tomsparkyr

[tomsparkyr]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so ����‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised �� Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it��s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[tomsparkyr]

Hello!! Have you discontinued your Inside fic about George Clarke? Xx

nooooo it’s still happening! the chapter is just taking me longer to finish bc i haven’t written it for a while i’m trying to keep it the same style for continuity purposes haha, but it’s gonna be out soon i promise it’s not discontinued, love! xx

[tomsparkyr]

Maybe the boyfriend headcanons for Lamine?

boyfriend hcs.

masterlist requests

- he sends you tiktoks that say “this is us” and they’re never romantic. like it’ll be two raccoons fighting over a sandwich or a couple falling off a jet ski and he’ll send it with: “you and me in 10 years 😍” the only romantic ones he ever sends are ironically. still, he saves the cute ones to his favorites. just… never tells you. - game days are when he’s actually softest. he acts chill, but when he sees you in the stands or waiting for him after, his whole vibe shifts. he runs over, wraps his arms around you, kisses your temple and mumbles, “you saw that assist, right?” then he lets go and immediately goes back to acting smug like he wasn’t literally giddy to see you. - he calls you on facetime when he’s bored, even if it’s 30 seconds. middle of his day? “i’m eating a sandwich, look.” out with his mamá? “which flowers are your favourite?” he doesn’t need a reason to talk to you. he just likes your face. and your voice. and the way you always roll your eyes but answer anyway.

- he’ll pretend not to want physical affection, until you stop. you go to kiss his cheek? he dodges you playfully. you reach for his hand? he teases you like “ew clingy.” but when you actually stop being affectionate, he’s instantly like “wait where’s my kiss? i didn’t mean it. come back.”

- he teases you constantly, but it’s how he shows affection. he’ll call you dramatic for taking too long to get ready or pretend to gag when you call him cute, but then he’s tying your laces when you’re distracted, or waiting for you with a snack he knows you like. he’s all banter, until it’s time to actually show up. and he always does.

- he’s the kind of boyfriend who comes over just to hang. he doesn’t need big plans. he shows up, steals half your snacks, sprawls out on your bed with his phone, and acts like he lives there. and if you fall asleep mid-movie, he quietly grabs a hoodie to cover you and lowers the volume. doesn't say anything. just stays.

- he likes listening to music with you more than anything else. you could be in the car, in his room, lying on the floor, he’s got one airpod in and the other in your ear. half the time, you’re not even talking. just listening. sometimes he skips a song two seconds in and apologizes like “nah, you wouldn’t like that one.” he never gets tired of figuring out what sounds like you.

- he loves including you in his insta dumps. a blurry picture of you walking ahead of him. a selfie of the two of you. a few second long video of you doing something and dumb and both of you laughing. you curled up on the couch with keyne in a pic he took of the tv. you’re always there. somewhere. even before you two made it “public,” you perfume bottle was on the dresser behind him in the mirror pics. your hairtie was on his wrist. your initial written on the inside of his wrist tape on matchday.

[tomsparkyr]

Hey babe! How’s ur A levels coming along x. How many exams left?

hi gorgeous! i’m officially free from a levels and i’m out for the summer so we know what that means … uploads!😄😄 i’ll lock in now for my time off and hopefully produce some bangers that you love, hope you’re all doing well xx

[tomsparkyr]

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic where Reader doesn’t know she’s pregnant but Bucky and Steve hear a second heart beat before going on a mission? You could also have it that maybe Steve notices first and congratulates Bucky by pulling him aside and Bucky is slightly confused because he didn’t hear it right away since he’s always with reader.

Two Heartbeats||Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary — During a mission prep on the quinjet, Steve notices something strange he can hear two heartbeats coming from Y/N.

Word count—672

There was a quiet rhythm to missions—pack, prep, wait.

The hum of the quinjet filled the air, vibrating through the floor beneath your boots. You sat on the bench seat, flipping through the contents of your med pouch with habitual precision. Bucky was next to you, always next to you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. His fingers worked the straps of your tac vest without you even asking. It was a quiet intimacy you’d built over months of being partners, teammates… more.

Across the cabin, Steve stood by the rear control panel, eyes flicking from the mission data to something—someone. You.

You didn’t notice it at first, too focused on your checklist. But Bucky did. He arched an eyebrow.

“Steve,” he called casually, “You got something to say, or are you just admiring my girl?”

Steve’s head tilted, a flicker of concentration on his face. Not amused, not teasing. Listening.

“There’s something weird,” he muttered, then stepped closer. “I’m hearing two heartbeats.”

You glanced around, confused. “There’s six of us. That’s not exactly—”

“No,” Steve said, cutting you off gently. “I mean… from you.”

Your brow furrowed, halfway between confusion and unease. “That doesn’t make sense. I feel fine.”

Steve looked over at Bucky then, something shifting behind his eyes. Like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said to Bucky, nodding toward the back corner of the jet.

Bucky gave you a quick look—you okay?—and you nodded, if a little bewildered.

They stepped aside. Steve’s voice dropped low. “I think she’s pregnant.”

Bucky’s face blanked for a second. “You think she—what?”

“I hear another heartbeat. It’s smaller, but it’s there. Consistent. Strong.”

Bucky shook his head, stunned. “But I’m with her all the time. I didn’t—how could I not hear that?”

Steve smiled. “That’s why. You’re used to her. Tuned to her. You weren’t listening for it.”

Bucky’s breath caught, realization dawning slow and wide in his chest. He turned back to look at you—sitting unaware, glancing through your pack like nothing in the world had shifted—and his heart tripped.

Because now that he was listening, really listening…

There it was. Just beneath yours.

A second heartbeat. Softer. Quieter. But real.

A life.

His legs carried him back to you before he even realized he was moving.

You looked up, puzzled. “What’s going on?”

He crouched in front of you, metal hand bracing against your knee. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “has anything felt… different lately?”

You blinked. “You mean aside from this weird tension and Steve acting like he’s about to drop a bomb?”

Bucky laughed, but it was breathless. His hand rose to your stomach, hovering, hesitant. “I think you’re pregnant.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“I didn’t hear it before. But I do now. Another heartbeat.” His eyes searched yours. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” you said slowly, barely above a whisper. “I mean, I’ve been tired. I thought it was stress or the missions, or just… life.”

His palm settled gently over your stomach. You both just sat there for a second—silent, still, wrapped in the hum of the quinjet and the weight of something enormous.

“You okay?” he asked softly, almost afraid to break the moment.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’m… surprised. And kind of terrified.”

“Me too.” His voice cracked. “But also kind of amazed.”

You stared at him, heart pounding—not from panic, but from something far more fragile. He looked at you like you were precious. Like you’d just given him something he never thought he could have.

Then you gave a breathless, stunned little laugh. “Well. Guess we’re not just packing a med kit this mission.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then your temple. “I’ve got you. Both of you.”

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you like a shield, like a vow.

Two heartbeats.

And suddenly, everything had changed.

[tomsparkyr]

Held, loved, interrupted.

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

summary — bobby and erik have a petty argument and, erik being erik, he tells bobby that his girlfriend is out of his league. cue to bobby showing up at your door like a kicked puppy.

warnings — 18+, body worship, praising, comfort, blow job, sad bobby, cockwarming, cuddling, a lil angst in the beginning but like erik immediately regretted it

a/n — my first request from @pinkberrymilkys! <33

The metal door to the tattoo parlour slammed open with the kind of force that rattled the hinges and echoed through the hollow brick walls. Erik didn’t even flinch. He just kept his back to it, hunched over his station, wiping down a machine he hadn’t touched in over an hour.

Bobby’s footsteps came in heavy. Guilty. Hesitant.

“I said I was sorry,” Bobby muttered, voice tight like a cord pulled too hard. “I lost track of time, alright?”

Erik let out a low laugh. Dry. Mean. “You lost track for four hours?” He turned now, slow, deliberate. His piercings caught the light like warning signs. “Must be some head she’s giving you, huh?”

Bobby stiffened, cheeks flushing. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t make it about her.”

“Why not? Seems like everything else is.” Erik stepped closer, tossing the rag onto the tray beside him with a wet slap. “I ask you to close for one night—one—so I can breathe for once, and you vanish off the face of the planet. No call. No text. Just Bobby, playing a bitch to Miss Perfect.”

Bobby’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her.”

“I know you.” Erik’s voice was quiet now, which was worse than yelling. It felt colder. “You’re acting like some scared little lapdog, like if you stop kissing her ass for five seconds she’ll remember she’s outta your league.”

Silence.

It fell like a dropped weight between them.

Bobby blinked. Once. Twice. Shoulders locked.
His throat worked around a response, but nothing came out at first.

“Wow,” he said finally. “Didn’t know you thought that.”

Erik’s jaw twitched. Regret flashed behind his eyes but he didn’t take it back. He couldn’t. That was the curse of knowing someone too well: you knew where the nerves were, but you also knew how to hit them without drawing blood. Just enough to sting.

“Bobby, I—”

“No. It’s fine.” Bobby’s voice cracked, just a little, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets like if he didn’t, they’d shake. “Guess it makes sense. Everyone else is just too polite to say it.”

He turned.

“Bobby.”

But Bobby was already halfway out the door. No yelling. No slamming. Just the jingle of the bell and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Erik stared at it for a long moment, the shop too quiet now. The kind of quiet that made his skin itch.

He ran a hand through his hair.

Fuck.

The cold air bit at Bobby’s skin, but he didn’t zip his jacket. Didn’t call for a ride. Didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even realize he was heading to your apartment until he was standing in front of your door, knuckles red from the cold, breath fogging in little puffs.

He knocked once. Then again, softer.

You opened the door wearing one of his sweatshirts—the one that was his favourite in high school and he always said you could keep. You looked up at him and tilted your head, smile fading the second you saw his face.

“Bobby?” Soft. Careful.

He blinked at you like he’d just realized where he was.

You stepped aside without asking and he came in like a storm-wrecked thing, quiet, soaked in tension, eyes rimmed red like he’d been keeping something in for miles. He didn’t speak, didn’t sit. Just stood in the middle of your living room with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was scared they’d betray him.

You walked up, close enough to touch, but didn’t.

“What happened?”

He shook his head.

“It’s nothing.”

But you knew Bobby. You knew the way he carried his sadness like it was too heavy for his arms. You saw it in his hunched shoulders, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was biting back everything that wanted to pour out.

So you didn’t ask again. You just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

And that’s when he cracked.

His whole body shuddered like a broken breath. He buried his face in your neck, arms locking around you too tight, like you might vanish if he let go.

“He said you were too good for me,” he mumbled, voice wrecked, muffled in your skin. “Like I’m just… like I’m just some dumb dog hoping you don’t leave.”

Your heart broke and swelled at the same time. You held him tighter, one hand threading into his hair, the other tracing slow circles against his back.

“He doesn’t get to say that, baby” you whispered. “And it’s not true.”

“But what if it is?” It came out like a whimper. Not a question. A fear. “What if you wake up one day and realize I’m not enough?”

You leaned back just enough to take his face in your hands. His eyes were glassy, wide in their pain.

“Bobby,” you said, firm and low, “if I wanted someone else, I wouldn’t be here in your old hoodie with your dumb cologne and your terrible taste in takeout.”

A half-laugh punched out of him, wet and broken. You wiped under his eye with your thumb.

“You think you’re not enough, but you’re everything. You show up. You try. You love like it’s the only thing you know how to do.” You pressed your forehead to his. “That’s more than enough. That’s everything I want.”

He let out a slow, shaky breath. Something deep in him loosened. Broke open and bled clean.

“Can I stay?” he asked quietly, voice small.

“You never have to ask,” you whispered, pulling him to the couch with gentle insistence, fingers laced through his. He sat heavy, like his body hadn’t caught up to the softness of your touch. Like Erik’s words were still echoing under his ribs, shaking loose all the things he was too tired to hold.

He tried to lean forward, elbows on knees, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, gaze steady. “Back.”

He blinked up at you, confused, but obeyed.

The second his back hit the cushions, you climbed into his lap, straddling him slow and easy, like claiming a space that already belonged to you.

“What’re you—”

You pressed your finger to his lips.

“Shut up. Let me love you.”

And then you started with slow, deliberate kisses. One to his cheek, warm and lingering. Another to the bridge of his nose. His temple. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. Each kiss was like a whispered word, a piece of a sentence his heart hadn’t figured out how to hear.

“You don’t have to earn this.”

A kiss to the center of his forehead.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

One to the tip of his nose, which twitched adorably under your lips.

“You’re already everything I want, Bobby.”

You kissed beneath his eye, warm breath mingling with the salt of his skin.

“Exactly as you are.”

He exhaled shakily, hands settling on your thighs like he didn’t know where to touch. Like he was scared that if he grabbed too hard, you’d disappear.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw, and leaned in to press your lips against his. This kiss didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t need fixing or fire. It just stayed. Certain. Safe. When you pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy again but not from pain this time. From the sheer weight of being seen.

“You think you’re lucky to have me?” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “Baby, I won the goddamn lottery. You’re mine. All of you. The anxious, self-doubting, overthinking mess. The sweet, sensitive, stupidly pretty boy who doesn’t even see how loved he is.”

A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. You kissed that too.

He let out a little laugh—hoarse, soft, half-embarrassed “God, you’re gonna make me cry again.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Good.” And you kept going. Kissing every part of him like it mattered. Like it was holy. Like it was yours because it was.

Bobby laid back like he didn’t quite know how to. Like his body had forgotten how to relax after carrying too many words he never meant to believe. His hands hovered at your thighs, unsure, chest rising slow and shallow.

You just looked at him. All of him. His flushed cheeks, the guilt still lingering in the corners of his mouth, the nervous tension in his jaw.

“I want you to lay there and take it,” you murmured.
Your voice was soft, not a command.

Bobby blinked up at you, throat bobbing in a swallow “Take what?”

You smiled as you bent down, lips brushing his collarbone. “Everything I give you.”

And then you began.

Your lips trailed along the curve of his throat, slow and reverent. You kissed just beneath his jaw, right where his pulse flickered too fast. Your hands traced his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt, like you were learning him all over again.

“You’re handsome,” you whispered against his skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”

His breath hitched. His hands gripped the cushions, knuckles white like he was holding back.

You pulled his shirt up and off, slow and sweet, like unwrapping something sacred. He let you. His eyes flickered away but you brought his gaze back with a hand to his cheek.

“Look at me.” And when he did, nervous and vulnerable, you kissed the center of his chest.

“This heart? That’s not weakness. That’s gold.”

Your hands roamed his sides now, fingertips mapping freckles and faded summer burns. You kissed his stomach, the little dip beneath his ribs, the soft edge where muscle gave way to tenderness.

“You’re allowed to be soft. You don’t have to be anyone else when you’re with me.”

He let out a breath. One of his hands slid into your hair. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, voice breaking.

You kissed right over his heart. “You do. Every second. Every inch.”

And then you kissed down—over the stretch of his lower stomach, over the places he never thought twice about but you adored. You didn’t worship like he was an idol. You worshipped like he was human, fragile, flawed, divine in all the ways he didn’t see.

And through it all, he watched you with glassy eyes, body trembling under your love like it was too much to hold.

“Breathe,” you whispered, crawling back up to kiss his lips. “Just breathe, baby. You’re not going anywhere. Neither am I.”

He lay back, breathless beneath you, eyes wide and glassy, skin flushed in that vulnerable, golden way that only happened when he forgot to shield himself. Shirt gone. His chest rose and fell like he was still catching up to the reality that you wanted him like this—not for what he gave, not for what he proved but for who he was.

You slid down his body with the kind of reverence that made his hands twitch, trailing kisses along the path of his stomach, his hipbones, the sensitive crease where skin met denim.

“Every part of you, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing skin. “Every single part.”

Bobby’s breath stuttered.

You looked up at him from between his legs, and his whole body tensed like he might shatter from the sight alone. The way you touched him, the way you looked at him, like he was something rare, something precious that deserved to be adored without hesitation.

He tried to speak, tried to say your name, but it fell apart in his throat the second your hands moved to pull down his pants and boxers. His lashes fluttered, mouth parting in a soundless gasp, hips bucking just slightly before he caught himself. But you shushed him softly, your voice soaked in sugar and smoke.

“Don’t hold back,” you murmured. “I want to hear how good you feel.”

You took your time taking his cock into your mouth, slowly making your way from the tip to the base and then back.

You praised him between every movement, telling him how handsome he looked like this, how good he tasted, how much you loved seeing him fall apart for you. Your words were honey poured over fire. He was trembling under them, the sheer intimacy of your voice almost more than he could handle.

His hands threaded into your hair but never pushed, he didn’t dare guide you, didn’t want to break the spell. You had him. Body and soul.

“You’re so good for me, Bobby,” you breathed against him. “So sweet. So perfect. Mine.”

That last word made him whimper.

His head tipped back, one arm flung over his eyes like it was all too much. Your mouth, your voice, the way your tongue tracked the sensitive vein under his tip.

You didn’t stop for a bit even after he came, letting him ride out the waves of pleasure fully. And even then, you crawled back into his lap, kissed his lips slow, let him taste the aftermath of his own unraveling.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair from his damp forehead.

He nodded, barely. “I love you,” he whispered.

And you smiled against his mouth. “Good,” you said. “Because I love you too.”

Half an hour later, some movie flickered across the screen, but neither of you were really watching. You were curled on the couch, tangled together like something slow and inevitable, your bare legs laced with his under the blanket. Bobby lay behind you, chest pressed to your back, arms draped around your waist. His body was still warm from everything you’d just given him. His heart hadn’t stopped racing.

And neither had yours.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nose nuzzling the spot that always made you sigh. You could feel the heat of his breath, the press of his lips, the lazy drag of his hand over your stomach.

You shifted slightly, hips rolling back into his just enough. And you felt him still inside you. Not moving, just there filling you.

Bobby let out a slow, shaky breath.

“You okay?” you whispered, already knowing the answer.

His hand gripped your hip, grounding.

“M-mhm.” His voice was a bit shaky. “Just… don’t wanna let go yet.”

The connection was intimate, so slow and still it barely felt physical. It felt like a heartbeat. Like the space between breaths. Like two bodies wrapped in a silence that said more. You reached back, lacing your fingers with his. Pulled his arm tighter around your waist.

“Then don’t.”

He let out a soft laugh, burying his face deeper in your hair. You could feel the way his lashes brushed your skin. His hand splayed across your belly, warm and steady. You could feel his cock twitch now and then, just barely.
You pressed your hips back into him with a teasing little smile.

“You’re not gonna make it through the whole movie, are you?”

He groaned against your neck, playful and helpless at once. “Not a chance.”

The credits rolled. You barely noticed. Bobby kissed your temple, his voice a sleepy whisper in your hair. “I wanna stay like this forever.”

BONUS!

You smiled, pressing your hips back just a little again, enough to make him inhale through his teeth.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“With who?” you teased.

And that’s exactly when the front door flew open.

“Bobby, I knew you were here and I need to—”

Erik.

Erik fucking Campbell stood in the doorway, already talking mid-stride like he’d been rehearsing the apology out loud, jacket half-off and attitude full-on—

Until he saw you.

Until he saw Bobby, shirtless, flushed, blinking in dazed horror from the couch where he lay completely tangled around you under a suspiciously large blanket.

Until he saw the way Bobby’s arms tightened, just a second too slow.

Until he saw Bobby’s face go pale and bright red at the same time.

Erik stopped cold. Blinked once. Twice.

And then, with a sharp inhale—

“Oh my god, are you—” His voice pitched up like a record scratch. “—dude, is your dick in her right now?!”

Bobby froze. His whole body stiffened against yours. Not a word came out. He just made a strangled sound like someone had punched all the air out of him.

You didn’t move either. For one long, horrified second, no one did.

Then Bobby croaked:

“…Could you not be here right now?”

“Holy shit, man—I came to say sorry! I didn’t come to get visually assaulted!” Erik spun around so fast he nearly tripped over the rug. “Jesus Christ—next time LOCK the damn door!”

“We did!” Bobby shouted, still cringing, half-curled over you like his body could somehow shield you both from the embarrassment crashing down like a tsunami.

“Clearly not hard enough!”

Erik stumbled back through the door, grumbling something about “goddamn horror movie timing” and “emotional whiplash,” and slammed it shut behind him.

Silence.

Bobby let out a long, long breath and dropped his face into the crook of your neck. “…I’m never looking him in the eye again.”

You burst out laughing, even as you stroked his hair and tried to stifle it behind your hand. “Well, at least now he knows you’re getting taken care of.”

That got a huff of laughter from him. A little shy. A little smug.

He kissed your shoulder, breath warm and trembling.

“Still not pulling out, though.”

[tomsparkyr]

MATCH CELEBRATIONS ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : in which george forgets to celebrate his goal during the match, so he makes up for it afterwards a/n : my brain is just full of creative ideas atm so… also can you tell george is my favourite? but i was rewatching the charity match and got this idea // italics is stephen doing the commentary content : established relationship ,, sexual innuendos ,, mentions of injury ,, a severe lack of knowledge on how football works xx

─────── THE ENERGY THROUGHOUT Wembley Stadium was electric and buzzing. The match had gone incredibly smoothly so far, with a new record of 16 goals being scored, making the overall score be 8-8 with only eight minutes to go. Your fingers were crossed on your lap, knees bouncing nervously as your boyfriend was subbed back on.

You were sat between Sabina and Arthur, both of them talking to you and making casual conversation. You and Sabina murmured over what the hell was going on during the match and the newest make up releases that were actually worth buying, while you listened to Arthur just complain about the constant off-side passes — whatever that meant.

You continuously checked your phone, a nervous habit you picked up when George wasn’t around. It made no sense — of course — because it’s not like he could text you right now anyway, he was literally on the pitch.

“Oh! It’s a corner! It’s a corner!” Arthur exclaimed, hand gripping your arm ridiculously tight, causing your bracelets to dig into your arms.

“Arthur!” You hissed, pushing him off like an annoyed older sibling.

“Sorry.” He laughed, staring at the huddle of players in front of the goal.

Tobi was stepping back, preparing to boot the ball towards them.

Just as he did, Angry Ginge completely missed his defence kick, the ball flying straight past him and into the foot of—

George.

All of a sudden, the stadium burst into screams and yells of support and excitement, everyone raising from their seats as your boyfriend’s foot knocked the ball into the back of the goal (and himself in the process as he stumbled into the net).

“Oh my God!” You screeched, standing and jumping whilst clapping, “Yes George! Oh my God, yes!”

Arthur and Isaac were just as excited as you, arms around each other’s shoulders and jumping in joy. Arthur pulled you into it and you laughed at their boisterous celebration.

George looked incredibly confused as he ran towards Tobi, gesturing between the two of them and trying to figure out who was actually to be credited, but when the rest of the Sidemen team joined in on clapping his back, he relished in the feeling.

He found you in the crowd and waved, resulting in him getting an air kiss back.

“And there goes George and his mrs, subtle PDA, we love to see it. Blowing kisses at him, though I’m sure he’ll be getting more blowing of another kind for that goal.”

You cupped your mouth with both hands and whooped for him, screaming loudly.

The cheering died down as the game continued to progress but you still couldn’t get over the adrenaline rush of the love of your life scoring a goal right in front of your eyes.

The grin never left your face, even after Theo Baker scored a last minute equaliser, making the score 9-9.

“Does that mean penalties?” You looked over at Arthur and Isaac, and they nodded.

You refrained as much as you could from biting your nails, considering you’d just had them done a couple days ago.

The crowd was in utter shock as Sketch saved Simons goal, as he was known for being a great penalty shooter.

As the game came to an end, with Speed getting the winning shot for the Youtube Allstars, a lot of people began filing out of the stadium, ready to leave and go home, yoy however, could not, as you had to wait for George.

From your spot, you could vaguely see Munya and Els doing interviews on the pitch, grabbing different players and putting a microphone in their face.

“Clarkey! Clarkey!” Munya called out, grabbing George’s shoulder and turning him to the camera. “Your goal virginity is gone!”

“Yes.” George laughed.

“How does that feel?”

“Well, it’s one of them ticked off the least, hopefully that means the second one tonight!” He joked, smirking, “No, um, honestly I had absolutely no idea that it was my goal, hence the complete lack of celebration and just, sort of, pointing at Tobi, um, but no, insane.”

“With more time, how would you have celebrated?” Munya asked.

“I—“ George laughed with a scoff, “I don’t think time was the problem, I think it’s just that I’m a pure idiot— uhm, but I do have a celebration now … where is she?” He hummed, eyes scanning the crowd and then pointing at you. “Isn’t she beautiful.”

He beckoned you down, waving his hand at you.

“Me?” You mouthed, pointing at yourself.

“Yeah! Come down!” He shouted, even though you probably couldn’t hear him.

“Is this a camera moment?” Munya questioned, confused as to what was going on.

“I mean, it’s going to be caught on the fifty thousand phones that are here, so might as well get it in good quality.” George shrugged with a laugh.

You made your way down the stairs and through the tunnel, when security stopped you.

“Sorry, love, players and interviewers only.”

“Oh, no, my boyfriend asked me to come down—“

“Tom, it’s good.” Simon came through, patting the security on the back, “She’s allowed through.

Tom nodded and let you past.

“Why does he want me?” You asked Simon, as he clearly had an idea as to what was going on.

“No idea.” He lied, gesturing for you to follow him.

You jogged up to George, ecstatic to be seeing him, and threw yourself at him, arms around his shoulders, “I’m so proud of you!”

He laughed, arms around your waist, and tapped your bottom to put you down.

“I’ve got something for you.” George stated, stepping back slightly.

Munya and the camera man cleared the scene, allowing him more space.

“What— Oh my God.”

The air was knocked from your lungs as you watched George, panting and flushed red from his exertion, as he got down on one knee.

His eyes were full of pure adoration and nothing short of unconditional, eternal love.

The air around you seemed thick, and despite the roar of the crowd and buzzing atmosphere around you, it didn’t seem real. You were grounded by his presence, and the scenes around you disappeared, as if it were just you two, alone, on a field of grass.

“Reader … you have been in my life for seven years now, and those seven years have been the most wonderful, exhilarating years of my life, and I genuinely couldn’t have done this whole Youtube, social media thing, without you.”

You burst into tears, unable to control yourself.

“Waking up next to you every morning is like witnessing the human embodiment of an angel, and there is no one else I could dream of doing that with. I don’t usually believe in ‘everything happens for a reason’, but I whole-heartedly believe that we met for this reason. Because you are my soulmate, through and through. You’ve been there for me through everything, from tough times like when my mum was sick and to the best days of my life, like asking you to be my girlfriend, and every day that’s followed since.”

Your sobs were uncontrollable as you nodded with his words, your hands on your cheeks.

“You’ve put up with me since day one, which shocks me, especially since I sweat like a pig when it’s only eight degrees outside, and even though we lost the game today, I know that I’ve already won in life, because I get to call you my girlfriend— and hopefully my wife.” He laughed, clearing his throat as he neared on crying himself.

“So … reader … will you marry me?”

The question lingered for a split second and you were entirely speechless, opting for a shaky nod instead of saying anything.

“Yeah?” He muttered.

“Yeah.” You croaked, holding your hand out.

He grinned and slipped the ring on. Once it was secure, he shot to his feet, lifting you off the ground. Your arms locked around his neck and your legs around his waist as you sobbed into his shoulder.

“To Mr and Mrs Clarkey!” Munya exclaimed into the microphone and everyone erupted into cheers.

“I love you so much!” You sobbed, pulling away from his neck and placing your hands on his cheeks, “Of course I’ll marry you, oh my God!”

He laughed at your reaction, giving you a chaste kiss, keeping it appropriate and sensible for the cameras and children in the crowd or watching.

yourusername

liked by arthurtv georgeclarkeey chloeburrows and 439k more

after five years on knowing you and four years of dating you … i can legally call you mine (soon)💓

tagged : georgeclarkeey

georgeclarkeey aren’t you sweet x

↳ yourusername and you’re performative, proposing in front of everyone like that x

georgeclarkeey loving you forever x

↳ yourusername loving you forever and always x

chloeburrows awww, the cutest! so happy for you two💞

arthurtv ‘we might have lost the game but i’ve won life’ 🥶🥶🥶 (congrats you guys❤️)

↳ georgeclarkeey cheers, was waiting for your approval (thanks mate❤️)

chrismd10 proposal was almost as cold as my free kick mate

↳ stephen_tries give it a rest, it was one of 18 goals

behzingagram best proposal oat🙌🏼❤️

sidemen ❤️❤️❤️

↳ georgeclarkeey thanks for letting me do that guys

livvydimartino beautiful girl🥹 so happy for you xx

↳ yourusername thank you ml💓

bambinobecky he can’t take my munchkin from me. tell him i’m coming for him

↳ yourusername nothing can split us apart becky x

↳ georgeclarkeey i can read her comments🤓🤓

arthurnfhill george please film fifty more platform roulettes before a baby clarkey is on the way

↳ yourusername don’t plan on getting preggy for a while yet finchy x

↳ faithlouisak neither did i babe x

user1 everyone’s getting married and having babies now!! this is so cute it’s so nice seeing everyone make their own families!

user2 the fact that she immediately burst into tears🥹

↳ user3 she’s so real for that honestly

user4 clarkey for the best proposal of all social media couples!!!

user5 they’re so in love it makes me feel sick (with jealousy)

[tomsparkyr]

cat's out of the bag

pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader

summary: how Bucky's top secret was revealed to the Thunderbolts. ft. a secret wife and Alpine.

warnings: some thunderbolts spoilers (if I'm missing anything, please let me know!)

a/n: thank you for helping me reach 400 followers! I have a small celebration going on where I'm accepting requests for drabbles and fics, go check it out if that's your thing! I love you all <3

the signs were all there, since the start. it was just a matter of time till someone made a connection. which never happened, fortunately for you both. which does not bode well for their capabilities as spies and enhanced humans, but oh well.

the first clue should've been Bucky's tendency to be a little too protective over his things. his duffel bag, his wallet, everything was off limits from the team. not even during emergencies were they allowed to go through the duffel bag, he swore there were no last minute medical supplies hiding there anyways; and even if they got locked out of their room? nope, he won't be opening his wallet. there was no keycard there, he was sure.

had anyone decided to see what was inside his duffel bag, they would find his tactical gear, some medical supplies that he was harbouring, a few knives, guns, and ammunitions, and finally, notes from you that you left every time he was leaving for a mission. there would be some little heart shaped candies that have grown on Bucky a lot more since he met you. there would also be a small metal box that was filled with doodles you had made for him, especially to look at when he was missing you more than usual.

his wallet would not have as many trinkets but has a single photo that frames him just as easily as the duffel bag does. there, hidden amongst the hotel keycard, some cash, and a few business cards, was a polaroid of you and Bucky, clicked by Shuri back in Wakanda. his flesh arm was wrapped around your waist, the metal one lying somewhere in his hut. he was grinning from ear to ear, lips pressed to your cheeks, eyes closed in contentment. it was the happiest he had looked in any photo, celebrating his freedom from the Winter Soldier with you.

well, it was good that nobody ever touched his things.

a second clue that could've been his undoing would've been the way he always hid his phone from the team, not letting them touch it or use it even in cases of emergencies. now, the Thunderbolts were not nosy – okay that's a lie, but not as nosy as they'd like, for they were scared of Bucky's wrath – but that was something that they understood and didn't pry much on, what with Bucky being so private and shit.

his phone wallpaper, the one that opened after unlocking the thing, was your photo, a candid he had taken on one of your picnic dates. the sun rays had illuminated your face and cast an ethereal glow, your eyes shining. my angel, he had called you. Bucky was a smart man, though, and his locked screen wallpaper was something non-descript, knowing that it wouldn't be incriminating at all to have an abstract design on his screen.

another clue should've been the fact that Bucky always 'fucked off' (in John's words) to an unknown place after every long or arduous mission. Alexei had tried to get him to stay, calling the post-mission team bonding as an important chance to increase morale, but Bucky never listened.

he would be too eager to go back to the home he shared with you on the other side of the city, a regular apartment that was filled with pictures of you and him, comfort, and his favourite sight: his two girls, you and Alpine curled up on the couch.

Alpine was a recent addition to your household. Bucky had found her roaming the street below at 2 AM as he was returning from a mission, yowling and snipping at all strangers who tried to come close. but when Bucky had stood and stared at the kitten, she stared right back, tilting her head as if she was assessing him.

her assessment must have been positive, because the next thing he knew, Alpine was strutting over to him, tail dangling and paws grabbing at his shoes until she was picked up and held near his chest, where she promptly purred and closed her eyes in satisfaction.

she had a similar reaction to your presence, sniffling your outstretched palm before deciding that you were going to be a better pillow than Bucky for the night, leaving his embrace and jumping into yours.

Bucky wouldn't say it out loud, but he was grateful for Alpine in more ways than one. her presence around the house was much needed ever since he joined The New Avengers, which had him out of the house more days than he'd like.

that damn cat would be his undoing, both of you would've never guessed.

"what's that?" Yelena asked one day, eyes narrowing in on the tendrils of fur that stuck to his black jacket, the contrast making it easier to spot the cat hair.

Bucky cursed in his mind, remembering that he forgot to brush his jacket while he was cleaning his other clothes. how was he to know that Alpine, the sweet little menace that she was, would find his jacket even in the depths of the closet?

yeah, he should've known. that cat brought more chaos than anyone else he's known in the last century.

Bucky shrugged, inspecting the hair as if he was seeing it for the first time. as if it wasn't a daily occurrence for him to scold Alpine while you brushed off the hairs from his clothes.

"looks like cat hair," Bob added, hoping he was helping the conversation.

he wasn't. Bucky wanted to glare at him and shut him up, but even Bucky wasn't that grumpy to mistreat Bob.

"you own a cat now?" John asked, directing the question at Bucky.

"no." he stated firmly. "must have come from the kitten I petted on the way here."

"you snuggle street cats?" Ava asked.

"this one was cute," Bucky shrugged.

"you, Bucky Barnes, pick up random street cats and pet them?" she asked again.

"what's so hard to grasp about that?"

"you ignored all the animals when we went to that petting zoo that Bob wanted to see," Yelena wondered.

"they were not as cute as this one," Bucky knew he was losing the argument.

"I don't buy it." John, ever the smart one, stated the obvious.

"buy what?" Alexei entered the room, late for their meeting. "what are we purchasing today?"

Bob filled him in on the conversation so far.

"the hair is all over your back, too, Mr. Soldier," Alexei picked one up to emphasise on his point. "the stray cat also got to your back?"

"okay, fine," Bucky sighed, deciding to come out with the truth. he was running out of patience. "I... own a cat."

silence fell over the briefing room. the team looked like personifications of the buffering symbol that Bucky has seen on some internet websites.

"can we see?" Bob was the first one to recover, totally on board with Bucky being a cat owner and excited at the prospect of meeting the said cat.

"I don't have photos," Bucky lied. he had plenty of photos in his gallery. in fact, the only photos in his gallery were of Alpine. with you.

one secret out was enough for one day, he thought.

Bob's face fell, nodding.

"but I'll click some and send you today?" Bucky offered, hating that he cared about this kid the way he did.

"okay!" his face lit up again.

"why can't we all just meet the guy?" John asked.

"girl," Bucky corrected.

"okay, girl."

"where is she now?" Yelena asked.

"in my apartment."

"who's taking care of her?" that was Alexei. "you should not leave pets unattended. could be harmful."

"she's not alone," Bucky answered before thinking.

instant regret filled him when he looked at the team who was buffering again.

"let's get back to the mission," Bucky tried. a failed attempt, he knew before he even said the words out loud, but he was now desperate to change the subject.

"who's taking care of her?" John asked again.

"do you have a cat sitter?" Bucky was glad to find the perfect lie, silently thanking Ava for her suggestion.

"yeah," he nodded, confidently. "something like that." he whispered under his breath.

which was a bad idea, considering there were two other super soldiers in this room.

maybe you were right, Bucky should really start to get full sleep. he was not as sharp as he'd like.

"something like that?" John repeated.

"yeah, I've got a cat sitter." Bucky stated, his tone authoritative.

"who is it? are they always taking care of her when you're out on missions?" Yelena asked.

"yes." was Bucky's curt reply.

"can we meet the cat?" for a grown man equalling the size of a bull, Alexei looked more like a child in a candy store.

"no."

"why not?"

"Alpine does not like strangers."

"we're your team," Bob pouted. "please?"

damn Bob and the soft spot he held in Bucky's heart.

".... fine." he said after a few minutes of silence, trying to think of how to get out of this predicament but coming up blank.

so that's how The New Avengers were huddled in the lift of his apartment building, the new mission briefing completely forgotten.

"ah, it's a recon mission, routine. we can come back to it later," John had reassured the team when Bucky tried to get out of this impromptu team outing one last time. he was met with Bucky's glare, but what other choice did Bucky have than to take them to meet his cat?

and that's how you opened the door to find your husband with the team you had only seen on TV and in articles before.

your eyes widened, mouth agape at the sight of your husband, brows furrowed and lips downturned in a grumpier expression than usual, flanked by five super heroes.

"uh..." you tried to make sense of the sight in front of you.

"hi, doll," Bucky breathed out. he stepped inside, a soft kiss dropping on your hair before he lowered his head to whisper in your ear. "I might have fucked up."

"he's awfully close with his cat sitter," Yelena murmured, the other five people in the hallway all nodding in approval.

"I can see that," you whispered back to your husband, peering at his team over his shoulder. "should I welcome them in...?"

he nodded, turning back to the idiots he called his team.

"come on in," his voice was strained, not at all a polite host.

one by one, they were herded inside and to the living room, where your work laptop was on.

"I'm sorry, let me just clean up," you frantically organised the papers and shut down the laptop. "I'm sorry for the mess, we weren't expecting, uh, visitors."

"we?" John, ever the parrot.

"where's the feline that has enamored Barnes?" Alexei asked.

"Alpine?" you looked at Bucky, who nodded solemnly. "oh, she must be here somewhere. let me try and find her."

"your cat sitter does not know where your cat is?" Yelena asked again when you left the room, muttering something about the damn feline. "she's not very good." Bucky shrugged in response.

Bob's gaze was sweeping all around the house before he silently stepped closer to Bucky, voice low.

"she's not your cat sitter, is she?" he asked him, unbeknownst to the rest of the team.

"no," he whispered, already having observed Bob taking in all the photographs in the hallway and the living room, as well as the ring on your finger.

"it's good to meet your wife," he smiled, then.

Bucky returned the smile, the lines on his forehead relaxing a little.

you came back to the room, the white furball held to your chest. "here's Alpine."

Bucky took her from your arms, and that's when Yelena caught sight your wedding band, gleaming in the sunlight pouring from the windows.

"wait, you're married?" Yelena sputtered.

"yes?" you turned to Bucky, more confused than ever. "what... what's going on?" you whispered.

"they think you're his cat sitter," Bob, who was standing next to Bucky, whispered back, his eyes trained on Alpine who was staring back at him just as curiously.

"oh."

"what does your husband think of you sitting around in another man's house taking care of his cat?" John asked.

"and him kissing your head in greetings," Ava added.

"and him calling you doll," Yelena piled on.

"I..." you shrugged, playing off like this was an every day, casual conversation. "he's fine with it. knows I love the cat and we could use the extra money."

"Mr. Soldier! you even attended her wedding, that's so cute!" Alexei pointed at one of the photos from your wedding that you had framed up on the wall.

Bucky sighed, a hand running down his face. "you are all idiots." he muttered.

he knew it was only a matter of time now.

"wait," Yelena was in her buffering mode again. when she was done assessing her surroundings and you two, a loud gasp filled the silence. "you," she pointed at Bucky. "and you." she pointed at you.

John and Ava seem to be reaching the same conclusion, wide eyed and gasping.

"what?" Alexei's brows were furrowed as he gazed around the room. "what is it, Yelena?" he looked to his daughter for support.

"they're married!" Yelena shouted.

and that's how The New Avengers, Earth's mightiest heroes, figured out Bucky Barnes' secret.

this one was a little all over the place but I hope you enjoyed. do let me know what you think. likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

[tomsparkyr]

real people masterlist

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, grumpy x sunshine vibes, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).

updates every friday.

intro

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

drabble: caught

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

[tomsparkyr]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬

➵ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | When you first started dating Bucky, he told you that you’d never have to lift a finger again, and he really meant it.

➵ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | boyfriend!bucky x reader

➵ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.3k

➵ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬| Insomnia and nightmares. Fluff!

დ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | დ 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | დ 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢

Bucky never got much sleep these days. Even before he met you, his nightmares were far too violent and his thoughts were far too intrusive to even consider winding down and letting him sleep peacefully. This was one of the first things you noticed about him. He seemed like he never slept. That was his one fault in a sea of perfection, so you didn’t really take it into consideration. As long as he was relatively sane- and most importantly, happy- you figured he was fine.

He’d hoped falling in love with you would help ease this issue, but it only made it worse. Now he had you- a perfect creature crafted by heaven in his eyes- and that meant he had something to lose. Just the thought of being without you sent him in a spiral sometimes. So, he spent all his waking energy making sure you were just as happy and in love as he was.

He’d lay with you in your bed until you were out, then carefully peel himself off of you and out of bed, making his way to the living room. That way, if someone came in during the night, they’d get to him before you. The idea of someone breaking in and getting to you before him, possibly hurting you? Absolutely not. He’d put his life on the line any day for you.

Bucky would spend all night awake, flinching at any settling sounds the house made or any branch that hit the window. Alpine, the cat you two shared, would join him occasionally if she weren’t sleeping herself.

He would check every lock on the windows and doors throughout the house to make sure they were locked and wouldn’t budge. The security and fire alarms were always up-to-date as far as tech and battery life, in the off chance he had to go on an overnight mission. Though he hated doing it, at the very least, he could make sure you were safe while he was away. You could take care of yourself, Bucky knew that. But he liked protecting you. When you first started dating him, he told you that you’d never have to lift a finger again, and he really meant it.

Bucky had your alarm times memorized, and he knew your sleep patterns well enough to know exactly when you’d wake up. But he could do better than that.

Every morning, Bucky took the time to stop cooking breakfast for a few minutes to come back into the bedroom, turn off your alarms, and wake you up himself gently. Those alarms were too loud and harsh for your perfect ears. He’d kiss against your face and lips until you were awake.

Throughout the night, Bucky would double, triple, and quadruple-check every door and window for break ins. But he’d also check them to make sure they didn’t creak. He was harshly reminded of one time he went into your shared closet to grab one of his jackets and the door creaked. You lightly stirred at the sound, and Bucky’s head nearly spun off of his body when he went to check if you’d woken up. He fixed it with some lubricant one afternoon when you weren’t home, so he ensured himself that nothing like that would happen again. There would be absolutely no harsh noises that would wake you up out of your beautiful slumber, not under this roof. Bucky would always go out of his way to make sure you were properly rested, which was odd, considering he didn’t put in the same efforts with himself.

It wasn’t like Bucky never slept- he did occasionally. But no more than an hour or two. He had Alpine to keep him company, and he’d always tell you that he just woke up slightly before you to feed her.

That cat, as much as Bucky loved her, had her faults as well. Every time Bucky brought out her breakfast, she’d meow very enthusiastically, excited about her meal.

“Shhh, sweetie, Mama’s still asleep.” He’d always whisper, rubbing the top of her head. She would always rush to her food, gobbling it up as if Bucky was going to take it away.

When Bucky did sleep, it was for no more than two hours, in an upright seated position on the living room couch. He always tried to stay alert, and he’d always be a little hard on himself if he realized he fell asleep briefly in the night.

As much as Bucky tried to keep it from you, you could tell. There would be days where the bags under his eyes were darker than normal, and he’d often drift into his own thoughts.

You didn’t think it was a serious problem until you reached for him in bed one night and he wasn’t there. When you found him on the couch, eyes closed and just starting to doze off, you realized just how much Bucky was struggling.

“Bucky,” you cooed, softly petting his hair as you watched him slowly wake up. You couldn’t blame him for doing this to himself. After decades of fighting and war and torture, Bucky felt like what he had now, a normal life, a love, a person to call home, would be lost if he didn’t do everything in his power to protect it. That, and his internal clock was too set in stone now to change. He was used to being up all night, barely getting any sleep. He didn’t want to subject you to that. Even now, knowing you’d woken up out of your sweet dreams because of him, he was silently beating himself up about it.

“Hey angel,” he said with sleepy eyes. He brought a hand to your hair, giving you a genuine smile.

“Come back to bed,” you said. Your big dough eyes were enough to make his heart melt.

Who was he to say no to you?

He grabbed your hand, pulling you in close for a hug. Above everything- a good night’s sleep, a chance to shed a few tears, a nice long therapy session- Bucky needed to be in your embrace the most at this moment. There was an unspoken understanding that you knew more than Bucky was letting on, but he didn’t mind it. For a second, he let go of the reigns and let you take over.

“One of these days I’ll have you sleep through the night.” You teased.

“Honey, you can do many things,” Bucky said, “but I don’t think you can change this.”

You guided him back to your bedroom, “Don’t doubt me, Barnes.”

He let out a light chuckle as he got into bed with you.

“It’s just… too warm. Too soft. It doesn’t feel good.” He said.

“Lay on your side instead of your back,” you suggested, “and take this off.” You tugged at his shirt as Bucky complied.

You faced him, your hand running up and down his bare back. The feeling of your fingernails against his warm skin was enough to make Bucky’s eyes flutter shut yet again.

He was lost in you. The feeling of your hands on his body, the sound of your breath, the faint thumping of your heartbeat. It all relaxed him so much that he didn’t know what to do other than keep his eyes shut and rest his head against your shoulder.

Bucky slept. The most wonderful sleep he’d ever had in his many, many years of life.

For a full eight hours, Bucky slept.

He woke up the next morning to Alpine lightly purring as she slept in your spot on the bed. His head and eyelids felt heavy, and he had a weirdly calm feeling in his chest, despite his initial worry of not seeing you asleep next to him. There was a note sitting on top of your pillow, and next to a quickly scribbled heart was your handwriting.

“At work. You looked too peaceful to wake up.”

Bucky laughed lightly. So that’s what the feeling was.

Peace.

[tomsparkyr]

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

────────────────────────

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

────────────────────────

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @winchestert101, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor, @mrsnikstan, @eywas-heir, @shortandb1tchy, @echooolocation, @inexplicablehumanbean, @maribirdsteele, @daddyjackfrost

[tomsparkyr]

going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

[tomsparkyr]

7 minutes of lewis & yn talking about each other

singer!yn x lewis pullman a/n: i have maybe 2 more singer!yn wips + 1 owen taylor wip. i'm super busy this week so i'm not sure when i can post those uhhh pls be patient w me ty ily i hope u like this

The video begins with the oldest; it’s Lew seated in an interview with Jay and Monica to promote Top Gun: Maverick. “So, it’s safe to assume that all the flight training and exercise needed to stay in shape must take many hours. Who are your favorite artists to jam out and work out to?”

Lewis can’t hide the way his lips quirk, “Recently, I’ve been listening to a lot of Y/N.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see the way Monica and Jay look at him. Knowing glints in their gazes.

“Really?” the interview asks, “I didn’t expect that.”

“No, yeah. She’s great.” Lewis smiles.

“She’s really great,” Jay adds. Monica tries to subtly hide her smile behind her hand.

“I jam out to Bad Blood on the treadmill.” Lewis comments, cheeky smile plastered on his face before Monica changes the topic.

“Muses & Anecdotes, congratulations on the new album!” The radio talkshow host exclaims. Seated across from him, you smile. “Thank you so much!”

“It’s doing really well. All thirteen tracks on Billboard’s Top 20. How does it feel?”

“It feels amazing. I had some doubts about releasing an album entirely on my own again, but I was encouraged by some very close friends and I decided, ‘Hey, why not?’. Luckily, it’s working out so far.”

“It’s more than just ‘working out.” The host teases, and you let out a little laugh. “So, speaking of ‘muses & anecdotes’, can we perhaps have an explanation to what ‘muses’ and what ‘anecdotes’ mean? Not the Merriam-Webster definition, but the YN LN definition.”

You let out another laugh. Letting out a hum, you think of how to phrase your answer.

“When I first started to conceptualize the album, I knew that it would encompass thoughts and feelings of certain events over the course of six years. Anecdotes quite literally means an account of an event that is… amusing or interesting.”

“And what does ‘muses’ mean to YN LN?”

The host eyes you, you catch the humor on their face.

“You know what it means, Rich.”

“I don’t! Promise!” the host is laughing.

“All of the songs in this album are inspired by and dedicated to a special person in my life.”

“That person being…?”

“Oh, stop it," you joke with a roll of your eyes.

The next clip is of a red-carpet interview for the premiere of Thunderbolts. Front and center of the video, Lewis is talking into a mic, he’s grinning at the question the interviewer asked him.

“My muse is here,” he’s grinning, head turning quickly to the side, down the aisle where you’re engaged in another interview of your own.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the interviewer starts, “But is this your first red carpet together?”

“Yes, it is,” Lewis confirms, “This is… Coming to an event like this has been something we’ve always wanted to do together, but it never really worked out in the past. I’m just happy we’ve finally done it.”

“How do you think YN will react to The Sentry?”

“Oh, I think she’ll hate him. I sent her pics during filming. She absolutely hated the hair. She’s in love with the Void, though.” Lew lets out a small laugh, mind recalling the texts you sent him when the trailer released.

“That was unexpected!”

Lewis gives a wink to the camera, “She loves his hair more.”

“I’m so excited. I’m such a huge fan of everybody, and Flo is one of my closest friends in Hollywood. I just — I can’t wait to see the whole film!” The next clip is YN on the same red carpet, with the same interviewer.

“And of course, you’re here for Lewis too?”

“Yes, of course,” you cut yourself off, turning your head to look for him, “Where is he? — Oh, there.” You see him ahead of you in the press line, talking to another interviewer. “I told him the reason I came today is to see the Void. I love his hair.”

“Lewis told us awhile ago. Not a fan of the blonde?”

“I am! Just… I love the Void more.”

The next clip is a little blurry, taken under the dim lights of your most recent concert. The camera is focused on the stage, where you’re dancing to ‘Dress’.

I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side

My hands shake, I can't explain this ah, ha, ha, ha

Say my name and everything just stops

The camera turns to where Lewis is watching you from the VIP tent, it zooms in on his face, his smile, and how he whispers your name, before the beat starts up again.

I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

Take it off

“I feel so lucky to know her.”

The final clip is from a Zoom interview, Lewis is leaned toward the camera of his laptop, a lazy smile on his lips, “She’s my best friend, my biggest supporter.” This whole press junket, ever since the two of you went public with your relationship, questions about your relationship never fails to be brought up at least once. He never gets tired of talking about you.

Comments (274)

ally_browne PARENTS

falsedg0dz yn cant stop yapping abt lewis she released bonus tracks of muses n anecdotes OUT OF FUCKIN NOWHERE???

lewpulledman this is the first celeb couple where i feel like they really like each other

bobonboard girlie cant stop singing abt how in love and horny they r for one another

l0vedstory hard launching at 6 years …. we couldve had 6 yrs of them doing this

ynlewtruther I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT YN’S ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW

millsjules wait why? ynlewtruther she wrote some songs at lewis’s montana place and she said in the interview that she realized he liked her back when she walked in on him playing “snap out of it” by arctic monkeys on the drums dfhgjkdfhg milesjules WHAT???? thats hilarious

voidedyn yn … lewis …. me …. sabrina carpenter paris juno position

[tomsparkyr]

Pool Day

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The team decided to request a pool, not thinking it would be made. Now, they have a pool.

A/n: Ugh! I love a good beach/pool episode! But this time, the relationship is established.

When Valentina asked if there was anything the team wanted in the tower, she meant like a training simulator or a chef. So, when Yelena spoke up, saying she wanted a pool, everyone backed her up. No one expected Valentina to actually go through with it because she didn't like them.

So, when Valentine announced the pool was done, everyone was flabbergasted. They were most astonished by the fact that she built it outside where the sun could be enjoyed. However, she said that was the last unnecessary request she'd be entertaining.

Of course, when the first day of summer rolled around, the pool was not forgotten.

---

You sit at the edge of the pool with your legs under the water. You're thankful you had time to buy a new swimsuit. It wasn't the best one you could find, but it'll do.

Yelena has found interest in sleeping on one of the floats. She's knocked out as the float hits one of the walls of the pool. Meanwhile, John is in the shallow area drinking a fruity smoothie. For the most part, everyone is relaxing for the first time in a while.

You sense a presence behind you and immediately turn. You're far too late, as two pairs of hands shove you into the chilly water. Your entire body is submerged, and water enters your nose. You pop out of the water, coughing and wiping your nose.

When you finally look up, you see Alexei and Bob standing where you were sitting. Alexei is hands on knees laughing and pointing at you as if he's pulled off a master prank.

"Is the water nice?" Bob asks. He holds out his hand for you to take. Even after shoving you into the pool, he's still kind enough to pull you back out. You should just take his hand and be thankful for the refreshing dunk. You aren't that type of person.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" You grip his forearm and yank as hard as possible. He doesn't take a lot of effort to pull. The splash from his fall wakes up Yelena, who lifts her sunglasses as Bob pops up from the water.

"'Ey, I don't want any rough housing," She points at you and Bob with a raised eyebrow. "Don't wake me again," She warns and puts her sunglasses back on.

The moment Yelena is back to resting, Bob's arms wrap around your waist. His head rests on top of yours, and water drips from his chin to your nose. He creates a sort of shade over your face to block out the sun.

"I could get used to this," You keep your voice down. Bob hums in response. He sways both of you carefully while he enjoys the closeness. "Did you swim a lot in Florida?"

"Oh yeah, like, every day." He nods without hitting your head. He relinquishes his hold on you and spins you around to face him. "It was either the pool or the beach. I preferred the beach because when the wind is strong enough, the waves get super high."

"That sounds fun," You say. "We should have asked for a wave pool, too." You laugh. Maybe you can suggest it to Valentina as a way to train for water-based threats. Though you doubt she'd accept that answer.

"The last time I was in a wave pool, I got kicked in the head three times," Bob chuckles. His hands move to rest on your waist to keep you near him. "I'm pretty sure they should be banned for how dangerous they are." His face becomes serious as he thinks.

"Oh, you can't handle some waves?" You tease. You already have something in mind and begin floating away from him. His brows furrow, and he watches you get a few feet away. You wind up your arm and roughly glide it across the surface to create a small wave.

It drenches Bob once again, but once the splash clears, he's gone. Before you can react, his hands are on your legs. He efficiently drags you under, but cradles your head before it hits the floor.

You open your eyes, but the water makes everything blurry. All you can see is Bob's outline as it gets closer. His hands cup your face, and his lips press against yours as gently as possible. The kiss only lasts a few seconds due to a lack of air, but those seconds are like a treasure. His lips are all you can feel as your senses are blocked by the water.

When you emerge, you gasp for air, but he doesn't. You chalk it up to him having more experience in bodies of water than you.

Once you catch your breath, he calls your name. You look towards him only to be hit in the face by water. He forgets how strong he is and gets Yelena and John wet.

"Oh, come on!" John groans. He holds up his half drank smoothie that now has chlorine water in it.

"Ok, that's it! No more pool for you two!" Yelena shouts.

[tomsparkyr]

Are you still writing the george inside fic? I love it!

heyyy !! yes i am, just swamped with revision and essays but it is definitely happening, and thank you for the love !! :DDDD

[tomsparkyr]

Earned a Kiss

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Summary: After the game, the reader gets pulled into the locker room to celebrate with Mason. In front of his teasing teammates, their shy kiss becomes part of the victory.

Word count: 799

Kiss me out of the bearded barley Nightly beside the green, green grass Swing, swing, swing the spinning step You wear those shoes and I will wear that dress

The halls of Old Trafford buzzed with post-match energy. Shouts, laughter and the dull echo of music leaking from the locker room. You stood nervously outside the door, heart still racing from watching Mason's incredible performance.

Two goals. Two special goals.

After everything he'd been through, the injuries, the setbacks, the nights he came home questioning himself, he'd done it. And you were bursting with pride.

You'd cried a little when he scored the second, but now all you could think about was seeing him, hugging him and telling him how proud you were.

"Oi? Lovebird?" A familiar voice called out, cutting through your thoughts.

You turned to see one of Rasmus, already grinning with his shirt slung over his shoulder. He jogged up to you, sweaty and smug, and before you could react, he looped an arm around your shoulders.

Your eyes widened. "Wait, I-- I can't go in there." He didn't even flinch. "Rasmus, seriously--" You tried to pull away, glancing around. A couple of staff members were nearby, but no one was stopping him.

He just laughed. "Oh, come off it. You've seen him naked, haven't you?"

Your face burned instantly. "Not the point!" But before you could argue again, he half-dragged you inside, ignoring your protests.

The room was chaos. Loud music from someone's speaker, half the team was shirtless and there was a distinct smell of sweat and a mix of perfumes.

As soon as they saw you, the reaction was instant. "Ooooooooohhh!" Loud boos, whistles, someone banging on a locker like a drum. Your entire face went bright red.

Mason looked up from where he was, in his shorts, damp hair flopping over his forehead, already flushed from the heat and now from the sight of you. He rose, taken aback by your sudden appearance amidst his teammates.

"What-- guys, come on!" He groaned, rubbing his face as a few of his teammates shoved you gently forward.

"Look at him blushing!"

"He scored twice and now he's scoring again, boys!"

"Give her a kiss, Mount!"

You tried to step back, but someone nudged you forward. At the same time, a couple of them pushed Mason toward you, all grinning like idiots. Your hands landed on Mason's chest to stop yourself from crashing into him, and his went instinctively to your waist to steady you.

"C'monnnn!" Someone yelled. "Don't be shy now!"

"I hate you all!" Mason said to his teammates, his grip on your waist still gentle. "So much."

"Do it!"

"Kiss, kiss, kiss!"

"Oh my god!" You whispered, not sure where to look, completely aware of twenty shirtless men chanting for you to kiss your boyfriend.

You buried your face against his chest, trying to hide from the sheer embarrassment. His bare skin was warm under your hands and you could feel his heart thudding just as fast as yours.

He leaned down a little, speaking against your temple with a breathy laugh. "They're not going to stop, you know."

"They're animals!" You said, looking at his teammates.

"We're going to start throwing boots at you if we don't get something."

Another round of chanting rose up, louder now. Someone threw a towel in the air like it was a bouquet at a wedding.

Mason looked at you, eyes soft and a little shy. "You okay?" He asked, fingers curling slightly at your waist. "We don't have to."

You looked up at him, cheeks burning. "You scored two goals." He nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "You've earned a kiss." The room exploded in cheers.

You and Mason both flinched at the noise, cheeks burning, eyes wide as the chanting got louder and more chaotic. You moved at the same time, like gravity pulled you together.

His arm slid around your shoulders, curling protectively around your neck, tugging you gently into him. At the same moment, your hand came up to his face, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers, warm from the heat of the room and your own nerves.

And then you kissed.

His lips moved against yours with a quiet smile, the kind that curved just slightly, like he was trying not to grin too much. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't perfect. But it was soft and certain the kind of kiss that said we made it, without either of you needing to speak.

The boys absolutely lost it.

"FINALLYYYYY!"

"That's the WINNING GOAL RIGHT THERE!"

"GET A BLOODY ROOM!"

You both broke apart with breathless. Mason's hand sliding down to squeeze your waist. He laughed, tugging you closer into his side like he never wanted to let go. And just before the boys could start chanting again, Mason pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

You closed your eyes. Everything felt exactly right.

Warm. Safe. Home.

[tomsparkyr]

This is literally just a crack fic

Basically you and Bucky are together and you got pregnant, you’re both trying to hide it from the thunderbolts… chaos ensues.

“You’re sure this is your size?” Valentina asks incredulously.

“Yes!” You say for what feels like the 10th time.

Valentina wanted you all to have new suits to “promote” the new avengers. You had yours sized and made about 4 months ago… right before you got pregnant.

Valentina huffs and her arms shoot up in frustration. “Well I guess you’ll just have to wear your old suit, since the measurements are obviously wrong.”

You’re almost relieved when you realize your old suit will definitely not fit either, then Valentina will definitely know something is going on.

***

The next day you’re in the kitchen hiding behind the fridge door as you munch on pickles and mustard. You’re not proud that you ate the whole jar of pickles but you’re creating a super-solider baby, who cares.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You bite back a groan as you hear walkers surprised voice. He had come up behind you, seeing that you’re eating the last pickle and squirting mustard on it.

“… I was hungry..?” You answer though it’s more of a question.

He looks you up and down with a mix of confusion and disgust on his face. He walks away shaking his head mumbling something about ‘women’

***

Yelena is known for making the best food. You usually always enjoy her dishes. This time she had made spaghetti and meatballs, usually you would love it, but for some reason the smell of the sauce just made you extremely nauseous.

Throughout the time she was making dinner you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom to throw up multiple times. Bucky was growing more and more concerned for you the longer you forced yourself to be in that environment.

He touched your head and pretended you had a fever, telling the team you both were calling it a night.

The team shot each other confused looks but otherwise seemed unconcerned.

***

“Cmon!! You have to try this dress on!!” Ava urged, shoving it in your face.

The dress was beautiful, and exactly your style but you knew if you put it on it would show off your already large bump.

You’re just barely able to conceal it with large clothes and bucky’s hoodies. You guess that the large bump has something to do with the damn super soldier you’re growing.

“I’m sorry Ava, I’m really just not feeling it tonight,” you tell her.

You see her brows furrow just a bit then she puts the dress back and happily drags you to another store.

***

“You know we’re going to have to tell them soon,” Bucky tells you as his flesh hand rubs small, soothing circles around your swollen stomach.

“Are you saying I’m big?” You ask him disbelievingly.

He shakes his head laughing, “doll, you’re not ‘big’ you’re pregnant with a super soldier’s baby. I’m just saying that it’s going to get harder to hide. I heard bob grumbling today about how annoying it is to fold all the sweat pants.”

“I just want a little more peace, just us. Please?” You ask him.

“Of course, my love,” Bucky answers softly kissing your stomach, then your lips.

***

“Where is he?!” You yell as you run to the med bay.

Ava had told you Bucky was shot during the mission. You dropped everything and got to the med bay as fast as you could.

You reached a doctor and demanded him to tell you where Bucky was.

“Ma’am you shouldn’t be running around in your condition-”

“He is the father! I need to see him!” You said loudly.

The doctor finally caved and told you what room under the condition you walk and take the elevator.

Begrudgingly, you agreed. Fidgeting biting your lips and nails the slow ride up.

You walked into the room with nothing else on your mind but Bucky.

The second you roughly open the door Yelena’s eyes were on you. Everyone else was completing the mission report.

“Oh y/n, thank god! Bucky has been calling for y-” Yelena started. “Oh my god” she said, eyes wide and mouth agape. “You’re pregnant?” She asked.

How would she even… oh. You looked down and saw your large bump protruding from under one of bucky’s shirts. Damnit. When you got the call you didn’t even think to change.

“Surprise” you said lamely.

You saw her mouth open to ask more questions, but then Bucky groaned.

Immediately, you were at his side.

“Bucky?” You asked softly.

“Doll?” He replied confused.

From the corner of your eye you saw Yelena give you an incredulous glare.

Whoops.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks.

“Am I okay? Bucky you’re the one that was shot,” you say while laughing.

“Yeah but you’re the one that’s—”

“Pregnant yeah” Yelena said, cutting Bucky off.

Bucky shot you a confused look then down at your swollen stomach that was very obvious, and understanding shown on his face.

“How… how far along are you? I don’t want to be mean, but you look… very pregnant.” Yelena asked.

“Well technically, I’m seven months but-”

“Seven months!?” Yelena yelled. “How in the world… the spaghetti and- and the loose clothes… god for some super spy I’m really not observant.” Yelena huffed.

“Okay, okay what is all the commotion?”

You groaned as Alexi came in, followed by the rest of the team.

Damn.

“Did Bucky die or something?” Walker asks, with a suspicious amount of amusement in his voice.

“Oh, well that’s new!” Ava said, eyes zeroed in on your stomach.

Well this was it. The cat is most definitely out of the bag.

The rest of the team followed her line of view and it was very quiet for a moment.

“What the..?” Walker started.

“Congratulations!” Alexi bellowed, coming towards you with his arms outstretched. You thought it was a hug but when his arms moved lower you realized it was to touch your stomach.

Bucky hated when people touched your stomach. Immediately, Bucky sat up in bed and protectively put an arm around your swollen stomach and pulled you closer to him.

“Fuck no you’re not touching my kid.” Bucky said firmly.

Even Walker looked a bit startled.

“Well I guess that explains why I found a bag of baby clothes in your room.” Bob said thoughtfully.

Suddenly all eyes were on him.

“Why were you in my room?” You ask him.

Bob looks surprised that you even asked. “I was getting your dirty laundry.” He replied like it was obvious.