#early shield days

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 1 - Panic Attack

Warnings: panic attack, red room badness (punishments)

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: mandated therapy is never fun for anyone.

A/N: it feels like I’ve blinked and it’s October. This is the fourth year of participating in whumptober, and it always seems like such a mess until it’s done. To everyone who encourages, likes and reblogs, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, your words inspire these words and help to bring fic to life. @broken--bow I know we talk about it but thanks for the screaming void, and the cat pictures and everything really, and for making sure there’s no ridiculous errors. <3<3<3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

The Shield psychiatrist offices are nondescript.

The receptionist looks over her glasses to Natasha, then across to Clint and Maria, and hands her a form on a clipboard to fill out.

Annoyed, Natasha purses her lips and holds up handcuffed hands and feels the satisfaction of the shocked look on her face.

The woman passes it to Clint’s open hands and points to the row of chairs.

Maria sits first, Natasha grudgingly sitting next to her and Clint following, staring at the form.

“Tough questions,” he jokes.

“Name? Natasha.”

“Date of birth?”

He peers over the form to Natasha who looks back at him.

“Unknown?”

Maria looks up.

“December 3rd,” she answers.

Natasha can’t help the sharp look to her left, shocked at the accuracy of the information that she thought no one knew.

Maria smirks.

Natasha looks down, her heart beating faster.

Clint continues obliviously.

“What problems are you currently seeking help for?”

He taps the clipboard.

“I might just leave that blank.”

He goes on.

“Treatment goals?”

“Stability?” Maria jokes.

Clint gives her a look. She looks chastised and shrugs in indifference.

Natasha lets it wash over her.

She doesn’t want to be here.

The mandated therapy was a threat, not a choice.

She doesn’t know how Maria knows her birthday, how she got that information.

There’s no one alive that should know it.

There’s a heat that crawls up her neck. The handcuffs feel too tight on her wrists.

“Hmm they have a suicide risk assessment. Maybe you can go over that with the psychiatrist.”

Clint looks over the rest of the form and hands it to Maria.

“Did you have to do this when you came here?”

Natasha stares at her feet, but the silence from Maria at Clint’s jab gives her a source of pleasure at the discomfort and the present that he’s inadvertently given.

Maria stands and gives the form to the receptionist, and Clint winks at Natasha when her back is turned. She realizes then, the comment was intentional. A dig back to the ones Maria had given.

“I’m going to see Director Thompson, are you okay here?”

Clint sits. “I’m here because I want to be,” he declares.

Maria says goodbye and leaves without looking at Natasha.

The radio next to the receptionist hums quietly but feels like static to Natasha.

How does she know?

What else do they know?

It shouldn’t take something so inconsequential to unhinge her, but it has.

“She’s not usually that mean,” Clint tells her.

“She just doesn’t quite trust you yet.”

Natasha knows that, but she’s also unsure if she wants Maria’s trust.

She doesn’t trust her either. Her position is too vulnerable to have enemies and it’s clear she has many.

Locked in a box, only let out for debrief and now apparently psychiatry sessions, she doesn’t like this brand of freedom that Shield has offered.

Clint says it’s just the beginning.

In his ramblings, he says a lot without saying anything.

The door opens.

Her name is called.

Natasha stands diligently, alongside Clint, and hates herself at the fear and apprehension that pools in her gut.

What does the woman know, if Maria knows her birthday?

Do they know about Vladivostok? Her fear of medical?

Do they know about Antonia? Dreykov?

And then a more unsettling thought.

Do they know about Ohio and Yelena?

Clint nudges her forward.

“I’ll be here when you come out,” he promises.

“No debrief today, just this.”

It’s a kindness.

One she likely doesn't deserve.

She looks to the woman standing in the door.

“Hello,” she greets, “I’m Olivia.”

The woman steps to the side and allows Natasha entry.

She takes one last look at Clint, and steps through the door.

.

Olivia sits at a large green two seater couch, and gestures to the one across from her.

A matching set. Natasha is sure that they were picked deliberately for the colour and the spaces it provided.

Whilst they have space for others to sit, it’s clear that they’re meant for only one person.

Natasha imagines, if she was anyone else, that she could take her shoes off and curl her feet underneath her, tucking her body up and feeling safe in position.

Instead, she sits facing the woman, on the edge of the sofa, her cuffed hands neutral on her lap.

“Do you mind if we take them off?” Olivia asks, gesturing.

Natasha doesn’t answer.

The silence isn’t personal, she just doesn’t have words to talk.

Olivia approaches slowly.

“If you want to kill me, I’m sure these won’t stop you. But in case the thought does cross your mind, I’ve not always been a psychiatrist.”

Natasha looks at the woman; really looks at her.

She seems to be about in her 40s, hair pulled back, not unkind, but knowing eyes that bore into Natasha’s when she looks up.

She doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like how the woman reminds her of the Red Room instructors, the older women who had gone through the program at least twice and ruled the younger girls with manipulation over fear.

Natasha blinks.

She’s not there and this is not the same, she tells herself.

“My name is Olivia,” the woman starts, and then, almost in a way that feels unnerving, she switches to Russian.

“I can speak in either language, depending on what you prefer.”

It’s a question that Natasha prefers not to answer.

She speaks many languages; she’s not adverse to English, but since she’s been here, she feels adverse to words.

A moment passes.

When it’s clear Natasha isn’t going to answer, Olivia continues on.

“We have mandated sessions. They’re ongoing so I feel we are going to see a lot of each other.”

She glances at the form that Clint had started, and failed to finish.

“You prefer Natasha?”

It should be an easy, uncomplicated question.

“If you prefer another name, you can let reception know, but perhaps until you indicate otherwise I’ll continue to call you by the name you request, okay?”

Again the question goes unanswered; and again, the woman continues on.

“You’re here because you agreed to be, defected from the country of your birth, and whilst double agent was offered to you, you decided against it, I think we’d like to know why.”

The statement raises Natasha’s heart rate.

A vision of a widow left hung with the words traitor on her chest hits hard in her memory.

It’s not worth it, she wants to say.

All in or all out, there is no in between when it comes to Russia.

There’s no telling what they would do if they found defectors amongst them.

She feels the electricity of a Red Room debrief on her skin.

Words and secrets wrenched from her lips.

She wants to give a witty comeback; instead, the words get lost in her throat, so unsettled by the last half an hour.

How did Maria know her birthday?

Such a simple thing should not unravel her.

But it does.

The one advantage she had was that she was an enigma. That they didn't know anything about her, except what she had told Clint.

What if that was wrong?

The woman says something.

It doesn’t even register beyond words being spoken.

But it must be important.

The words feel heavy, and the woman repeats them.

“What is it you want, Natasha?”

Want?

‘What is it you want?’

The words play in repeat in her head.

When has she ever wanted anything?

What is it she wants?

That what she wants is something that she’d never get.

Natasha feels her heart rate quicken.

Want?

Her body hot.

How do they know?

Her heart. There’s something wrong with her heart.

Hands clench and she struggles for breath.

This isn’t supposed to happen to her.

Had they drugged her?

The food? Maybe the water.

Would Clint?

Maria.

She would.

She tries to breathe.

The woman.

The woman moves toward her and Natasha looks into her eyes.

They’re kinder.

Her vision blurs. The tidal wave of panic overcomes her.

What if?

What if she’s dying?

Not here.

Let her die alone.

There’s a hand in hers, fleeting.

It’s cold.

It gives Natasha something to focus on.

It’s so cold. Both hands now.

If she could focus, she could eliminate the threat. The woman?

She blinks to clear her vision, shaking her head as her heart rabbits in her chest.

She’s dying.

She forces breath into her lungs, focusing on the coldness in her hands.

It feels like a lifeline.

Time loses meaning, and Natasha doesn’t know how long it takes her to get herself under control again.

Embarrassment burns on her cheeks as the world rights itself.

Terror from the moments before flood adrenaline into her body.

The woman is still in her chair, looking down at her notebook. She looks up and meets Natasha’s eyes.

There’s an ice pack in Natasha’s clenched fists, still doing its job in providing calm and grounding.

Natasha is not stupid.

In the moment she thought she was dying.

Now, she knows it was a panic attack.

She doesn’t think she’s had one since she was eight.

“You’re safe,” the woman tells her.

It’s the first words that register, and whilst she doesn’t believe it, it’s a nice sentiment.

Nothing has happened yet but it doesn’t mean that it won’t.

She can’t imagine what’s going to happen next.

In the Red Room, she was whipped. Madam’s switch across her back twenty times, as she was made to count them.

Here? She doesn’t think it would be the same, but to lose it in public?

In front of the psychiatrist, no less.

She feels like she needs to do damage control.

Lessen the punishment.

She feels like she’s losing it, she gets told her birth day and the woman asks her what she wants and she falls apart.

Taking another breath and handing the ice pack back to the woman, she looks around her and forces herself to calm down.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and croaky, the only words that she’s spoken to another outside of debrief.

The psychiatrist nods.

Natasha bites her lip.

The woman doesn’t ask any questions. She motions to the water and the glass on the table, pours one for herself and then offers another to Natasha.

She sips it, and Natasha nods, thankful.

Her mouth is dry and she can’t remember when she drank something last.

Putting down the glass, Natasha wonders what’s going to happen next.

It takes a moment before the next question comes, but it’s not the words she thinks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The offer is kind.

She feels suspicious and angry and embarrassed and looks to the door to leave.

The glass prison she lives in is not safe by any means, but it’s familiar and not this place of questions and interrogation.

Her defenses are low; the lack of sleep and food are taking their toll. It’s clear now, that to be better, she needs to take more care.

She’s smart enough to know better.

She’s better than this.

She was trained better than this.

The anger builds again at the display of weakness and Natasha swallows hard.

“We still have ten minutes. I’m going to tell you a few things, but the rest of the time, we can just sit here. You don’t need to say anything unless you want to.”

The words start slowly.

It’s a plan.

A lifeline.

And Natasha breathes again.

.

<3

[jeanbarton]

Am I the only one who sees a young Clint here? 🤣

[helpimstuckinanotherworlddd]

PINK IN THE NIGHT RAHHHH

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

RE: 'love shield'

I wonder why William didn't do it for Catherine back in the day. But Harry did despite the lack of evidence. Was it's because of uncertainty? Because when they put out a message like that, it makes things more official and would warrant people's high expectation.

William did, though. Responsibly. With his brain, not his dick.

First he set Kate up with a direct line to Charles's office that she could call at any time for assistance and help with the press and paparazzi.

Then he asked Clarence House issue a brief statement after Kate's 25th birthday, when 50+ paparazzi waited for her because of significant engagement rumors. And it actually was a statement:

Prince William is very unhappy at the paparazzi harassment of his girlfriend. He wants more than anything for it to stop. Miss Middleton should, like any other private individual, be able to go about her everyday business without this kind of intrusion. The situation is proving unbearable for all those concerned.

Rather than a hysterical rant about privacy because the girl he was fucking said she'd leave him if he didn't publicize their relationship.

Archived Link

[scavengerssuccotash]

What are some of your early SHIELD days headcanons?

Ohhhh! I looooove early SHIELD days headcanons, so thank you for asking!!

Natasha’s defection was definitely the talk of the town! She caused a huge ruckus when she did, from whispered chatter around the water coolers to speculations on the training field her name was inside everyone’s mouth. She reveled in it though. One doesn’t carry the moniker of Black Widow (a whispered legend in its own right in the intelligence field) without a bit of pride. Natasha was smart too, she used the reputation that came from Black Widow to keep most everyone at bay and at a distance. Once she was cleared of the possibility of being a dangle and allowed to roam relatively free she stalked the corridors of SHIELD with an air of awe, shock and fear. Some Agents avoided her completely, the smart ones coward but the dumb ones…the really dumb ones jeered.

That’s when Clint stepped in. His name was also inside everyone’s mouth, alongside Natasha’s on the account of the whole bringing her in thing. For a good four months everyone really thought he was dead because he wasn’t on base and no one knew where he was. So when he landed himself in medical after a fistfight with a fellow agent his first day back it really shocked everyone. Needless to say the speculation of just how Clint got Nat to defect has been a long standing guessing game. Sometimes even Clint and Nat join in, feeding the erroneous rumors by letting something “slip” about that day because they think it’s funny. Only Nat, Clint and Phil know the truth. Fury knows the basics but that is it.

SHIELDs cafeteria is a fucking shit show, some days the food tastes like an outhouse shitter and other days it’s a five star meal. No one really gets why. So, most just avoid it. There’s a running email exchange between Phil, Clint, Nat and the head of nutrition stretching back years. (Seriously, google the CIA and their Cafeteria food, some very hilarious email exchanges got released a while back!)

A fandom favorite of course is that everyone at SHIElD definitely thinks they are fucking, have fucked or that it’s just a matter of time before they do. And I do think that was the case, but after Phil chewed out an Agent in the middle of a crowded lunch room (Italian was catered) no one has been dumb enough to get caught saying it. If it’s out fear of Phil or Nat or a very elaborate blackmail ring run by Clint no one knows and they sure as hell aren’t gonna speculate while on campus.

(There is a bar in the middle of queens though where a janitor will tell you about the time he walked in on Clint and Nat having a quickie in Fury’s office. For a price of course!)

Just some thoughts I have PLENTY more but figured this was getting a bit long 😅

[sidewalk-scrawls]

On another note, I've been sick all week, and I can feel an ear infection coming on, and I really need it to not!

[hollow-jack]

finally my sweet daughter jason derulo is here

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 2 - Trust Issues

Warnings: food hoarding

Word Count: 1.5k (gif not mine)

Summary: Maria and Clint talk about Natasha. Clint realizes that bringing in a black widow may not be as easy as he thinks.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

Clint yawns.

Maria throws a book at him and groans.

“I’m so bored,” he complains. “How do you do this?”

“That’s what you get, for bringing a stray home,” she rolls her eyes and throws her pen at him.

“They can’t keep me grounded forever right?”

Maria shrugs, “Ask Coulson.”

Clint throws them back at her and glances at the clock.

“I should probably go,” he sighs.

“Pick up time?”

He bows, “I am the chauffeur, am I not?”

“She’s not eating,” Maria tells him as Clint starts to walk away.

“What?”

He turns and eyes her closely.

“She doesn’t eat the food, haven’t you noticed? Not unless it’s packaged or clear liquid.”

She pauses.

“I don’t know what she does eat, have you been giving her food?”

Clint shakes his head.

“Only the occasional granola bar when I’ve eaten one?”

He pauses. “How do you know?”

Maria pauses.

“She’s been here two weeks, what has she been eating?”

“How do you know?”

Looking around, Maria opens the surveillance program on her computer, and rewinds to breakfast.

“Don’t tell Coulson I’m showing you this,” she growls.

Clint looks forward with interest, feeling voyeuristic at watching her.

He knew they’d be surveilling her, but had underestimated just how closely.

It seems stupid in hindsight.

The breakfast is delivered.

The blue tray pushed through a small opening on the floor, and Clint feels angry at how just like prison this must feel for her.

Natasha approaches it, and squats to look at the food.

She inspects the apple, and places it on the bed away from the other food. The scrambled eggs, she touches as though she’s looking for something; pressing them down; then looks at the juice box and places it next to the apple.

The tray gets pushed back, the rest of the cooked food untouched, and, after a moment, taken away.

“Breakfast she eats the most, or takes the most from, I guess.”

Clint keeps watching, but she doesn’t eat. The juice box gets drunk slowly, but the apple is placed inside the small side table drawer.

He glimpses one of the granola bars he’d given her, and he feels like an idiot for not noticing.

“Talk to her about it?”

He nods.

“Why’d you tell me? You don’t even like her?”

Maria looks at him, annoyed at the look.

“Just because I like her, doesn’t mean I want her dead.”

He looks away from the computer, Maria turning the program off.

“Clint, she’s not okay, traumatized black widows; don’t you think you’re out of your depth?”

He takes the criticism and thinks about Natasha’s face as he’d offered her a lifeline. The way she looked so sad and resigned to her fate, and the run and hide through Berlin.

“I’m all she’s got,” he shrugs.

Maria shakes her head, but says nothing.

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll chat to you later?”

He leaves without the response, mulling on her words, wondering just how hard this was going to be.

.

Clint waits, just as he promised as the door opens as Natasha steps out.

“I’ll see you in two days,” Olivia tells both the receptionist and Natasha at the door.

The receptionist nods, and gives Clint a smile, ignoring Natasha as she steps out and forward.

“Sorry,” Clint says ruefully, taking the handcuffs from Olivia.

Natasha holds her hands up, face blank, eyes glazed.

They step in line with each other, the walk back to the glass prison punctuated with Clint’s quiet words.

“I feel like you look when I walk out of therapy. Did it go okay?”

He pauses, “you don’t have to answer that.”

When there’s no words, he decides to continue talking.

He knows she doesn’t trust them; any of them. He really wants to know what she talks about in therapy. If she says anything at all or if Olivia just talks to her.

He wonders idly if he needs to talk to someone too.

Probably.

The last couple of months have been… intense, for lack of a better word and he wonders if, like Maria had said, he was out of his depth.

It was not the first time he thought it.

Natasha’s despondency was affecting him.

What did he know about defectors and a traumatised super spy?

He just didn’t want her to die.

Not by his hand, or her own.

“I like her though,” he continues.

“Give her a chance, if you can. She’s… not unlike you, in her background and maybe can help? She’s there to help.”

He mulls on his own words as he leads her a different way back. He’s right.

If anyone can help her; Olivia can.

Determined to show her a different part of the complex, they go through the kitchens, and Clint picks up two apples, throwing her one and then crunching onto the other.

It gives him time to think.

He’s going to need to touch base with Olivia, make sure that she is interacting, doing what was promised.

He could ask her what he should be doing too; for her, for himself.

Clint leads the way back with practiced ease, the silence allowing him to think.

As they enter the first round of checks, he smiles easily to the straight faced guards; then as they get deeper to the third and forth stations, it’s just Clint’s badge letting them in.

It seems to bolster Natasha, the less people around, she matches his steps and bites the apple. At the noise, Clint turns and smiles.

“You don’t eat much,” he observes.

Natasha shrugs and takes another bite.

He laughs at her sass.

“Do you not like the food?”

Natasha looks down.

He feels a little mean, talking about this after she’s just had 90 minutes of therapy.

He’s sure the sessions are not the easiest, and he can see the slight tremor in her hands, despite her trying to mask it by holding onto the apple.

They reach her cell and she steps inside the glass, holding her wrists out for him to release them.

He does.

Taking the cuffs away and pushing them into his pocket.

“Just think about it, okay? If there’s food you want or prefer, just tell me? I can help.”

Natasha looks at her feet and takes two steps back, the door closing and the glass sealing shut.

.

Despite her better judgement, Natasha continues to eat the apple. The constant hunger makes her feel on edge sometimes.

She’s so used to it, that until Clint had said something, she hadn’t given it much thought.

Sitting on the bed, legs crossed, she chews on it and thinks.

Therapy had been tough.

Though not for the first time, Olivia had called her out on things that she shouldn’t know.

Details about the Red Room that only the guards, the officers or widows knew, inner workings of the KGB and Red Room procedures like the trial of the silent knife and graduation.

And whilst Natasha hadn’t had another panic attack, it had been close.

The push to talk and baiting was tempting.

How did she know?

She knew she’d eventually have to talk, but for now, whilst she could hold onto her silence, she wanted to keep it.

It was the only control she had.

Her mind feels like a minefield.

Sometimes, she feels like once she starts talking, she’ll never stop; but the years of self preservation wouldn’t let her.

She sorts the known information, finishing the apple and swallowing slowly, closing her eyes on the onslaught of images and thoughts.

It takes her a moment to let the memory of the silent knife trial pass. The blood on her hands feeling so visceral and real she opens and closes her eyes just to check.

She breathes.

In.

Holds it.

And out.

It has become the easiest thing to do after therapy. To think and sort through all the things that were said, disclosed and asked of her.

After a day like today where she had had to do both debriefing and therapy, she knew that nightmares would be inevitable.

She just hoped that whoever was watching the cameras tonight was sleeping on the job.

Natasha breathes slowly again.

Starting with the image that comes first, she focuses as best she can on sorting real from not real. What they had said, what she had disclosed, information that still was secret and that which had become known.

They were still only on major players of the organisation; those that she knew had ties into the western world. People she had been sent after, political agendas. It was far easier to talk about than herself, though she had a feeling that was coming.

Her mind flashes to Dreykov and she bites the inside of her cheek, drawing blood.

Real or not real.

She tries to ground herself in this moment.

She didn’t trust them.

They knew too much.

She’d told them too much.

There was no going back now.

Natasha thinks of Maria again.

Always an ending thought.

The divulgence of knowing her birthdate.

Information known by a select few but, perhaps also could be found from intel files. It means that somewhere here there’s more intel on her; prior to her coming here.

What she wouldn’t give for that file.

Therapy conversations had given her pause.

It was difficult to think about without her mind flashing back; and she didn’t want to.

Not here.

Not now.

There’s a file on her.

And she wants it.

.

<3

[dilfkuza]

watching Nishitani's death scene always leaves me devastated. like noooo king you can't die you haven't gotten your rocks off in a decent fight yet

[helpimstuckinanotherworlddd]

But she had to do it, she had to do it

[retiredcultistredux]

"That's it. He's not listening. I'm going to have to do something drastic." I hit kirby over the head with my shield. "I hope this will knock some sense into you buddy."- 🛡 anon.

Upon being hit in the head, Kirby lost the Poison ability and stumbled forward a bit, stunned and dizzy. Meanwhile, the shadow behind him...

...Yeah, it was Ester. He seemed to be able to control Kirby physically to an extent, yet his hold over the puffball was easily broken with enough force, making him lose his concentration, and therefore his control as well. This caused him to pop up from the shadows, experiencing the same pain as Kirby.

[...Well, you've managed to momentarily stun both Ester and Kirby.]

[lith-myathar]

I genuinely grew up believing that society was going to collapse and that we would all be living in mad max wasteland future by now and like. Yes all of us grew up feeling like we didn't have a future but my upbringing actively told me over and over that The End was coming soon. It's literally doomsday cult shit, but instead of revelations I got peak oil and climate change. And like at the very least those things are real, but the world has not ended, society has not collapsed, and that narrative running through my entire childhood fucked me up bad and left me completely unprepared to function. Like why make any plans? Why have dreams? Why strive for anything in the society we have now when we knew this was coming? But at the same time my parents weren't DOING anything about it. We weren't preppers, we weren't moving to another country, we were just staying put and waiting and worrying, there was always an immediate reason we couldn't act but a long term view of the world that said disaster was coming soon. And at the same time extreme pressure to achieve, because there was this sense that time was running out, money was running out, that I would only ever be safe if I was able to get good grades and degrees and a career that paid well.

I have no point to this post exactly except that I'm still just sort of astounded that that's how I grew up

[blue-eli]

Ink October day nine: Convalescent

To recover health and strength gradually after illness or injury, often by staying off your feet.

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

Ahahahah

I feel like shit

And im 99% sure its because I'm stressed

I always feel sick when im stressed

But the stress always gets worse now when that happens cuz of covid. Which makes me feel more sick.

Awesome 👍👍👍👍👍👍👍

[ds-angel1]

Daddy´s least favorites

cw: SMUT(18+), incest, fingering, reader cries, ward is a bad parent like always, SO. MANY. NICKNAMES., DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT!!

wc: ~ 2,8k

a/n: hellooooooo! didn´t exactly (carefully) proof-read this one, sorry!!

You had always been sensitive—Rafe loved to call you a crybaby for it, teasing you relentlessly. But even as the sting of his words faded into affection over the years, you knew there was a painful truth beneath it. You felt things deeply, and that wasn’t always easy.

Growing up in the shadow of your family’s wealth might sound enviable to outsiders, but it didn’t shield you from the heartbreak of vying for your father Ward’s approval—or the devastating loss of your mother. Those experiences carved you into someone tender, someone raw, and someone Rafe couldn’t help but try to protect, even in his messy way.

Your older brother could be cruel with his jokes, sure, but when it truly mattered, Rafe was there for you. Always.

When you cried as a toddler because you’d lost your favorite stuffed animal, 8-year-old Rafe handed you a piece of candy and made silly faces until your giggles broke through your tears. When you were inconsolable over your father’s constant favoritism toward Sarah, Rafe sat beside you in quiet solidarity, gently murmuring, “I know, I know… it’s okay.” He did know. The two of you shared an unspoken understanding, a bond rooted in the same aching void your father’s love failed to fill.

Then there were the teenage years, full of heartbreaks and disappointments. On the eve of your 15th birthday, when the boy you liked stopped talking to you out of nowhere, you collapsed into Rafe’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He didn’t hesitate. Pulling you close, he kissed your forehead and promised, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” You were too wrapped up in your heartbreak to notice the smirk he hid behind your back.

Now, at 19, you’d just scraped through college with barely passing grades—another milestone your father dismissed with a half-hearted nod. You weren’t the smartest person, and you knew it, but Rafe had always found ways to make you feel like you were enough.

A bad grade? He’d distract you with stupid jokes or drag you out for ice cream until your mood lifted. Summer school? He rode the bus with you every single day, waiting patiently for the final bell so he could walk you home under the blistering sun—because your parents couldn’t be bothered to make time.

Sarah and Rafe may have been closer in age, but you and Rafe were something different, something deeper. The five-year gap between you didn’t matter when it came to the bond you shared. He wasn’t just your brother; he was your anchor in a house that often felt more like a storm.

That’s why, during your weekly FaceTime call, when he announced he’d be coming home for an entire week during autumn break, you couldn’t contain your excitement. You squealed, clapped, and practically counted down the days like it was Christmas.

The morning of his arrival, you woke up buzzing with energy. You hadn’t felt this happy in weeks, maybe months. Without really thinking about it, you found yourself putting on your cutest top and skirt, doing your makeup, and styling your hair with care. It was silly, you told yourself—he was just your brother. But something about seeing him again made you want to look your best.

“Rafe’s here!” your dad called from downstairs, his voice carrying through the house. Four minutes early. Your heart leaped at the sound, and before you knew it, you were sprinting down the stairs, nearly tripping over yourself in your excitement.

You skidded to a halt at the front door, and there he was, standing in the entryway with that familiar crooked grin. His duffel bag hung over one shoulder, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“Rafe!” you practically screamed, throwing yourself at him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing tight as you buried your face against his shoulder.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he chuckled, his voice warm as he hugged you back. One arm tightened around your waist while his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. “Miss me?”

“So much,” you mumbled against him, your voice muffled but heartfelt. It had been months since you’d last seen him, and the comfort of his presence was overwhelming.

“You gonna let go anytime soon?” he teased, tilting his head back slightly to try and meet your gaze.

“Mm-mm, nope,” you replied, your grip only tightening. The faint smell of his cologne mixed with the crisp autumn air clinging to his jacket, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely at ease.

—————————

The rest of the day, you stuck by him like a shadow, trailing him wherever he wandered in the house. It was as if you couldn’t bear to let him out of your sight, and truthfully, you couldn’t. Having him back after so long made you realize just how much you had missed him. The house felt whole again, and for the first time in months, so did you.

At dinner the whole family sat around the dinner table, conversations flowing and everyone eager to catch up with the 24-year-old who had been gone for several months.

“So,” Ward said, glancing at Rafe while cutting into his steak. “You seein’ anyone?” His tone was casual, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

Rafe paused for a moment, shifting in his seat. “Oh, uh… not really,” he replied, his voice light. “Been talking to this one girl, but it’s nothing serious.”

You froze. A mix of emotions churned within you—anger, sadness, jealousy. You hated the idea of him seeing someone. It wasn’t fair; he’d already been away for months, and now he might share what little time he had left with someone else.

As Ward launched into a nostalgic story about his heartbreaker days, your thoughts spiraled. Rafe, however, didn’t miss the way your lips had curled into a subtle pout. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to speak only to you.

“You okay, pretty girl?” His words were soft, almost tender, and his piercing gaze sent your heart racing.

Caught off guard, you quickly smoothed out your frown and replaced it with a small smile. “Oh, uh—yeah. Of course, I am,” you replied, your voice not as convincing as you’d hoped.

Rafe studied you for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, but decided not to press. He leaned back in his chair, ready to return to the conversation, when you blurted out in a hushed tone, “So… you’re talking to someone? Is she… nice?”

You’d meant to sound casual, but the words came out hesitant, laced with something you couldn’t quite hide. The moment you saw his eyebrows shoot up and that familiar smirk stretch across his face, you knew you hadn’t been as subtle as you thought.

“Aww, are you jealous?” he teased, his voice quiet but amused as he leaned in closer. The soft chuckle that followed made your cheeks burn.

“What? No—” you stammered, your protest weak and unconvincing.

Rafe only grinned wider, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, kiddo.” He reached over and lightly tapped your hand resting on the table. “C’mon, you know you’ll always be my number one girl.”

His words sent a warmth through you that you couldn’t quite explain. You tried to hide the pleased smile tugging at your lips but failed miserably. Instead, you muttered a quiet, “Thanks…” and hoped he didn’t notice the blush creeping up your cheeks.

—————————

The glow of the fridge light spilled into the darkened kitchen, the quiet hum of its machinery the only sound cutting through the stillness of the evening. You stood there, staring blankly at its contents, your hand gripping the cool edge of the door. It was the first moment all night you’d been away from Rafe since he came home. He had asked you to grab him a bottle of water while he disappeared to the bathroom, and of course, you obliged. You always did.

As your fingers curled around the condensation-covered bottle, you heard the faint sound of footsteps behind you. Instinctively, you turned, your breath catching as your father’s figure emerged from the shadows. He stood by the kitchen counter, the sharp lines of his face illuminated by the faint glow. His posture was firm, his expression unreadable, save for the weight it carried—heavy, commanding.

“You’re happy to have Rafe back, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice even, though its edge cut through you. His fingers drummed slowly against the countertop, each tap sinking into the silence like a stone dropped into water. “Maybe it’s time you start thinking about your future too. College, maybe? Something worthwhile.”

“Dad, I—”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” he interrupted sharply, his words like a door slamming in your face.

“But Rafe and Sarah—”

“It doesn’t matter what they’ve done,” he barked, his voice rising impatiently. “What matters is you. You need to get your act together and stop wasting your life on things that don’t matter.”

The words stung. Each one a deliberate wound, striking deeper than the last. You opened your mouth to defend yourself, to explain, to plead for understanding, but every attempt was drowned out by his voice—louder, harsher, cutting you down before you could stand.

By the time the tears slipped from your eyes, hot and unbidden, you couldn’t stay any longer. Your chest tightened, your breath faltered, and without another word, you turned and fled. His voice followed you, sharp and biting, as you took the stairs two at a time and stumbled into your room. You shut the door hard behind you, muffling the world outside as sobs wracked your body.

“Pretty girl, what’s wrong?”

The voice was soft, familiar—steady as the tide. Through your blurred vision, you saw him: Rafe, sitting on the edge of your bed, his brows knit with concern. He looked at you like you were something fragile, something precious, and in that moment, the storm inside you softened just a little.

“D-Dad,” you choked out, your voice cracking as the words tangled with your tears. “H-he… he said—”

“Shh, angel,” Rafe murmured, already rising and closing the distance between you. His arms enveloped you, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

His warmth surrounded you, his hands steadying your trembling frame as he held you close. You buried your face into the soft fabric of his shirt, your tears soaking into him as the safety of his presence began to untangle the knot in your chest.

“Ward said something to you?” he asked, his voice low but laced with barely contained anger. His hand moved to the back of your head, stroking your hair gently as you struggled to speak.

“H-he’s just so mean,” you finally whispered, your voice cracking like a splintered branch. “Why does he have to be like that? Why is he always so mean?”

Rafe sighed softly, his lips brushing against the top of your head. “I know, angel. I know,” he murmured, his voice filled with a tenderness that soothed even as your tears kept falling. His thumb wiped a stray tear from your cheek, his touch warm and deliberate. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that. You know that, right? He’s wrong.”

You nodded weakly, your exhaustion weighing heavier now, your sobs quieting into soft, uneven breaths.

“Let’s get you settled, yeah?” Rafe whispered, shifting slightly as he cupped your thighs to guide your legs onto the bed.

“But… I don’t have my PJs on,” you mumbled, your voice small and thick with the remnants of your tears.

“Don’t worry, princess, just relax. Let your big brother take care of you,” he said reassuringly, starting to pull the zipper of your plaid skirt down.

“Rafe, what—!”

“Shh… it’s okay,” his words cut you off, pressing kisses to your forehead and petting your hair — the affectionate gesture making your brain go fuzzy.

As his large hands tugged your skirt off, his lips trailed down to your neck, innocent affectionate kisses turning desire-filled and nasty—sweet to sloppy.

Your mouth stood agape, eyes fluttering shut as your head fell back to be cast upward. Rafe’s slender long fingers deftly hooked around the hem of your shirt, pulling it up your arms and torso, over your head, and onto the white rug next to your skirt.

Suddenly he pulled away, his lips disappearing from your now burning skin which caused you to straighten your head again and look at him — now with an embarrassingly noticeable flush coating your cheeks and chest.

It didn’t matter though, he wasn’t looking at your face; no, he was intently studying your body, only clad in a mismatching lace bra and underwear set, seated on the bed before him.

As you peered down at your attire along with him, taking in the revealing sight — a bra, baby pink and completed with small little flowers and intricate details on top. Your panties, are virgin white and accompanied by swirls and frills of lace at the top hem of the soft fabric.

You knew this was not how you should be dressed in the presence of your brother.

“C’mon, bedtime.” You knew sleeping in your bra wasn’t good concerning breast development but you didn’t say anything. Choosing to instead crawl into bed and cozy up in the warm scarlet sheets.

As you cuddled into your blanket and pillows you felt the mattress dip behind you, upon further inspection after you had turned your head, you saw Rafe climbing in next to you.

“You doin’ a bit better, princess?” The question made you remember the argument and the tears shed. You answered with just a small curt nod, turning back around to face the wall to hide the tears that started filling your eyes again.

Soon enough you felt Rafe’s hard chest pressed against your back and his comforting arms wrapped around you.

“I’m so sorry, pretty girl, you deserve so much better,” he whispered as he ran his fingertips over your arm.

“I’ll help you cheer up, okay? Just… just hold still for me, okay? Be a good little sister.”

With a confused face, you hesitantly agreed. Said confused expression soon turned to shock when Rafe’s hand tread scarily close to your thighs.

“You’ve grown so much.” His breath hit your ear tantalizingly as his hand gripped your thigh and pried it apart from the other.

"You’re a real woman now, huh? So proud of you. So so so proud of you, baby.” Your heart flourished and your mind melted, his praise overloading your body too much to even register that he had reached your panties and was tracing the edge of them.

A small kiss was placed on your shoulder, followed by a low, “I can give you what you deserve.”

His index finger snaked its way down into the fabric, making you gasp as he barely touched your most sensitive and private body part.

“I’m gonna provide for you one day.” His finger ran through your slit, teasing your puffy clit when he reached it. “I’ll take such good care of you.” He probed at your entrance, circling it like hyenas do their prey. He ignored your gasps and mewls and spoke further. “We’ll leave this place behind and we’ll be happy. Together. Forever.”

Two of his gnarled fingers plunged into your tight hole, pushing and stretching against the walls.

Your back arched and you let out a series of moans and blubbers — soon to be shut up by Rafe clasping his hand over your mouth.

He continued pumping his digits in and out of you, trailing kisses from the front column of your throat to the nape of the back of your neck.

You knew it was wrong, what you both were doing was so so incredibly wrong but it felt so great.

“You’re mine, yeah pretty girl? All mine,” he snarled as you reached your intense and overpowering high, your orgasm crashing onto you with a force of gravity itself.

Rafe slowly fucked you through your blissful haze, slipping his hand out of your now wet panties and licking his fingers coated in your essence clean.

“Rafe…” was the first word you spoke when he removed his hand from your face. Your voice was trial and shaky, your eyes wide and guilt-ridden as they looked at him.

“I know, I know. C’mere,” he inveigled your body to lay flat on his as he intoned validations and easements.

His hand glided up and down your bare back, repeating the same phrase under his breath — his version of a lullaby to get his baby sister to sleep.

“I got you, sweetheart, I got you now.”

[jobean12-blog]

Sunshine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 6.4K

Summary: It's a beautiful day that turns even more beautiful when you run into the most handsome man you've ever seen...and the grumpiest. Will his good looks be enough for you to stick around and get to know him?

Author's Note: I love a grumpy!Bucky and a reader who just won't give up on him! Kind of sunshine/grumpy trope with enemies/lovers mixed in a little too. This was fun to write and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy 🥰

Warnings: fun, flirty tension, a tiny bit of angst, grumpy!bucky, fluffy sweetness too

Waiting in line at your favorite coffee shop is always worth it and today, after a restless night, you really need the extra boost. Even though you’re behind schedule the stop is a necessity and despite the busy morning rush the line is moving quickly but apparently not fast enough for the person behind you who lets out a loud and frustrated huff.

Trying to be discrete you turn and look out of the corner of your eye.

The sight of him strikes you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Then the barista calls your name. You blink, dazed but thankfully able to recover well enough to give the barista a warm smile and thanks.

As you grab your napkins and gather your things you can’t help but steal glances at the man. He’s tall and broad shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that shows his biceps shaping the fabric, his long legs are clad in well fitted dark denim, and he’s the perfect mix of masculinity and male beauty.

His brooding expression doesn’t falter as he retrieves his drink order, but he does say ‘thank you’ and to your continued surprise, ‘excuse me,’ to whomever he passes.

With one last longing glance you head for the door, walking out into the sunshine and crossing the street to your favorite bench to enjoy your coffee before work.

You’re focused on your phone while you sip slowly so at first you don’t notice the dark shadow looming over you. But the rumbly and gruff voice startles you.

“You’re in my seat.”

You look up, shielding your eyes from the sun to see nothing more than a large shadow.

“What?” you ask, feeling discombobulated.

The shadow shifts and your eyes widen when you see the man from the coffee shop, his glower ferocious despite your now big smile.

“This is your seat?...It’s a whole bench.”

“Yeah…well.”

You look at the open space next to you and offer out a hand. “There’s more than enough room for both of us.”

His eyes narrow but he sits.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” you say brightly.

“I’m here almost every day,” he answers.

You keep your smile in place.

“Well, I’m running late so that must be why I haven’t seen you before.”

“Then why are you sitting on this bench talking to me?” he asks.

You bristle inwardly but your smile doesn’t falter.

“I still have time. I usually get in early, so it won’t be a problem.”

He stares at you, the breeze catching his scent and blowing it your way.

You try not to inhale, focusing on the fact that he’s super grumpy instead of the fact that he’s super hot and smells really good.

“I enjoy sitting out in the sunshine. It helps me feel grounded before I really start the day.”

The words tumble out unprompted but under his narrowed gaze you find yourself feeling less confident than usual.

He just “hmphs” in response and looks away, taking a sip of his drink.

“You say you sit here every day so what’s with all the…” and you motion to him, “grumpy? Is the sunshine not good enough for you?”

He turns your way again, lips pressed together but his eyes flaring with surprise. Before he can respond his phone rings. He looks at the screen with another mild puff of air then swipes his thumb over it.

“Wilson,” he says gruffly.

His voice drops low, and you look down at your phone, trying not to listen. Most of the conversation on his part is a series of grunts and mumbled responses so it’s hard to follow anyway.

After hanging up he stands abruptly and looks down at you, his gaze lingering before he gives you a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement and starts to walk off.

You yell after him, “I hope you find some sunshine!”

He doesn’t turn around but you’re sure you see his steps falter for just a second.

It’s only after you finish your drink that you stand and start the short walk to work, surprised to catch sight of the grumpy stranger across the street at the local VA, squatting down in front of an older man with a dog.

The grumpiness is gone, replaced by a warm smile that crinkles his eyes. All the air goes out of your lungs.

He looks up at that moment, noticing you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk across the street. His smile fades and you drop your head, speed walking away.

It’s Saturday morning and you’re standing outside the bakery, texting your friend to get their donut order. The door opens and you barely have time to register the whiff of familiar scent that floats by you when you look up and lock eyes with Mr. Grumpy himself.

You smile in greeting.

“You,” he answers.

Your grin widens. “Me. What are the chances? Your favorite bench stealer!”

He sighs heavily and glances back at the door to the bakery before pinning you with his stare again.

Now that the sun isn’t shining in your eyes you have a better chance to see the color of his. They’re blue. A gorgeous ocean colored blue framed by long, dark, and thick lashes.

His attention strays down your body and you feel tingles everywhere his eyes touch.

“Here for something sweet?” you ask.

He never gets the chance to answer because a man comes up behind him and grabs his shoulder, giving him a slight shove to move in front and say hi.

“Barnes! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful friend here?”

You smile warmly.

“Sam. Sam Wilson,” the friend says in introduction.

“Hi Sam!” you greet and give him your name.

“Barnes didn’t tell me he made a new friend,” Sam says.

“Barnes?” you repeat.

You direct your question to Mr. Grumpy whose been standing there silently murdering Sam with his eyes since he appeared.

Sam smiles triumphantly. “This here is James, but his friends call him Bucky.”

“Hi Bucky. Nice to officially meet you!”

Your tone is light and airy, and you wave.

“Hey,” Bucky answers, then turns to Sam. “Let’s go, the guys are looking forward to these donuts.”

“Is he always this grumpy?” you ask Sam.

Silence falls between you all, but it only lasts a moment, broken then by Sam’s loud cackle.

“Oh, I like her already!” Sam says.

Ignoring your comment-and Sam’s-Bucky repeats, “let’s go Wilson!”

Sam returns the favor, ignoring Bucky and focusing on you. “You should come down and visit us at the VA sometime. He’s never grumpy around the guys.”

“So just me then?” you ask with a laugh.

“That’s just because he thinks you’re beautiful,” Sam winks.

You steal a glance at Bucky and note the slight pink color that paints his cheeks.

“It was nice meeting you Sam. And you too Bucky.”

With those last words and a smile, you skirt past them and walk into the bakery. After placing your order you’re shocked to find Bucky standing at the pickup counter, hands in his pockets and shuffling on his feet.

“Miss me already?” you tease.

He doesn’t answer and instead hands you a business card. You take it and look down, reading the information for the VA and Bucky’s name.

“Thanks,” you say, meeting his eyes again and noting the pink still coating his cheeks.

He doesn’t answer but you think you see his lips lift into what might be a small smile before he casually strolls off.

His jeans are molded perfectly to his perfect ass, and you sigh.

“Are you going to go visit him?” Diana asks through a mouthful of donut.

“Nah,” you answer.

Diana’s eyes bug out of her head with a gasp.

“Um you said he was insanely hot. I don’t’ get it. You don’t NOT go visit.”

“You do if he’s a grumpy jerk.”

Diana laughs. “Maybe he needs to eat more of these donuts!”

You roll your eyes. “He had a whole box of them. He was with his friend Sam who was also hot. I should go visit him.”

“Ohhh make Mr. Grumpy jealous. I like it.”

You shove the card into your bag and grab a donut.

“I think we need more donuts for this day,” you retort.

After a long donut filled debate with Diana you decide to make the call to the VA office. To your happy surprise Sam answers.

“Hi Sam,” you say and tell him your name, thrilled he remembers you.

“I was just thinking I’d like to bring some treats down to the office this week. Is there anything in particular I should get?”

You can practically hear Sam’s smile through the phone. He rattles off some orders and then tells you the days and times that would work. When you hang up you feel lighter just knowing you could do something kind.

You’ve never been in the VA building before even though you’ve passed by it many times. The interior is warm and inviting and has a large walnut desk and matching benches nearby.

At the sight of the benches, you laugh to yourself, wondering if Bucky claimed these seats too.

“Hey.”

You barely catch the quiet greeting but look up to see Bucky standing by a doorway. You suddenly feel hyperalert, every inch of your sensitive tingling and awake. You almost forgot how gorgeous he is, his light blue henley fitted around his broad chest and his dark jeans showing off those long and muscular legs.

Your heart flutters as he crosses the hallway, hard expression on his face, before he stares down at the box of donuts.

“You can’t eat them all!”

He gives you a quelling look, though you’re sure you catch a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“I can actually,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, “but when I’m here I share.”

“What if I want one?” you ask, feeling brave and maybe a little flirtatious.

It takes him a moment to answer as he holds you under his keen regard, sweeping his gaze down your body before it lingers on your lips and finally returns to your eyes.

“Maybe,” he grumbles, then turns on his heel. “Follow me.”

You enter a room with tables and chairs set up and one long counter and cabinets in the back where you see a coffee machine, refrigerator, and small microwave.

“Do you have a favorite?”

His question surprises you and it takes you a minute to realize he’s referring to the donuts.

“OH, yeah definitely. The Bavarian cream is the best!”

“Hm,” he replies.

He doesn’t indulge you with his favorite, so you decide to ask.

“What about you?”

“Glazed,” he says, then adds, “with sprinkles.”

You stare at him for a beat then a laugh bursts out of you.

“I was not expecting the sprinkles!”

You’re too busy laughing to notice his smile.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I visit,” you tell him when you finally catch your breath.

“You want to come back?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

You don’t have a chance to answer because Sam enters the room with a boisterous greeting.

“There you are!” he says. “So glad you stopped by to see us.”

“And I brought donuts!”

“Perfect,” Sam says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You look back at Bucky as Sam leads you out of the room. “Don’t eat any of those!”

Bucky’s scoff is the last thing you hear before you step out into the hallway.

After Sam gives you a tour you meet some of the veterans while you share donuts. It’s wonderful to talk with them and make them laugh and you’re happy you made the visit.

Right before you leave you run into Bucky who’s hovering over the last of the box of donuts.

“Slim pickings huh?” you say as you look into the mostly empty box.

“Yeah,” he huffs with a scowl.

“Lucky for you,” you say and open the cabinet above your head, “I stashed one in here earlier before we gave them out.”

You pull out the paper plate and take the napkin off to reveal a glazed donut with colored sprinkles.

He studies you in such a way that your thighs press tightly together in reaction. His expression is irritatingly unreadable as your eyes meet again.

He shifts as if he’s uncomfortable, an awkward silence hanging between you, before he blurts out, “thanks doll.”

His expression morphs into one of surprise and it matches yours, but you recover quickly enough with a warm smile.

“You’re welcome Bucky. Thanks for having me.”

You’re just getting situated with your book on the couch, rain pelting the window outside, when your phone rings.

Sam’s name lights up the screen and you answer with an excited, “Ghostbusters, whaddya want?”

The silence your met with is unexpected as you were hoping for one of Sam’s bright laughs.

“Tell me that’s not how you answer your phone normally.”

At Bucky’s weary comment your smile falls. “Bucky? I thought it was Sam?”

“You sound disappointed,” he points out.

“Only because you seem bothered by my amazing phone answering skills. I’m sorry that one got lost on you. Sam would have loved it.”

“So, if you knew it was me calling what would have said?” he asks.

“Uh…hello?”

“Uh hello?”

“No…just, hell, ugh! Why are you calling me from Sam’s phone.”

Silence again.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah…I didn’t have your number and wasn’t sure you’d answer if I called from mine so…”

“Ok,” you say. “And now that you have mine just text me and I’ll have yours.”

He’s quiet again before he continues in a rush of words.

“So, we’re having our annual fundraiser gala soon and Sam mentioned that you said you’d like to volunteer more, and we could use some help planning.”

“I’m definitely interested,” you cheer. “When should I come by?”

You get all the information you need from Bucky and then hang up, his conversation stilted when you started getting more excited and telling him that you were looking forward to working with him and helping. He hung up with a mumbled goodbye and never text you to give you his number.

It makes your thoughts of his disinterest solidify and you try to let it go and focus on the good you’ll be doing.

The week moves slowly but when Friday comes around you feel the same lightness from the last time you visited the VA. It gives you renewed energy, and you open the door with a smile, searching for the familiar face of Sam or Bucky.

You don’t see either of them, so you head down the hallway to the small dining room. Sam is at the front by one of the windows. He waves, pointing to his phone to signal he’ll be right off, and Bucky is at the counter.

He turns to face you, and you walk over.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hiya doll,” he answers.

Confusion washes over you at his sweet endearment, but you push it down and focus on what he’s holding.

“More donuts!” you exclaim.

“We always have them,” he says lightly. “I got you a Bavarian.”

At your silence you feel his eyes on you, and you drag them away from the perfectly powdered and filled deliciousness in the box.

“Why didn’t you text me?” you ask without thinking.

“What?” he says, his brow furrowed.

“You never text me to give me your number.”

His attention never leaves you, his gaze drifting from your head down to your feet. When he reaches your face again he stares and pulls his phone from his back pocket.

“Can I have your number?” he asks quietly.

“Sure,” you say and take his phone to program it in.

“Thanks,” he says.

“And thank you for my donut,” you finally say. “That was really thoughtful.”

He nods and grabs a glazed before motioning for you to follow him. The rest of the day is spent pouring over invites and food orders as well as any little detail that needs to be squared away before the event.

Most of the time it’s you, Sam and Bucky seated at a table, but Sam leaves occasionally to take a phone call or manage something in the office.

During the down time you learn more about Bucky, asking questions and mostly getting abridged but not unfriendly answers. He seems genuinely interested in what you have to say and that, again, confuses you more as to his intentions-if he has any at all.

Once the sun has set and you’re worn out you help them clean up then gather your things.

“How are you getting home?” Sam asks as you walk together to the door.

“I think I’m gonna walk,” you tell him.

Bucky makes a sound of disapproval behind you.

“What?” you turn and ask.

“It’s late,” he states.

“And?” you answer.

“It’s not safe.”

“I appreciate your concern but after sitting most of the afternoon I want to walk.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

At Bucky’s statement both you and Sam give him a wide-eyed look.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Bucky.

“Nah, he’s right,” Sam chimes in. “He should go with you. I would offer but I’m in the opposite direction.”

Sam tries to hide his smirk, but it’s written all over his face, so you just smile and accept Bucky’s kind and gentlemanly offer.

“Just gimme a sec. I want to grab something from my bike.”

“Bike?” you murmur as you track his movement toward a sleek black motorcycle parked at the curb.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks back toward you.

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says while running a hand through his hair. “You know…easier in the city.”

“Smart and badass. It’s beautiful.”

That’s when he smiles at you, a real smile, for the very first time.

You nearly swoon.

“Yeah?” He looks boyishly pleased about your reaction.

You nod and give the bike one last look before you fall into step beside him. You chat about everything from the upcoming event to how he met Sam and even find out more about his motorcycle. He’s more open and comfortable and indulges you with more details about anything you ask.

As you pass by a bar a large crowd of young people come out, clearly drunk and rowdy as they sway and swerve as a mass toward you.

Bucky links your fingers together and deftly slides you out of harms way. Your skin tingles, little sparks of feeling shooting up your arm and it’s all you can concentrate on until the group passes by and continues down the street in a clamor.

“They seem like they’re having fun,” you giggle. “Thanks for the save there.”

The corner of his mouth starts to tilt upward and then he remembers he has a hold on your hand and his eyes drop and widen and he quickly let’s go, clearing his throat and mumbling, “no problem.”

“Did you ever go out like that and get wild?” you ask after a beat, hoping to lighten the mood again.

“Who me?” he asks and blows a raspberry. “Nah. I’m not really into big crowds much.”

“Then you should really enjoy the gala next week,” you say wryly.

“Right?” he answers. “If it weren’t for such a good cause and important to me, I’d skip it all together and stay behind the scenes.”

“Well at least you’ll have Sam!” you say in support.

“Actually…he’s usually caught up in everything since I leave all the talking and canoodling to him.”

“Canoodling,” you repeat and cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I can’t imagine you not wanting to canoodle.”

Your delivery drips with sarcasm, and he throws you another killer smile.

He has the sexiest smile ever. Of course he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t smile a lot, because of its killer effect? Or is he really just Mr. Grumpy? One or the other.

When you reach your apartment you walk toward the double doors, thanking him for walking you home. Searching for your keys in your bag you end up dropping your phone, bending to pick it up at the same time Bucky does.

You bump heads and he immediately apologizes and rests his hand gently on your forehead.

“You ok?” he asks, rubbing his thumb soothingly.

“Yeah,” you say, slightly breathless.

His gaze drops to your lips and lingers before coming back to your eyes.

“Hey um…” he starts, those beautiful blue eyes studying you, sweeping over your features, as if tallying every little detail he finds.

“Yeah?” you ask, giving him a sweet and reassuring smile.

“Uh, thanks, for the help today. I’ll see you soon.”

You deflate at his quick departure; telling him it was “your pleasure and you’ll see him later.”

You’re not even to your apartment door when your phone chimes. You retrieve it from your pocket and see Bucky’s name on the screen.

You open the text and nearly drop your phone again.

'Do you want to be my date to the fund raiser?'

Like sunshine bursting through a cloud, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, a fluttery warning that you’re way in over your head.

“What are you going to wear?” Diana asks as you stand in front of your closet.

“I have no idea!” you sigh. “I asked for a dress code, and he said ‘formal’…and that’s it. Then I asked what he was wearing, and he said, ‘a tux.’”

“Not very chatty, is he?” she mutters.

You shrug at stare at your closet that has nothing appropriate in it.

“Looks like we’re going shopping,” Diana says as she jumps off the bed and grabs her bag. “Come on, we’re gonna find you something that will knock his socks off.”

Bucky picks you up in a town car, and you smile graciously as he opens the door for you, your internal nerves wild as you wait for his reaction to your appearance.

Unfortunately, his reaction isn’t worth the nerves because he stares blankly at you before giving you an abrupt nod of greeting.

All the while you try not to drool over him in a tux.

When you arrive inside you can’t hide your beaming smile. It looks beautiful. All the details having come together perfectly to create an elegant yet comfortable atmosphere.

“You’re really doing wonderful work here,” you tell Bucky.

He holds out his arm for you and smiles. “Thanks doll.”

“You’re here!”

You turn at the familiar voice. Sam hurries over and takes you in.

“Wow,” he says, raising his brows. “Lucky man Barnes.”

He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be around if you need me.”

Bucky places his hand on your lower back and leads you across the room to the table. Your breath catches at the sensation of his hand on your bare skin, but you try to shake it off.

His hand presses deeper into your back, and you follow his guide. People greet him and he says hello, but he doesn’t stop to chat.

“Shouldn’t you be taking the time to talk with these people?” you ask.

“Probably,” he says as he pulls out your chair.

You snort because he sounds like he couldn’t care less.

You’re the first people at the table and you stare at the fancy centerpiece.

“It really does look amazing in here.”

Bucky glances over it all, bemused.

“It does. I guess it’s necessary.”

“What do you mean,” you ask.

“I come to these events for Sam and the veterans. I want to raise money and help but if it were up to me it would all be quiet and low key. This kind of socializing isn’t my first choice.”

Turning to study his handsome face, you smile. “Is any kind of socializing your choice?”

He throws you a dark but amused look. “You’re funny”

You hold back more laughter and touch his knee, giving it a soft squeeze. His eyes meet yours and you swallow around the sudden sensation of your racing heart.

Needing to break the intense eye contact, you turn to observe the room, noting that more people are heading to their tables.

You spot Sam talking to a lovely woman and you feel Bucky’s smile.

“Sam likes her,” Bucky says quietly.

“Who is she?” you ask in a whisper.

He leans into you, his breath tickling your cheek as he murmurs, “the daughter of one of our veterans. They’ve met a few times, and I can tell he’s totally taken with her.”

You turn your head slightly, bringing your faces just inches apart. “She’s lovely. I’m sure she likes him too.”

His attention moves from Sam to you, and his eyes narrow as he realizes how close you are. But he doesn’t move back. Instead, he searches your eyes.

Your heartbeat skips and you’re almost afraid to breathe.                      

Needing to break the tension once again, you wrench your gaze away and find Sam shooting you a quick glance.

“I have the sudden urge to run over there and embarrass him,” you say with a devious smile.

Bucky’s answer is to move away but only because he throws his head back in laughter.

“I’d pay to see that,” he replies, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Before long, your table is filled, and Bucky introduces you to the people he knows. The older couple sitting nearest to you is just smitten with both you and Bucky, peppering you with questions and hanging on your every word.

They tell you their life story too, how they found each other and fell in love and have been together ever since. It warms you and you give his thigh another squeeze under the table.

He places his hand over yours and brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

The food comes and you turn his way, lightly tugging on your hand.

“I need that to eat,” you giggle.

“Oh, right,” he says with one more sweep of his thumb before he releases you with a soft expression.

The food is delicious, and you find yourself smiling between every bite.

“You two look like you’re having a good time.”

Bucky stiffens next to you, and you wait for his move before following his gaze to the older woman standing behind you.

“Don’t you look handsome as always James,” she comments then flits her eyes to you but doesn’t say anything more.

Bucky smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Whitman. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine. Now I need to steal you away for a moment.”

Bucky’s eyes lift over Mrs. Whitman’s shoulder and his lips turn down in a frown.

“I can’t, sorry Mrs. Whitman. I’m here with someone.”

He looks at you and smiles.

Mrs. Whitman sighs, clearly annoyed.

“You can’t spare just a moment?” she pleads, trying to appear genuine.

“Sorry,” Bucky says as kindly as he can.

Without a goodbye she huffs off and you wait until she’s far enough away before looking at Bucky. His frown melts away as your gazes lock.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Her husband was a veteran, and he recently passed. She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since, but I’m not interested.”

“I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble,” you tell him.

“No. Not at all doll. She can be rude sometimes, but I think she’s just struggling with grief and doesn’t know what to do with herself. I feel bad, but like I said. I’m really not interested.”

You smile reassuringly then excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a little air. When you return, you see Bucky hasn’t moved from his seat and his gaze is zeroed in on the hallway to the bathroom.

As you cross the room toward him, his eyes drift down your body. His gaze lingers on your bare shoulders and the sway of your hips and by the time you reach the table, you need another restroom break to cool off.

He doesn’t move out of the way, so you have to brush up against him to sit back down. When your eyes meet, his are heated. You stare at each other, the music and chatter around you fading away.

The lovely old woman next to you breaks you out the haze when she asks where the restroom is. You point her in the right direction, telling her you’ll happily escort her, but she refuses kindly and slowly makes her way through the crowd.

Once she’s safely down the hallway, you look away and find yourself staring at Bucky. His face is close.

Too close.

Or maybe just close enough depending on how you look at it.

His eyes search yours and you ignore the rushing in your ears as you close the distance between you and gently brush your lips over his.

Your mouth tingles from the brief touch as you pull away.

He scowls hard at your mouth, but you’re not sure if it’s because you kissed him or because you barely kissed him.

“What…?” he starts to ask roughly, but a loud banging at the front of the room, startles you and pulls your attention away.

Sam stands at a small podium, a smile on his face as he greets everyone.

Nice timing Sam.

‘How’s work today?’

You smile at you phone and Bucky’s name on the screen.

‘It’s going…’ you type back. ‘How about you? I know you said your day was going to be busy.’

‘Up and down. We made some really good progress with one of our veterans today, but we lost one of our oldest members to cancer.’

‘Oh Bucky. I’m sorry it’s been a tough day. Do you need anything? I can come by on my lunch break.’

‘Thank you doll, I appreciate it. But it’s unfortunately something I’ve gotten used to. Comes with the territory.’

‘I’m here if you need anything.’

‘Thanks.’

You’re just clearing your desk at the end of the day when your phone rings. You smile at the sight of Bucky’s name, and you’re not surprised considering you’d received a text to inform you that your delivery had been successfully made.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Hey.” His voice is low, a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “You sent me donuts.’

You grin at how confused he sounds. “I did and cookies.”

In fact, you sent him a dozen glazed- with sprinkles of course- donuts and a box full of assorted cookies from your usual favorite bakery.

“I wanted you to have a little treat after a long day. I know you might be used to it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard on you.”

He’s quiet so long you have a horrible feeling that you may have crossed a line. But then he speaks.

“Thank you doll. I really appreciate it.”

You smile and try to quell the butterflies dancing around your stomach. “You’re welcome!”

“I’ve never had so many glazed donuts to myself!” There’s a teasing tone to his confession.

“But you have to share the cookies!” you tell him, trying to sound stern.

“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” he laughs. “But really, thank you.”

“It was nothing,” you say trying to shake off the giddy feeling he’s giving you with a shrug he can’t see.

His voice is gravelly when he promises, “it’s not nothing to me.”

You teeter on your feet. “Well, I’m glad it cheered you up a little. I’m just heading out of work so…”

“So, I’ll let you go.”

Did you hear a smile in his voice?

“I’ll see you this weekend for Sam’s BBQ?”

“Yes! Looking forward to it,” you say.

“Great doll, see you then and I am too.”

With that, he hangs up and you stand at your desk and try to slow the rapid beating of your heart.

Bucky picks you up on his bike and you’re barely ashamed at how excited you are to ride with him.

He revs the engine when he pulls up at the curb where you’re standing and settles the bike with his leg on the sidewalk.

“No helmet?” you ask with a wave.

He sucks in a breath and his eyes are glued to your legs.

“Wrong outfit?” you say as you track his gaze. “I can go…”

“Nope,” he says quickly.

He hops off the bike and offers a hand to help you get on, squeezing his eyes closed when you get close to him and your shoulder brushes against his chest.

“Are you ok?” you ask him, looking up into his blue eyes.

“Yep. All good,” he says, voice strained.

You narrow your eyes at his sharp tone but take his offered hand and help onto the bike. Once you’re wrapped around him and pressed to his back you lean up and say, “what’s going on? You seem grumpy today?”

“Nothing,” he replies before revving the engine and pulling away from the curb.

It doesn’t take long to get to Sam’s and when you arrive Bucky parks his bike and hops off lithely and you wait for him to offer his hand to help you off.

To your surprise he takes you by the waist and lifts you off the bike in one easy movement. Your body is plastered to his as your feet slide to the ground.

You shiver at the contact.

“You cold?” He frowns at you.

“Nope,” you answer, looking away and straightening the bottom of your dress.

Over his shoulder you see Sam walking your way.

“There you two are!” he yells.

You wave and smile.

“You look gorgeous as always,” Sam says.

Sam leads the way to the backyard and Bucky places a hand at your lower back. Your brain fritzes and it’s all you can think about as you walk through the yard saying hello to people as you pass.

When you reach Sarah, Sam’s sister, you greet her with a warm hello, having met her once before at the VA. Bucky joins in the conversation, his fingers still warmly pressed into your skin when he starts to draw little circles on your lower back.

You suck in a breath and trip over your words and then he splays his palm and slides it around to your hip, drawing you into his side.

Your heart stops.

Sarah doesn’t seem to notice or if she does she doesn’t make it known and when Sam calls for her help she rushes off with a promise to come back and chat after.

“You seem to be in a better mood now that we’re here,” you say as you turn your eyes to Bucky.

His eyebrows draw in. “I…you look gorgeous.”

Your lips part and your mouth falls open.

“You always do. You did at the fund raiser. You do today. It’s just…I’m not good at…”

He trails off, his words dying on his lips and his cheeks turning your favorite shade of pink.

His words fill you with relief and you swear that it’s the lingering heat of that barely there kiss from the gala that you can’t seem to forget because the next thing you know you’re grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling his lips down to yours.

You intend it to be a quick kiss, but he brings one of his hands to the back of your neck and the other presses deep into your back as he takes over. Your small gasp turns into a moan, and it ignites him. He deepens the kiss, hungry and desperate and it sets every inch of you on fire.

“Uh, there are children present.”

Sam’s voice cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water and you move back. Bucky’s hand flexes at the back of your neck as if to stop you from moving away from him. You breathe hard and state at each other.

Best. Kiss. Of. Your. Life.

Bucky appears dazed enough for you to believe maybe it was for him too.

The party around you comes back to life and Sam’s broad smile fills your vision. He claps Bucky hard on the back. “I knew ya had it you Barnes!”

Sam saunters off with some extra pep to his step and you watch him walk back into the house. Bucky’s fingers close around yours and he tugs you away from the crowd.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer but just holds tightly to your hand until you reach a small garden enclosed by a low white fence. At the back there’s a wrought iron bench just big enough for two.

“This is so pretty,” you whisper as he walks you through the garden.

When you reach the bench he turns your way.

“You’re really going to share the bench with me?” you ask playfully.

His answer is to lift his hand to cup your jaw, his eyes dropping to your mouth. You hold your breath as he leans in. The first contact he makes is just a brush of his lips over yours. The briefest sweep.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass that first day we met,” he whispers against your lips. “I was having a rough day but it’s no excuse.”

“It’s ok,” you breathe out. “I forgive you.”

He does it again. Sweeps his lips along yours and you hear the quietest moan escape his throat as he leans in closer, pressing his soft, strong mouth to yours and taking your top lip between his.

With a smile forming against your mouth, he tilts his head and kisses you with a heat that rivals the one only minutes ago. His free hand slides around your waist and smooths along the curve of your spine, dragging you up against his body.

Without an audience he kisses you long enough to have you pulling back for need of air.

“Bucky,” you whisper, grabbing his biceps for support.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs.

“You’re good at that.”

“At what?” he asks, distracted by your mouth again.

“Kissing.”

He hums. “That’s only because I’m kissing you. And I plan to keep kissing you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever sounds good,” you whisper at the feel of his lips hovering over yours.

“Won’t be long enough but it’s a start doll.”