it. Really. I don’t want anything.”

Daisy giggles from her little bed, holding up her stuffed bunny for you both to see.

“Has she always had this much energy?” Bucky asks, grinning a little.

You laugh. “Pretty much. As soon as she learned how to walk, she didn’t stop running.”

He chuckles, then hesitates. His gaze lowers. “Would you… mind telling me about that? Her milestones, I mean. What it was like when she crawled… or talked?”

Your chest tightens. “You want to know?”

“I know I wasn’t there. But I want to understand her. And you.”

So you tell him. About the first time Daisy pulled herself up. How she used the stool in the visitation room. How determined she was to stand. The first time she babbled “mama” and how happy it made you feel. The first steps, the clumsy falls, the way your heart swelled with every new moment.

He listens closely, eyes shining with something bittersweet.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here,” he says softly. “Like I missed everything.”

You touch his arm gently. “You belong here, Bucky. Daisy loves you. That’s what matters. And there's a lot of other milestones she's still got to hit that you can be a part of.”

He swallows. “Thanks.”

Daisy grabs his hand, tugging him toward her bed. “Play!”

He looks at you like he wants to keep talking, but you nod. “Go on. She’ll pout if you don’t.”

-----

That night, you’re sound asleep when the nightmare comes.

You’re back there again.

The cold is the first thing you feel—concrete under your spine, slick with something wet. Blood. You’re not sure whose. Likely yours. The air is sterile and metallic. You can smell it, taste it. You can barely move. Every inch of your body is on fire.

You're surrounded by a group of white coat covered doctors. Their faces are blocked by a dark medical mask. They watch pain wrack through your body over and over again, taking notes every few minutes on their notebooks. They completely disrespect you, observing your body without your consent. They don't offer you a blanket to cover up or a rag to wipe your face. In the moment, that's the last concerning thing. All you feel is pain. Just pain.

When you beg for some relief, an epidural or something, they quickly shoot you down, insisting it's better for the baby this way. Their eyes tell you something different. They like seeing you in pain.

No one offers you a hand to hold. No one helps guide your baby out. They just stand and observe, preparing for Daisy's arrival.

The contractions hit in waves, unbearable and sharp. You scream, but it’s hoarse, broken. No one helps. They never do.

The lights overhead are blinding. Fluorescent and buzzing. Too bright and too loud. You want to close your eyes, but you can’t. You have to push. You have to survive this.

Your body feels like it’s tearing apart. And then—

A cry.

Not yours.

Tiny. Raw. Alive.

She’s here.

You don’t even have time to look at her.

You reach out, your arms trembling, blood-covered hands desperate to hold her. They swoop into action, one of the doctors snatching a small prepared blanket. Gloved fingers are already lifting her away. The cord that's been connecting the two of you, her lifeline for all these months, is severed, breaking the connection to your baby. They crowd around her like vultures waiting to attack. You scream again—“No! No, please—give her back, please—”—but it doesn’t matter. They’re taking her. You can’t even see her face. Just a glimpse of pink skin, squirming limbs, a wail that slices through your chest like a blade.

Someone states that it's a girl, sending the other doctors into a fury as they write in their notebooks. It all happens so fast.

The door slams shut.

You’re left in the dark.

Bleeding. Empty.

Alone.

You’re screaming her name when hands gently shake your shoulders. A voice calls your name, low and steady.

“Y/N. It’s okay. Hey. Wake up. You’re safe.”

Your eyes fly open, chest heaving. Bucky’s there—his hands hovering but not touching. Daisy is sobbing softly from her bed in the corner.

“She’s okay,” Bucky whispers. “You’re okay. You had a nightmare. Daisy’s right here. No one’s taking her.”

You can’t stop shaking.

“I— I didn’t mean to wake you—”

“Shh, don’t worry about that.”

You stumble out of bed and rush to Daisy, who's confused and scared. You pull her close. She clings to you, tiny fists curled in your shirt. You rock her gently, trying to breathe. Trying to silence the storm in your mind.

Eventually, she calms in your arms. Her breathing slows. You tuck her back into bed and turn around—Bucky’s still there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be. Are you alright?”

You sit beside him, your body trembling. “I saw it all again. The day she was born. It's always the same dream, and you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it still terrifies me each time.”

He waits, patient.

“I was cleaning. Just… scrubbing floors. When my water broke, they dragged me to the lab. No hospital. No help. Just that cold table.”

Your voice cracks.

“They didn’t give me anything for the pain. They said it might hurt the baby. I was alone. Screaming. And when she came out, she—she was screaming. And then they took her. I couldn’t do anything about. Didn’t let me see her. Didn’t let me hold her. I was so scared, Bucky. So scared. And all I wanted was to see my baby and make sure she was okay.”

You’re crying now, openly, sobs shaking your frame.

He places a tentative hand on your shoulder. You turn and hug him. Hard.

He freezes for a second—then wraps his arms around you, protective and warm. You bury your face into his chest, crying into his shirt. He rubs gentle circles on your back, whispering comfort.

“You’re safe now. She’s safe. No one’s taking her from you again.”

He doesn’t speak anymore. Doesn’t rush you. Just holds you.

You lose track of time. Eventually, you pull back, sniffling. “I got your shirt wet…”

He chuckles softly. “I don’t mind.”

He hesitates, then brushes a tear from your cheek with a calloused thumb. His eyes search yours. You feel your heart flutter.

“Again, I’m sorry I woke you—”

“It’s okay. I’ve been there. I get it.”

You nod. “I don’t know if I can fall back asleep.”

His voice is quieter now, almost unsure. “Do you… want me to stay? Just for the rest of the night. In case… you need anything.”

You blink at him, raw from the nightmare, but comforted by his presence. You don’t even hesitate.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. I’d… like that.”

He nods, standing slowly like he doesn’t want to jolt you. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

You expect him to settle back on the bed, but instead he turns and makes his way across the room toward the small couch near the window. He tugs the throw blanket off the back and bunches it up like a pillow, already sitting down, his long frame folding awkwardly into the tight space.

You sit there for a beat, watching him adjust—his knees nearly to his chest, the throw barely covering him—and your stomach twists.

“Wait,” you say quietly. He pauses.

You fidget with the edge of the blanket, your voice tentative. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch. The bed’s big enough. If you want to sleep here. I mean—you don’t have to—but if you’re comfortable…”

You’re rambling. You can feel it. And panic starts to rise when he doesn’t answer right away.

“I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable, that’s okay,” you rush to say. “I get it. It’s not a big deal. I just didn’t want you to think you had to sleep over there—”

“It’s not that,” Bucky interrupts gently.

You glance up. His eyes are soft, mouth tugged in the faintest, almost shy smile.

“I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You feel your cheeks heat, and your heart stutters. “You’re not. I’m sure.”

Another pause, and then he rises from the couch and walks back over. He climbs onto the far side of the bed, careful not to disturb you or take up too much space. He stays on top of the covers, arms folded under his head, facing the ceiling.

You settle beneath the blankets, eyes staring into the soft dark. You can hear his breathing—slow, steady. Not asleep. Just… calm.

“Goodnight,” you whisper.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs back.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep.

But for the first time in what feels like years, your body doesn’t stay locked in that panicked, rigid state. It eases. Unwinds. Your mind floats. And the darkness of sleep, when it comes, doesn’t feel like a trap this time—it feels like rest. Bucky's presence helped chase the nightmares away.

-----

The morning light is soft when it wakes you.

You’re warm. Warmer than usual. The blankets are gone—pushed down to your ankles sometime during the night—but you’re not cold at all. Something solid is pressed behind you, curved around your body. A firm chest, rising and falling with slow, even breaths. A strong arm, heavy and protective, slung over your waist.

It takes a moment for you to remember.

Bucky.

He stayed.

You freeze, blinking at the pale light filtering in through the curtains. Your head is tucked under his chin, your body curled against his like puzzle pieces meant to fit. You feel his breath ghost along your forehead.

And then you feel something else.

Peace.

Your gaze drifts across the room, trying not to move too much, not to wake him. Daisy is sitting on the floor near her little pink bed, babbling softly to herself while stacking blocks and placing her bunny beside them. Her chubby fingers move with quiet determination.

She hasn’t noticed you're awake yet.

Carefully, slowly, you start to wiggle free from Bucky’s hold. But his arm—his metal arm—is locked tight around your waist, like even in sleep, his instincts are to keep you close. Protected and anchored.

It takes effort, but you manage to slide out without waking him.

You sit on the edge of the bed, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He looks so different like this. Asleep, his face is relaxed, no tension in his brow or jaw. He looks younger. Softer. Like the weight of the world isn’t crushing him for once.

You find yourself staring too long.

A soft babble from across the room pulls your attention back. Daisy.

You cross the room and kneel beside her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her curly hair.

“Good morning, baby,” you whisper.

"Morning, Momma." She giggles and pats your cheek, then offers you one of her blocks like it’s the greatest treasure in the world.

You play with her for a few minutes, feeling the lightness of the moment settle around your shoulders. The shadows of the night have faded for now.

Behind you, the bed shifts.

You glance back and see Bucky sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He looks around the room like he’s orienting himself, his gaze finally landing on the two of you.

He blinks once. Then smiles.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still husky with sleep.

You smile shyly, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Morning.”

Daisy toddles over and climbs into your lap, settling in as you rock her gently.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, gaze flickering over you.

You nod. “Yeah. I actually… slept.”

His expression softens. “Good. You needed it.”

You glance away for a second, then back. “I hope I didn’t keep you up. I think I move around a lot.”

“You were fine,” he says. “Actually… I slept better than I have in a long time.”

You blink. “Really?”

He shrugs a shoulder, a little sheepish. “I guess having someone else around helps. The silence at night—sometimes it gets too loud, y’know?”

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

Daisy’s tummy grumbles, loud and clear. She makes a dramatic little face and pats her belly.

Bucky grins. “Someone’s hungry.”

“She’s always hungry,” you tease, tickling her side. Daisy squeals and squirms in your arms.

“I know a good diner,” he says, already moving to stand. “Not too far. We could go. If you’re up for it.”

You smile, heart fluttering just a little too fast in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’d like that.”

As Bucky disappears to his room to get ready, you gather Daisy’s things and try to quiet the storm inside you. Because it’s not just comfort you feel around him anymore. It’s something deeper.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

You glance at your daughter, who’s happily chatting to her bunny again, and you know one thing for sure:

Whatever you feel for Bucky… it comes second to her.

But the truth is, you’re already starting to imagine what life could look like if he stayed.

Not just in your room.

But in your world.

------

You’re still thinking about the way Bucky held you last night, the feel of his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the warmth of his chest under your cheek, long after he leaves to get ready.

Your stomach is fluttery in a way that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the quiet way he looked at you when he said good morning.

You try to focus on brushing Daisy’s hair and getting her dressed in a cute pink shirt and blue jeans. She chatters away the whole time, bouncing in place and clearly excited to go out.

When Bucky returns, he’s wearing a soft navy blue henley that fits him way too well, his hair tucked behind his ears and slightly damp like he just ran his hands through it after washing up. You look up and blink, feeling a little breathless, which is ridiculous. It’s just Bucky.

But then he smiles down at Daisy and then at you—warm, soft, and easy—and your heart gives a little kick again.

“Ready to go, girls?”

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks again for… all of this.”

He brushes it off with a shrug, but he glances at you again, gaze lingering. “Of course.”

The diner is small and old-fashioned, tucked on a quiet corner just a few blocks away from the compound. Bucky says it’s one of the only places in the city that still serves pancakes the way he remembers them. The staff knows him by name. He gets a booth in the back, where it’s quieter, and pulls out the chair for you before helping Daisy into the seat next to him. She lights up when he gives her the kid’s menu and a little pack of crayons.

You sit across from him, trying not to stare at the way he smiles at your daughter like she’s the most amazing little thing he’s ever seen.

You’re wearing jeans and one of your nicer shirts—a soft cotton one with a subtle, slightly deeper V-neck than usual. Nothing revealing, just a bit more shape than you usually show. It makes you feel... a little exposed. But today, you wanted to try. You wanted to feel pretty.

“She likes strawberries on her pancakes,” you mention softly. That's something you found out when she tried pancakes for the first time last week.

“I’ll make sure to tell them,” Bucky replies, already flagging down the server.

There’s something in the way he keeps checking on you throughout breakfast that’s different. It’s not just casual attentiveness—it’s protective. Like he’s constantly scanning the room out of habit, but his focus always circles back to you and Daisy.

You’re not used to someone being like this. Not for you.

Across from you, Bucky settles in with that watchful calm he always carries. His jacket creaks slightly as he leans forward to help Daisy open her straw, and his hand lingers for a second longer than it needs to near yours. You try not to read into it.

But there’s something different today. He keeps looking at you—not in a way that makes you nervous, but like he's noticing you for the first time in a new light. Like you're not just someone he’s helping anymore. Like you’re something more.

Breakfast is easy. Comfortable. He helps Daisy scoop bites of scrambled eggs onto her toast, and when you laugh at the little dance she does after getting syrup on her fingers, he smiles—actually smiles, and it reaches all the way up into the corners of his eyes.

For a while, you forget everything else. You even stop worrying about how you look in this shirt. Because when Bucky looks at you, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t judge. His gaze settles on you with quiet warmth, and you feel a little more like a person again.

When your hand brushes against his accidentally while reaching for the napkins, you both pause. He doesn’t move away. His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, you feel suspended in that quiet, gentle gaze. It makes your pulse skitter.

Eventually, Daisy starts getting squirmy, and you gather her up in your arms as Bucky flags down the waitress for the check.

“I’ll wait outside with her,” you say softly.

“You sure?” He glances toward the window. “It’s still a little chilly.”

You nod. “She needs the air.”

He doesn’t argue. “I’ll be quick.”

The diner’s warmth lingers on your skin as you step outside, Daisy’s small hand wrapped securely in yours. The morning has settled into that sweet spot between late spring chill and gentle sun, the kind of weather that teases summer without quite committing. You take a breath and tip your face up toward the sky. It's a rare quiet moment. Daisy’s giggling, hopping from one sidewalk crack to the next.

Your shirt catches a breeze that brushes along your skin. You cross your arms casually, not out of shame, just… cautiousness.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

The voice hits you like a chill. You tense before you even fully turn.

A man stands just off to the side, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting for something—or someone. His hoodie’s unzipped, revealing a graphic tee stretched tight over his stomach. His smile isn’t friendly. It’s calculating. Greedy.

You instinctively step back, placing yourself between him and Daisy.

“I’m not interested,” you say, polite but firm. The words come out shakier than you’d like.

He chuckles. “Didn’t ask if you were. Just sayin’ hey. You got a name, sweetheart?”

You grip Daisy’s hand tighter and angle your body away. “Please don’t talk to me.”

“Aww, don’t be like that. You and I could have a good time. Don’t you think? You’re standing out here lookin’ like a snack and expectin’ no one to notice? That’s not how the world works, baby.”

Your skin crawls. Daisy senses your unease and hugs your leg, her small face pressing into your thigh. This isn't shit you want your daughter listening to. You look toward the diner window, heart stuttering, hoping Bucky will come out soon so you can leave—but you can’t see him through the glare.

“I’m with someone,” you try, voice barely above a whisper. “Please just leave me alone.”

But he steps closer, eyes flicking over your neckline, a lecherous glint in his gaze.

“Bet he ain’t treatin’ you right,” he says. “Someone like you needs a real man.”

You stiffen. Fear flares like ice in your chest. You’re frozen—too aware of Daisy beside you, too afraid to escalate it. You want to scream, to grab her and run, but your limbs feel heavy, your throat tight.

Then a shadow moves behind the diner’s door.

It swings open with a sharp creak, and Bucky steps out.

He’s got that casual stride you’ve come to recognize, but it falters when he sees the scene in front of him. The way you’re backed against the brick wall. The man towering too close. Daisy gripping your jeans with white-knuckled fists, shoving her head into your plush thigh.

Everything about him changes.

He’s no longer relaxed. He’s ready, eyes dark, posture coiled tight like a spring. You’ve seen him in training before, but this is different. This is personal.

“Step away,” he says, calm but commanding. His voice is low, smooth, with a lethal edge.

The man turns lazily, trying to play it cool. “What’s it to you, man? Just chattin’.”

Bucky’s eyes don’t leave yours as he walks toward you. His jaw ticks once. “You’ve got three seconds to walk away.”

The guy scoffs. “Jesus, relax. What, she your girl or something?”

Bucky steps directly in front of you, placing himself between your body and the man without a word. His hand hovers behind him until it finds your arm—his touch is feather-light, just grounding enough to make you feel safe again.

“She said no,” Bucky says. “ Respect that and walk away.”

The man’s bravado falters. For a second, it looks like he might say something else, but then he meets Bucky’s eyes—sees the fire banked behind them—and decides against it.

“Bitch ain’t worth it anyway,” the guy mutters as he backs off and crosses the street, disappearing into the morning traffic.

Bucky doesn’t chase. Doesn’t gloat.

He just turns to you with such a sharp contrast of gentleness it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Softer.

You nod, blinking hard, because the adrenaline is crashing and your knees feel like they might give out.

He kneels down to Daisy first. “You good, peanut?”

She nods and wraps her arms around his neck without a word. He picks her up easily, one arm steady around her, the other reaching out to you.

His hand hovers at your elbow. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You don’t realize until later that he never let go of you the entire walk to the car. Not once.

------

The sun is warm on your skin, dappled through the canopy of leaves above the patio garden. A breeze carries the soft scent of lavender, brushing gently against your cheek as you watch Daisy stumble through the grass in her crooked little walk, chasing a butterfly with her tattered stuffed bunny clutched in one hand.

You wish you could bottle this moment—press it into your memory like a dried flower and keep it safe forever.

She laughs, shrill and delighted, and the sound fills your chest with something light and fragile. For a few seconds, you forget the way your mind has been knotted lately. The way Bucky looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. The way your heart has started to ache when he’s not around.

You’re just beginning to reach for your water bottle when it happens.

The shift is almost imperceptible—just a strange sound. A soft click. Mechanical. Wrong.

You blink, eyes flicking to the far edge of the garden where the trees meet the wall. There—movement. Too smooth to be a squirrel. Not natural.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps. Definitely not Bucky's. You've memorized the sound of his steps, the sound of him.

Your heart slams into your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. No one is supposed to be here. No one.

You stand slowly, carefully.

“Daisy,” you call, keeping your voice light, masking the ice creeping into your veins. “Come here, baby.”

She doesn’t sense the danger. Of course she doesn’t. She toddles toward you with a smile, holding her bunny up in triumph.

“Buh-fly!” she shouts.

You’re reaching for her when you see them.

Three figures step from the trees like shadows ripped from a nightmare—black gear, masked faces, purposeful steps. Hydra insignia on their arms.

Your stomach drops so hard you feel like you might vomit.

You don’t think. You run.

You grab Daisy and bolt toward the nearest sliding door, adrenaline thundering through your limbs. She’s screaming, clutching your neck, her bunny falling somewhere behind you—but you don’t stop.

You can’t.

You slam into the security panel with your elbow—jammed.

“Come on, come on, open—!”

Glass shatters behind you. You scream, twisting your body to shield Daisy from the blast as shards rain past your head. You get the door open just wide enough and shove through, shoulder first. The pain is instant—white-hot and sharp. Your ankle twists wrong as you hit the floor on the other side. You manage to curl Daisy into you protectively, shielding her from the floor.

But you don’t stop.

You run the best you can down the hall.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage like a war drum. Daisy sobs into your neck, tiny fists tangled in your hair.

You take a sharp left and nearly collide with Natasha.

She doesn’t ask questions. She takes one look at your face—at the blood already soaking your sleeve—and her eyes harden.

“Get out of sight. Now.”

She’s gone before you can answer, a red blur sprinting back down the hallway.

You limp through another door—Tony’s old lab. Dusty. Unused. But secure. Maybe.

Hopefully.

You scan the room with frantic eyes and spot a storage cabinet tucked behind a bench.

You fall to your knees, dragging the door open with trembling hands. It’s small, but enough.

“Baby, listen to me,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I need you to go in here, okay?”

Daisy’s eyes are round with confusion and fear. “No, Mommy! Don’t wanna! Mommy!”

You want to break. You want to sob and hold her and never let go. But you can’t.

You stroke her hair, trying to stay calm even as your body trembles.

“Bucky’s coming, okay? He’s coming. And you’re going to stay in here and be so brave. Just for a little bit. You don’t come out unless it’s me or Bucky. Only us. You understand?” He has to be coming.

Her lower lip trembles, but she nods.

You kiss her forehead and close the door as softly as you can. The click of the latch sounds too loud.

Then you turn.

A long metal rod lies on the bench. You grip it with both hands, ignoring the fire in your shoulder and the blood pooling at your side. You stand to guard the door.

The AI is offline. Every defense Tony built… silent.

The lights flicker. And die.

Darkness. Total.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

The hallway outside falls silent.

You can hear your own breathing, shallow and shaky.

Then—

They’re here.

The door bursts open.

Two agents flood in, weapons up. One scans the room. The other locks eyes with you.

“There she is,” he snarls.

You don’t wait. You swing.

The rod cracks across his helmet with a sickening thud. He stumbles, caught off guard. But the second one is already grabbing your arm, wrenching it back. You scream, twisting, kicking.

You fight like your life depends on it—because it does. Because hers does.

A sharp pain blossoms in your side. A knife. It slices in deep, and for a second, you can’t breathe.

You’re going down. The floor slams into your back. The world tilts sideways.

You hear Daisy cry from the cabinet. She must’ve heard you scream. She must know something’s wrong.

You try to get up.

But everything hurts.

The agent steps closer, raising something in his hand.

And then the door breaks down into pieces.

Bucky.

He doesn’t enter—he erupts into the room.

His metal arm crashes into the first man’s head, sending him into the wall with a crunch that turns your stomach. The other Hydra agent doesn’t even have time to react. Bucky’s already on him, fists flying, a snarl twisting his face into something wild. It all happens so fast.

You blink. You try to move. To speak.

He’s there before you can form a word, dropping to his knees beside you, covered in blood—not his.

“Y/N—Jesus—no, no, no—stay with me,” he says, hands already pressing to your side.

You gasp. “Closet. She’s in the closet—”

Steve bursts into the lab, his hair matted with sweat.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Steve!” he yells. “Get Daisy! She's in the closet.”

Bucky lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing. His supersoldier strength. He curls you into his chest, clutching you tightly.

You’re bleeding. You know it. You can feel the warmth trickling down your back from your side. The copper taste in your mouth.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely there. “Don’t let her see me like this.”

His jaw clenches. His voice breaks. “No one’s seeing you like this. You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”

You try to nod, but everything fades.

The last thing you hear is Steve telling Bucky to get you to the hospital wing.

---- Bucky POV ----

He had only stepped out for an hour.

Just an hour.

He’d seen a little stuffed bunny in a shop window that looked exactly like Daisy’s, and he bought it, heart warm. Then daisies in a flower bucket on the corner reminded him of Y/N’s smile. He bought those too.

He was almost back to the compound when he saw Peter webbing down two men in dark gear.

“What's going on?” Bucky demanded.

“They tried to sneak in. Hydra —somehow they got in the compound. They shut everything down and hacked our systems.”

Bucky’s blood turned ice-cold.

He bolted. Inside the building was chaos. Workers yelling. Agents fighting. Alarms screaming.

He sprinted toward the housing wing. Bodies. Shattered glass. And on the ground—Daisy’s bunny.

His chest caved in. No. No.

He scooped it up and ran, yelling their names, barreling through halls, slamming into walls, looking everywhere. He was halfway to the labs when the power went out.

He heard fighting. Screaming.

Then—

There she was.

Lying on the floor. Bleeding. Broken.

And they were still hurting her.

He lost control. The Hydra agents didn’t stand a chance.

He knelt beside her, panic rushing in.

Then Steve came. Found Daisy. Her little arms went around his neck, sobbing. Bucky was already scooping Y/N into his arms.

“Get her to the hospital wing,” Steve said. “I’ve got Daisy.”

And then he was running. Her blood warm on his skin. Her pulse—weak.

"Bruce!" Bucky barked as he stormed in.

Bruce was just shifting back to himself, shirt torn. “What the hell happened—”

“She’s bleeding out. She’s stabbed, concussed. Help her!”

“Put her down—give me space!”

Bucky hovered until Bruce barked at him. He backed up, but only barely.

Outside, Steve handed over Daisy. The toddler was sobbing, reaching out.

Bucky pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight. He kissed her forehead—first time ever.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Mommy scared,” Daisy cried into his neck. “Loud noises.”

“I know. I know, baby.” His voice broke. “But you’re safe. I swear. I’ve got you.”

Steve stood beside him, covered in blood, holding the squished bunny.

“I wasn’t there,” Bucky muttered, eyes on the door. “They got to her. To Daisy. And I wasn’t there.”

“You didn’t know,” Steve said. “None of us did.”

“It’s my job to protect them,” Bucky snapped. “And I failed.”

Steve rested a hand on his shoulder. “All you can do is be there for them now.”

Bucky held Daisy tighter, tears stinging his eyes as he stared through the hospital glass… praying Y/N would wake up.

He wasn’t there in time. He broke his promise to protect Y/N and their daughter. And it kills him.

But he's here now.

And he’s not going anywhere.

-----

Darkness gives way slowly—thick, heavy, reluctant.

You blink against the light bleeding in from the corner of the room, every muscle aching like you’ve been dragged through fire. Your head throbs in dull waves. There’s a sterile scent in the air. The steady beep of a monitor somewhere near your ear.

Hospital.

You’re alive.

It takes effort to turn your head.

And when you do—your breath catches.

Across the room, on a long bench pressed against the wall, you see them.

Bucky.

He’s slumped back, one arm stretched protectively around Daisy, who is curled against his chest with her head tucked beneath his chin. Her little bunny is half-crushed in her arms. Her thumb is in her mouth, and one chubby hand fists the collar of his shirt.

She’s safe.

They both are.

Relief crashes over you in a sudden, overwhelming wave, and tears sting your eyes before you can stop them.

You shift slightly, a quiet groan escaping your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Bucky stirs.

His eyes open sluggishly, unfocused at first, blinking against sleep. Then they find you.

And everything changes.

“Y/N?” he breathes, voice rough and low, like it’s been fighting to come out for hours.

You offer him a weak smile. “Hey.”

His whole body tenses like he’s about to bolt from the bench, but then Daisy mumbles in her sleep, her grip tightening on his shirt.

He stills, hand pressing gently to her back. His eyes never leave yours.

You’ve never seen him like this.

His expression crumples.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, like he’s still trying to believe it. “God, you’re awake.”

You nod, barely.

“Daisy… she’s okay?” Your voice is hoarse. It hurts to talk. Everything hurts.

He nods quickly, eyes glassy. “She’s okay. Shaken up, but… she’s okay.”

You glance down at your side, where the pain is worst. Thick bandages. IV lines. Your arm is bruised from shoulder to wrist. There’s a stitch of fire still pulsing in your head—probably a concussion.

“You saved her,” you whisper, throat tightening. “You got there in time.”

He flinches like you hit him.

“No,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t. I should’ve been there sooner. I wasn’t there. You were out there alone, fighting for your life—fighting for her—and I was—” His voice breaks. “I was buying her another fucking stuffed bunny.”

He gestures to the toy in her grip like it’s poison.

You blink slowly. The pain is catching up to you now, bleeding into every nerve. But your heart hurts more than any of it.

“Bucky…”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “You could’ve died, Y/N. If I’d been five minutes later—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “She needed me,” he chokes, almost inaudible. “And you… you needed me. And I wasn’t there.”

There’s so much pain in his eyes. Guilt. Fear. Love, too—undeniable, raw, and trembling on the edge of every breath.

You lift your fingers, trembling, and reach toward him. He shifts forward instinctively, leaning in to meet you halfway, his large hand gently covering yours where it rests against the mattress.

“You are here,” you whisper. “We’re both alive. That’s what matters.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods slowly—but the torment doesn’t leave his face.

Daisy stirs again, mumbling something in her sleep. He looks down at her and adjusts the blanket around her tiny shoulders.

You see it—the way he looks at her. The way his expression softens with something that looks an awful lot like home. Like she belongs there. Like he does, too.

“I don’t want to ever see her that scared again,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “I never want her to look at me and wonder why I wasn’t there.”

“It's okay,” you whisper. “You didn't know, Bucky. No one knew. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He just leans his forehead gently against Daisy’s hair and closes his eyes. For a long, quiet moment, there’s only the sound of the machines and the soft hum of ventilation.

You watch him, your chest aching—not just from the injuries, but from something deeper. Something heavier. Something blooming in the space where fear used to live.

You’ve been scared for so long.

Of being alone. Of never being enough. Of always running.

But here—right now—you’re not running anymore.

You’re lying in a bed, broken but breathing, watching a man cradle your daughter like she’s everything in the world.

And in that moment, you know something with absolute certainty.

You’re not alone.

Not anymore.

------

The hospital smells like too much bleach and quiet grief. You hate it.

You grip your crutches tighter, the rubber pads biting into your palms as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your ankle is still swollen—purple and angry beneath the compression wrap—but you can bear weight now, at least enough to hobble along if you have to.

“I’m okay,” you say, even though your voice lacks conviction. “I can do this.”

Across the room, Bucky watches you, unmoving. His arms are folded over his chest, but not out of impatience—more like he’s holding something in. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses the room slowly until he’s beside you, his presence a wall of warmth.

Then, without a word, he slips his hand just beneath your elbow, steadying you.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he murmurs, so softly it feels like it slides directly into your chest.

You hesitate. It’s instinct to resist help, to prove you can handle it. But your body aches in ways you can’t push through tonight. So you nod once, small and reluctant.

“Thanks.”

He walks beside you, matching your pace exactly. One hand stays light on your back, the other at your forearm. He doesn't guide you so much as offer himself as a quiet anchor. His warmth seeps into your skin every time your shoulders brush.

The walk back to your room is long. The compound is still a fractured version of what it was before—scorch marks trail along the walls like smudged shadows. One hallway still smells faintly of smoke. Construction drones whir softly overhead, climbing scaffolding, piecing shattered metal and glass back together.

When you reach the residential wing, the air feels heavier. Familiar, but haunted.

The door opens to your space and before you can even step inside, Daisy spots you.

“Mommy!”

She shrieks your name and bolts across the room, her bare feet slapping the floor, arms open like she’s going to catch you. She doesn’t reach you—Bucky gently redirects her to her toys—but she clutches her stuffed bunny tight, her eyes bright and excited.

She’s okay. She’s okay.

The relief hits you so hard you nearly stumble, and Bucky’s hand immediately steadies your hip.

You make it to the bed, and he helps you down with careful precision, lifting your leg onto a stack of pillows without being asked. You sigh and let yourself lean back. Everything hurts. But not as much as it did before.

“You alright?” he asks, crouching beside you again.

You nod. “Thanks to you.”

His gaze lingers on you, eyes flickering over every bruise, every bandage.

“I know the building’s being patched up,” he starts, voice a bit lower now, “but if you want... I could stay in here. Just to keep you two safe. Just until things are back to normal.”

Your heart flutters—not fear this time, but something warmer, something unfamiliar and fragile.

“You want to stay?” you ask, tilting your head.

“If it’s okay with you,” he says, and his eyes are earnest, almost shy. “I’d sleep on the floor. Or the couch. Just... I don’t want anything getting past me again.”

There’s a quiet beat before you answer. He’s not pushing. He’s giving you a choice.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He nods once, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

The night unfolds slowly. Bucky helps Daisy into her pajamas, gently untangling her hair with his fingers when it knots behind her ears. You watch from the bed, silent, stunned at how easily he’s become part of your world.

Later, he’s sitting cross-legged beside Daisy’s little mattress on the floor, holding up a book with colorful pages.

“And then,” he says in a ridiculous voice, “the monster said, 'That's MY sandwich!'”

Daisy giggles uncontrollably, clutching her bunny to her chest. Her laughter bubbles in the air, warm and familiar.

You watch Bucky read, swapping voices between characters—gravelly one second, high-pitched the next. You’ve never seen this side of him before. It’s soft. Silly. Human.

When Daisy finally starts to drift off, Bucky leans in and brushes her hair back with two fingers. Then, gently, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

Your breath catches. Something about it is so tender, so instinctive, that your chest aches.

He rises quietly, turning toward the couch without fanfare. But before he walks away, he looks at you.

“You need anything?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking to the too-small couch, then back to him.

“If you want… you don’t have to take the couch,” you say. “You can stay here. On the bed. Like before.”

Bucky blinks, surprised. “You sure?”

You nod, your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I mean—it’s not fair for you to take the couch.”

He waits for one last signal from you. You lift the corner of the blanket slightly. He walks over and eases himself down—on top of the sheets again, not too close, but closer than before. The heat from his body spreads toward you like sunlight.

You both lie there, eyes on the ceiling, breath slowing.

“Goodnight, Buck,” you whisper.

“’Night,” he replies, voice low.

The room falls quiet, save for Daisy’s soft, even breathing.

You feel him shift slightly beside you, just enough that your hands almost brush. The comfort of him is magnetic. Steady. You close your eyes and feel safer than you have in days.

----

You don’t mean to fall asleep so close to him. It just… happens.

The night slips by in silence, warm and calm. And at some point—maybe hours after you both whispered your goodnights—his arm finds your waist.

Your bodies mold together, soft and steady, like they’ve been doing this for years. One of your hands rests against his chest, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath your palm. His breath warms the top of your head, slow and even. He smells like soap and faintly of cologne.

You wake slowly, the way sunlight filters through cracked blinds. The air feels thick with comfort, soft with the weight of shared dreams.

And then a tiny thump jolts the bed.

“Mommy.”

A familiar voice, high and curious and so close.

You blink groggily. Daisy climbs up onto the bed in her little mismatched pajamas, a picture book clutched tightly in both hands. She’s smiling. Barefoot. Completely unaware of the fragile, tangled thing she’s just walked into.

You realize then: Bucky’s still holding you.

And you’re holding him.

His arm is snug around your waist, your legs a mess of tangled sheets and warmth. Your face is tucked into the hollow of his throat. There’s a beat—a held breath—as Bucky wakes up too. You feel his body tense against yours, a sharp inhale like he doesn’t know where he is or if he’s done something wrong.

You keep still. Let him have the moment.

Then you feel it. His grip eases. His body stays close, but less guarded. He doesn't pull away entirely. His hand remains right where it was, fingers spread softly over your side. Like he chooses to stay.

Your heart flutters, pounding almost embarrassingly loud in your chest.

Daisy plops down between you, wedging herself into the middle without a second thought. It forces a small space between you and Bucky, and the loss of his warmth makes your skin ache, just a little.

“Read book,” she demands, thrusting it toward him like a sacred offering.

Bucky blinks, still fighting sleep. “Yeah? You want this one?”

She nods emphatically, waves bouncing, and settles back against his side with the book in her lap.

You shift, sitting up slightly with the pillow behind you, careful not to jostle your ankle too much. Bucky adjusts too, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with you again, but neither of you mentions the way you woke up. You both feel it lingering in the air. Unspoken. Heavy in a good way.

He clears his throat, flips open the book.

The illustrations are colorful and round. Cartoonish creatures—tiny fuzzy things that look like puffballs with eyes—smile from every page.

“This one’s about a family,” Bucky says, his voice still scratchy from sleep. “See? There’s a momma, a baby, and… a daddy.”

Daisy leans forward, inspecting the pictures. Her little finger points.

“What’s a daddy?” she asks, curious.

You see the way Bucky’s jaw tightens for just a second. Like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He glances at you, then back at her.

“Well…” he starts slowly, “A dad takes care of you. He keeps you safe. He makes sure you have food, and helps you when you’re sad. He’s someone who’s always there.”

Daisy turns, squinting at him. “Like you?”

The question hits the air like a firework. Your breath catches. Bucky stiffens again, visibly unsure—he doesn’t want to overstep. Not without your say.

You see it in his eyes. The hesitation. The longing.

You reach over and place your hand gently on his.

“Yes, baby,” you say softly, your voice warm and certain. “Bucky is your daddy.”

There’s a pause.

Then Daisy breaks into the widest, sunniest grin you’ve ever seen. Her little cheeks puff up, eyes sparkling.

“I like havin’ a daddy,” she says, the words slightly squished in the way only a two-year-old can manage.

Bucky just stares at her. His lips part, breath shallow, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Daddy!” Daisy says brightly, testing it out. Then again. “Daddy! Daddy!”

Something melts on Bucky’s face. His eyes go soft. Wet, even. His mouth trembles with a smile, wide and stunned.

He pulls her into his arms with such care, so much reverence, like she’s made of glass and starlight.

He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I’m your daddy, peanut.”

Your heart caves in on itself in the best way. You feel it all at once—the heat behind your eyes, the warmth in your chest, the quiet, overwhelming love blooming between the three of you like spring after a long, brutal winter.

Daisy giggles, nuzzling into him. “My Daddy,” she says again, soft and sure.

And this time, Bucky doesn’t hesitate at all. He presses a long, tender kiss on her forehead.

-----

The lounge is quiet except for the animated voices coming from the TV. Daisy is curled up on a floor cushion in front of the screen, her wide eyes fixed on the bright colors flashing across it. Her bunny is tucked beside her like a second limb. She's so absorbed in the movie that she hasn’t said a word in ten minutes—something of a miracle.

You’re seated on the couch, your ankle elevated on a pillow placed on the coffee table in front of you. Your hands wrap around a cup of tea that’s long gone lukewarm. Bucky is beside you, just close enough that your legs brush every so often when either of you shifts. He’s lounging in an effortless way—ankles crossed, one arm slung over the back of the couch.

That arm is the first thing that starts to short-circuit your brain.

He doesn’t touch you. Not directly. But it’s there, his arm resting behind you, a solid presence that makes it impossible to think straight. And it isn’t just that—it’s the way he tilts slightly toward you as he watches the movie, like he’s more interested in the way you laugh quietly than the film itself.

Your heart flutters wildly, hopelessly.

Is this… something?

Or is he just stretching? Just getting comfortable? He’s a nice guy. A gentleman. Maybe he doesn’t even realize what it’s doing to you—how every molecule in your body is suddenly on edge, how your brain is running at full speed trying to analyze the angle of his elbow.

You keep thinking back to the little things: the way he carries Daisy like she’s the most precious thing in the world. The way he always checks on you before you even know you need help. The way he held you last night, asleep but instinctively protective.

He doesn’t treat everyone like this… does he?

But then again—he’s kind. He’s good. This could all be nothing. Just who he is.

You shift slightly, pulling your cardigan tighter around you, hoping the movement will ground you. His fingers brush your shoulder when he adjusts his arm just a little—just enough to make you swallow hard and stare intently at the movie like it holds all the answers.

And then Daisy scrambles up onto the couch and wedges herself right between you. “Daddy!” she chirps, her grin wide. “Play with me!”

His arm drops from behind you without hesitation, and he turns toward her with a warm smile. “Yeah, peanut? What do you wanna play?”

You try not to miss the heat of his arm behind you. Try not to feel like something just slipped away. Natasha passes by the lounge, catching the scene from the doorway. She raises a perfectly arched brow as she glances between the three of you—Daisy bouncing on her knees, Bucky giving her his full attention, and you, very clearly flustered and overthinking.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just smirks, gives you a look that speaks volumes, and walks on.

You’re left there, heartbeat still tangled up in your ribs, wondering what she saw.

----

Later that day, you’re back in the lounge, needle and thread in hand as you patch up a tiny rip in one of Daisy’s shirts. The soft hum of laughter filters in from the patio—Daisy’s bright giggle and Bucky’s lower, amused chuckle as they chase shadows and bugs across the concrete.

They’re far enough that they can’t hear you, but close enough that you keep glancing at the glass doors like you can’t help it.

Natasha slides into the seat beside you like she’s been waiting for the right moment. She leans back, long legs crossed, and eyes the shirt in your hands.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she says, her voice casual but not careless. You've started to get to know her. You trust her.

“Thanks,” you murmur, tying a knot in the thread.

A pause. Then—

“So… you and Barnes?”

You look up, blinking. “What about us?”

She lifts a brow. “Are you together?”

You nearly prick your finger on the needle. “No! No, we’re—he’s just helping me. Helping Daisy. He’s… being nice.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone is amused, not mocking. “He asked you out yet?”

You laugh softly, a little too tightly. “He doesn’t like me, Nat. He’s just being a good guy. That’s who he is. He's being a good coparent.”

Natasha gives you a look that cuts through all the excuses you’re clinging to. “That’s not what I see.”

You glance toward the patio again. Daisy is squatting in the grass now, poking a tiny stick at something, and Bucky is crouched beside her, totally engrossed in her world. The way he looks at her, like she’s everything.

Like you’re everything, when he looks at you.

“We’re friends,” you say, quieter now. “He’s been through hell, I've been through hell. We're just being there for each other and our daughter. And I’m just… someone he’s helping. That’s all. We're friends.”

Natasha leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Bucky doesn’t treat his friends like this. He’s polite to everyone, yeah. But you? He shows up for you. He’s with you every second he can be. He dotes on your every want and need. He doesn't do that with Steve. He looks at you like he’s afraid to blink.”

Your stomach flips, and your hands go still in your lap. That is true. He doesn't buy Steve flowers. His fingers don't linger on Natasha. He doesn't spend nearly as much time with everyone else as he does with us. Over the past few months that we've gotten to know him, his visits have evolved from a couple of minutes here and there to a couple of hours and eventually most of the day.

Well, that could just be because he wants to spend more time with Daisy. She is his kid after all. There's no way to avoid me since I'm usually with Daisy.

What if he's helping me because he thinks I'm too weak? That I can't do things on my own.

No. He wouldn't think that. Our friendship is not out of pity.

Right?

“I think he’s falling,” she adds confidently. “And I think you are too. You just don't know it yet.”

You don’t have a response. Not yet. The truth is loud in your chest, but fear muffles it. Fear of being wrong. Of reading too deeply again.

Outside, Bucky lifts Daisy high into the air while she squeals with delight, the sun catching in his hair, that rare smile on his face.

Your heart aches with something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

----

The kitchen smells like butter and garlic, like comfort and warmth and something that almost feels like home. You’re seated at the edge of the counter on a stool, your injured ankle propped on a pillow beneath you, a cutting board balanced on your lap. The knife moves slowly but confidently in your hand as you slice through carrots and celery for the soup.

Across the kitchen, Bucky stands beside Daisy at the island, helping her stir the cookie dough in a large mixing bowl. His hand gently covers hers on the wooden spoon, guiding her in a steady rhythm.

"You’re doing great, peanut," he says with that soft voice that turns your stomach to absolute mush. Daisy beams up at him like he hung the moon.

“I’m makin’ cookies!” she declares proudly, holding up the spoon, which promptly drips batter onto the counter.

Bucky chuckles. “You sure are.”

You can't help but smile as you listen, glancing up from your cutting board to watch the two of them. Your chest flutters. They're... adorable. Domestic. The way he gently brushes batter from Daisy’s cheek, the way she leans into him like he’s been her safe place forever. It all makes something warm pool low in your belly.

You stir the soup with one hand, slowly, carefully. A thought occurs to you, and you frown slightly, scanning the cabinets.

“We’re missing the bouillon cubes,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

You turn toward the seasoning cabinet and rise from the stool slowly, favoring your good leg. The cubes are at the very top shelf. Of course they are.

You stretch up carefully, balancing on your toes—but pain shoots up your ankle, sharp and immediate. You wince, hissing through your teeth, and start to lower yourself.

But then he’s there. Bucky.

You don’t even hear him move, but suddenly, his hand is gently pressed against your back, steadying you. He’s so close behind you, his presence almost overwhelming in the best way. His breath brushes the side of your cheek as he reaches up, grabbing the bouillon package from the top shelf with ease.

“Got it,” he says softly, handing it to you.

You take it from him, blinking, your fingers brushing his as you do. Your heart thuds wildly in your chest.

You realize just how close he is. His chest almost touches your back. His face is inches from yours, his jaw tense, brows drawn with concern.

“You shouldn’t be reaching for things like that,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing. Let me get things for you.”

Your mouth feels dry. “Thanks,” you say, your voice just a little too soft.

There’s a moment—a beat—where neither of you move.

His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second. Your breath catches.

Then—

“Daddy! I put too much flour!” Daisy calls from behind.

He turns, giving you a little squeeze on your arm before stepping away. “Duty calls.”

You’re left standing there, breathless, clutching the bouillon package like it’s a lifeline.

Your ankle still aches.

But your heart? That’s what’s really throbbing.

----

Later that afternoon, the kitchen is warm with the scent of soup and cookies. Daisy is at the coffee table in the adjoining lounge, fully immersed in her coloring books, her feet kicking back and forth while she hums to herself off-key. You’re sitting at the kitchen table with your ankle propped up, still sore, though less than before. The pain comes and goes, but the stiffness sticks around.

Bucky’s leaning near the counter, drying off the last of the cookie trays with a towel in his hand, his sleeves pushed up. The sun streaming in through the windows hits him in all the right ways — softening the edges of him, catching in his hair, setting his skin in warm light. He looks domestic, handsome. You try not to look too long. Fail, obviously.

He glances at you, and his eyes are already waiting. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, lifting your cup. “I’m fine. Just stiff. Sitting helps.”

He hums low in his throat, tossing the towel onto the counter. “I meant from earlier.”

You blink, caught. “Oh. That. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You looked like you were in pain,” he says, taking a slow step closer. “You shouldn’t have tried to reach that shelf.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt.”

“You never think it will,” he says quietly, his mouth tugging into a crooked half-smile. “You’ve got this whole brave face thing down. But I see you.”

You look up at him, heat blooming beneath your skin.

He stops in front of you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, with quiet ease, he drags the chair next to yours just a few inches closer before sitting down, the space between you now nonexistent. You feel the brush of his arm as he rests it casually along the back of your chair, not quite touching you — but enough to feel the air shift.

Your breath stutters. Your heart pounds. You feel like a teenager again, excited by the proximity of your crush.

He’s watching you again. Not teasing, not smirking. Just… watching. With that unreadable expression that makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t have to reach for things, y’know,” he says, voice low. “I’m right here.”

You don’t know what to say to that — because it’s not really about the soup or the cabinet anymore. Not really.

You try to recover, offering a quiet, “Thanks. For helping.”

His fingers brush the edge of your chair lightly — and your shoulder leans into it before you can stop yourself.

He notices. Doesn’t push it. Just lets his knuckles rest there, barely grazing you.

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

And just when it feels like your heart might rattle right out of your chest, Daisy looks up from the floor and proudly announces: “I drawed a daddy!”

Both your heads turn.

She’s holding up her page, her crayon scribbles a colorful mess, but there’s a stick figure with brown hair and a metal arm. You don’t even have to guess.

Bucky smiles — the softest thing you’ve ever seen on him. It takes over his whole face. His chest rises slowly, then falls. “That’s me, huh?” he says gently.

Daisy grins. “You got arms!”

“I do got arms,” he agrees, and he winks at her.

You can’t help it — you stare at him again. The way he looks at Daisy. The way he smiles. The way his voice softens around her name. The way it’s already become instinct for him to be near you.

And when he looks at you again, he doesn’t look away. You’re still wondering — does he know what he’s doing to you?

Then his hand, resting behind you, moves just a little closer. Not enough to press fully into your back. But enough to feel the heat. Enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You say nothing.

Neither does he.

But the space between you hums like something ready to bloom.

-----

Night settles softly over the compound, cloaking the broken halls and half-fixed walls in silence. Somewhere down the corridor, the distant hum of drills and welding sparks fades into rest, leaving your little shared room in a gentle hush.

You sit on the bed, leg propped up on a pillow. The dull ache of your ankle is manageable now, a background hum compared to the louder thoughts in your mind.

Natasha’s voice still echoes in your head.

He looks at you like he’s afraid to blink.

Your heart has been doing gymnastics all day, especially after that quiet moment on the couch—his arm behind you, his body leaned just a little too close. It could have been nothing. But maybe… it wasn’t.

You hear Daisy giggling, her voice muffled by the wall separating the sleeping nook from the rest of the room. Bucky is reading to her in that same funny voice he always uses, shifting tones between characters. You smile to yourself as you catch the tail end of it.

“…and that’s how the sleepy squirrel finally found his nut,” he says with exaggerated flair.

Daisy laughs. “Silly Squirrel!”

Bucky chuckles, and you can hear the mattress creak slightly as he helps her settle under the covers. “Alright, peanut. Time to close your eyes.”

You hear a tiny yawn, followed by a quiet, “G’night, daddy.”

“Night, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right nearby.”

A few moments later, the lights dim, and you feel the shift in the bed as Bucky makes his way back to you. This time, he doesn’t ask. He just climbs in beside you, slow and quiet, like it’s second nature now. Like he belongs there.

And maybe he does.

You don’t look at him right away—you’re not sure you can without your face giving something away. But you feel his warmth beside you, the edge of his blanket brushing against yours. You both lie there in the hush, the only sound the occasional rustle of Daisy shifting in her little bed.

Then—his hand finds yours.

It’s hesitant at first, the brush of his fingers against your knuckles making your breath catch. You glance down and see his hand, open, waiting—not grabbing, not pushing, just there, asking without asking.

And you give in.

You slip your fingers between his, and he holds on. His touch is warm, grounding, steady—and yet it makes your heart stutter in your chest like a drumline.

You can feel the smile tugging at your lips, even in the dark.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the tension drain from his shoulders. The way his thumb gently brushes against yours—like he’s just as relieved as you are.

Like this has been building for a while now, and he’s finally taken one step closer.

And you’re glad.

You’re so, so glad.

Sleep creeps in slowly after that, soft and easy with his hand in yours and the weight of him beside you. You close your eyes with your heart fluttering, your mind already imagining waking up the next morning with his fingers still tangled with yours.

You fall asleep hoping for more tomorrows like this one.

Maybe this isn’t just a crush.

Maybe it is the beginning of something real.

----- 3rd POV -----

The clang of metal echoes through the Avengers' training gym — rhythmic, sharp, familiar. Bucky grunts softly as he finishes his set of pull-ups, dropping lightly to the ground with practiced ease. Across from him, Steve is at the punching bag, sweat glistening at his brow as he moves with precise, controlled jabs.

They’ve been working out in silence for a while now, just like the old days. No need for words when muscle memory and old habits take over. But even now, Steve can sense it — something different in Bucky’s expression. Something weighing on his mind.

“You good?” Steve asks without looking up, landing one last hit before he lets the bag swing back into stillness.

Bucky pauses as he wipes his face with a towel, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he says, then follows it with a sigh. “No. I don’t know.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Talk to me.”

Bucky leans against the weight bench, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes drift to the floor. “You remember how I used to be with girls?”

Steve snorts. “How could I forget? You’d flirt with anything that breathed.”

A small grin tugs at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, but it fades just as quickly. “Yeah. That guy… he was cocky. Easy charm, you know? Now, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something, and I don’t know how to take the next step.”

Steve’s smile softens. “This about Y/N?”

Bucky hesitates, but then nods. “Yeah.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair and finally meets Steve’s eyes. “She’s… different. Not just from the girls I used to chase — I mean from anyone. She’s strong, kind, funny. She doesn’t treat me like I’m dangerous or broken, and when I’m with her, things feel… lighter. Better.”

Steve listens quietly, nodding.

Bucky continues, his voice lower. “And Daisy — that kid… she’s like sunshine, Steve. And she looks at me like I’m something good. Like I’m her world. And I want to be that. I want to protect them. Keep showing up for them. But it’s not just about being there. I want more.”

“You’re falling for her.”

Bucky’s expression is almost sheepish. “Yeah. I think-I think I am.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “So what’s stopping you?”

“I haven’t been on a date since before the war, Steve. Before Hydra. Before the Winter Soldier. I don’t know how to do this anymore. And she’s been through so much. I don’t want to mess this up, or make her uncomfortable. What if I read this whole thing wrong?”

Steve places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re not that guy from before the war anymore. And that’s not a bad thing. You’re someone stronger now. Someone who’s been through hell and still wants to love again. That’s not weakness — that’s courage.”

Bucky exhales, eyes distant. “She makes me want to be better. Softer. But I keep thinking… what if I’m not what she wants?”

Steve chuckles. “Buck, if you could see the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching, you wouldn’t be asking that.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You think?”

“I know,” Steve says, a grin on his face. “You’ve already got one foot in the door. Just take the next step.”

Bucky’s shoulders loosen a little. There’s still doubt, still nerves — but now, there’s a flicker of hope too.

“Maybe I’ll ask her soon,” he murmurs.

Steve nods. “You’ll know when it’s the right moment.”

And for the first time in a long while, Bucky starts to believe that maybe — just maybe — he deserves that moment.

-----

It’s been a few weeks since the attack, and though you’re still adjusting to everything, today feels like a small step back into normalcy. Bucky’s been patient with you, never rushing, always understanding your hesitations. But today—today he’s determined to get you out of the compound, get you out of the bubble that’s formed around you, and take you shopping. It’s been a while since you’ve felt like you could do something like this, but Bucky wants to help, and you’re willing to try.

Daisy is practically bouncing off the walls, excited for the trip. She’s already picked out a few toys in her mind, but you know today is about more than just her. Bucky wants to make sure you have what you need too, and while that sounds wonderful, there’s a knot in your stomach that you can’t quite shake.

You haven’t been shopping for clothes in a while—not since before everything changed. You’re not sure how to feel about it, especially with your body and the changes it’s gone through. The idea of clothes shopping is a little nerve-wracking. You try to shake off the unease, but it lingers as you walk beside Bucky, who seems completely at ease in the bustling city.

His hand brushes against yours as he leads you into the store, a quiet gesture that makes your heart flutter, but you quickly distract yourself with Daisy’s chatter. She’s holding your hand tightly, pulling you toward the toy aisle, her excitement infectious. For a while, you forget about the worries in the back of your mind, watching as Bucky helps her pick out some new toys. He’s so attentive, so gentle with her, and it warms your heart to see them interact.

After a while, it’s time for you to pick out clothes. You feel a little nervous, not sure how this will go. Bucky’s voice is gentle when he tells you, “You deserve some new clothes, Y/N. Not just the stuff you were given.”

You start to protest, feeling the familiar tension in your chest. “I’m okay with what I have now, really—”

But he cuts you off, his tone firm but caring. “No. You deserve better than that. You don’t have to settle. Let me do this for you, okay?”

Your heart stirs at the way he says it, and you know there’s no arguing with him when he’s like this. He’s right. You do deserve to feel good about yourself, even if it makes you nervous. So you give in, nodding slightly, and follow him toward the clothing section.

Bucky leads you to a small section of dresses, watching as you sift through the racks, trying not to let the nerves show on your face. You’re not sure how to feel about the clothes in front of you—so many choices, and none of them feel quite right. There’s a beautiful dress that catches your eye, though, hanging on a rack in the corner. You run your fingers over the fabric, feeling how soft it is, how delicate. Maybe this one.

But when you pick it up, you hesitate, suddenly unsure. What if it doesn’t look good on you? What if it’s too much? Your insecurities swirl in your mind, and you find yourself questioning everything—Is it too tight? Too revealing? Will he think I look ridiculous?

You let out a small sigh, but you know you need to try it on. You want to try it on. So you grab the dress and head to the changing room. Bucky stays outside with Daisy, and you hear their laughter through the thin walls as you step into the fitting room.

You slip into the dress, the soft fabric hugging your curves in a way that feels unfamiliar, but also comfortable. You stand in front of the mirror for a moment, turning this way and that. The dress isn’t too tight; it’s just right, the color flattering your skin tone. But the uncertainty still lingers. You feel a little vulnerable, exposed. What if Bucky thinks it’s too much?

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your stomach. You feel beautiful, but also unsure. You wish you could ask someone—anyone—what they think.

And then, suddenly, you hear a soft bang bang bang on the door. You glance at the door, a little startled. “Mommy, come out! Mommy!” Daisy calls from the other side, her voice so sweet, so innocent, it makes your heart melt.

Bucky’s voice follows, softer, coaxing, “Daisy, let’s wait a little longer, okay? Mommy needs a bit of time.”

But Daisy isn’t having it. She starts tapping her little hands on the door, her impatience building, and before you know it, you can hear her feet shuffling.

You chuckle softly to yourself, feeling a warmth in your chest as you move toward the door, ready to open it for your little girl. You take one last glance at yourself in the mirror, hoping you look okay. You can do this.

You open the door, and there she is—Daisy, standing there with her wide, eager eyes, a grin spreading across her face. But her expression changes as soon as she sees you, and her eyes go wide.

Bucky is standing behind her, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently. But when he sees you, his gaze sharpens, the usual casual ease slipping away for a moment.

He freezes, and you notice the way his eyes widen as they roam over you, taking in the way the dress fits you, the way it flows and catches the light. His lips part slightly, and there’s a moment—a brief, breathless pause—before he says, “You... You look... stunning.”

The word lingers in the air, and you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks. You’re not sure what to say to that. You suddenly feel exposed, standing there in front of both him and Daisy. But you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips.

Daisy, oblivious to the tension in the air, claps her hands, excited. “Mommy looks pretty!”

You bend down to give her a kiss on the forehead, still a little flustered. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Bucky clears his throat softly, and when you glance up at him, you see the way he’s still watching you—like he’s trying to commit the sight to memory. His gaze softens, and there’s a tenderness in his expression that makes your heart flutter. He doesn’t look at you like he’s just looking at the clothes. He looks at you like he sees you—like he’s amazed by you.

“You should get it,” Bucky says quietly, his voice low, sincere. “You deserve to feel good. To feel beautiful.”

You smile, a little unsure, but thankful for his words. You nod, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll get it. Thanks, B.”

For a moment, he freezes at the nickname, something he's never heard from you before. He smiles back, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer before turning to Daisy, who’s now pulling on his hand, eager to move on to the next adventure.

“I’ll keep her entertained,” Bucky says, his voice soft, “You take your time. No rush.”

You nod, feeling a flutter of warmth in your chest, as you step back into the dressing room to make your decision.

As you slip back into your regular clothes and head back to the main store area, you feel a sense of gratitude toward Bucky—his kindness, his genuine care for you. Maybe today is about more than just shopping. Maybe today is about him showing you that you deserve everything good that’s come your way.

You glance at Bucky as he helps Daisy pick out another toy, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s falling into place.

----

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)

Taglist: @svtbpbts @vicmc624 @baw1066

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

Base Line (1940s!Bucky x Reader) 

word count: 5.4k+

masterlist

a/n: what is that gif bc holyyy shittttt

You’d been living on the army base since you were three, and by the time that Bucky had shown up, you were almost ten. He was already ten—-a little dusty and dirty, with messy brown, cocoa powder colored hair. He’d just lost his parents, and he was dragging a lot of emotional baggage with him. He was young. And broken. And still facing that same basic human condition—the hole in his heart.

When you were young, a woman on base had taught you this: there is a hole inside of your heart, no matter where you come from. You could’ve been rich and unloved, poor and loved, rich and loved, poor and unloved, it didn’t matter. The hole came preprogrammed in you. And you, and only you, could fill it. “It’s why people fight these terrible wars, write those stories and books, travel around the world,” she’d said. “We’re all just trying to fill the hole in our hearts.” 

Despite not fully grasping this concept, you believed with all of your holed-heart that this was exactly how it was. 

You were a bit lonely on base. You were the only kid here, and now, all of a sudden, there was a boy your age living here too. And his sister. Unfortunately, his sister was three, and couldn’t really play the games you wanted to yet. 

Bucky was shy. Nervous. He knew the men that were now taking care of him well—-they’d been his father’s army buddies, his closest friends. But he’d just lost his parents, and all he wanted to do was just go home. 

Instead, you walked up to him with the only board game that the base had that you were allowed to use. You smiled at him, then said, “Wanna play Dominoes?”

Bucky looked at you for a moment, contemplating. “I don’t know how to play Dominoes,” he admitted quietly. 

You grinned. “Well, it’s easy. I can teach you.”

Bucky didn’t really want to be taught, but it seemed a lot better than just being stuck in his thoughts. “Alright.”

Bucky had made the best decision of his life. Turned out that he did like Dominoes, but what he liked a whole lot more than Dominoes is you. He liked having a playmate. Soon, the two of you had branched out to a whole lot of other games to play together—games that didn’t necessarily involve sitting on the floor and playing with small, rectangular-shaped pieces. 

The two of you started out even, but as time wore on and you got older, Bucky got taller and stronger, and he’d carry you around the base on his back, piggy-back style, and try to race. He raced a few animals, a few cars, some of the guys on the base, and he didn’t normally win. “Just you watch, though. I’m gonna kick your butt some day!” Bucky would declare after each loss. He was only twelve, after all.

— — —

By the time Bucky was thirteen, you and he were both going to the same school and all of the kids there knew that you and Bucky were a package deal. Sure, you had your friends and he had his, but you two were closer than anybody else there, and they all knew it. With that came the teasing about you two dating. And as you told everybody, “we’re not.”

This became less believable when one guy made the mistake of making an insensitive comment about you during the recess before the end of school. What it was? You didn’t know. Bucky refused to tell you. But what everybody saw was that Bucky took a swing at the guy, pinned him onto the ground and menacingly told him, “Keep. Her. Name. Out. Of. Your. Filthy. Mouth.” The guy nodded. 

“Bucky! What the hell??” You ran up to him. “You alright?” you asked the guy on the ground, who, apprehensively, nodded. 

“I don’t give a damn if he’s alright,” Bucky argued. Then, he returned his attention to the guy. “She’s nice to you, and you’re talkin’ crap about her? What’s wrong with you?” His eyes were glaring daggers. 

“What even happened?” you asked, confused. 

“This asshole was talking bad about you,” Bucky pointed. 

“You gotta quit cursing, somebody’ll tell on you,” you said. “What did he even say to get you so mad?”

“Oh, no way I’m repeating that. You don’t need to hear it.”

“Buck! You punched a guy over me, I wanna know,” you argued. 

“You don’t need to hear it! It was disgusting. And you’re never gonna say it or anything like it again, are you?” Bucky threatened the guy. The guy shook his head emphatically. 

“C’mon, let’s go,” you gently pulled on his arm. 

As you walked away, half-dragging Bucky with you, one of your girl friends said, “and you’re sure that he’s not your boyfriend?”

“Hey, I can love her without dating her, alright?” Bucky argued as you sighed and continued dragging him. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you repeated to the girl. 

“He sure looked like it!”

— — —

When you managed to get Bucky back to the army base, he was still refusing to tell you what the guy had even said to get him so angry. “Woah, woah, what happened here?” one of the men who took care of Bucky walked into the room. His name was Frank.

“Bucky punched a guy,” you explained. 

“He was talking crap about her,” Bucky pointed to you. “I was just tryna get him back for it.”

“...what exactly did you do to him, Buck?” Frank asked apprehensively. 

“I punched him once,” Bucky said. 

“And then you pinned him to the ground,” you added. 

“Well, I had to make sure he’d hear me,” Bucky replied. 

“Wait, what did you say?” Frank questioned. 

“I told him to keep her name out of his filthy mouth,” Bucky shrugged.

“What did he even say?” Frank asked. 

“He won’t tell me!” you exclaimed. 

“Okay, okay,” Frank held both his hands up. “Bucky, we’re gonna have to talk about this.” 

What happened during Bucky’s conversation with Frank is not something that you ever got to find out about. What you did know was that Frank elected not to punish Bucky, which ended up turning into a slight debate when the other men found out what he’d decided. But for some reason, after Frank talked to them, they agreed with them. This made you think that Bucky had told them what the guy had said. But why wouldn’t he tell you?? 

— — — 

When you were fifteen, you were still attending the same school as Bucky. Of course. You were rather close, still, but you’d begun to reach the age where it really truly felt nothing like the friendship you’d had when you were kids. You missed it. You missed him. He was off with his guy friends all of the time, and you missed the boy who’d carry you around on his back in the summers at base, running and racing whatever he could. 

On Bucky’s end, he was intentionally distancing himself from you. He loved you so much that it hurt. And he was surrounded by boys his age dating and talking about girls and getting girlfriends, but all he really just wanted was you. But your lives were so intwined—your circumstances so close together—that taking that risk of asking you, or even being with you, felt too great to bear. Because, what a girl you were. He grew up amidst all of his father’s army buddies, military men, men who showed him army values and taught him to fight and be respectful. You’d had the same upbringing, and you’d stayed sweet all throughout. Though, he had to admit—you could certainly throw a punch or two. He hated himself for this, but… it’s for the best. 

Or is it? 

So, despite the fact that he didn’t really want to, Bucky went ahead and asked out this girl that a friend of his had told him was into him. When he went to leave, you were sitting outside. Writing in your notebook. For school, probably. Or journaling. Did you even journal? He didn’t know. Why did he have to walk past you? Bucky sighed, and did it anyway. He walked out, right by you, and like he knew you would, oh goddammit, you asked, “are you goin’ out or somethin’?” 

Bucky swallowed. “Yeah, I got uh… got a date.” 

You raised your eyebrows slightly, clearly a little surprised. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Have a good time, then.”

“Thanks. You too- I mean, uh.. I uh.. I’ll see you when I get home.” Just like that, he darted off. 

You rested your head on your hand, looking out into the darkness Bucky’d left through. You weren’t sighing, really, just…kind of intensely breathing and staring off into the distance. Frank chuckled as he walked out and saw you. “He’s got a date tonight,” he commented. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you know if he’s excited?”

“I don’t, he doesn’t talk to me like that anymore.” 

“He doesn’t, now does he?”

“No.”

“Sad, huh?”

“Only when I think about it.” 

“Huh.”

— — —

Bucky got back at just past 9:30 that night. You were inside now, reading. He sat down in the same room. You kept reading. His eyes travelled across the room, not looking for anything. He played with the zipper of his jacket. You kept reading. He was controlling every impulse not to bounce his leg. His fingers continued flipping the zipper back and forth gently. You kept reading. Finally, he broke the ice. 

“It went alright.”

“That’s nice,” you replied, not looking up from your book. 

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Bucky mumbled. 

“What was that?”

“I said ‘yeah, I guess it is’.” 

“Alright.” 

“I don’t like her,” Bucky blurted. “I mean, yes, sure, she’s nice and she’s pretty, there’s nothing wrong with her, and some other guy will fall in love with her and sweep her off of her feet. I’m not the guy.” 

You were surprised to hear that. “I… I’m not sure how to answer that but…okay. I’m… glad you know how you feel?”

Bucky nodded and you bit your lip, let out a soft breath, and went back to reading after a moment. Bucky got up and left.

— — — 

Bucky went on a couple of other dates with a couple of other girls, but they all ended in the same way—he would say that she was pretty and nice and that she was going to find someone great someday that wasn’t him. 

Frank thought it was funny. A lot of the men on base did. 

“What’s your dream girl even got, Buck?” Ron asked one evening as the men played cards. You were sitting nearby with a book. “All three or four of these girls you gone out with—she’s pretty and nice, and I ain’t takin’ her out again. C’mon, Buck, what’s wrong?” The guys at the table chuckled quietly. 

“I don’t know, I just don’t like ‘em,” Bucky shrugged. “Better than leadin’ ‘em on, anyways. I’ma go to bed. G’night.” He gently grazed a hand over your arm for a brief second—a subtle direct goodnight. To you. 

“G’night,” you said back. 

Frank chuckled and shook his head. “Aight, show me your hand, Ron.” 

— — —

One night, though, things were different. Because it wasn’t Bucky going out on a date—it was you. “I’ll be back before nine!” you called as you headed out. George, one of the men, gave you a thumbs up, as did Freddy and Frank.  

“Wait, what’re you dressed up for?” Bucky asked. 

“What, do you think you’re the only one who’s allowed to go on dates?” you challenged. “Bye, everyone!” And you left. 

Bucky bit his lip and tried not to show the jealousy that was building up inside the pit of his stomach. 

Frank chuckled, shaking his head. 

“What’s funny?” Bucky asked. 

“You gettin’ all grumpy when she’s leaving to go on a date,” Frank continued chuckling, the cigarette dangling out of the edge of his mouth. Like most of the men on base, he’d mastered the art of talking with one. 

“I’m not grumpy,” Bucky argued immediately, annoyed. His face turned slightly pink. 

George and Freddy chuckled too. “You sure are,” Freddy said. “You look like a kid who lost a game or something. Buck up, Bucky.” 

“Well, what if he’s a bad guy?” Bucky asked. “I’ve never met him. Or have I? Who is he?” 

George snorted. “Beats me. I think Frank knows him?”

“He’s Roy Brown’s kid,” Frank shrugged. “Seems nice enough. She’s a smart girl, Buck, nothing’s gonna happen to her.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky said. “Anything could happen. He could take advantage of her, he could hurt her, she could get lost, she could have to run away from him, she could trip while running from him and get her ankle twisted or hurt herself, his car could break down, whatever! I don’t care that she’s smart, there’s a lot of bad guys out there that wanna hurt pretty girls, and if she gets stuck alone with one, she could get into trouble.”

“Woahh there, buddy,” Frank held a hand up. “They’re going out for a soda or an ice cream or something at the diner. She’ll be back before nine. I’ve met the kid before. It’s gonna be okay.” 

“Yeah, if you’re so worried some guy’s gonna hurt her, just take her out yourself,” George shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette. Freddy continued shuffling his cards. 

“Like she’d wanna go out with me. I think she thinks of me like a brother,” Bucky snorted and shook his head. 

Frank turned his head away from his poker chips and looked at Bucky. George held the cigarette away from his mouth. The sound of Freddy shuffling the cards stopped. Bucky looked up from his shoes. “...what?”

“So you do like her,” George said.

Bucky realized then what he’d said. “Uh…”

Freddy snorted and went back to shuffling cards. “Just ask her out, Jesus Christ. Kids these days. We raised you better than this. Be a man, Buck.”

Frank chuckled and went back to stacking and restacking his poker chips. 

An hour and a half later, you returned. The men had dealt Bucky into their poker game. “Hey, girl, how was it?” George asked. 

“It was fun,” you said with a smile. “I’m tired, though.” 

“Yeah, you can head off to bed,” Frank said with a smile. “I’m glad you had a good night.” 

“I did,” you walked over and gave Frank a hug. “He’s a nice guy, we had a nice time.” You said your goodnights, and left to go to bed. 

Bucky turned to Freddy. “You really want me to take her out? I think she likes that guy.” His tone was salty. 

Freddy smirked. “See if she goes out with him again. Maybe it’s like you and your damn dates. ‘Oh yes, she’s pretty and nice and yeah no way in hell I’m going back out with her.’”

“I don’t sound like that!” 

The men at the table laughed.

— — —

You went on a few more dates with the guy. It drove Bucky crazy every time. He would end up playing poker and smoking a cigarette, acting like he wasn’t sitting there, waiting for you to come back. Then, one night, on your fourth date (yes, Bucky had been counting), you came back not smiling widely. 

“Hey, girl, how was it?” George asked, dealing out the cards.

“It was fine,” you answered. “I don’t think I’ll go out with him again, though.”

Frank lifted his head to look up at you. “Oh yeah? Did anything happen?”

You shrugged. “We broke up.”

Oh. 

Oh. Shit, did this mean you were available? Bucky internally chastened himself. What a selfish first thought. What had caused the breakup? Things had seemed to have been going really well. “Sorry,” Bucky offered.

“It’s fine,” you said. “He’s just a boy.” You walked away. The words rung around in Bucky’s head. He’s just a boy. What made someone not just a boy to you?

“Huh,” Freddy said. “She was… remarkably calm about that.”

“Good thing too, I don’t know what I woulda done if she cried,” George replied with an uneasy look, and the men at the table chuckled. 

Bucky knew what he would’ve done. He would’ve held you. Because even if it felt awkward, if you needed somebody there, goddammit, he was going to be the person that was there for you. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened to cause the breakup, though.

You laid down on your bed, setting your bag on the floor beside you. You were by yourself. You hadn’t expected to go out tonight and end up with no boyfriend, but you were surprised at how okay with it you were. It was beginning to make you rethink what your now ex had said.

“Who’s Bucky?” Lewis had asked you. “You talk about him a lot.” The unspoken words hung in the air. Too much. 

“He’s this guy I’ve kinda grown up with,”  you explained with a shrug. “I live on that army base, right? They took me in. They took him in, too, when we were younger.” 

“So… did they raise you like siblings?” Lewis asked. There was almost a slightly hopeful tonality to his question.

“No, not really,” you shook your head. “He’s one of my best friends. He doesn’t really… he doesn’t really talk to me or hang out with me like he used to, but y’know, I guess times change.”

“Huh,” Lewis said. There was a pause. “How long has it been since you stopped being as close as you were?”

You thought for a moment. “Maybe a year or so. When I was… oh, no, we were still super close when I was thirteen. He punched a guy for me.”

“What?” Lewis’s words had a laugh attached to them, a slight one. 

“He said the guy said something bad about me. Never said what it was,” you shrugged with a smile. “All I saw was him punch the guy and then pin him to the ground.”

“Jesus.” 

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever date him?”

“No! No, no.”

“But you don’t think he’s like your brother.”

“Not that either.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing. Guys only punch other guys for a girl because they either like the girl, or she’s their sister that they gotta protect,” Lewis said. “I haven’t met him, but uh, he sounds like he likes you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so… maybe you shouldn’t hang out with him all that much anymore.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You don’t like him.”

“I- I still care about him, though, I mean, we’ve grown up together and he’s a great guy an-”

“Oh my God, you do like him.”

“No, I don’t!”

“C’mon, quit lying, you like him.”

“I don’t! I like you.”

“Not as much as him, though.”

“Lewis, you’re being irrational. He’s Bucky.”

“Exactly! He’s Bucky. And you get all emotional or smiley when you talk about him.”

“I… I don’t do that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t!”

“Well, if you really don’t like him, you’ll stop hanging out with him.”

“I… I can’t.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to stop going out with me.”

“...alright.”

“I’ll walk you home.” 

And that had been about the end of it. You were sad over it, sure, but… Bucky came first. Bucky came before any other random guy that you went out with, because he was your Bucky, and there was no way you were going to lose him any more than you already had. 

You heard a knock at your door. “Come in,” you said, not getting up from your bed. You were tired, and your feet hurt from the high heels. 

Bucky came in. “Hi.”

You sat up a little. “Oh, hi.”

“Are… you okay?” Bucky asked tentatively, staying in the doorway. 

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m all good. You can come here, it’s not like I have the plague or something.”

Bucky cracked and amused smile and walked into the room, sitting down on the edge of your bed. “I thought you might be upset.”

You smiled a little, fondly, at him. “I’m fine. I think it’s real nice that you wanted to check in on me though.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.” There was a pause. “Why… why did y’all break up, exactly? I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to or anything, but I was just… curious.”

“Oh, yeah,” you nodded. “It was about you, actually.”

Bucky froze. “... what.”

“Yeah, he said that I talked about you a lot and that since you’re not like, my brother or something, you must like me and so I should stop hanging out with you,” you shrugged. “I said no, he said that if I didn’t, he didn’t want to date me anymore, I said alright, and he walked me home.”

Bucky’s heart was going to beat itself out of his chest. He was frozen, unmoving. He was the reason for your breakup?? What?? And you didn’t think he was like your brother, and you didn’t want to stop hanging out with him, and— oh dear god, he was going to run himself off of a cliff. “I’m… I’m sorry that happened,” Bucky said. 

You shrugged with a smile and said, “whatcha gonna do? He’s not the one for me, anyway, if you bother him that much.”

…was this an extreme case of friendzoning, or did Bucky have a shot? He was positively confuddled, but he nodded. 

— — —

In the days that followed, Bucky was hanging out with you more than ever. It felt like the biggest sigh of relief of your life to you—you had your Bucky back. And you’d really, really missed having him around. He was talking with you again, walking around base with you, even playing Dominoes with you again. You didn’t know where the shift had come from, but you were thankful for it. 

A week later, the school announced that they were holding a sock hop for their students on Friday night. You were handed the paper by some girl who also went to your school when you walked into the building on Monday morning. Bucky had walked with you, and read the paper over your shoulder as you held it. 

“Do you wanna go…?” Bucky asked tentatively. 

“It sounds fun. You wanna come with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” 

When Bucky got back home in the evening, he found Freddy having a beer by himself. “Hey, uh… hey Fred?” Freddy turned his head to look at Bucky. “What kinda dancing do they do at a sock hop?”

Freddy seemed slightly taken by surprise by the question, but he thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Just regular old dancing, probably.”

“How… how do you do that?”

“I don’t know, just…wiggle.”

Finding Freddy to be extremely unhelpful, Bucky decided to go in search of a different source. He found the one woman he knew on base. Mary Jane, who was a nurse. “Nurse Mary? I got a question you could, uh… maybe help me with.” 

Nurse Mary looked up at him from the bandages she’d been rolling up. “What’s wrong? Hurt yourself somehow?”

“No, ma’am,” Bucky shook his head no. “I… I’m supposed to go to a sock hop on Friday with a girl, and I don’t really know how to dance.”

Nurse Mary appeared amused. “How many people did you ask before you came to me?”

“Just Freddy, ma’am.”

“And what did he say?”

“To just wiggle.”

Nurse Mary laughed. “It’s not entirely wrong. Here, I’ll teach you.” 

— — — 

Friday came. Frank had helped Bucky iron his shirt and tie his tie perfectly, extremely amused yet happy to help. He knew about the sock hop, but didn’t know who Bucky was trying to impress. But when you came out in your adorable light blue dress, he was… surprised to say the least. “Are you two…?” Frank gestured to the two of you. 

“What? We’re just gonna go to the sock hop together,” you said. 

“Yeah, you don’t have to read into everything,” Bucky added. “We’ll be back between uh… nine and nine-thirty I think, right?” He looked to you for confirmation. You nodded, and Bucky gave Frank a thumbs up. 

“Bye!” you waved as you and Bucky left. 

Frank chuckled to himself. “Damn idiots,” he muttered. 

— — — 

You took off your shoes at the front of the gymnasium, as not to scuff the floor, and soon, you and Bucky were dancing in the gym with everybody else, feeling the rhythm and the music, chatting together and just having a good time. The energy was lively and noisy, and Bucky couldn’t stop himself from grinning at you, smiling and dancing with him. 

Then the music slowed. A steady, ballad drum beat played, a slow love song beginning now. Bucky could have taken you off the dance floor and away to get something to eat or drink, but instead, his hands found your waist, moving in rhythm with you and the music, just like Mary Jane had taught him. His hand twirled into yours and he gently spun you, then pulled you back to him like a swing on a swing set, his hands settling right back on your waist again. You were moving with him, dancing with him. Bucky was dancing with you. Slow dancing. And he… he didn’t want to leave. Your hand on his shoulder, the other now holding his own hand. And then…

The song ended. It was back to the same lively energy as before. It was fun, youthful and exciting. But it wasn’t the same right now as it had been a few minutes before. Bucky knew now what it was like to slow dance with you. And he kind of just wanted to do that forever. 

After a half an hour more, Bucky asked, “hey, do you wanna go to the diner? I could go for a Coca-Cola.”

You nodded in agreement. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

You left the dance with Bucky, and walked together to the diner. You two sat down at the barstools, and Bucky asked the soda jerk, “Hey, could I please get a Coca-Cola?” He turned to you, and you nodded. “Two, please.”

The soda jerk nodded, and went to get two cups. Bucky returned his attention to you. “I had a lotta fun dancing with you,” Bucky said, breaking the ice.

“Me too,” you smiled. “I didn’t know you knew how to slow dance.” You sounded surprised. Happy. Amused. 

Bucky chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, about that… I got Nurse Mary to teach me.” 

“She must’ve been a good teacher then.”

“Maybe you’re just a good partner.” 

The Coca-Colas arrived, and you sat at the barstool with Bucky, drinking your sodas and shooting the shit. No one else besides you and the soda jerk was in the diner. You turned to Bucky. “Do you have a nickel?” 

Bucky nodded, took one out of his pocket, and handed it to you. You walked up to the jukebox and put it in. I’ll Never Smile Again by Frank Sinatra began to play, and you held your hand out for him. Bucky smiled and stood up. He gently took your hand in his, smoothly turned you around, and began to slow dance to the song with you. 

You put your head on his shoulder and let out a soft, content sigh, relaxed. 

Bucky bit his lip and tried not to react too much. 

— — — 

You and Bucky arrived back home on base at precisely nine-thirteen that night. Frank and Freddy were outside smoking, so you said goodnight to them, and went to get ready for bed. Frank motioned for Bucky to stay outside. “How’d it go?” Frank asked, taking a drag.

“Good,” Bucky said. “Y’know, just…two friends dancing together for a few hours, had a soda.” 

Freddy snorted. Frank smiled. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone. Go on, now.” Bucky smiled a little back, nodded, and went inside. Frank turned to Freddy. “Jesus, what did we do?”

“Maybe they didn’t have anyone motherly enough for ‘em,” Freddy shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. 

“Maybe. You think we screwed ‘em up?”

“Eh, if they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

— — —

Two weeks later, late in the evening, Bucky found you sitting by yourself, having a beer. “Aren’t you a little young for that?” Bucky teased lightly. “You’re like seventeen.” 

“It’s fine,” you slurred your words slightly, smiling up at him. 

“How many have you had?” Bucky asked, concerned. 

“Like ten or eight or eight ten or something,” you answered.

“Which one is it?”

“Like ten or eight or eight ten or something, I don’t knowwww,” you grinned up at him like a kid who’d been promised a puppy and was still under the illusion they’d be receiving one. 

“Why don’t you stop?” Bucky suggested, taking the beer from your hand.

“But it’s fun,” you smiled. 

“Not when you’re hungover,” Bucky sat the drink down on the table. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

“I don’t wanna,” you argued as he gently pulled you up to standing. You fell into him once he got you standing, and he caught you automatically. He turned his head to look down at you, and you kissed him. He could taste the alcohol on you. Are drunk words really sober thoughts?

“I can’t,” Bucky broke the kiss. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to. I don’t know if you’ve had eight, ten, or eighteen beers, but you’re definitely inebriated, so if you remember this tomorrow… we’ll talk. Okay?”

“Okay, okayyyy…” 

— — —

After a horrible headache the next day, you had no recollection of anything that you said to Bucky. The day after that, you were at school, as normal. Bucky was in the hallway when you walked by, and when you went by, Bucky heard a guy nearby him go, “I’d hit that.” The guys around him snickered. 

Bucky turned on him and pinned him against the locker wall, making it rattle. You turned when you heard the commotion. “You say that again, and the only hit that’s happening is me hitting you, got it?” Bucky threatened. 

The guy chuckled. “Oh yeah? Really?”

Bucky looked at him dead serious. “Really.”

The guy snorted. “It’s a free country, man, I got the right to say I’d hit that,” he said with a smirk. And Bucky punched him in the face. 

— — —

“Buck, you don’t have to punch every guy who makes a slightly rude comment about me, okay?” you said on the walk home. 

“Yes, I do. You are amazing, and you are worth so much more than whatever bullshit that guy’s got, and he shouldn’t disrespect you,” Bucky argued back. 

“He doesn’t matter! You’re just asking for a fight!” 

“Why do you have a problem with me protecting you?”

“I don’t! It’s just not always the right choice!”

“Well, it definitely was then. He was being an asshole about you.”

“Why do you care so much??”

“‘Cause I love you a little too much to let him get away with it!”

“You love me?? Why??”

Bucky laughed. “Oh, jeez. Do I really gotta have a reason to love you? I mean, c’mon, you’re great, you’re gorgeous, I’ve known you forever, and you’re probably the best thing around here, so I don’t get why you’re so surprised.”

You snorted. “Lot more complimentary than usual.”

“Just more honest than usual.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled. “Do you uh… remember how you got drunk a few nights ago?”

You groaned. “Worst headache of my life. Yes. I remember.”

“Do you remember that uh… you kissed me?”

You stopped in your tracks, frozen. “I kissed you?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “That you did.”

“...what did you do?” you asked. 

“I uh… I told you that I couldn’t, even though I wanted to, because you were drunk, and that uh, if you remembered in the morning, we could uh… come back to it.”

You looked up at him with a soft smile. “You wanted to?”

Bucky smiled back at you, with the same warmth and softness. “Yeah, I did.”

You grinned. “Well, consider us coming back to it.” And you gently cupped his face and kissed him on your tippy toes. 

“That’s a pretty good comeback.”

[drabblesandsnippets]

Sunshine - Part 2

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 6

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Plus-size female character (nickname is Sunshine)

Prompt: “I won’t be able to stop myself.” | [Sex Pollen | Gone Feral | Fuck or Die] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (5k) Series Masterlist After a night out with Bucky’s friends, things will never be the same.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine trope. Happy Bucky (is that a warning?) - he's a photographer in this AU. Mention of insecurities and anxiety (she's a bit of a mess, okay?). Use of weed. Use of alcohol. Questionable drunk thoughts & decisions. Masturbation.

---------------------------

Bucky can’t stop.

Whether he’s awake or asleep, she’s there, occupying his thoughts. 

When he’s out with his friends, he imagines her there, getting to see her laugh and have a good time.

When he’s working, he thinks about what it’d be like to take her picture. To pose her. To touch her. To boost her confidence.

And when he’s asleep, he dreams of her, waking up harder than he’s ever been in his entire life.

It won’t stop, no matter what he does.

It’s even gotten to the point where Bucky’s considered telling her to start looking for another roommate, to offer to help her find someone. But, she’ll ask why, and he can’t lie to her. 

He’d have to tell her that he can’t stop thinking about her. That he can’t stop fantasizing about her. That he can’t stop picturing himself sneaking into the bathroom late at night to listen through the thin wall, hoping to catch the sounds she makes when she touches herself.

His confession would not only make her uncomfortable, but she’d never forgive him, and rightfully so. He’d just be another person in her life that ended up hurting her. So he selfishly does nothing, other than continue to allow himself to indulge in the fantasies, keeping it strictly to when she’s not home, or after she’s already gone to her room.

When they are together, he forces himself to keep his thoughts strictly PG-13, never risking giving her a reason to think he wants more than a friendship. Bucky doesn’t know as much about her as he’d like, but her avoidance of physical touch and vague answers about past relationships gives him no reason to think she’d even be interested. It’s just not worth the risk.

All he can hope is that eventually his feelings will fade, and until then he’ll continue on as normal. Inviting her out, hoping she says yes, while secretly starting to feel grateful that he’s been able to keep the two parts of his life separate. It’s been easier that way.

And then Steve opens his big fucking mouth. 

He wasn’t even supposed to be here for at least another hour, but here he stands in their kitchen, drinking one of Bucky’s beers, laughing at something Sunshine’s saying. Trying to get her to change her mind after Bucky extended the invitation.

Of all the times for his friend to get involved, it has to be on the night they’re heading to a bar to check out some live music. A crowd of noisy drunk people is so far out of her comfort zone that Bucky can't help but jump to her rescue, telling her, “It’s okay. Maybe another night.”

For some reason that Bucky hasn't figured out yet, Steve won’t let it go, interjecting before Sunshine can respond. “It won’t be too crazy, I promise.” With a friendly smile and a lift of his beer, he adds, “And if it ends up not being your thing, any one of us will be happy to bring you home.” 

It’s ridiculous to think that Steve is flirting with her, but the thought still crosses Bucky’s mind and it has his irritation growing, the sneaking feeling of jealousy threatening to build inside him. Resisting the urge to snap at his friend to be quiet, he keeps his attention on Sunshine, telling her, “You’re more than welcome to join us, but please don’t feel obligated because of this one.”

Her eyes bounce between the two men as she shifts uncomfortably and her cheeks flush, but she’s quick to shake her head. “It sounds like it could be fun… I’m just… um.” The anxiety building in her is palpable, causing Bucky’s concern to grow and his irritation at Steve to reach new levels. This is all his fault. Just as he opens his mouth to assure her, again, that there would be no hard feelings, she mumbles, “I’m not sure what to wear.”

The shy, awkward words cause Bucky’s chest to tighten and if he wasn’t worried about making this whole thing worse, he’d tell her exactly what he’s thinking. That it doesn’t matter what she wears because she always looks good. She could go dressed exactly as she is now - sweatpants and a worn t-shirt - and she’d still have his attention the whole night.

And then Steve beats him to it, the smile on his face conveying nothing but friendliness, but the words still get under Bucky’s skin. “You’ll look good no matter what you wear.” 

Bucky wants to be the cause of the blush that spreads across Sunshine’s skin. He wants to be the reason she rolls her eyes and laughs at the compliment. And if it were him saying it, he’d make sure she believed it too. He wouldn’t let her leave this kitchen without knowing, without a doubt, that she’s always beautiful.

That's not an option though. He has to watch her dismissively shake her head as she takes her leave, and the moment she’s out of earshot, the tension in Bucky’s shoulders grows. With a hard glare aimed at his best friend, Bucky asks, “What the fuck was that about?” There’s not much that can rattle him these days, but if there’s anyone that knows how to push his buttons, it’s Steve. 

Steve continues with the innocent act for a beat longer, making a show of taking a long, slow sip from his beer before he finally asks, “What? I can’t be nice to your roommate?” He’s immune to the subtle warning twitch of Bucky’s jaw, having spent years perfecting just how far he can take things without pissing Bucky off too much. 

When it comes to Sunshine though, his fuse is much shorter, and whatever game Steve’s playing, Bucky needs it to end now.

“Enough.” Bucky pushes himself off the counter he’s been leaning on, forcing himself to head towards the fridge instead of getting in Steve’s face. “Leave her alone.” Even as he says it, Bucky knows this isn’t really about her. His best friend never does anything just to piss him off. There’s always a reason behind his provoking, usually one Bucky doesn’t like.

“She said she wanted to come. You want her to come. So, what’s the issue?” And there it is. Steve’s agenda. Involving himself in things that don’t concern him. Trying to goad Bucky into a conversation that he doesn’t want to have. One that he’s been skirting around for weeks.

Refusing to take the bait, Bucky rolls his eyes and ducks his head into the fridge to grab a beer. He’s tired of his friends using the excuse that they’re ‘looking out for him’ when they try to insert themselves into his love life (or lack thereof). He’s not putting up with it tonight.

“You had your fun,” Bucky tells him, keeping his tone even as he twists the cap off the cold bottle in his hand, making it clear he’s reached his limit. “You got your wish. No more games. Leave it alone.”

The only goal is to make sure Sunshine has a good time tonight. 

-------------------

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

One minute she’s making a ‘joke’ about celebrating her recent promotion with a night filled with weed, games, and social media, and the next she’s agreeing to go out to a bar with them. 

She rarely goes out, and when she does it’s not to a crowded bar. It’s been a long time since she's even felt the desire, a brief stint in her early 20s spent anywhere but home having convinced her it wasn’t for her. A part of her life she barely remembers and one she definitely doesn’t want to revisit. 

Shaking the flash of memories from her head, she lifts her hand to wipe the light sweat covering her upper lip and keeps digging through her closet, searching for whatever will feel the most comfortable. Pajamas. At home. Alone. (Or maybe just with Bucky). 

She rolls her eyes at the thought and narrows her selections down to a few shirts, a couple of which she hasn’t worn in months, and the one pair of jeans that doesn’t dig into her stomach every time she sits down. Despite Steve’s friendly encouragement, she’s nervous, studying her reflection in the mirror as she tries on each shirt, growing sweatier with each change. 

None of them feel right. They’re either too tight, too big, or show off too much cleavage. This is her first time hanging out with Bucky’s friends and she doesn’t want to choose the wrong thing. She wants to blend in, draw the least amount of attention.

Several outfit changes later, she’s in a simple v-neck t-shirt, brushing her hair out of her reddened face, pulling the damp strands into a quick bun. The desire to wear her hair down was quickly overruled by her desire to not overheat and look like a mess tonight. 

It takes her a few minutes of sitting on her bed to cool off, trying her best not to look like she just ran a marathon, but as nervous and anxious as she is about tonight, she’s also excited. This has been a long time coming, and the edible she took a little while ago should help before they even get to the bar.

At least she’s stopped having inappropriate thoughts about Bucky. Well, for the most part anyway. She’ll still occasionally think about accidentally overhearing him in the shower, and she tries not to think about the really intense dream she had about him not that long ago, but it’s not everyday anymore so it’s easy to pretend it doesn’t exist.

And, hopefully, getting to see Bucky in his element tonight will put all this to rest. With any luck, she’ll get to watch him flirt with random women and finally learn what his type is. She assumes it’s the complete opposite of her. Someone bubbly and positive. Someone perky. Thin. Pretty. 

-------------------

Sunshine’s not wearing anything Bucky hasn’t seen her in before, but he swears there’s something different. Maybe it’s the passing streetlights illuminating her beauty, or the smile that’s been on her face since they got in their shared ride, or maybe it’s the light breeze coming in through the cracked car window, the wind blowing wisps of hair along her temples. 

Whatever it is, he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes off her, and an even harder time not letting his thoughts stray. The only saving grace is that Steve’s keeping her preoccupied from the front passenger seat, giving her all the gossip about their friends. How they all met. What everyone does for a living. The kind of shit they get up to when they hang out. 

“One of these days, ya gotta get Buck to tell you about the time he convinced us to break into a private club to go swimming.” 

Bucky doesn’t miss the way Sunshine’s eyes widen and her mouth opens in surprise, but he holds up his finger to correct Steve first. “Technically, it was ‘trespassing’ since I already had the key, and we wouldn’t have gotten caught if you hadn’t tripped the alarm on the way out. I told you exactly-.”

Steve is the first to interrupt him with a bark of a laugh, but before his best friend can start listing the useless defenses he has about that night, Sunshine speaks up, drawing both of their attention. “I’m sorry. You wanted to break into a private club?” 

Bucky’s reminder of ‘trespass’ earns him a glare that he takes in stride, laughing it off. “I worked there. I was allowed to use the pool. Whether or not I was allowed to bring guests was a gray area.”

Steve jumps in to finish, telling her, “It was not a gray area. We almost got arrested.” 

“We did not,” Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes at his best friend before turning his attention back to the woman that’s been driving him crazy. The look of slight amusement and bewilderment she’s giving has him clenching his hands in his lap, rubbing them along his jeans, wanting nothing more than to reach out and caress her cheek. To tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Not letting a second of silence fill the air, he explains, “There was no risk of getting arrested. I did get fired though.”

The nonchalant shrug Bucky gives her only adds to her state of confusion, and he can’t help but think how cute she looks, with her slightly furrowed brow and the crinkle along the bridge of her nose. Hiding the grin growing on his face, he glances out the window, taking note of how close they are to their destination.

Probably thinking he’s doing him a favor, Steve’s more than happy to keep the conversation going, telling Sunshine, “Don’t let his sunny disposition fool you.” The subtle warning look that Bucky shoots him, a silent reminder of their earlier conversation, has Steve quickly adding, “He’s the greatest guy I’ve ever known, don’t get me wrong, but he’s about as innocent as -.” 

“Nope,” Bucky interrupts him with a loud laugh, reaching forward to grab Steve’s shoulder, refusing to let him finish that thought. Steve laughs with him, but keeps his promise, letting the subject drop, turning back around in his seat for the last remaining seconds of their trip, much to the happiness of their driver.

This is the first time Sunshine’s learning there’s more to him than meets the eye, and as she grows quiet, Bucky can only imagine what she’s thinking. Until now, she’s been limited to witnessing the sweet, happy, enthusiastic side of him, leaving her with the assumption that he’s a Boy Scout - a goody two-shoes. 

He’s far from it, and as much apprehension as he has about how she'll react to getting know this side of him, there's also a jolt of excitement that he can't ignore. Maybe this will make their friendship even better.

-------------------

This is what she wanted. To get to know Bucky better, to see what he’s like out in the world, with his friends, with other people. But, she feels caught off guard. Like, none of her conversations with Bucky, or the interactions she’s witnessed between him and his friends prepared her for this.

The whole time that he’s been trying to get her to come out of her shell, he’s been hiding parts of himself. He’s been careful with her, never crossing a line, probably choosing his words carefully. There’s no doubt that Bucky’s been doing it for her benefit, but now it all feels like a lie. Like he hasn’t been able to be himself with her, and it hurts her feelings.

Whatever foolish expectations she had for the evening have flown out the window, and she’s more than grateful when the car pulls to a stop, the three of them spilling out onto the busy sidewalk. Fighting the urge to get right back in the car to take herself home, she follows the men into the bar, doing her best to avoid Bucky’s gaze.

He’s probably worried about her. Probably thinking she’s in over her head, that she’s realizing she made a mistake coming tonight. He’s probably thinking I told you so. That she’s not cut out for this - the bar, his friends, him. 

The racing thoughts leave her just as quickly as they come, Steve getting her attention as he takes the lead to wind them through the crowd, Bucky in step right next to her. “I’m glad you decided to come tonight.” When all she manages is a slightly-forced smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, Steve adds, “After everything Bucky’s told us about you, we’ve been looking forward to this.”

She steals a quick glance at Bucky, not at all surprised to find him already looking at her. He’s been watching her since she agreed to come tonight, like it’s his job to make sure she doesn’t get overwhelmed, like he’s expecting her to have a nervous breakdown at any moment. The smile he gives her only seems to prove her point, and it doesn’t help when all he innocently asks is, “What? You don’t talk to your friends about me?”

Of course she does, but it does nothing to quiet her concerns about what he’s told his friends about her. Are they expecting her to be an anxious mess? That she’s going to suddenly bolt in the middle of a conversation? What exactly-. She’s interrupted by Steve again, who’s looking at his phone.

“Buck, Nat found a table, and Yelena already disappeared.” He says it with a laugh, as if it’s a normal occurrence, not waiting for a response from Bucky before he says, “Why don’t you go help her keep our spot. We’ll get the drinks.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bucky open his mouth, and they all know what’s about to come out. The offer to switch places, have Steve go sit at the table while she and Bucky get the drinks. And for a split second, she wants him to. It would be so much easier.

But, how is she supposed to prove that she can handle this? That she’s perfectly capable of having a good time if she can’t even be alone with Bucky’s best friend for a few minutes? Both her and Steve answer at the same time - Steve telling him that they can manage a few drink orders, while she says it’s a good idea.

Obviously seeing that this isn’t a fight he’s going to win, and not wanting to risk losing their table, Bucky takes his leave, but not without giving them both one last look. At some point tonight, she and Bucky are going to have to hash this out, but not until she’s had a few drinks.

Keeping close to Steve, she follows him the rest of the way to the bar, not missing how he occasionally glances back to make sure she’s still there. She might feel like she doesn’t know Bucky as well as she thought, but there’s not a doubt in her mind that she’s safe with his friends. She has no reason to be worried about being alone with any one of them.

Well, other than for the fact that she has no idea what Bucky’s told them, or how they're going to treat her tonight. Maybe that’s why Steve wanted a minute alone with her. To tell her all the ways they’re going to help her, to make sure she doesn’t freak out or get overwhelmed. It wouldn’t be the first time a stranger’s given her unsolicited advice.

As if reading her mind, Steve sets her at ease, casually telling her, “He’s had nothing but great things to say about you.” With a raise of his arm, he gets the attention of the bartender to place their orders before turning his gaze back to her, the smile never leaving his face. His hand is still raised between them and he starts ticking things off on his fingers, recounting, “You’re the best roommate. You have great taste in music. And books. And movies.” With four of his digits raised, he lifts his thumb to add, “You’re hilarious. Should I keep going?”

She quickly shakes her head, a laugh bubbling out of her as her skin grows warm. These are all things Bucky’s told her, it’s just strange to hear them from his best friend, who she barely knows. With the effects of the edible having started to kick in a couple minutes ago, she feels comfortable enough to joke, “Is this the part where I’m supposed to list all the great things about Bucky?”

“God no,” Steve immediately tells her with a playful roll of his eyes and a grin that she’s sure has gotten him out of many a things in life. “I have to hear how great that man is all the time. I’d rather drink.” There’s no malice in his tone, no hint of resentment or frustration - this is just their relationship. They love each other and they give each other shit. Like brothers. Like family.

Ignoring the ache in her chest at the thought of family, she lets Steve talk her into doing a couple of the shots lined up on the bar for them. Not that it takes much convincing. There were never any plans to get through tonight even remotely sober.

-------------------

They all know. All of Bucky’s friends know that he has feelings for her, but they think it’s just a crush, like he’s in fucking high school. They have no idea that he can’t stop thinking about her, that it’s bordering on obsession. Not even Steve knows the extent of it. 

And tonight, they’re all too drunk to notice he’s been watching her, not out of concern for her mental well-being, but because she’s mesmerizing. Because Sunshine’s doing exactly what he’s been dreaming about for weeks - laughing and dancing and looking like she belongs right here. With his friends. With him.

The alcohol flowing through him makes it difficult to focus, and before he realizes it, Sunshine catches him in the act. Her attention had just been bouncing between joking with Nat and Sam, and watching the band currently playing, the music keeping most of the patrons on their feet. And now she’s staring right at him, as if she can read his mind. 

For a moment, he actually believes it, her brow slightly furrowing as she makes her way around the side of the table, reaching out to steady herself along the back of a chair. 

He has to fight the urge to help her, keeping his hands around his half-empty glass, the condensation wetting his fingers. After all the months of living together, all the conversations and late night Netflix marathons, he’s never touched her and now it’s all he can think about. It's the only thing on his mind, and she must be able to tell, because the look she’s giving him is telling him that he definitely fucked up. 

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, she asks, “Can we go outside?” 

The only response he can muster is a quick nod of his head, and he silently follows her, his thoughts racing with what to tell her. How to explain himself. How to assure her that he’d never cross any lines. 

By the time they’re outside, the light breeze cooling their warm skin, he still doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know how to fix this. All he can do is watch her, almost losing focus at her flushed skin and glassy eyes. Even drunk and stoned, she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Are we friends?” The question blindsides him. Makes him stand there, stunned, confused, and silent. Trying to work out why she’s asking that, of all the things she could be asking right now. With a slight slur to her words, she continues, telling him, “I like dirty jokes and inappropriate humor. I like teasing my friends and giving them shit about stupid stuff. I’m not great at rule-breaking, but I wouldn’t lecture you about it.”

The hurt in her eyes betray the joking tone she’s keeping, clearly trying to make light of a situation that’s been bothering her all night - since she learned that he’s not the wholesome, straight-laced guy she assumed him to be. 

So he did fuck up, just not in the way he thought. 

“I never thought you would lecture me,” he promises her, keeping the shaking of his head to a minimum, his eyes quickly losing focus. He blinks the blurriness away and gives her a warm smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to comfort her with his touch. “I just never wanted to put you in a situation where you were uncomfortable, Sunshine. Especially in your own home.”

The quick peak of her tongue wetting her lips has his cock stirring in his jeans, and it takes all his self control not to keep his gaze on her mouth. To ignore the flash of need to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, to taste her. He’s so busy trying to pretend he’s listening to her that he just barely catches what she's saying. 

“I'm more uncomfortable with your early morning singing and never-ending enthusiasm than I’d ever be with a dirty joke.”

Her response catches him off guard, and all he can do is laugh. All this time, he's been working so hard to reign in the parts of himself that might bother her, or make things awkward, and it was the complete opposite of what he should have been doing.

-------------------

She likes making him laugh. The crinkle of his eyes. The flash of his teeth. The slight shake of his head that has him lifting his hand to run it through his hair. She wants to feel it, to run her fingers through the soft strands. It’s the perfect length to grab hold of while-.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, laughter still pouring out of him. For the briefest of moments, she thinks she said it outloud, but quickly realizes what he means. 

After tonight, things will be different between them, like they’ve given each other permission to really be themselves. And as they return to the rest of the group, she can’t stop thinking what it’s going to be like from now on. The kind of jokes he’ll make. The off-hand comments she won’t keep holding back. The teasing they’ll get up to. 

All the inappropriate thoughts she’s been ignoring return ten-fold and she wonders if he’s a tease in bed. If he likes to drive his partner crazy. If he likes to be in control.

By the time the night is over, and they’re sharing a ride back home, she can’t stop stealing glances at him. Her eyes drifting to his mouth, wondering how he kisses. His five-o’clock shadow and what it would feel like between her thighs. His strong hands on her body.

That’s how she ends up in her bedroom, after a quick trip to the bathroom and a brief goodnight to Bucky - wishing like hell they had hugged, wanting the intoxicating smell of him to linger on her clothes and skin - she’s under her covers, naked and writhing at the touch of her own hand, her fingers teasing her nipples, the hand between her thighs ghosting over her swollen clit.

It’s easy to convince herself that because she has no idea what he’s really like in bed, this doesn’t count. This is just a fantasy that could be about anyone. Bucky’s just filling that role. He’s just a face for her to picture while she buries her fingers inside her dripping pussy, the palm of her hand pressed hard against her clit.

It gets harder to pretend as the pleasure builds and the fantasy becomes more intense, picturing him between her spread thighs, fucking her hard and fast, his growl of dirty words filling her head. And soon, she’s fantasizing about him hearing her - how he’d burst in and join her, bury his head between her thighs and fuck her with his tongue.

She’s not drunk enough to allow herself more than a couple seconds of unabashed noises, as if she’s really trying to tempt him, before she’s reigning it back. It’d never happen, but at least she has tonight. At least, for right now, she can pretend it’s him making her come, her hand quickly coming up to cover her mouth so she doesn’t scream his name.

-------------------

He shouldn’t be doing this. Bucky knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop himself. He blames it on the alcohol skewing his sense of integrity, but it’s a lie. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, and yet he stands here, barely breathing, his ear pressed to the thin wall that separates the bathroom from her bedroom.

Refusing to give in to the temptation to touch himself, he keeps his sweaty hands on the wall, his fingers tensing and flexing against the hard surface. He’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself for eavesdropping like this, but touching himself at the same time would be a step too far. The guilt would eat away at him until he was forced to move out without warning.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he stands there, his heart racing and his eyes closed, all his focus trained on what’s happening in her bedroom, until he finally starts to hear her. The barely audible gasps, the muffled moans, the occasional cut-off cry that has his cock straining against his jeans. 

It’s better than anything he could’ve imagined and as wrong as this is, he can’t stop. Visions of what she’s doing plays through his mind, the possibilities of how she touches herself, what she’s fantasizing about, what’s causing the incredible noises spilling out of her.

And then the obvious signs of her getting closer suddenly has him sobering up. She’s drunk. Neither of them are in the right state of mind, and no matter how much he wants to stay right here to listen to her come, he hasn’t earned that right. He’ll never earn that right.

It still doesn’t stop him from ending the night the same way he’s ended every night for the past several weeks. This time, though, as he slowly strokes his cock, he doesn’t have to imagine what she sounds like. It’s all right there in his head, playing on a loop, working him quickly towards an intense orgasm, the sound of her name muffled as he covers his mouth with the palm of his hand.

There’s no doubt that he’ll regret this tomorrow, but as his cock stays hard in his grip, he can’t seem to care. It feels too good to stop, and it’s not long before he’s stroking himself again, his body aching for her touch. He’ll never have it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t live in this fantasy for just a few moments.

And if he’s lucky, he’ll forget all about this by the time morning comes.

---------------------------

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