Small Circles

Red, White, and Blew em' All Away

Summary : Bucky asks John Walker to set him up with his best friend. Of course it's an unnecessarily complicated plan.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x sniper! reader (she/her), Best friend!John Walker

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Fluff, Cursing, brief mention of trauma. Implied sex. Brief mention of death. John has massive Ross from friends energy in this one. Mutual pining???? Everyone lives in the tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 5.3k

Note : This was inspired by the song Supersoaker by Kings of Leon. I’ll reply to some asks/comments soon since I’ve been short on time! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. I’m also closing it soon since it's getting a bit out of hand. Anyone have any suggestions on how to organise taglists better? Anyway, enjoy!

You were one of the most lethal soldiers of your generation—at least, you had been. Back in the 75th Ranger Regiment, you were very close with both John Walker and Lemar Hoskins. They were family, as far as you were concerned.

You never used to question orders. Back in the unit, that wasn’t your job. You were a sniper. You saw the world through a scope, in gradients of distance, timing, and target confirmation. You didn’t hesitate.

Lemar used to say, “You think too much after the mission.”

You’d reply with a dismissive chuckle, “That’s the only time it’s safe to think.”

But watching Lemar die changed something in you. You saw it in slow motion— the way his back hit the pillar, horrified as John’s guttural rage as you stood frozen on the spot. 

When you saw him raise the shield, you knew what he was going to do. But you didn’t stop him. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Watching John—your brother in arms—bring down his shield like a guillotine on a surrendering man snapped the last thread of who you thought you were.

So you fought Sam and Bucky in Latvia, trying to explain that John was in grief. You knew what he did was wrong, but fuck— you’ve just lost Lemar, too. 

Because if he wasn’t your field partner, who the hell were you? 

You held your own for a while— until Bucky disarmed you, pressed you against a wall, breath ragged, eyes wild. You’d never admit it, but that the moment stuck with you, burned itself into your memory like a scar on skin.

After the dust settled and Karli was gone, Sam reached out. He saw something in you. He dragged you to the VA, made you talk, made you work through what you felt. 

You started climbing out of the pit. And then, she came—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, with a promise of purpose and redemption. Just like that, you were right back at John’s side, following orders again.

—

But it was different now.

After New York, after pulling Bob out of his literal void, you had… a family. 

And you moved to Avengers tower with that family.

Bucky started noticing you more after that day. He always had, if he was being honest. From the first time you pulled the bolt on your M24 with that annoying little pretty smirk after you, John, and Lemar helped him and Sam with the Flag Smashers the first time he met you. 

You weren’t just good— you were dangerous. And that caught his attention. 

So when you both moved to live in the Avengers tower full-time, you and Bucky, ironically, clicked. Two ex-army snipers, worn out by decades of destruction, it felt like a no-brainer. You’d never admit it to anyone, but you thought he was stupidly hot even when he had a knife to your throat during training. He, likewise, thought your smile was devastating. 

You sparred. You bantered. You shot rounds together every morning now at the Avengers compound.

It was a ritual at this point. 0600 at the shooting range. You and Bucky would be shoulder to shoulder, trash-talking, competing, and trying to out-shoot each other like teenagers in basic training. The bullet holes on your targets were always nearly stacked.

“Can’t believe a relic like you still has steady hands,” you teased once.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Can’t believe you’ve got all these fancy new tech, and still can’t beat me. Back in the 40s, all I had was a good eye.”

“Whatever, old man,” You huffed, but smiled. He thought it was the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

So yeah, it’s safe to say Bucky had a crush on you.

The kind of crush that made him forget how to speak like a normal human whenever you looked at him. The kind that made him stalk around in doorways just a second too long, hoping you’d notice. The kind that had him memorising your coffee order and pretending it was just coincidence.

The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea how to ask you out.

So, naturally, he turned to the one person he thought might have some experience in that department.

John Walker—your brother in everything but blood. The man who once challenged a bouncer to arm-wrestle just because you said the guy looked strong. The man who had never, in the history of knowing you, made a subtle decision.

Bucky should have known better.

The second Bucky confessed, he regretted it.

John’s eyes went wide with shock and glee, like a kid on Christmas who just found out his new toy came with explosives. He damn near shouted, “Wait—wait. You have a crush on my best friend?!”

Bucky winced. “Keep your voice down.”

John leaned back and grinned like he just cracked the Pentagon’s launch codes. “Oh ho ho. This is gold. Don’t worry. I got you.”

“John—”

“I’ve got you, Buck,” he insisted, slapping a hand to his shoulder like he was about to make a blood oath. “I’m gonna help you win her over.”

Oh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

—

It was so bad.

Because instead of helpful advice or moral support—or literally any of the sane things a normal person might do—John decided to be John. Unnecessary, over-complicated, convoluted John. 

He ended up setting you up on a blind date with someone from his high school.

Not just someone. Bruce Mallory, the guy everyone hated. The walking red flag. A high school quarterback who used to cheat in every test and called women “females.”

Bucky found out three hours before the date.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, cornering John by the weights like this was a hostage negotiation.

“Relax,” John said like this was all going according to plan. “It’s strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Yeah, man. Trust me.” He leaned forward like he was about to reveal top-level clearance intelligence. “She needs a push. I know her enough to know likes you, but she thinks you’re out of her league.”

Bucky huffed. “That’s insane.”

“Exactly,” John said, like that somehow made sense. “So, I set her up with a guy I know. Total douchebag. Real fucking dickhead. She’ll hate the date. Then you swoop in afterward, say something funny, remind her what a good guy looks like. Boom. Bucky gets the girl.”

Bucky stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re telling me… you intentionally set her up for a bad time so I’d look better by comparison?”

John looked insulted that he even had to explain. “It’s foolproof.”

Foolproof. Right. Coming from the divorced guy. 

Bucky groaned.

Somehow, this had become his life.

“See? Bruce Mallory,” John said, showing him this guy’s old high school photo on his phone. “Used to sell oregano as weed in high school. Had three girlfriends at the same time until they all found out at prom and cornered him by the punch bowl. Absolute legend.”

Bucky stared at him. 

It sounded unhinged. Bucky should’ve shut it down then and there. 

But the truth was, he was desperate. You haunted his thoughts. He couldn’t breathe right when you were in the same room as him. He was in deep, and every time he thought about telling you, his mind conjured a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t.

So yeah. He let John run his little plan.

And then watched it implode in slow motion.

Because when you came back to Avengers Tower after the date, you weren’t angry. You weren’t disappointed or exhausted or cursing John’s name. 

You were… happy? 

Bucky’s chest tightened like a vice.

“How was it?” he managed, voice tight, his rehearsed smile barely holding.

You shrugged casually. “Really good, actually.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh?”

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “he’s a pediatrician and goes to the same gym I used to. Volunteers in war zones sometimes for humanitarian missions and he’s currently saving up to establish a free hospital in areas of conflict.”

Bucky’s throat went dry. “Hmm?”

“Yeah. Also, he fosters dogs—he’s got this one now with three legs—and he’s been learning ASL so he can work with hearing-impaired kids.”

Bucky felt the world tilt sideways.

“He… fosters dogs?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, and it felt like getting stabbed with a butter knife— it was slow, messy, painful. “We’re going out again next week.”

“Thanks for introducing us, man,” You turned to John, whose mouth was agape from the kitchen, “You’re the best.”

John looked like someone had just told him his credit score was zero. “Uh… y-you’re welcome?”

Bucky laughed. It was a brittle, choking sound that tasted like rust in his throat. “Wow. Great. No, this is… this is great.” He turned to John, eyes cold. “Hey. John? Can we talk? Just real quick. In the hallway. Now.”

John followed him knowing he would get an earful. The second the door shut, Bucky pointed at him.

“What the hell did you do?!”

John threw his hands up. “How was I supposed to know he’d go through a redemption arc?!”

“You told me he was a human garbage fire!”

“He was! Last time I saw him he was getting dumped three times simultaneously. I didn’t know he’d become freakin’ Mother Teresa with a gym membership!”

“He volunteers in war zones, John!”

“I know!”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to peel off his skin. “She was supposed to hate him. I was gonna show up, make her laugh—”

John winced. “Yeah, that was the plan. But apparently, Bruce Mallory became Ghandi’s hot cousin, I know.” He paced around the room, “which means… I need to come up with a plan B.”

—

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the common room trying not to scream into a pillow.

Because Bruce Mallory was great. He was smart, kind, and selfless. But you knew exactly why you’d said yes to a second date.

Because you had to get over Bucky Barnes.

You’d been crushing on him for months. Hopelessly. Pathetically. Every glance, every half-smile had rooted deeper in your chest like a splinter you didn’t want to remove. But he was a war hero—broken and still healing, older than time yet still disgustingly handsome. He was Bucky Barnes.

There was no version of reality where someone like him would stoop so low and choose someone like you.

So when John set you up and Bruce Mallory came along, you stupidly thought, maybe if you dated someone else, it would fill that hole that Bucky left in your heart. Maybe it would help you let go of the fantasy of ever being with the former winter soldier.

So yes. You’re going on a second date, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

—

You went on the second date next week and didn’t say much after, just that it went “well” and you were “going on a third.” No dreamy smiles, but still— no complaints either.

Which, for Bucky, not knowing everything was somehow worse.

He stood in the gym, punching a bag so hard it nearly came off the chain.

Across the room, John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him implode.

“She didn’t rave about it,” John said helpfully. “That’s something, right?”

Bucky didn’t respond and just kept punching.

“She didn’t not like it,” John added. “But you know, not every spark sets the world on fire. Maybe she’s just... being polite.”

“John,” Bucky growled, sweat dripping from his temples. “Do you have a Plan B?”

John nodded, a little too quickly. “Absolutely. We’re going on a family vacation.”

—

“Team bonding weekend!” he announced in the New Avengers group chat like it was to pile a group of super-operatives and Bob into a rented cabin in the woods for a little R&R. 

Yelena immediately called dibs on making the s’mores and threatened anyone who brought off-brand marshmallows.

Bob asked if the cabin had satellite TV.

Ava sent a thumbs-up and a gif alluding to arson.

Alexei promised “memorable Soviet campfire tales.”

And Bucky was both extremely nervous and cautiously hopeful. Maybe this was the break he needed— a moment for you to see him outside the chaos. 

Plus, John was undeterred. Because this wasn’t about s’mores or a holiday. This was about you and Bucky finally getting your heads out of your asses and realising you were cosmically meant for each other.

The centerpiece of his romantic heist was one single strategically placed bed. 

He got there early and rigged the room assignment, going so far as to fake a DO NOT USE sign on the air mattress. He removed the backup cot and hid it in the woods. 

It was all going to work. Maybe you would get a confession. Maybe a kiss under the stars.

What he didn’t account for was your complete and utter, soul-crushing obliviousness.

—

When you got to the cabin and walked into the room, you took one look at the bed, then looked at Bucky—already slightly pink in the ears—and then just shrugged.

“Two seater,” you said, tossing your duffel onto the small, barely padded couch in the corner of the bedroom. “I’ve slept on debris-filled floors. This’ll be a luxury.”

Bucky muttered a curse under his breath. “You’re sleeping on the couch?”

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged, “You’ve got the vibranium arm. Probably not great for furniture. Go take the bed.”

“No,” he insisted. “You take the bed. It’s final.”

You raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “You pulling rank on me, Sergeant?”

Bucky loved it when you called him that. “I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

“Oh, sir, yes sir,” you said with a playful laugh.

The flirty tension was there, for half a second. 

It was enough for Bucky to remember how soul-crushing his feelings for you were.

—

The evening passed in a haze of awkward not-quite moments.

Outside, the others drank by the firepit. Yelena was teaching Ava how to make s’mores using a knife for a stick. Alexei was yelling about surviving a Siberian winter inside a collapsed barn with only a spoon and a shield. 

When you excused yourself early—“Gonna crash”—Bucky followed too quickly. “Yeah. Same. ‘M exhausted.”

You both entered the room and settled into the roles you had clearly assigned yourselves: You on the bed, arms crossed behind your head, and Bucky on the couch, perched like it might collapse under the weight of his own emotional constipation.

And outside the window, just beyond the tree line, John Walker lurked like a raccoon, peeking through the curtains and mouthing: “DO SOMETHING.”

Bucky didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He just sat there until the silence got too loud to ignore.

And because Bucky apparently hated himself, he asked the one question he absolutely shouldn’t have. “So… how’s Bruce Mallory?”

You looked over, surprised. “He’s good. Actually good. I was surprised. When John said ‘high school friend,’ I thought he’d be a creep. Most of the guys I’ve met from his past are… dumpster fires.”

Bucky forced a civil nod. “That’s… great. Just great.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Sure. Sounds like a nice guy.”

You’d hoped—just a little—that he’d show something. Jealousy, maybe. Some sign that maybe he cared.

But there was nothing. Just that same unreadable distant face. 

And the lack of reaction hit harder than any rejection.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you and turned your back. “Yeah, I guess… I’m gonna see him again.”

Bucky’s voice was flat. “Have fun.”

That was it.

No follow-up. No argument. No protest. 

You closed your eyes.

And across the room, Bucky stared at the ceiling like it knew he’d just let the only person he wanted walk a little further away. Again.

Outside, John peeked through the window one last time.

You were asleep on the bed.

Bucky was wide awake on the couch.

And John, crouched behind a tree with a fistful of s’mores, muttered furiously, “Goddammit.”

—

After the fourth date, you came home smiling. Nothing euphoric, nothing giddy—just… content.

Which killed Bucky inside.

So when he asked, against every warning in his head, “going on a fourth date?”—and you answered with a quiet “yeah”—he didn’t flinch.

He just smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

John, standing nearby, turned to him the second you walked out of the hallway.

“Okay. Okay,” he started, “This is it. Emergency measures. We’re moving to Plan C.”

Bucky shook his head immediately. “John, it’s over.”

“Plan C is going to work.”

“I said no.” His voice didn’t rise, but it was cold. “Leave it.”

Bucky had reached that particularly cruel stage of heartbreak—the one where everything about him turned a little too polite. He’d only smile when you made a joke. Compliment your shot grouping briefly at the range. Nod when you passed him in the hall, and then walked away before you could see the way it killed him to be near you.

And you were not better off.

Bruce Mallory was… kind. Charming. Smart. He didn’t just talk, he listened. He asked questions. Sent you little check-ins during long missions. He liked your dark humour and never looked at your scars like they were something to ignore or erase.

But still—every time Bucky walked into a room, you felt the same electric flutter in your chest, like your heart forgot what it was supposed to feel, like it didn’t care that you’d ruled him out months ago as something impossible.

Because surely, surely, Bucky didn’t want you like that.

So you told yourself Bruce was a good choice. That maybe a few more dates would silence the crush you’d spent so long burying. That maybe Bucky would stop living rent-free in your head.

But you were John Walker’s best friend.

And he knew better.

So as Plan C, John thought that if he’d whisper the truth into the right ear, it would spread like a quiet fire until you realised what had been in front of you the whole time.

He picked his weapon: Yelena.

During sparring, he said it casually. “Hey, so, if it ever comes up… maybe you could mention that Bucky’s got a thing for her. Like, plant the seed.”

Yelena snorted, blocking his punch with ease. “You want me to gossip?”

“It’s not gossip,” he said, ducking her counter. “It’s… just, well, true.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sure.”

The next day later, while sharpening a knife, Yelena said to Ava, “Apparently Bucky’s got a sad little sniper crush.”

During a tech debrief, Ava pointed at you when you walked past and whispered to Alexei, “Bucky’s in love with her. Isn’t that sweet?”

Alexei, profoundly misunderstanding the nuance, leaned over to Bob during lunch and declared with confidence, “Bucky is madly in love with her. They are clearly dating.”

Which is how, in the middle of an otherwise average Tuesday dinner in the Avengers compound— Bob looked up from his fifth plate and casually said, “So I heard you’re dating now. I thought you were going on with Walker’s old football friend.”

Forks froze and chewing stopped.

You looked up. “...What?”

Bob, all golden retriever-like his enthusiasm, smiled between you and Bucky. “Bucky’s in love with you, right? Alexei said so.”

Across the table, Bucky looked like he’d just taken a bullet in the chest.

He wanted to speak, to explain, to lie, to run.

But you chuckled too quickly. Too loudly.

“Oh! No—no, that’s—you probably misheard,” you said, waving a hand, forcing ease into your voice. “That’s not—I mean, Bucky doesn’t—come on. It’s Bucky Barnes.”

You said his name like it was sacred, like it belonged somewhere far above your head, up in the clouds with legends and gods.

You turned back to your food, smiling awkwardly. “He’s just nice to me because we shoot together. That’s it.”

Bucky didn’t move. Because how could he?

You’d shut it down so fast, it broke his heart into a million little pieces.

To you, shutting it down made perfect sense.

Because how could someone like Bucky — war hero, former congressman, team leader—look at you and want you?

Even if he did.

Even if every morning with you on the range made the day better. Even if your voice could pull him out of his worst spiral. Even if he'd give anything just to hear you say his name.

But he said nothing.

And across the room, John Walker sat in silence, hands limp around his fork, watching the flaming wreckage of Plan C.

After dinner, Bucky found John in the kitchen. 

“Okay, that did not go how I planned,” He said to Bucky. “Plan E. Or F. Whatever. I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.”

Behind him, Bucky sighed. “John. Stop.”

John turned, his eyes were too gentle for someone who was normally so brash.

Bucky shook his head. “You were wrong,” he said sadly, looking utterly lost in his own head. “She doesn’t like me.”

But John knew you, so by extension, he knew how wrong Bucky was. 

—

Today was the day of your fourth date. You were almost at the elevator— you had your coat on, keys in hand, and an intoxicating trace of perfume behind your ear—when John stopped you.

He just stood in the hallway to the tower’s residential floor with his arms crossed. You paused, blinking. “What do you want, man?”

He looked you dead in the eye and said, flatly, “You know Bruce Mallory lied to get Katie Jansen suspended in high school, right?”

Your brows shot up. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nodded solemnly, “Faked some emails, told the principal she was selling test answers. All because she was gonna out him for cheating on her with her sister.”

You stared. “What?”

“And he used to smoke in the cafeteria,” John added, like that was somehow worse.

“That was surely years ago, John,” you said, suspicion blooming in your chest. “Besides, why are you telling me this now? You’re the one who set me up with him.”

John held up both hands, like he wasn’t also the arsonist in this particular fire. “Look, all I’m saying is— I’m your best friend. I know you. And I don’t think you’d actually like Bruce Mallory.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why would you set me up with someone you don’t think I’d like?”

“I was trying to push you in the right direction!”

“What fucking direction, Walker?” You demanded, very confused all of a sudden. 

“Ugh, look,” John said defensively. “Last I saw him, he was trashing locker rooms and pissing behind the bleachers. I didn’t realize he’d gone and joined Doctors Without Borders and cleaned up his whole life.”

“Did you, what, set me up to fail?” You crossed your arms. The idea of that seemed impossible, but you also knew how your best friend sometimes played 4D chess with very questionable motives. 

“I’m just saying,” John muttered under his breath, “he’s not your type.”

You stepped back and raised your eyebrows. “And what exactly is my type?”

John hesitated, then shrugged like it was obvious. “Taller than you. Broody. Built like a brick wall. Shoots better than you half the time and won’t let you forget it. Has a metal arm, probably.”

Your jaw dropped, blinking slowly.

He knew of your crush? 

Of course. Of course he knew. 

“…You just described Bucky.”

John tilted his head. “Well, yeah.”

You stood there—mouth open and brain short-circuiting like a glitching circuit board. “I—okay, maybe, but that doesn’t mean anything! That’s Bucky Barnes. He’s out of my league!”

John actually groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You—you absolute dumbass.”

“Excuse me?!”

“BOB WASN’T LYING!” John shouted, shaking you by the shoulders as if it was going to knock some sense into you. 

You gulped. “What?!”

“Bucky is in love with you, you idiot!” John practically yelled, voice echoing through the hallway. “He’s been in love with you since you knocked him on his ass in training week one! Do you never notice how he paces around like a sad little Victorian widow every time you go out with that pediatrician saint?! He just thinks he’s too fucked for you, which again: Not true!”

You just… froze. For once, you had no witty comeback.

John pointed at your chest, eyes narrowed with brotherly fury. “I cannot believe I have to say this out loud: you are not out of anyone’s league. Least of all his. You are literally his exact brand of damaged.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart felt like it had slammed into a wall and kept beating anyway.

“…I need to find Bucky,” you finally whispered.

John nodded, satisfied, already pulling his phone out. “I’ll text Bruce Mallory. Tell him you’ve got a classified emergency. You can explain later.”

You hesitated at the elevator door. “But—”

“You’re about to go find the guy who thinks your laugh is the only thing worth surviving for.” John arched his brow.  “Mallory hasn’t even brought up ‘exclusive dating’ yet. He’ll be fine.”

—

You went downstairs and stood outside Bucky’s door.

You were really doing this, were you?

You raised your hand and knocked—quietly at first, then a bit firmer when there was no answer.

There was silence for a bit, and then a shuffle. The. Footsteps. Then you heard the sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor and a small “shit,” muffled through the door.

When it opened, Bucky stood in the doorway, shirtless, wearing those low gray sweats that should honestly be illegal on him, as if he just got back from the gym. 

And when he saw you, his breath hitched. 

His eyes trailed from your heels, up your legs, over the curve of your waist, and finally rested on your face—hair done, lips glossed and parted slightly in hesitation.

“...You look—” His voice faltered. You didn’t need any of this— Bucky loved you as is, but seeing you go through all this effort for another man hurt. “Wow. You got all dressed up for him, huh?”

He meant for it to sound casual, even teasing. But they came out almost bitter.

You swallowed. Your heart was racing, and not for Bruce Mallory.

“I—” you started, then faltered. You looked down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “I’m not going.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not going on the date?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just looked at you like you’d said something in a language he didn’t understand.

“I was.” You stepped in a little closer. “But I couldn’t do it.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, “Why not?”

You hesitated, your voice dipping lower. “Because I realised I didn’t want to see him.”

His head lowered just slightly. “I… well. What—”

You interrupted him, and your throat felt tight. “I wanted to see you.”

You shifted your weight, arms wrapping loosely around yourself. “And… John kind of straight up told me.”

Bucky sighed. “Told you what?”

You let out a long breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. “That you liked me. That you get weird when I talk about going on dates, and that the reason you haven’t said anything is because you think you’re too messed up, or broken, or whatever Bucky Barnes excuse you’ve decided to make up this month.”

A small, crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “He said all that?”

“Well… not verbatim,” you chuckled. “And the thing is…” You hesitated. “I never thought I had a chance.”

His brow creased. “What?”

“I thought you were out of my league,” you said gently. “You’re… you. You’ve been through hell and survived it. You’re unfairly hot even when you’re grumpy. And I’m just me.”

He stepped toward you, pulled you in by the wrist and closed the door. Your heart started racing out at your chest.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he insisted. “You’re kind. You’re stubborn. You laugh like the world isn’t on fire. You’re gorgeous, not to mention.  And you… you see me. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Avenger. Just… me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

He cupped your face, thumb trailing your cheekbone, eyes locked with yours.

“C’mere,” he whispered, barely audibly.

You didn’t hesitate. You closed the gap and kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate or frantic. It was slow and deep—like every moment of tension between you had been leading up to this. His mouth moved against yours like he already knew the rhythm of your soul. His metal hand found the small of your back, fingers wrapping possessively. The other curled gently at your chin, tilting your face so he could kiss you better

You sighed into him, hands bunching in the fabric of his sweats as he backed you against the door, never breaking the kiss. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing a low moan from your throat, and he smiled into the kiss like he’d just won a war.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, he whispered, “Tell me you’re mine now,” he whispered, “Because I don’t think I can go back to pretending I don’t want you.”

“I think…” you nodded with a whisper, “I’ve always been yours.”

He grinned that boyish grin, like the sun breaking through clouds. 

—

The next morning, the sun was barely up, the building was still quiet — too early for most of the other avengers — but not for you and Bucky.

You were standing barefoot in front of the stove, one of Bucky’s sweatshirts drowning your frame, your hair a little messy from the night before. He was behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he murmured in your ear.

“I’m gonna burn the pancakes if you keep distracting me,” you teased, half-laughing as he pressed a warm kiss to the curve of your neck.

“Worth it,” he muttered, nuzzling in like he didn’t care about breakfast at all.

You giggled and leaned into him anyway, flipping the batter one-handed while his fingers played idly with the hem of your — well, his — sweatshirt. He hadn’t stopped touching you since you woke up. A kiss to your cheek while you brushed your teeth. A gentle pull back into bed when you tried to get up. And now… this. 

Not that you were complaining.

He handed you the toast while you plated the eggs, sneaking another kiss to your temple as you reached up into the cabinet.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured.

Then came a little creak.

Both of you turned toward the hallway as a pair of socked feet appeared near the door. And there was John. Peeking around the frame like a kid in pajamas. His smile was smug enough to power the whole building.

“I did that,” he announced proudly, pointing at the two of you.

You narrowed your eyes. “You literally almost made it worse.”

“Shhh,” John put a finger to his lips. “Don’t ruin it. Let me have this.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “Let him gloat. It’ll keep him busy for a while.”

John leaned in toward Ava, who’d flickered into existence behind him with a cup of tea— as she often didn’t bother to control her phasing when she was still tired. “I just gotta figure out how to convince them to name their firstborn after me,” he whispered dramatically.

Ava rolled her eyes. “John, they’ve been dating for eleven hours.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering how she knew the exact timestamp. “Wha—”

She raised her hand before you could ask. “You were loud,” she said, as if stating the obvious, “I’m pretty sure the whole tower knows by now.”

You turned back to the stove, trying not to let the heat creep up your cheeks as Bucky slid beside you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Firstborn, huh?” he said against your ear.

You gave him a look. “Don’t encourage him.”

John, from the couch, said, “Middle name at least! I’m not asking for much.”

And with that, you leaned into him again, plate in one hand, his fingers in the other.

If this was how mornings were going to be now — then yeah, you could definitely get used to this.

-end. 

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

am i cooked, chat? (04)

➳ bucky barnes x f!reader ➳ you found a new favorite no-face streamer, much to your bestfriend's (who is hopelessly inlove with you btw)  dismay. oh but the fact that the no-face streamer is also him is not relevant. am i cooked, chat? - masterlist a/n: started drafting it. had a breakdown. bon apetit.

miss possessive - congressman bucky barnes

okay not my best work, i swear i have like nine drafts i've come up with in a week, none of them good enough to post.

this is inspired by miss possessive by tate mcrae even though i completely lost sight of the song really quickly

~~~

you really had no right to be so jealous.

you watched him from across the floor, sipping on your flute of champagne. you'd grabbed it off of one of those waiters' trays as they were walking about the room.

it tasted like shit. you didn't like the taste of wine, and it wasn't even enough to get you drunk.

you knew this kind of event was difficult for him to sit through, but hey, he made his choice going into politics.

you watched as he made his rounds, speaking to various donors and attempting to charm them. you watched as all their wives fawned over your-

no.

you watched as all their wives fawned over him, bringing him in for a hug instead of a handshake. of course they were interested; he was the best looking man here. yes, he was the oldest man in the room, but appeared to be the youngest and was, regardless, easily the most attractive. and all the thirty-some wives of the cranky old rich white men wanted him.

it pissed you off. not that you had the right to be pissed, but. oh well. you're just a girl.

after two flutes of champagne, you watch as one of the donors receives a phone call, leaving his wife with Bucky. ever the gentleman, he would never leave a woman all by herself in a room full of sharks who might try to snatch her up. 

Bucky was very much a different man than he was in the forties, of course. doesn't mean he lost the ability to attract every woman in the room.

you can't stand idly by as she puts his hands all over him, and he can't take his eyes off of her. no, of course he would never go for a married woman. what he did know, though, was that if he pissed her off, her husband wouldn't donate to his campaign.

you roll your eyes and decide it's time for some hard liquor.

you hide in the corner of the room, drinking your much stronger beverage as fast as possible. no, getting drunk at a professional event isn't the best idea, but what do you care. you're not the star of the show.

he is.

he's the brilliant ex-POW who's turned his entire life around in a whole new century. he's the gorgeous soldier who not only survived, but is also electing to do something meaningful with his life. 

he's the star tonight.

he's the star of every thought you have of your future, but that can't possibly come to surface now. it's not the time or place. 

watching him entertain this woman truly boils your blood, but at least you have some actual alcohol in your system now. you no longer feel the need to justify why her hands on his pristine suit makes you want to grab her by the diamonds around her neck and yank her off of him. you can justify your desire to grab him by the tie to pull him away from her and yell at him for not focusing on what's important. 

you bite your tongue. you knew it was all a ploy.

doesn't mean you had to like it. 

~~~

while you stand at the bar waiting for your second beverage of the evening, a man comes up next to you, and the bartender takes his drink order. 

you give him a small, awkward smile as you briefly make eye contact. you're kind of shocked: he's definitely the only man in this room who appears to be younger than 60, Bucky excluded.

you almost startle when he speaks up, introducing himself. Michael, he says his name is.

you turn to actually face him this time. roughly 40, plenty taller than you, and brown hair sprinkled with some greys in there. your perfect type. you quietly tell yourself you're done drinking–no way you're gonna fuck this up. if you weren't so mad about Bucky's new admirer, you might be a tad less inclined to speak to him, but… 

you step closer as you give him a real smile and introduce yourself.

"so, correct me if I'm wrong, but something tells me you're here alone tonight," he begins, indicating to your left hand. no ring. 

you laugh a little. 

"you would be correct," you tell him. "I could say the same about you."

he smiles back at you. it's so beautiful you forget all about your boss and the woman he's now got on his arm as he continues to walk around–

well. you almost forget. good enough.

"you would also be correct."

you explain why you're here, you work for one of the candidates. although, you don't tell him who, exactly. he explains why he's here, one of the patrons. you have to pry the information out of him, but you appreciate it: he's trying to talk to you without flashing his money in your face. it's noble, you think.

you eventually learn he's interested in actually getting to know the candidates' campaigns, not just what they think they can offer him in return for his money.

"you know, I would be happy to learn more about your boss' campaign. from one of the people who probably understands it best," he tells you. you're slightly taken aback for a moment, not aware this was a business interaction. you never even told him who your boss was, so it was confusing, to say the least.

you felt stupid for thinking he was actually interested, for thinking that he was flirting with you.

"oh, of course-" you begin to tell him, but he interjects, "after I take you out, perhaps?"

your smile perks back up subconsciously. so you didn't have it wrong.

"I would love that," you tell him, carefully taking the lapels of his jacket into your hands. you feel his hands come to your waist, and it's like a jolt of energy runs up your spine.

you look closer and almost flip your shit as you see his eyes up close. they're Bucky's eyes. he's not Bucky, sadly, but. 

you're fucked.

"maybe dinner can happen... another time?" you offer, hoping he gets the hint. you realize you probably look like a whore throwing yourself at him like this.

he chuckles. "I've got a room upstairs, if you'd like to come have drinks instead of dinner."

hell yes. you're gonna score tonight, even if it's not with the man you dream about with your hands between your legs every night-

"I would," you say, and bite your tongue. "I just... have to stick around until this thing is over. yeah?"

he nods and steps back. "I suppose I should also do what I came here for," he chuckles. "I'll come find you later?"

you smile and you feel your face go pink. "sounds good."

you can't help the fact that your gaze reverts immediately back to your boss the second the man walks off. Bucky hasn't spared you a single glance all evening, but the second you look back at him this time, you're suddenly staring into his beautiful eyes. 

he holds eye contact with you for what feels like an eternity. his expression is muted, no real emotion showing. maybe... curiosity?

of course he's not going to look mad, or upset, or jealous. you have to stop thinking he'd ever look at you with anything other than pure professionalism.

because he's everything. and you're just a kid, lost in the world, desperately in love with your boss, and everything is fucking falling apart around you.

at least you've got a rich, hot, older man ready to fuck you tonight.

~~~

you kept to your word to yourself and didn't drink for the rest of the night, although you continued hovering at the bar for the semblance of safety it provided.

you continued staring at Bucky for the next two hours. the clingy woman's husband had, in fact, returned and took her away from Bucky. clearly, she was pissed, but tried to hide it. you had to bite back a smirk.

he didn't look back at you once for the rest of the evening.

eventually, the crowd dies down. you realize that now, you have to explain to your boss that you won't be riding back to the office with him, effectively telling him your exact plans for the rest of the night. embarrassing!

you're almost ready to bite the bullet and bid Bucky a good night, scanning the room for him, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

"we still on for drinks?"

you plaster a smile on your face as you turn around to the man standing behind you.

"absolutely," you say, taking his hands. "lead the way."

you begin to follow the man, telling yourself to try and remember to shoot your boss a text to 'not worry about you' before getting your clothes torn off by this man who's currently whisking you away.

you get into the elevator with him, what's his name, you think? oh, Michael, and yank him in hard, crashing your mouths together, putting all of your energy into how badly you need this.

you're startled by the sound of a clanging of metal, ripping your mouth away from the man's and turning to face the noise.

well, apparently, you were too eager and stupid enough to not wait for the elevator doors to entirely shut, because you see now that the noise was a result of Bucky's vibranium arm grabbing the elevator door. he pushes it open and steps inside, eyes piercing daggers through you the whole time.

you stand there, appalled. the man gently pulls away from you, reaching out a hand to attempt to shake Bucky's hand.

"Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure," he begins. "my apologies for this... less than ideal meeting."

Bucky doesn't even look at the man, eyeing you up and down, taking in your smudged lipstick and the way your dress is slightly out of place.

the man attempts once more to interject. "Mr. Barnes, please, don't worry about her. why don't us men go back downstairs and have a real discussion? I'd love to hear more about your campaign."

wait. why do his words sound like they're throwing you under the bus, almost?

Bucky notices it, too, you realize. he tilts his head in the man's direction before actually averting his gaze to look at him.

"and leave the lady all by herself?" he asks.

"don't worry about that. she's... inconsequential. if you and I can just go back downstairs and–"

"what did you just say?" Bucky asks. you swear he doesn't look like your boss anymore, but someone... else.

the man is taken aback by Bucky's demeanor. his mouth gapes like an idiot.

"you do know this is my assistant, right?" Bucky asks him. the man's face goes pale as the pieces slot together in his head.

"Mr. Barnes, my apologies, truly," he says.

you just stand there feeling more stupid than ever. inconsequential? wow, okay. you almost don't even care that he's dismissing your entire existence, but you can't stand the fact that he's doing it in front of Bucky. you care more about what Bucky thinks of you than literally anyone else, and now? now he's going to see you as a fucking slut who isn't even good enough for a man to commit to for one night.

god, you're pathetic.

"shouldn't you be apologizing to her?" Bucky grits.

the elevator doors open to the man's floor, and he mumbles a sorry under his breath as he runs out.

great. not only do you look pathetic in front of your boss, but you're not getting fucked tonight, either. just great.

the doors shut behind Bucky, who has now returned his gaze to you. you wonder if he's going to press the button to go back to the lobby.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Barnes," you say, swallowing your embarrassment as you stand up straight and adjust your dress.

he just stares at you.

"what?" you ask.

"are you okay?" he asks, and he looks genuinely concerned.

you know he cares about you, you're his assistant, after all. but that's it.

"fine," you assure him, and begin to reach behind him to press the button to take you back down to the lobby.

he gently grabs your wrist before you can.

you look at him, confused. you know your face says it all.

"Mr.–" you begin.

"Bucky," he corrects.

"can I press the button, Mr. Barnes?"

he still hasn't let go of your wrist. you feel stupid for enjoying the feel of his metal hand against your skin, for getting to feel a part of him that's real.

"you know, you clearly picked out the worst of the men here tonight," he observes.

you roll your eyes and pull your wrist away from him before you do something stupid.

"are you kidding? this place was riddled with capitalist billionaires and politicians. like you," you say, smirking.

he chuckles a little.

you can't help yourself, though. can't let it go unsaid.

"clearly you had some interested parties of your own tonight."

he rolls his eyes and finally turns away from you, pressing the button for the lobby. you let out a quiet sigh of relief. being in this elevator any longer, with him? that would just about kill you.

"you noticed that, huh?" he asks.

"who didn't?" you mumble. but of course, he's not just a politician, he's an enhanced, so he hears it.

"look, I knew she was married, I was never going to-" he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

"oh, I don't care what she does in her own fucked-up marriage."

oh my god. what did you just say? did you just admit to the fact that the only reason you did care was because she was fawning over Bucky?

fuck.

the elevator doors open, and you rush out.

you can hear the smirk on his face as he trails after you.

"so, you were really going to sleep with that guy, huh?" he teases.

you stop in your tracks. most everyone has left by now, leaving only you and Bucky in the room aside from the clean-up crew. you turn back to face him.

"can we just go?"

he nods and calls for the car to come around.

~~~

twenty minutes, you remind yourself.

in twenty minutes, you'll have made it back to the office, and you can go get in your own car and take yourself back to your own place and you won't have to be sitting thigh to thigh with your boss in the back of a limo that would totally be hot to fuck in-

he clears his throat, and you turn your head to face him.

"what that guy said..." he begins. you roll your eyes in anger at the reminder. you didn't even care he said it, you just wish he hadn't said it in front of Bucky.

you wave your hand as though waving off the thought, and waving off Bucky's concern. but it doesn't quite work like that.

"you're not inconsequential."

he says it with such a conviction you feel it deep in your bones, in the very core of your being. he sounds so authentic that it almost hurts.

a million thoughts swirl in your head. you could say i know, you could get defensive, you could say thanks, Bucky...

a better one pops in your head.

"how did you know where I was? you didn't see me all evening."

the limo stops moving. the driver rolls down the divider to grumble something about traffic at this hour? before rolling it back up again.

great. now it's going to take even longer to get home to your vibrator.

Bucky sees the interruption as a way to drop the matter. you press it.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"god, would you stop calling me that?"

you see him turn away from you to look out the window, biting his lip and rubbing his forehead. you've now frustrated him, and he's mad at you. this is good. it's easier for you to deal with him being angry at you than him being nice to you.

you know he just wants you to call him Bucky, but you're a smartass.

"yeah, okay, sorry. Sergeant Barnes," you mumble, smirking to yourself.

he about flips his shit. why is he getting so worked up?

"seriously?" he asks, turning back to you. his eyes are blown back, in anger, probably. not lust, like you wish they were. because you're just a stupid kid, and he's just your boss with a lifetime of trauma. you could never understand him the way you wanted to.

"what?" you say, biting your lip as you smile, continuing to tease him.

you swear that for a second, he glances down to your lips.

SHIT!

in that embarrassing moment, you realize your lipstick is still smudged across your face from the moment in the elevator. your heart rate shoots up as you bury your head in your chest, bringing your hand to wipe away the mess of your face, before turning to face the opposite way from him.

you are, well and truly, stuck in traffic. some concert, or sports game, or whatever...

which means you're stuck, pressed up against your boss, in the back of this tiny limo right now, for only god knows how much longer.

you're pulling your phone out of your clutch when he says your name.

you want to lean into the feeling, how smooth it is. how crisp his voice is, how pretty it sounds saying your name, as though he's genuinely paying you any attention whatsoever.

"you're not inconsequential."

it flares your anger, all of it coming up from your gut and into your throat, as you respond.

"god, would you forget it already?" you snap.

shit, shit, shit. you fucked up. you just snapped at your boss, of all people. you try to backtrack, throw out a million comments of "sorry," but that's it, you're getting fired.

you finally look back at him, and he's actually looking at you. like, it feels like he's staring into your soul, seeing all the pieces of you that you're trying to keep hidden from him.

the car begins moving again.

~~~

he watches you, trying to figure you out, as always.

he can't think of a better word for it than the fact that you genuinely amuse him.

he sees the look in your eyes, the way you're desperately trying to cover up the shame you feel over what happened in the elevator. he's trying to be gentle about it, trying to assure you that what the man said was utter bullshit, but you keep shutting him down.

god, and you look so...

no. you're, like, 80-plus years younger than him (he rubs his temples every time he remembers his age) and employed by him. any interest on his part would be purely inappropriate, a gross misuse of his position of power.

and god, his fucking age, man. he shouldn't even be around anymore-

anyways.

you look at him with those fucking doe eyes, going back and forth between anger, and shame, and something else he can't quite pinpoint.

this is probably the worst part of what happened. you're always so unapologetically yourself, but he can tell this man has gotten under your skin.

even if it's not his job to comfort you, he doesn't want you to feel like that. because who you are is perfect. 

~~~

one minute, you're staring into his eyes, trying to read the look on his face. 

the next, you're bracing yourself as the car spins out of control, feeling hit after hit of various cars all crashing into you sequentially.

you don't register it until after it's all over. the way he's wrapped himself around you as though to protect you. his flesh arm cradles your head to his chest and his vibranium hand wraps itself around the back of your neck.

you take a few deep breaths and begin to pull away from him, looking up to his face as you do. his eyes widen in shock as he looks at you. what? what is it?

"fuck, we gotta get you to a hospital." 

~~~

part 2 out by friday 3/28/25!

masterlist

tag list

tagged: @clavedelune

Supermarket Scare

This idea is originally from @rosenclaws and I HAD to write it. (They actually did turn it into a fic which is here) I took the idea, changed a few things (Logan is boy dad in this one I fear), and idk I guess this is what came out of it lmfao

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Tropes: MILF reader <3

Warnings: None that I know of

Other tags: Logan who is GREAT with kids, but doesn’t know it, extra dramatic backstory that may not be legally accurate bc I said so

Background: You’re raising your adopted son, Arlo, on your own. Wade, Al, and Logan live down the hall from you.

Description: While shopping at the grocery store, you don’t realize that Arlo has let go of the shopping cart. When you look down to talk to him, you realize that he’s gone. Thank god for Wade’s new roommate.

    “Can we get some of those little donuts?” Arlo asked, his small hand gripping the shopping cart as you walked down the bread aisle. He knew the rule, if he wanted to walk instead of riding in the cart, he had to hold onto the cart.

    “Sure,” you hummed, “What kind? The chocolate ones or the white powdered ones?” You asked.

    “The white ones,” he decided. “They’re yummy.”

    “White ones it is,” you nodded, stopping the cart in front of the bread you needed. Turning away, you reached up and grabbed a loaf of bread. “You wanna pick out some cereal while we’re here too?” You asked, turning back to the cart, only to find that Arlo was gone. 

    Looking down the aisle, he was nowhere to be seen.

================

    Logan stood on one side of the aisle, observing the different kinds of granola bars. Why were there so many goddamn flavors anyway? His focus was drawn away from the boxes on the shelves when he felt a tug on his pants.

    Looking down, he saw a young boy with tears falling down his cheeks.

    “Uh,” Logan froze, not sure how to interact with a child. “Hi.”

    “I can’t find my mama,” the boy cried, his tears coming down harder.

    “What does she look like?” He asked, kneeling down so he was closer to the kid’s height.

    The boy only cried in response, clearly scared and missing his mom.

    “Alright,” he replied, looking around as he stood up and tried to decide what to do. “Let’s go to the front of the store. Then they can find your mom, okay?”

    The boy nodded, letting go of Logan’s pants to hold out both arms at the man. Grabby hands. How could anyone say no to that?

    Logan sighed, debating it in his head before leaning down and scooping the boy into his arms. As he walked to the front of the store, the boy’s tears slowed until they eventually came to a stop. The boy laid his head down on Logan’s shoulder while one of his hands held an iron grip on the front of Logan’s flannel.

    “Excuse me,” Logan spoke, walking up to the customer service desk.

    “How can I help you?” The woman at the desk asked.

    “He can’t find his mom,” Logan explained, nodding towards the boy in his arms.

    “Let me make an announcement,” the worker gave the boy a sympathetic smile. She picked up a phone from the counter, putting it up to her ear and hitting a few buttons on the keypad. “Attention shoppers, we have a lost little boy at the customer service desk. If he is your child, please come pick him up.” After the announcement was made, she hung the phone up.

    “Alright, kid,” Logan said. “Now you just gotta wait for your mom to come get you.”

    “I’m Cherie,” the worker spoke softly to the boy. “You wanna stay here with me while we wait on your mom?” She offered, holding out her hands.

    Logan moved to pull the child away from him and hand him to Cherie, but Arlo began to cry again. His grip on Logan’s flannel tightened.

    “C’mon kid, you gotta let go,” Logan encouraged.

    The boy cried harder, bawling as he tried to desperately stay in Logan’s arms.

    “It’s alright, angel,” Cherie hushed. Based on her tone, Logan could tell that this woman had certainly dealt with kids before. She was definitely a better person to watch the boy temporarily, but kids want what they want.

    “Okay, okay,” Logan relented, holding the boy close to his chest again. “I’ll stay, just stop crying. You don’t have to cry.” He looked to the worker, “I’ll stay with him ‘til his mom gets here.”

    Despite being secure in Logan’s arms again, the tears didn’t stop.

    “Shhh,” Logan attempted, gently swaying with the boy in his arms. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he’d seen mothers do it with their babies before.

    The tears just kept coming.

    Logan looked around, spotting a small display of stuffed animals. He reached out with one hand, grabbing the first one he could and holding it up in front of the boy.

    “Look at this,” he redirected the boy’s attention, shaking the toy slightly.

    Sniffling a few times, the boy in his arms slowly stopped crying. He used his free hand to grab the animal, pulling it to his chest.

    “Fox,” he said simply, looking at the orange and white stuffie in his arm. “I like foxes. Thanks.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

    “Yeah, it’s a fox. You’re welcome,” Logan nodded, just happy that he had made the kid stop crying. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few dollars. “For the fox,” he commented to the worker, who just smiled and nodded.

    Logan moved to sit down on a bench in the customer service area. As expected, the boy refused to move from his lap. So, there they sat. Logan, a mutant, and on his lap, a lost kid holding a stuffed fox. Quite the pair.

================

    “Oh thank god!” You exclaimed as you walked into the customer service area. “Arlo!”

    “Mama!” Arlo exclaimed from where he sat on a man’s lap.

    “Told you she’d be here,” the man said as he helped Arlo down from his lap. He looked familiar, but you were more concerned about Arlo.

    The moment his feet hit the ground, Arlo was running towards you with his arms reaching out.

    As he reached you, you dropped to one knee so you could wrap your arms around him. Your arms held him tightly to your chest.

    “Honey, I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried,” you breathed out, closing your now teary eyes as you held him.

    “I’m sorry,” he said softly, beginning to cry as you held him.

    “Hey, it’s alright, sweetheart,” you assured, pulling away enough so you could see each other’s faces. “You’re not in trouble. Just promise me you won’t run off like that ever again.”

    “I promise,” he nodded, leaning back in to cling to you.

    You slowly stood, picking Arlo up as you did so.

    “Thank you so much,” you spoke to the man that had been with Arlo, who was now standing. Now that you got a good look at him, you knew why you recognized him. “Wait, you’re Wade’s roommate, aren’t you?” You asked.

    Logan gives you a strange look, so you continue talking.

    “We live down the hall,” you explained. “Arlo loves talking Wade’s ear off whenever we run into each other.”

    “Probably because they’re on the same learning level,” Logan joked. He held out a hand for you to shake as he introduced himself. “Logan.”

    You supported Arlo on your hip as you took his hand in yours. As you shook his hand, you gave him your name in return.

    “And, of course, you’ve met Arlo,” you added, letting go of his (very warm, very large) hand and squeezing the boy in your arms for emphasis.

    “Arlo,” Logan smiled slightly at the boy. He hadn’t expected the little munchkin to grow on him so quickly, yet here he was.

    “I knew you,” Arlo stated.

    “You knew it was Logan?” You asked.

    “I knew he was Wade’s friend,” he smiled proudly. “The big guy with kitty ears,” he clarified, pointing to Logan’s hair and giggling.

    “Kitty ears?” Logan asked, raising a brow. “I’ve never gotten that before.”

    “I like them,” Arlo hummed happily. “They look like fox ears too,” he observed, holding up the stuffed fox with both hands.

    Logan let out a breathy chuckle, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

    “Thank you again,” you told Logan. “I really owe you big time,” you smiled. “It’s just me and Arlo, I don’t know what I would’ve done if something happened.”

    “No need,” Logan shook his head. Now that he’d learned it was just you and Arlo, he decided to try and flirt with you. “He’s a nice kid. And he’s got a very nice mom,” Logan gave you a small grin, which came across as more of a smirk.

    You aren’t sure how to react. It wasn’t like you had guys lining up to date you. Most of them didn’t want to flirt with a single mom. You weren’t even sure if he was flirting. What could you say? You were a little out of practice.

    “At least let me make you dinner,”  you offered. You tried not to sound too hopeful, but you were almost positive that you’d failed.

    “Pretty please,” Arlo chimed in, sticking out his bottom lip and giving Logan his most convincing puppy dog eyes.

    “Well when you put it like that,” Logan smiled, reaching a hand out to ruffle Arlo’s hair, which earned him a giggle. “I’d love to.”

    “If tomorrow night works for you, we don’t have anything going on,” you suggested.

    “Sure,” Logan nodded. “I’m free.”

    After deciding on a time, you caught a glance of your watch and realized you had to get Arlo to home to make dinner tonight.

    “We should get home, gotta finish shopping and get this little gremlin fed,” you chuckled. “Arlo, tell Logan goodbye.”

    “Bye!” Arlo gave Logan a big grin. “We can play when you come over tomorrow.”

    “Sounds fun,” Logan nodded, smiling at Arlo.

    “We’ll see you tomorrow,” you smiled. “And feel free to stop by anytime,” you added as you started to walk away.

================

    “Mama! There’s someone at the door! I bet it’s Logan,” Arlo exclaimed, running into the kitchen, where you were working on finishing dinner.

    “Okay, okay,” you chuckled, making sure nothing would burn as you wiped your hands off on a towel and headed to the door with Arlo. You checked the peephole, confirming that it was Logan, before opening the door.

    You and Logan didn’t have a chance to speak before Arlo was jumping up and down.

    “Logan!” He grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. He held both hands out for Logan.

    “Hey, bub,” Logan greeted, picking Arlo up into his arms with a small ‘woosh’ sound. He then turned his attention to you, smiling softly.

    “I’m just finishing up dinner,” you hummed, stepping aside and letting Logan in. You shut the door behind him as he toed off his shoes neatly next to the door.

    “Take your time,” Logan replied, not wanting you to feel pressured.

    “That means we can go play in the living room,” Arlo giggled. “Me and Fink were just playing in there.”

    “Fink?” Logan raised a brow. What the hell was a Fink?

    “Yeah,” he nodded. “The fox you got me. His name is Fink.”

    “Oh,” Logan chuckled softly. “We can go play with Fink before dinner as long as it’s alright with your mom.”

    “Please mama,” Arlo looked at you, giving you his brightest smile. “Can me and Logan go play while you cook?”

    “You can,” you laughed softly at Arlo’s excitement. “Play nice, okay?”

    “I will!” He promised, wriggling around until Logan put him down. He grabbed the man’s hand, tugging on it. “C’mon, c’mon, I wanna show you my toys.”

    You and Logan shared an amused look before Logan let Arlo drag him off to your living room.

================

    “Hey, you two, dinner’s rea-,” you stopped mid sentence as you walked into the living room. You hadn’t expected the scene in front of you.

    Logan sat on the floor with Arlo, who’s hair was now pulled up into two tufts on top of his head.

    “Look mama!” Arlo spoke proudly. “I asked Logan to make us match! Do we look cool?”

    “You look very cool, sweetheart,” you chuckled softly. “You’re both very handsome. But even cool guys have to eat dinner.”

    “Yeah, to be big and strong,” Arlo nodded, hopping up from the floor and rushing off to the table.

    Logan stood up from the floor, groaning softly.

    “Didn’t know you were a hairdresser,” you joked as he began following you to the table as well.

    “Well when he gives me those big puppy eyes, I can’t say no,” Logan defended.

    “You’ve got me there,” you chuckled softly. “You can go sit at the table, I’ll bring in dinner.”

================

    Dinner with Logan felt good. Domestic. Arlo yapped about his current favorite show while you and Logan chuckled. As much as you loved Arlo, you did want to talk to Logan without having every other sentence be about Nubs the pooba boy from a Star Wars show Arlo was obsessed with.

    “Alright, bud, it’s time to head to bed,” you hummed to Arlo. After dinner, the three of you had stayed at the table talking, and now it was time for him to get some sleep.

    “Do I have to?” Arlo frowned. “I wanna stay up and play with Logan some more.”

    “Listen to your mom,” Logan replied before you could. “If you go to bed now, we can play another time. Deal?”

    “Deal,” Arlo nodded, accepting Logan’s offer. He climbed out of his chair and walked off in the direction of his room.

    “If you wanna wait in the living room, I’ll be back out after I get him down,” you told Logan as you stood.

    Logan gave you a nod before you walked off after Arlo to help him get ready for bed.

    “I like Logan,” Arlo stated as you stepped into his room. “He’s fun.”

    You chuckled softly, getting into Arlo’s dresser to pull out a couple pairs of his favorite pajamas. One was yellow and covered in dinosaurs, while the other was light blue with green stripes.

    “Which pajamas do you wanna wear tonight?” You asked, holding up both pairs for him to pick from.

    “Dinosaurs!” He grinned.

    “Dinosaurs it is,” you nodded, putting the other pajamas back in the drawer for another night.

    Once Arlo was changed into his pajamas, you helped him brush his teeth. The two of you went back into his room so that he could lay down.

    “Wait!” Arlo gasped before he could climb into bed. “I have to go get Fink and tell Logan goodnight.”

    Of course he had to tell Logan goodnight. What had you been thinking?

================

    “Logan!” Arlo giggled as he ran into the living room. Logan was sitting on the couch as he waited for you to come back.

    “I thought you were going to bed,” Logan chuckled at Arlo’s energy.

    “Had to come get Fink,” Arlo answered, grabbing the stuffed fox from where he’d left it on a chair before dinner. “And I wanted to tell you goodnight,” he smiled, climbing on the couch next to Logan and wrapping his arms around the man to the best of his abilities.

    Logan was surprised, to say the least. It wasn’t exactly a regular occurrence for kids to come up and hug him. After a split second of shock, he wrapped both arms around Arlo and gave him a soft squeeze.

    “G’night,” he hummed before letting go of Arlo.

    “Goodnight,” Arlo grinned, planting a kiss on Logan’s cheek before hopping up and running back to his room where you were waiting on him.

    “You ready to go to sleep now?” You asked as he hopped up on the bed.

    “Yep!” He nodded, crawling under his blankets.

    As he got settled, you leaned over and flicked on his night light. Then, tucked him into bed, smiling as he wiggled around to get comfortable.

    “Do you think we can get ice cream with Logan and Wade one day?” Arlo asked hopefully.

    “We’ll see, sweetie,” you chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

    “Goodnight, mama,” he smiled softly at you, “I love you.”

    “Night, bud. I love you,” you replied, standing from the bed and heading for the door. “Sleep tight,” you added, flicking the lightswitch and leaving his room, pulling the door closed as you did.

    Now that he was in bed, you made your way back to the living room.

    “He’s in bed,” you spoke as you entered the room. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. That kid can fall asleep anywhere,” you chuckled softly, plopping down on the couch next to Logan. You left a little bit of space between the two of you, not wanting to make things weird.

    “It must be nice,” Logan joked, an amused breath leaving his nose.

    “One time I found him asleep halfway through using the bathroom. He had his head leaned over against the toilet paper roll,” you laughed at the memory.

    “Jesus,” Logan laughed along with you. “He must keep you on your toes.”

    “You have no idea,” you chuckled, pulling one leg up onto the couch so you could face Logan as you talked. “He’s got enough energy for about a dozen kids. But when he’s out, he sleeps like the dead.”

    “He definitely has the energy,” Logan agreed. “But he seems like a good kid.”

    “He is,” you smiled proudly. “He’s a great kid. One of the sweetest kids I know. Maybe I just think that because I’m biased,” you joked.

    “I don’t think so,” Logan smiled. “He’s sweet. When he and I were playing earlier while you cooked, he was always offering to share whatever toy he had. Not a lot of kids are offering to share things.”

    “I try my best with him. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be a mom, but then Arlo came along, and I dunno, it was just, it was right,” you spoke fondly.

    “It can’t be easy being a single mother,” Logan started, “You’re doin’ great. He’s lucky to have you.”

    “Thank you,” you said softly. Nobody had ever told you anything like that before. You weren’t really sure how to react. “I hadn’t really expected to be a single mom, but I don’t have any regrets. I adopted him when he was just a baby, but that’s a story for another time.”

    “I didn’t realize,” Logan replied. “He’s even luckier to have you than I thought, then.”

    You smiled at Logan, feeling so grateful that the mishap at the supermarket had happened. You enjoyed having him around.

=================

    “Tonight was nice,” you told Logan as you walked him to the door. It was getting late, and you had to be up the next morning.

    Logan put his shoes on while you opened the door.

    “I had a good time,” Logan smiled slightly at you as he stood.

    You both stepped into the hallway, and you pulled the door most of the way around behind you.

    “Thank you again, for yesterday,” you hummed, leaning against the wall next to your door.

    “No, thank you,” he replied, “For dinner. It’s not often I get a home cooked meal.”

    “Well, feel free to come by for more anytime,” you smiled up at him, “Even if it’s just chicken nuggets and mac n cheese, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

    Logan chuckled softly, nodding at your invitation.

    “I’d say that you two are welcome to drop by Wade and I’s place, but that is not fit for children,” he joked.

    You laughed, unable to help yourself. Joking with Logan felt so natural.

    “Well,” Logan spoke again. “I should get out of your hair, but I’ll see ya around, yeah?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

    “Yeah, I’ll see you around,” you nodded in response.

     Logan hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaning in and placing a barely there kiss on your cheek.

    “I’d really like to see you again sometime. As a date,” he admitted. “I understand that dating is more difficult when you have a kid because you have to consider Arlo when you make decisions, but I’d like to see where this goes.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked someone else, and all he could do was pray he wasn’t making a fool of himself.

    “I would love that, Logan,” you grinned. He was the first man to ever consider Arlo when it came to dating you. He seemed like the type of man to know that you had to put Arlo first. “Arlo is having a sleepover at my sister’s with his cousins this weekend. Maybe we could get dinner then? Just the two of us this time.”

    “That sounds great,” Logan nodded, trying and failing to fight off a smile. He felt like a goddamn blushing school boy. “I’ll come by at seven so we can go to dinner.”

    “Perfect,” you smiled. You leaned up, placing a quick peck on his lips. “I can’t wait.”

    Logan was shocked that you’d kissed him, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a voice from inside your apartment.

    “Mama?” Arlo called out for you from his room. He must’ve had a nightmare or want a glass of water.

    “Duty calls,” you joked. “Goodnight Logan,” you hummed, stepping back into your apartment.

    “Night,” he replied, giving you a small nod as you shut the apartment door to go check on Arlo.

    After the door was shut, Logan realized he was smiling like an absolute idiot. He hadn’t been this excited for a date since…. He couldn’t actually remember.

    Turning on his heel, he headed down the hallway back to Wade’s. He couldn’t stop smiling.

    Walking into the apartment, he groaned as he saw Wade laying on the couch as if he had been waiting for Logan to get back.

    “Stop looking at me like that,” he huffed, shutting the door behind him.

    “Like what, peanut?” Wade shrugged. “I just wanna know how things went with the hot milf down the hall.”

    “Fuck off,” Logan rolled his eyes, dropping his keys on the entry table and walking off to go to bed.

    “I’ll take that as ‘It went great, Wade, you officially have a nephew now’. Is that about right?” He called after Logan.

    Logan ignored Wade, shaking his head. He had to admit, though, things had gone great with the hot milf down the hall. And it would only get better.

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

Pimple Patches

Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: Bucky feels left out when he notices you’re wearing star pimple patches.

Warnings: mentions of insecurity about pimples/acne/skin texture

Word count: 800

A/N: so I put a few pimple patches on this morning which sparked this silly little idea, I hope you enjoy! Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

“Darling, you’ve got stars all over your face…” Bucky’s voice is croaky from sleep, but you can still hear the confusion in his tone. 

The coffee machine hums to life as you smile back at him to say “I am well aware Buck - they’re pimple patches.” 

If it were anyone but your precious boyfriend who had made that comment, you might feel slightly offended at the insinuation that you have acne all over your face, but you know from experience Bucky thinks you're the most beautiful person in the world regardless of any blemish, scar or skin texture, and this is coming purely from a place of innocence. 

Sometimes you forget that he’s actually over a hundred and can be such an old man. 

You chuckle at how bewildered his expression is, clearly still unable to grasp the reason why you have intentionally placed them on your skin. 

“Pimple patches.” He repeats back to you, his voice holds no recognition that he understands what that means, even though you think the name itself is a fairly obvious indicator. 

“They help reduce the inflammation and absorb the gunk from my acne.” Is the explanation you provide him as you saunter over to give him a good morning kiss. “Plus, more than anything they prevent me from wanting to pop them myself.” 

There’s something still bothering him as he sits at the breakfast bar while you serve the aromatic roasted coffee to him in his favourite mug. 

“But why are they in the shape of a star?” 

Bless his heart.

“Because it’s fun! Who doesn’t want colourful stars on their face to cover up their whiteheads?” 

Bucky blows on his coffee, before sipping it slowly while his eyes examine the placement of the stars around your face. He still looks unconvinced by the concept but there is still that twinkle in his eye and the small tug at the corner of his mouth that he is staring at his person. You're getting used to that stare.

“Do you feel like you’re missing out? Do you want a star too?” He seems to perk up at the question, but then gives a fake little cough and straightens his shoulders as if to give the impression he’s far too mature to want a star sticker as well.

“I don’t think I have any pimples.” Is what he says instead of giving you a straight answer to your yes or no question.

He’s right, Bucky’s skin is annoyingly perfect when your own can be such a mess, even though you’re the one splurging on high end skincare to treat acne. He’s always told you it’s the serum when you’ve previously broken down about how imperfect your own skin is compared to his.

“C’mere.” You grab his hand, which is unusually warm as he has been holding his coffee, and pull him to the bathroom.

It’s very endearing how he stands with his hands joined behind his back, waiting for you to do anything you want to his face with the giddy grin of a ten year old getting a ‘your a star!’ sticker on their homework.

Bucky watches in fascination and adoration as you carefully lift the star from the sheet and turn to face him. Being this close to him still gives you butterflies, but the warmth radiating from his broad body makes you feel safe and at home

There’s a faded, thin scar on his cheekbone, one that he got well before the serum saving Steve from a fight, that you place the blue pimple patch onto. “There, your own little star. Now we match!” 

He takes a quick look in the mirror and you determine he likes it given the smile he beams. You wish he could be forthright about his wants with you, even if it’s as silly as wanting a sticker on his face. But you’re working on it together.

“You’re my little star.” He says dotingly as he places a sweet, sloppy kiss to your cheek, in between a couple of your pimple patches.

Looking back in the mirror, he stands taller than you, but he looks proud to not have missed out on the identical patch that you now don together. He practically skips out of the bathroom and doesn’t remove his precious star until you tell him it’s time to peel them off later in the day.

The next morning, you notice Bucky has another star stuck to his cheek as he’s making you breakfast. You smile to yourself, before pointing it out to him.

He says it’s to make sure you don’t feel uncomfortable wearing them around him, which if the case is very sweet, but you have a sneaky suspicion that he might just like matching with you.

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Faking Injuries & Pure Dedication:

Warnings: Maybe slight spoilers about the living situation.

Summary: You move into the avengers tower and become close with Bucky who doesn’t miss an opportunity to confess his feelings. (Fluff!!)

It was the middle of the night when you moved into the Avengers’ tower with Yelena, Bucky, John, Ava, Alexei, and Bob. Yelena was the only person you knew to call when your relationship ended, and you knew she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

It was only supposed to be temporary until you could find somewhere affordable to live. But none of them minded you living there it was just in your nature to feel like a burden. You pulled your weight as best as possible, making sure to be the primary cook at the house. It only took John one time to burn the food for you to take that initiative.

Bob was helpful around the tower too, you bonded quickly over the fact that you felt like the two who “didn’t belong.” Bob was usually the one who bandaged everyone up and you proceeded to make sure everyone ate, you worked well as a team and the dynamic was more like siblings than anything else.

You did, however, have your sights set on Bucky. Bucky made you feel comfortable, and content and he never pushed too hard. Truthfully, he rarely spoke to you first, and given his history you didn’t blame him for keeping to himself.

You had zero shame following him around the tower like a lost puppy dog knowing he’d never harshly confront it because he found peace within you too. You had spent many nights watching movies together, always in the company of someone else but neither one of you paid them any mind. You had tons of inside jokes, and Bucky knew he could always count on you to stay up late when he couldn’t sleep. He just wasn’t sure if you felt the same way about him just yet.

It was a Thursday night when Bucky got carried into the house by Ava and Alexei, his ankle was swollen two times its normal size and you wanted to rush to his side immediately but hesitated as Bob and Yelena sprung into action.

••••

The next morning Bucky was sprawled out on the couch, two pillows under his ankle, and reading through a book he had no interest in. He sighed out loud more times than you could count and honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Everyone else was out completing their missions and he was stuck in this tower with you.

“Hey Bucky, good morning.” You shuffled over to him, still wearing your wrinkled pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

“Hi. Morning.” He winced as he attempted to scoot over to make room for you to sit.

“No, no! Don’t move!” You sat down by his feet, making sure not to bump into him. “How’re you feeling?” You eyed him up and down, he also had on comfortable clothes which was something you’d rarely ever seen him in. A navy t-shirt and gray sweatpants had never looked so good.

“Useless” he frowned, he hadn’t noticed the loving way you were looking at him just yet. “This has never really happened to me before. Normally the serum just kind of…” he paused for a second to look at you, noticing now how you had been looking him up and down.

When he stopped speaking you made eye contact, smiling back at him. Both of you felt your cheeks grow warm.

“Umm—well, Yelena said in a few hours you’d probably be completely fine right?”

Bucky nodded, wondering to himself why you were outright concerned. He had hoped he was reading this situation correctly, but wasn’t sure how to get it to progress. He didn’t say anything more and you awkwardly sat there beside him for a moment picking at your nails.

“Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast” You were ecstatic at the chance to spend time alone with him without the noise of the group.

“Wait, where’s Bob?” He looked around, wondering why he hadn’t heard him in the room just yet.

Your face dropped, wondering why it was such an issue that it was just the two of you.

“He’s still asleep, and probably will be for a while” Your tone shifted into disappointment and Bucky felt it immediately.

“I just wanted to make sure we were alone is all” he spoke softly, letting you know he wanted the same thing. “Can I help? I feel like you do all the cooking.”

“That’s probably because I actually do all the cooking” you giggled before standing up from the couch. “You really don’t have to help me though, you’re out of commission right now.”

“That’s actually really ableist of you to say” he teased earning a shocked wide-eyed look from you. A chuckle erupted from the both of you, the mood lightening at his joke.

“At least let me sit with you at the kitchen island. I’ve been told I stare but I like to say I observe.” He teased as he stood up from the couch.

“Do you need to lean on me? I can help you walk over there Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, he stood up from the couch and walked with you to the kitchen.

“What if I told you that I’m completely fine and that I definitely didn’t need to stay home today?” He sat down on the bar stool in the kitchen as you started to take ingredients out of the fridge.

You turned to him and he had a giant smirk on his face, his blue eyes nearly taking your breath from your lungs.

“James Barnes— what are you saying?” You giggled as you stood across the island with your arms tightly crossed against your chest.

“Real answer?” He walked over to your side of the island, nervously shuffling around the ingredients you set down on the granite kitchen island.

“Of course.”

Bucky was never good at being vulnerable, but you had always provided a safe space for him so he thought it was now or never.

“I just really wanted to spend time with you alone today.”

You felt like the world stopped and Bucky couldn’t read your reaction, he started growing nervous at the thought of you rejecting him but he couldn’t find any more words to say so he sat there in silence.

“With me?” Your eyes softened and he realized then that you might just feel the same way about him as he did you.

“I mean yeah, you’re pretty much my favorite person” his voice came out soft and mumbled but you knew by now to pay close attention to the things he said or you’d miss them.

“Bucky, You’re my favorite person too” You took a step toward him and he wrapped his arms around you, wasting no time picking you up and placing you on the counter.

He placed his left hand under your chin to kiss you, the metal was cool against your skin making you shudder slightly. Your legs wrapped around his torso instinctively.

You had always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and it was better than anything you imagined.

When the two of you came up for air, you saw a genuine smile on his face. It was rare, and it felt nice knowing you were the reason for it.

“Let me make you breakfast for a change” he patted your thighs with his hands, squeezing them softly before he helped you off the kitchen island.

“Only if you promise not to ruin my new pans” you giggled as you sat down across from him.

“I’m offended you’d think I’d even dream of doing that” he laughed knowing you were referring to the one whole time John Walker made food.

You watched Bucky as he made the two of you an omelet, he seemed so at peace which was abnormal for you to see and him to feel.

“Can I ask you something?” You spoke softly as you tried not to startle him. He turned to you with a hand on his hip and spatula in hand, “yes?”

“How long have you… well….” You were trying and failing to try to word this question correctly.

“Wanted to be with you?” He chuckled, plating your omelet and handing it over to you before sliding some hot sauce your way.

“You want to be with me?” You teased knowing how surprisingly easy it was to make him blush.

“I faked an injury so we could spend time together, isn’t it obvious?” his face deadpanned.

“Does everyone else know you were faking?” You cocked an eyebrow at him before taking a bite of your omelet.

“Yeah, they all knew what I was up to.” he let out a loud laugh as he sat down beside you, there was no use in lying now.

“I love the dedication” you smirked, moving your chair closer to his as you kissed his cheek.

He had only hoped that in no time you’d also love him too.

talking in your sleep pt 2

Summary: You wake up 14 hours after your Melatonin-aided much needed sleep and face the aftermath of your confession to Loki. A confession you believed was a dream.

Pairing: Loki x Reader (friends to lovers)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: implied smut, Loki being hot (not sure if this needs to be a warning but it's there), mild angst (?) [let me know if i missed anything!]

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was that it was dark outside. You'd slept the day away. Maybe even more. But you felt rested, fully energized, ready to go back to your office and face the behemoth that was the security system of the Ten Rings.

Just as you were about to stand up and head back to said office, you vaguely remembered Tony's words about not wanting to see you in your office for the next seven days. That was when you noticed the next thing. This wasn't your home. You didn't even remember leaving the tower. But you did remember bits and pieces of a conversation between Loki and Natasha arguing about whose room you would sleep in.

"FRIDAY?" you called out into the dark empty space. 

"Yes, Miss Y/L/N?" the AI answered. 

"Could you tell me what day it is, how long I've been asleep, and then turn the lights on at 50%?" 

"Certainly, Miss Y/L/N. It's Friday, the 16th, and you were asleep for fourteen hours. Turning on lights at 50% brightness." As light slowly filled the room, you took note of your surroundings. The neatly organized shelves, the helmets hung on the walls, the emerald green bedspread that was an almost exact match to the clothes you were wearing.

You groaned. "I'm in Loki's room?" 

"Indeed you are, Miss Y/L/N. And I've been instructed by Mister Laufeyson to tell you to meet him at the kitchen when you wake. Will that be all?" 

"Yes, FRIDAY, that will be all. Thank you." You took a look around the room, trying to remember anything more than fleeting moments of the last two hours before you fell asleep, to no avail. So you decided instead to follow FRIDAY's words and make your way down to the kitchen to meet Loki. 

Once you reached the bottom of the stairs, you noticed that the tower was strangely quiet for a Friday night. "Lo?" you called out into the quiet space, your voice echoing from the walls.

"In here, darling," you heard him call out. When you walked into the kitchen, you had to catch yourself at the sight of him wearing only a pair of green silk pajama bottoms, a match to the sheets upstairs. You willed your eyes not to roam, not to appreciate his literal godly form, to keep them trained on his face. Big mistake, because once he turned around and his eyes met yours, a devilish smirk crossed his features and his eyes roamed your form. "You are quite the beguiling sight in my colors, dear Y/N. I may have to tell Romanoff she's not getting those clothes back." 

"You plan on keeping them for yourself?" you quipped, trying your best not to let his gaze affect you. But then he set the plate in his hand down and made his way over to you, crowding your space. 

"You have your wits about you again. That's good," he said in a low almost whisper. "You should tell her you're keeping this for yourself." His tone was almost authoritative, as if he wasn't giving you room to protest. You suddenly get flashbacks of him declaring that you would stay with him while you slept in that same tone. Except this time there was a softness to his words, like he was trying to wrap you in them, in his presence. 

It's like he's seducing me, you thought to yourself. But there's no way; you're being delusional, Y/N. Of course you were. He didn't see you that way. He never would. 

You struggled to compose yourself. "I thought you had a thing against people wearing your colors." 

You felt your heartbeat at your fingertips as you watched him raise his hand and slid his finger under and along the strap of your camisole. "Perhaps under the correct circumstances, I would be willing to share." And then he looked at you through his lashes and you could've sworn your heart stopped beating altogether. 

The way you saw it, there were two options. Keep the flirty banter going and see how far he'd take it, or stop it where it stood and play it off like a joke between friends. You didn't trust yourself not to get hurt with the first choice. "Pssh," you chuckled. "You know for a second there, Lo, I could've sworn you were flirting." And you gently nudged his hand away and sat down on a stool  by the kitchen island. "Where is everybody, by the way?" 

"They went out to one of Stark's many clubs to intoxicate themselves on inferior ale and gyrate all over strangers they will cease to remember by morning. Maximoff left that out for you and told me to make sure you ate it once you woke up." 

"Why didn't you go with them?" 

"Nothing in that image fit my rendition of an enjoyable time, darling. And there are far more important things to attend to." 

"Such as?"

"Ensuring that someone I care for is taken care of after she endangered herself the way she did this week." There was no mischief in his eyes as he said the words, as he stared into yours, like he was trying to see into your soul. "Y/N, swear to me you'll never be that reckless again. When you nearly fell earlier…" He seemed to fight back his sentiment.

You placed your hand over his. "I promise," you said softly. "I just forgot--"

"You cannot afford to forget these things, Y/N." His voice sounded almost desperate. Then he took a deep breath. "I don't want to live in a world bereft of you a day sooner than I absolutely have to. I do not wish to even contemplate that world, do you understand?" You had no words, no witty comebacks, no jokes, nothing. All you could do was nod as he held on to your free hand, returning your nod as he raised your joint hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. He then let go and motioned to the plate of pasta in front of you. "Eat, darling." 

You did your best to focus the next several minutes solely on finishing your plate, rather than allowing your mind to wander in the direction of the smoldering shirtless god standing by the counter pretending to leaf through a book, when in reality he was watching your every movement. 

Once you were finally done he ceased his charade and walked over to place himself behind your seat. You visibly stilled as you felt him reach from behind you to slide your plate over to the side, and then proceeding to lean over and rest his chin on your shoulder. 

"What’s up?" You did your best to sound casual. He wasn’t ever like this with you. Whatever this was. So to have him behaving like this now? It was jarring, that was for sure. 

"Did you know you talked in your sleep, dear Y/N?" Your breathing hitched as you both felt and heard his words, what with him having his lips so dangerously close to your ear. The effects he and that absolutely sinful voice of his had on you felt like they were magnified. Tenfold. 

You took a deep, slow breath, trying to find your footing, finally taking notice of how he’d placed his hands on the marble top, effectively trapping you between him and the kitchen counter. You let out a half-hearted chuckle. "Nice try, Lo. I know I don't." You made a motion as if to step off your seat, but his next motions kept you right where you were, as you watched his his forearms flex ever so slightly and he stepped even closer to you and you felt his chest pressing against your upper back. It was clear the message he was trying to send across to you. Don't move an inch.

"That may be so," he started speaking again. He let go of the island and proceeded to sweep your hair over your shoulder with one hand and wrapped his other arm loosely around your waist. "But you say the most interesting things when you're under the influence of that medication, in the moments before you succumbed to its full effects." 

Your blood ran cold as you got flashbacks of the most wonderful dream. You were laying in bed, in Loki's arms, as he asked you if you were his. And you told him you were and that you were defenseless against his perfection, that you fell in love with him. Such a damn shame you don't feel the same way. 

"That wasn't a dream," you whispered, barely even able to breathe properly as you felt his nose tracing along the length of your exposed neck. "You know." You were doing your best to choke back the sob that threatened to escape you. 

"I do." 

"I'm sorry." Your voice was barely audible. Any louder and you were sure to be a sobbing mess in his arms.

"What ever for, darling?" His words came out so softly, so lovingly, with just a hint of longing. But surely you were imagining it. Right? "You've done nothing wrong."

"I don't know," you whispered, on the verge of hysterics. "I just feel like I should be apologizing for something." And then another flashback. A dream – no, a memory – of you pressing your lips to his neck right before everything went black. Your breath hitched. "I'm sorry I kissed you."

"Don't be, my precious girl," he crooned. "I quite enjoyed it. The feel of your soft, luscious lips on my skin. It was as if the universe stopped; I wanted it to. I wanted that fleeting moment to go on for eternity." What? "The only thing I did not enjoy was you succumbing to slumber before I could return the favor." Oh, you were sure you stopped breathing now. Was he really saying what you think he was saying? "No matter. You're awake now."

You went near frigid in his hold as you felt him press his lips softly to your skin, and he let out an audible exhale that felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. If you thought he would stop at one, you were adorably naive.

He proceeded to press kiss after kiss to your skin, each getting less chaste, more frantic. You began to question if you were still dreaming, but feeling the edges of the stool you gripped so tightly in your hands digging into your palms told you you most definitely were not. This was real. This was all real. 

"Relax, darling," he whispered into your skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. You could've sworn your heart stopped beating the moment you felt his tongue flick against your skin. His hold on you tightened so slightly as he moved his lips to your jaw. "You have nothing to fear. You've done nothing wrong, my little mortal." His lips moved closer to yours, stopping at the corner of your mouth and pressing a kiss there. "All you've done is the impossible." 

"Which is?" you breathed out, surprised there was any air in your lungs at all after receiving this kind of attention from him. You never thought he would; you often forbid yourself to even dream it. You wouldn't dare, because even in your dreams where you were undoubtedly the best version of yourself, even there you never saw yourself worthy of him.

"I won't tell you until you relax, dear Y/N," he teased, his lips moving against your skin, so tantalizingly close to your lips. "Let go of the breath you're holding and lean in to me." 

"I'll fall." 

"You won't. I'm here. You're safe with me. You always have been." That did you in and finally you slowly felt yourself loosening your grip on your seat, exhaling and doing exactly what he asked, leaning against him. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, gently tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. "All you've done is love me. As I've loved you." 

Before you could respond, he captured your lips with his in a kiss that was heated but held such restraint, as if he was still testing the waters with you. Your heart felt like it was soaring as you started to wrap your head around what was happening, as if a fire was ignited in you that warmed your entire body. 

When he pulled away from you, you immediately felt the loss, craving his kiss once more. If you'd thought you were intoxicated by being in his presence before, you were downright drunk on it now. Addicted, even. "Oh, my love. My darling Y/N. It seems one taste of you and I've become insatiable." The feeling's mutual, you thought to yourself, unable to form words. There was that word again. Love. He turned you around in your seat so that you were facing him. "Look at me." You tilted your head up to look into his steel blue eyes, your breath hitching as you saw all the emotions swimming in them. "I want you to say it. Say the words that made me whole. I want to gaze upon your ethereal perfection as you say it. Please, Y/N." 

You took a breath, and the words spilled out of you, as if you couldn't say them fast enough. "I love you, Loki Laufeyson." 

You watched as the brightest smile lit up his face before he leaned in to kiss you again. "I love you, Y/N Y/L/N." He lifted you into his arms and you wrapped your legs around him, as if by instinct. Like you were meant to do this. Made for it, even. "The only damned shame is that we failed to tell each other sooner. I could have had you so much sooner." 

He began to walk you back up the stairs when the elevator doors dinged and opened to reveal Tony and the rest of the team coming back. He took one look at the two of you and blurted out, "I don't even wanna know. I'll see you the week after next, Y/N." 

"Keep the clothes, Y/N," Natasha hollered. "Suits you better anyway." 

You couldn't be bothered to respond, not like you could anyway. Your lips were otherwise occupied. So you gave a half-hearted thumbs up and waved goodbye at the team watching what was transpiring from the common area. 

"Well it's about goddamn time," you heard Wilson boom from the doors. "So who had money on tonight?" 

"I did," you heard Wanda answer him. "I told you all to never bet against me, but none of you listened. And now I'm rich. Should I silence Loki's room?" You didn't hear the response. You didn't care.

You faintly heard a door closing before you felt your back hit the silken sheets of his bed. "I must remember to thank Stark for giving you a week away from your duties," he murmured as he pressed kisses to your jaw and neck. "We have an abundance of lost time to make up for, my love." 

"Everyone knows exactly what's happening right now," you gasped out, your filter going completely out the window once again.

He pressed a kiss above your heart before looking up at you through his lashes. "Does that bother you? That they know?" 

A devious smirk graced your lips as you coyly shook your head. "Not really, no." 

A/N: Does this still count as fluff? I don't know anymore lol

Taglist: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @redbluekjw @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @springdandelixn @ficitve-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446

You take the dark and carve me out a home

Bucky Barnes x New Avenger!Reader 

Summary: Unwinding after a tough mission is not exactly easy. Especially not when you’re part of a group that is always, constantly under scrutiny. Which is why you were always extra hard on yourself whenever you felt like you made a mistake or let the team down in any way. Bucky was aware of this, he was aware of everything regarding you, and usually he gave you your space and within a day or two you’d get back to normal. But this time was different, he noticed. It had been a couple of days since your last mission and you were still in that weird, distant headspace. And Bucky needed you back, the whole team needed you back, but him more because… well, because he cared about you a lot more than he let on. 

Themes: soft!dom!bucky, praise kink, angst, hurt/comfort, friends-to-lovers, fluff

“Where is she?” 

Bucky demanded, walking in, looking around, and noticing immediately that you weren’t at the dinner table. The rest of the team looked like they’d just been done eating. Alexei was almost falling asleep in his seat already.

“I thought she was with you?” Ava squinted at Bucky. 

Yelena added, “Don’t you two always work out together every night?” 

Bucky frowned. “I know, I…” He paused to think. “I left the gym hours ago. She said she was gonna finish up and come find you guys.” He rolled his eyes at the realisation, “So she’s been in there alone for the past couple of hours and no one checked on her.” 

“I did.” Bob said, always with that lost puppy dog look in his eyes. “I went to the gym earlier to get a workout in. But she glared at me, so I just kinda left, like, really quickly.” 

“Relax, man.” John spoke, adding to Bucky’s irritation. “She’s probably still working out to get her mind off things. You know how she gets.” 

Bucky sighed and walked away, leaving the rest of them in the kitchen. Damn it. He could’ve checked up on you too. But after his work out he had some calls to attend to, and deal with some things on behalf of the team. He’d totally lost track of time. Also, he genuinely didn’t think you’d stay in the gym for hours. He knew you worked out each day, sometimes twice a day. But lately, he was getting more and more worried watching you put your body through pain hours at a time. 

He took the elevator to the floor the gym was on and walked in to find you with your boxing gloves on, the punching bag swinging gently in front of you. Your head was lowered, your back to him but he still saw the way your shoulders moved as you breathed quickly. Your skin glistened with sweat, and Bucky just knew you weren’t having a good night. 

Again. 

He needed to do something about that. 

“Have mercy on that poor punching bag.” He said, keeping his eyes on you as you turned to face him. He realised he would never get used to it, that intense look in your eyes whenever you got into moods like these. The look that made most people run away from you. But not him. Never him. “Let’s go. You’re tired.” 

“I’m not.” You were quick to argue. Always quick to argue. Then you took your fighting stance again, facing him rather than the punching bag, your fists up in the air. Ready to spar. “Come on. And don’t be gentle with me.” 

“No.” He declined politely. “You’ve been here for hours. You need to shower, eat, and get some sleep. I can’t have you walking around looking like that anymore.” He stepped closer, your dark red gloves almost touching his chest. “I know you think you messed up on our last mission. But you didn’t. We made it out alive, all of us. Stop punishing yourself for things you didn’t do.” 

You lowered your fists. Looking defeated. Bucky always saw right through you. “But I put us at risk. I didn’t wait for the signal,” You stated. “I could’ve gotten us all killed.” 

“But you didn’t.” He said firmly. “Besides, one mistake doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re one of the best out of all of us.” He sighed upon seeing how truly hard you could be on yourself. “Give yourself some grace.” 

You hung your head again. Bucky wanted to hold you close and not let go until you felt better. And it killed him that he didn't know how to get you out of that dark, shadowy pit of guilt and disappointment. He reached out and touched your cheek, his fingers cupping your face. “What’s going on with you? Where are you?” He whispered, “Come back to us.” 

Come back to me. 

You gave him a faint smile. Bucky had always been your safe place. With his dreamy blue and often tired eyes, and his Disney prince, perfect hair, and his charming smile. He was definitely your go-to person. You loved the rest of the team, but Bucky was special. He somehow always got it. With him, you never had to explicitly explain everything, he always just understood what you meant. He spoke your language. 

You two had always been closer to each other than to the others. And while the others constantly teased you about the tension between you two, you never acted on it, nor did either of you ever deny it. Sure, flirty comments here and there were a regular thing. And you both cared deeply for one another, but you never talked about it in a serious way. Having the other there was always just… comfortable. 

Bucky managed to get you out of the gym and sent you to your floor. He took the stairs to the kitchen again and made you a plate, full of your favourite things, and took it to your room. The door was unlocked and he could still hear you in the shower. He didn’t want to disturb you so he placed the plate on your bed and left. 

–

Hours later, Bucky still couldn’t sleep. He’d received a text from you, you thanked him for bringing you food and said you were off to bed. But something was keeping him restless. He didn’t know what it was. He simply couldn’t stay still. 

He quickly checked the cameras and was relieved to see the gym was empty. Which meant that you were up in your room. Which was a good thing, but something in his gut was telling him to go check up on you. Bucky got up immediately as soon as the thought crossed his mind. 

He made his way to your floor again, the entire building was quiet. It was well past midnight and he said he’d just check on you. Nothing else. He would knock on your door and if you didn’t answer immediately, he would go back up to his room. 

But something told him you were still awake. And if you were awake you were probably overthinking yourself to death, drowning in guilt and disappointment. Bucky sighed, waiting for the elevator to stop on your floor. That look in your eyes earlier in the gym was haunting him. He missed the spark in you. The brightness. That empty look… he wanted it gone. 

Bucky found himself rethinking his actions once he was at your bedroom door. There was still silence, even on the other side. But he knocked twice, he had to. 

He waited, a little embarrassed because what the hell would he say he was here for? That is, if you were still up. 

He was still wondering what he would actually say when you opened the door quickly, as if you were waiting for him to show up. 

Bucky took one look at you and your face, tear-stained and lips trembling as you tried to keep it all in, and he pulled you into his arms immediately. Walking in and shutting the door behind him, Bucky kept his arms securely around you. 

Your breaths were shaky. Your body trembling with your quiet sobs. 

“Hey, I’m here.” Bucky whispered, his lips pressed against your forehead. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. I’m here.” 

And somehow, being in his arms made the darkness go away gradually. Bucky’s scent, his body heat, the feeling of his strong arms around you, hearing his steady heartbeat, it calmed you down instantly. 

“Come here,” He walked over to your bed, sat down on the edge and pulled you down onto his lap. He had hugged you many times before, but this felt different. Intimate. But natural. It felt like you belonged there in his arms. 

You straddled his thighs, limbs wrapped around him like he was the only thing left in the world. Like he was all you had. Your face hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands running up and down your back and sides while he kept mumbling reassuring words in your ear. You felt safe. 

“I’m sorry.” You said. 

And your voice was so quiet and weak that it broke his heart. “Don’t be.” He quickly said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We all make mistakes, it’s okay.” 

“I feel… inadequate.” You sniffled, pulling away to look him in the eyes. His ocean blue ones looked into your eyes with so much patience and warmth that it healed parts of you. “And empty,” You continued. “I feel like I’m not doing enough. Like I'm still not strong enough. Just not enough.” 

“Hey,” He cupped your face in his hands. “Just ‘cause that’s what the voices are screaming at you, doesn’t mean it’s true. Okay? None of what you just said is true.” He said, sincerely. “None of it. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re fierce and kind. You boss most of us around, but you care so deeply and it shows.” His thumbs wiped your tears away. “You add so much to our team, don’t you see that? You’re one of the few people Bob is comfortable around. You and Ava make a deadly combo. You and Yelena keep everything in order. You and John work really well together when it comes to keeping us safe or protecting us during combat. You and Alexei, well, he loves you just as much as he loves Yelena.” Bucky listed, “And as for you and I, we’re simply the best duo there can be, aren’t we?” He sounded a little playful. 

And it put a faint smile on your face. You sniffled, nodding slowly. “Just having a rough couple of days, I guess.” 

It was more than just that, but Bucky only asked, “What do you need? And don’t say you need to box or spar, or anything. Clearly that’s not helping like it usually does.” He pointed out. “You wanna take a few days off and go somewhere to clear your head?” 

You shook your head, whispering, “No. I like it here. It’s fine, I just… I don’t know.” You took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I can’t quite put it into words.” 

“Try.” He said, “Take your time. I’m here, I’ll listen.” 

You sighed again, unable to look him in the eyes as you spoke. “I just feel numb all the time. And it gets worse when I don’t do my job well. And now I’m struggling to just… feel something. I feel nothing all the time lately and I know it sounds like I’m whining about it but…” You took another deep breath, “It’s exhausting. It’s heavy. It’s not just numbness, it’s like I’m stagnant and I want to get out of… whatever this state is and I try, I try but something keeps dragging me down and keeping me in a chokehold right where it feels the heaviest. I wanna get out. Of my head, out of this weird headspace I’m in but nothing helps. Nothing works. I don’t know. I don’t know if that made sense, I’m just fucked up I guess.” 

Chokehold. He knew that feeling all too well. “You’re not fucked up.” He said, “I know how it feels.” 

“I know you do.” You finally met his eyes and the shadows disappeared gradually. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Buck.” 

“What can I do to help?” He asked. It killed him to see you like this. You were here but also so distant. He wanted you back, for your own sake, but also because he missed having his best friend around. 

“Make me feel something.” You said, softly like you were afraid someone else might hear. “Anything, please.” 

“Oh, baby.” Something about the way you sounded so vulnerable, which was rare from you, made Bucky forget about everything else. He didn’t care, all he wanted to do was piece you back together. “I’ve got you.” He whispered, and leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, hands trailing down your body until he placed his hands on the curve of your ass and pulled you into him even more. 

You gasped against his mouth, kissing him back slowly, melting into him. His metal hand came to rest on your exposed thigh, only then did you realise that in your PJ shorts really didn’t hide much. His cold fingers lazily grazed the crease between your hip and thigh, and it was all you could focus on in the moment, other than the heat of his mouth. 

Bucky pulled away to whisper, “Just so you know, we can stop if you don’t want this,” before he kissed you hungrily again, his beard and his long, soft hair tickling your face. “We can go back to talking and we’ll pretend this never happened.” 

“Please don’t stop.” You mumbled against his mouth. “I need this. I need you.” 

“Okay,” He whispered, in between kisses, “I won’t stop, baby. I’ve got you,” He repeated. “Don’t worry, I’m right here. Okay?” 

You pulled away from the kiss, teary eyed again. “I trust you, Buck.” 

Bucky accepted the weight of that trust, he cupped your face and said softly, “I know, angel. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” 

You could’ve sworn he used superhuman speed with how fast he flipped the two of you, tossing you down on your bed as he climbed on top of you. He carefully grabbed your hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing your knuckles softly as he whispered, “I’ll be gentle.” 

“Don’t be.” You pleaded, looking up at him. His hair framed his face in a perfectly messy way. His body was warm above you. Bucky was always warmer than most people, you figured it was a supersoldier thing. “I don’t want gentle.” 

He nodded. “Okay, angel. Remember, we can stop whenever you want to. Alright?” 

“Yes.” 

Bucky held your stare as he rapidly undid the buttons of your satin PJ top, and immediately diving in to take a nipple into his mouth once the top was open. Sucking, and biting until your back arched off the bed. 

“Bucky…” You gasped, and moaned as he alternated between each breast while his hand slipped down to pull your shorts and underwear down your legs until you kicked it off yourself. 

He pulled away to look at you, sprawled on the bed under him. Then he leaned in to whisper against your lips, “You don’t want gentle, huh? Well, you’re gonna be a good girl and do exactly as I say, okay? I need you to stop thinking, to stop calculating, and analysing, just listen to me. My voice and that’s it.” 

He knew what it was like – that feeling of wanting someone to just tell you what to do. It didn’t have to be sexual like right now, but just the loss of control in a safe, consensual way. With someone you trust blindly. He knew it could heal, partly at least. So he knew exactly what you needed right now. 

He kissed you roughly, taking what he wanted from your open, willing mouth before pulling away to look down at you with a dangerous, gorgeous smile on his lips. “You’re all mine now. You hear me?” He whispered against your mouth. “You’re my perfect girl. And my perfect girl doesn’t put herself down. She doesn’t think she's not good enough. She doesn’t think she’s done a bad job. She doesn’t think she’s fucked up. Because she’s not. She’s my good fucking girl, and she’s perfect. You hear me? You’re perfect.” 

You gasped as he lazily ran his metal fingers down your wet folds. 

“Look at you, such a good girl. Lying here so perfectly with your legs spread, just letting me touch you however I want.” He stated, grabbing your face in his other hand as he slid two metal fingers inside you. His voice was steady, controlled, and firm as he said, “This is how it’s gonna be from now on, okay? Whenever you need to be reminded how good you are, you come find me.” He slid his fingers deeper, pulling them out slowly in a way that he knew drove you insane, judging by the sounds you made. “Whenever the voices get too loud, you come find me.” He did it again. “Whenever it gets too dark, you come find me.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll fix it, baby. I always will. You don’t have to carry all that alone, I’ll help you. I’ve got you from now on, you get that? You’re not alone, I’m here. I’ll always be here.” 

He had you coming all over his fingers in no time. He stroked you in all the right places and your body responded to each one of his lazy, deliberate strokes beautifully. You squirmed as he kept finger-fucking you through your orgasm. 

“There’s my perfect girl,” He cooed, watching you squirm and whine under him. “You did so well,” He kissed your cheek, then the other, “You sound so perfect when you come.” 

He pulled away for a brief moment, getting off of you and standing at the end of your bed, taking his t-shirt and sweatpants off but leaving his boxers, lowered just enough to free his erected cock. 

He stood there, wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it twice while he held your stare. “It’s all for you, angel. All for you and no one else.” He said, watching with a slight smirk as you looked down at his cock and bit your lower lip. “Are you gonna be my good girl and take it?” 

You nodded quickly, “Yes.” Not even realising that all the prior shadowy thoughts had completely left your head. This was all you could focus on – him. Bucky. With his perfect body, and his beautiful hair, and his dreamy eyes. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. 

Buckley climbed on top of you again. “Careful what you ask for, baby. Supersoldiers don’t get tired.” He sounded so cocky it made you only want him more just to prove him wrong. 

“I want you, please,” You begged, looking up at him with those eyes that made him weak.

One of his hands found its way to your throat and he wrapped his fingers around it carefully as he stared into your eyes. “Nothing else holds my girl in a chokehold but me, you hear that? Nothing else has power over you, but me. And you,” He leaned in closer to make sure his point got across, “You are my good girl. You’re enough. You do a great job everyday. You’re stronger than all that’s trying to drag you down. And you’re louder than all the dark voices, you hear me?” 

You nodded, the look in his eyes was so intense, so raw and sincere, and so shamelessly feral that you might’ve come undone right there if he asked you to. 

“You will come for me like my good girl, won’t you, baby?” He asked, guiding the tip of his cock over to your clit and circling it, smearing his precum and your wetness around. 

You whimpered at the sensation. So fucking good. You nodded rapidly, “Yes… please,” You begged. 

“Of course you will,” Bucky chuckled, “Because you’re my perfect girl.” He teased you a bit more by just pressing the tip of his cock against your tight hole. Not pushing it in, just pressing ever so gently until you whined and clawed at his neck and shoulders, sliding your fingers into his ridiculously soft hair and tugging on it gently. 

“Bucky, please.” You mumbled, “Please, please, please…” 

“I know baby, I know.” He said, keeping his hand around your throat, pinning you down on your bed with it. “I’m here, I’ll make it feel good.” He whispered, before pushing his cock all the way inside you. 

You gasped loudly at the same time as he groaned when he slid all the way in you. He remained still for a few moments, just relishing the feeling of your warmth around him. Your breath was shaky as you felt him fill you up and stretch you out so deliciously, snug, deep, and big inside you. 

Bucky looked down at your face contorting in pleasure as he breathed heavily. Then he moved just a little, and the slightest friction made you whine even louder. “Does that feel good, baby? Is that cock good enough for my perfect girl? Hmm?” 

“Yes…” You breathed, looking at his gorgeous face above you. Fuck, you could spend forever here under him. He felt so good. 

“Look at that,” He said, “You’re tearing up already,” He pointed out, noticing the wetness in the corners of your eyes. “Feel good inside you, don’t I?” He teased, rolling his hips just the slightest bit in between your thighs. 

You cried out in pleasure. 

He tightened his grip around your throat slightly and said, “I know baby, I know it feels good. This is exactly what my good girl deserves.” He whispered. Then he said, “Now, keep your pretty eyes on me. I want you to watch me while I fuck you, okay?” 

You nodded quickly, a tear escaping your eye already. Fuck, he felt so good. 

Bucky let out a grunt as he started fucking into you hard and fast. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, holding your stare and telling you how good you felt. 

You could only respond with moans and whimpers, which only made him fuck you harder. 

He sped up into you, mumbling, “Knew you’d feel fucking amazing around me. ‘Cause you’re my perfect girl, aren’t you? Perfect, tight pussy as well.” He whispered, in a daze as he pounded into you. “You were fucking made for me.” 

Your body squirmed under him, your back arching off the bed, you were burning. Bright and hot. Like the fucking sun. And he was giving it to you like you wanted it, hard, fast and raw. 

His thrust was relentless, his weight on top of you felt too good. So good you never wanted him to pull out of you, so you raised your trembling legs and wrapped them around his hips. 

He chuckled when you did that. “Yeah? Don’t want me to stop, do you?” He taunted. “Just want me to keep going, keep fucking my good girl how she likes it, huh?” He pressed the sides of your throat as he fucked deeper into you. 

He watched as you got closer and closer to the edge. And just when you were right there… he stopped abruptly, and pulled out. 

You gasped in shock. 

“Oh what, you thought you could just come so easily?” He teased, grabbing you by the hips and flipping you around onto your stomach. “I tried to be nice and sweet to you, but that’s not what you want or need, is it, baby?” You moaned as he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to your lower back with one hand, while the other guided his cock over to your hole again. “You see? This is what you need.” He leaned over you to whisper into your ear, sliding back inside you as he said, “You wanted me to make you feel something, huh? Do you feel it now, baby?” He tugged on your pinned wrists, which made you whine in pain and pleasure. “You feel me inside you? Right where I belong, isn’t it?” 

You nodded, rubbing your face against your dark, cool bed sheets. “Yes…” 

He began fucking into you from behind, hard and fast. Mercilessly. Like he was claiming you. Marking his territory. Rough. Raw. The pleasure was overwhelming, building, and building, and building… 

Until you couldn’t hold it back much longer… 

“Come for me, angel.” He whispered, lips brushing against your ear. “Be my good girl and come all over…” 

You didn’t hear the rest. You came all over his cock with a loud moan, gasping and crying as he came right after you – filling you up with his cum as he did. You were gasping for air, and so was he. His body weight on top of you felt nice, his body heat felt nice. Everything was nice, light, and perfect. 

He let go of your wrists and then you felt him kiss along your spine, gently. Softly. Like he hadn’t been fucking you like an animal just seconds ago. “You okay, baby?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “My pretty girl, so perfect for me.” 

You were still catching your breath when Bucky lay beside you and pulled you into his arms. You immediately clung to his side. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispered. 

You sighed, with a faint smile forming on your face. Your cheek pressing against his damp chest. “Thank you, Buck.” Your mind was quiet, but in a good way. “I needed that.” 

“I know.” He murmured, rubbing your back in that soothing way he always did. 

But then, you still had one question. “How did you know when to come find me? I texted you I was going to bed.” How did he even know to come and check on you? How did he know you weren’t doing well at all? 

A smirk, then he said, “I always know what my girl needs.” 

You teased, “Your girl, huh?” 

“You’ve always been my girl.” 

—

a/n: [escapes my padded cell to throw this at your face]