gwaitforma

Latest Posts by gwaitforma

𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑙 ; tommy riordan | one-shot |

summary: you’re visited by the love and loss of your life after he walked away a decade ago.

pairing: tommy riordan x vsangel!reader.

trope: estranged childhood best friends to lovers.

genre: angst + fluff + hurt & comfort + romance.

warnings‼️: a 3 year age gap (reader is 22 & tommy is 25) + crude language + a kiss scene + a suggestive line towards reader as a model (some guy says she’s fine) + a minor detail describing a small part of the daily routine of a marine which may be inaccurate.

word count: 3,675.

random disclaimerrr: tom hardy 😍😍 happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2024 @jks1uv

────♡♡♡────

you & tommy were the best of friends. inseparable at the tender ages of 5 & 8.

you two were neighbors and ur family consists of 4; mom, dad, you, and your little sister.

tommy and brendan had a bigger age gap than you and your sister but whenever you girls would be out in the yard, tommy would feel the itch to go out and play in his little hands.

he knew y’all were younger than him but that didn’t discourage his curiosity.

“um, is… is it okay if i can play with you?” he asked hesitantly.

you and your little sister look towards the voice and find a boy older than the two of you standing by his front porch, looking bashful. you nodded enthusiastically, so excited to make a new friend. “yes!” you exclaimed as you grab his hand and drag him along your front yard.

ever since then, the two of you were joined at the hip.

────♡♡♡────

tommy would come over to your house often due to the close nature of your friendship.

you may have been 12 at the time but you were wise, and that made it easier for him to confide in you.

“he’s drunk. again.” he shook his head and chuckled bitterly.

your eyes were soft and sorry. you wish he wouldn’t think pitying him was a bad thing. you lace your hands with his and insist on watching a movie while snacking on his favorite things.

“you can spend the night. if you want?”

it was second nature to go above and beyond for him, but it was second nature for him to deny your kindness. you never understood why.

“nah, i gotta get back to my mom.” and you smiled at that.

one thing about tommy? he’s a great son to his mother.

they say it gets worse before it gets better and that was certainly the case for tommy. he and his mother had been pushed to their limits. they both packed their bags and never looked back at pittsburgh ever again.

you were devastated, heartbroken. you couldn’t believe your best friend just up and left without even saying goodbye.

you figured it was because of his father, paddy, but you never knew he’d be behind pushing your best friend away from you.

you harbored a secret anger towards him whenever tommy would spill his guts out but in this moment? you resented him.

paddy was the sole reason your other half, your soulmate was gone.

you never even got to tell tommy how you really felt about him.

tommy told you his secrets and you shared yours. you were never this close to a person, ever. your little sister is an exception but of course she’s gonna know you better than you know yourself. she’s your blood, but tommy isn’t. he’s someone who’s seen what the inside of your heart looks like and he hadn’t judged you one bit for it.

tommy is your first love, but he was also the loss of your life.

────♡♡♡────

10 years later, present-day:

“standby y/n.”

you're nervous as fuck and rightfully so. in addition to this being the first time you open a victoria’s secret fashion show, you're wearing your first fantasy bra to do it.

that’s a lot more firsts a girl can hope for!

you’re just a couple of minutes away from so many things happening tonight. tripping and twisting your ankle, falling on your face and the internet never letting you live it down, or worse: never getting another chance to model for victoria's secret ever again.

well, there goes your career! over before it even started all because of some heels or the floor or the lights or some other, valid yet non-excusable reason.

you take a deep breath in and exhale through your lips forming an ‘o’ shape. you close your eyes and join your hands together to pray silently with the few seconds you have left.

please, please, please don’t let me fuck this up. please.

you hear ariana grande belt out the few lines before the chrous of ‘dangerous woman’ out front. you make a mental note to ask for a photo and autograph when you see her later.

“go, y/n!” showtime.

it’s muscle memory for your hands to place themselves on your hips as you make your way down the large, well-lit, glittery floor.

perfect timing to make your appearance as the chorus of the song plays on.

cheers and screams erupt from the seats as you stand tall and concentrate on moving your ankles in front of the other.

you’re at the middle of the runway when you tug on a strap and large, black, feathery wings make their appearance. more cheers and screams erupt from the venue & you can’t help but feel like that bitch.

when you make it to the end of the runway, you turn your chin down a bit and let your eyes do the talking. they’re outlined with black eyeliner and highlighted with silver and black eyeshadow, blended so nicely together.

the theme for your fantasy bra is “black swan” and it’s perfect for you as that’s the energy you’re known to give off. dark feminine, mysterious and unpredictable.

you pause for a few seconds to pose and let your side profile hang in the camera angle for a bit before you turn to the side. you make a full 360. you eye the camera on the side, offering one last glimpse before you’re on your way backstage.

you let the crowd fuel you as you depart and hope you looked your very best.

you know only angels get to wear wings and you know it’s a privilege to get to do both; be an angel and wear wings.

you were signed as a victoria’s secret model at 18 and worked very hard for 3 years to earn your title as an ‘angel’. at 21, you were gifted an opportunity so many girls only dream of.

the rest of the girls backstage practically flood the room with excited shrieks, warm hugs and elated faces.

you were the youngest of the batch and had so much yet to learn but they all treated you as their baby.

“you killed it out there!”

“so beyond proud of you, babe.”

“there she is! the highlight of tonight.”

“our black swan did so beautiful!” and there were so many more words of encouragement that made u spill so many tears but you did it! the hard part was over. now you can change into other lingerie and wings and just be content with the fact that you did it. you. did. it.

────♡♡♡────

after the show was successfully complete (and ariana grande came asking for a photo), a celebration in the form of drinks were obviously in order.

you’re out with ur sister and you deem it’s baddie baddie shot o’clock.

“girl, save some for your birthday.” your sister laughed.

you just sent her a toothy grin and shrugged. “we’ll just drink some more when it gets here.”

your 23rd birthday is still some time away but you weren’t thinking about that tonight.

“HOLY SHIT, IS THAT TOMMY?!”

yup. that’s what you were thinking about. the boy who left pittsburgh and took a piece of your heart with him.

your neck snaps up at the name and you see him for the first time in forever.

he’s here. in the flesh, and not on television breaking some guy's jaw. he's about 10 ppl away from you. your heart stops. your breathing stops.

time stops and all of a sudden, you’re a little kid again forming a memorable friendship with the neighbors youngest son.

he’s wearing a white tank top under a baggy, black zip-up jacket with a pair of black sweatpants. his baby blues are darting from one person to the next, an unnoticeable smile on his face as people come up to him and say nice things with proud smiles on their faces.

you think he looks good. a bit uncomfortable and edgy, but he looks like he’s been taking good care of himself.

you begrudgingly look away from him and blink rapidly to keep your tears from falling.

your sister puts a comforting hand on your shoulder, begging you to go up to him and rekindle what may be lost but you silently plead with her to just let you have this.

you don’t have it in you to go up to him and make small talk, act like the last 10 years didn’t happen.

at least not tonight.

she indulges you and the two of you quietly leave the bar. unaware of the stunned pair of eyes that want so desperately for you to turn around to see what’s slipping away.

────♡♡♡────

you wake up with a headache but it's not from a hangover. it's from crying yourself to sleep.

you couldn't believe yourself. how did you miss the one chance you've been so desperately praying for? how did you walk out and away from him?

like he did you.

you sigh and drink some water from your nightstand before getting ready.

you shower and eat and think about going to just drive around town as you haven't been back in 3 years. should you also go see him? maybe he's still here?

or maybe he left. again.

you shake your head away from those thoughts, no matter how possible they may be. you're gonna go out there and find him and... well, you'll figure out the rest of the plan when you see him.

the sound of the doorbell ringing catches your attention. your sister left for work and said she won't be back until 6.

you grab your keys and purse and make your way to the door, hoping it's a girl scout with cookies or something.

but of course, surprise, surprise. the universe says “nuh uh!” and behold! it's the very thing you ran away from. in the flesh. this time, just a couple of steps away from touching you.

“tommy?” you breathe out in disbelief.

he blinks slowly and your stomach feels funny. like all the adrenaline in you is swarming around in your intestines, daring you to move your body. and without thinking, you accept the challenge.

you jump out at him and crush him in the biggest hug you've ever given and the vigor of it nearly knocks his balance off a bit. you hear him grunt in surprise and your arms are wrapped around his neck in a vice grip. like if you loosen them even a little, he'll disappear again.

hot tears brim along your eyes. you close them tightly and let them slide down your cheeks anyway, feeling them trail a path down your face.

his hands slowly rise towards your figure and he's unsure where to put them. he's never hugged anyone like, never been hugged like this. even when he made up with brendan, it was different. but why is this different? it it because it's you and not his no-longer-estranged older brother?

he hugs you back. one hand is across your hip and the other is your shoulder blade in his palm. he slides his face into the crevice of your neck and noses your collarbone in a silent apology. you sniffle as you accept it.

“i'm sorry.” he croaks out.

you shake your head, to tell him he doesn't have to be but he insists.

“i shoulda came to see you but-” he cuts himself off.

he sighs and moves his face back, prompting you to do the same.

you look at him with watery eyes and his eyes dart around your face. like he's memorizing it. his eyebrows come together and form lines on his forehead. you know he does that when he's thinking really hard about something.

“the truth is,”

you let go of his neck and his cradles your face in his hands.

“i knew i wouldn't be able to leave if i saw you.” and when he drops that bomb on you, you can't help but stitch your wobbly lips together in a smile.

it doesn't reach your eyes though, and that's how he knows you missed him just as much as he missed you.

“but i woulda understood why.”

and he knows that, of course he knows. he also knows that the second he would've seen those tears in your eyes, he would've broken his resolve. and how could he not? you break his heart when you cry.

he wipes your tears with his thumbs.

“i know.” he murmurs.

he pulls you into him once more with a hand on your neck and you cry softly, unbeknownst to you that he's forcing himself to brave through his teary eyes.

────♡♡♡────

“oh my god, you're so old.” you giggle.

“and you're so young.” he bites with no heat.

you invited tommy in and changed, finding your mission successful. the current conversation is about how different life has been for the both of you.

“so i guess we're both kinda like celebrities, huh. you tap your nails against the sofa arm.

“more you than me.” his lips split open in a toothy grin.

you smile back and think how great this all is. there's no sign of forced conversation, he's as relaxed as he can be and you are happy.

tommy stares at you and finds himself seeing all the things he's missed. he finds all the years he's missed in your face, all the places you've been in your eyes and all the joy you've experienced in your lips.

the truth is, he saw you on tv every time you were in a show. back when you just modeled for any show and before you were officially signed on as an angel.

his unit members would tease him but he didn't care. you were on national television and to him? you were amazing. if anyone said anything about any woman in a suggestive tone, he'd say something anyway but he never played about you.

“damn, she's fine.”

if looks can kill, you wouldn't wanna be that guy. because tommy could kill with his bare hands just as well.

alas, that was the only warning that poor chap got before it was lights out. all because he couldn't keep his thoughts in his head. he just had to air it out to everyone.

tommy slept good that night, too.

“whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” you pull him away from his memories.

he deeply exhales and looks away from you, fiddling with his chain around his neck.

“i watched all your shows.” he murmurs.

you still heard it though and you show it by the way your face is beaming.

“really?”

you’re elated because you were on his mind just as much as he was on yours.

he nods, still refusing eye contact. but it’s okay.

you scoot a bit closer to him and your knees are folded under you, touching his thigh. he stops fiddling with his chain and eyes your hands on your knees. slowly but surely, his eyes lock onto yours and he sees how happy you are.

“i didn’t know they allowed people to watch tv over there.” you can’t help your grin.

your head tilts to the side a little as he explains how everyone shares one tv and there’s a daily time limit to how much tv they can watch.

“wait, so, you even watched the shows i did before i was exclusive to victoria’s secret?”

“every single one.”

that made your heart swoon. your crush on him never left but this amplified it.

you had guys try to hit on you and say a line or two to get your number (or something else) but they weren’t tommy.

he haunted your life.

“why didn’t you ever call?”

you didn’t want to ruin the mood but this has been sitting on your mind the second you let him in. you don’t know if he feels it, too.

“why’d you leave the bar?”

you quirk up an eyebrow at his quick yet witty retort.

touché.

this has been weighing on him for quite some time, too.

“i didn’t know how to face you… i guess i was overwhelmed.” you answer, ashamed.

he nods like he was satisfied in your answer.

“same.”

you look at him, unsatisfied with his lack of explanation.

“i never called because i thought you might’ve hated me.” he admits.

you’re offended and you don’t hide it.

did he really think his friendship meant that little to you? so little, that you wouldn’t understand?

he sees the look on your face and shakes head, as if he was answering your questions.

“no, wait, it’s not like that-”

“i could never hate you.”

there’s a softness in your voice as you say the words he’s been longing for. it soothes the wave of self-loathing washing over the shore of his heart. all he’s wanted to hear, to know; is that you don’t hate him.

your knees slide out from under you and you cross your legs together, facing him.

“i honestly thought you forgot about me-”

“never.” he says so instantly, like that idea is so absurd and bizarre.

to him? it is.

“i could never, ever forget about you.”

now it was his turn to be offended.

how could you assume he’d ever forget about you? the same you that never let him down? the same you that always had a place for him in your mind and heart? that you? please.

you sigh softly and look down at your hands. you’re unsure where to go now.

“okay.” you nod.

“okay.” he asserted.

you huff out a laugh from your scrunched up nose and your smile threatens your unbothered demeanor.

tommy smiles back, a tight-lipped one but a smile nonetheless.

he gazes into your eyes and they drift to your lips on their own accord. like a magnet, they’re drawn to your mouth and your eyes are drawn to his.

he hesitantly leans in a bit, giving you time and space to back off if you’d like but you’re frozen.

you gulp and meet his eyes and he whispers, “i’ve liked you for the longest time.”.

that makes your heart leap out of your chest. all these years you’ve been crushing on this big, tough guy, not knowing he’s liked you back?

“since when?” you say awestruck.

he smiles bashfully, a faint red blush painting his cheeks. as uncharacteristic as this looks, you weren’t about to let this phenomenon go to waste by looking away.

“since that day i asked if i could play.”

your eyes widen and your jaw goes slack.

this endearing motherfucker.

“i… i’ve been crushin’ on you, too.” you admit.

you can’t look at him. you don’t know why you feel this way. maybe it’s because you’ve never been this vulnerable with a man before.

“don’t go all shy on me now.” he teases.

he moves his head to catch your gaze.

you smack your teeth and halfheartedly hit his shoulder with your knuckles.

he brings his head towards you once more and aligns his forehead with yours. you close your eyes at the contact and he asks, “can i kiss you?”

you nod faintly, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

his palms rest on the curve of your waist and he kisses you like he’s making up for all lost time.

he’s gentle, letting you set the pace, letting you take control.

but there’s something else you need to know.

your head tilts back a bit and he chases you, dazed and not a single thought behind his eyes.

“easy, tiger.” an airy chuckle leaves your lips and you set a hand on his chest.

he lazily smiles and places his hand over yours. he kisses your forehead and cheeks.

tommy hums as he gives your lips one last kiss.

it makes you smile, tommy being so affectionate. a stark contrast to his demeanor in the public but you think he’s one of those “tough guy with a soft heart” kind of guy.

“i want you to stay.”

he pauses his actions and slowly backs up to meet your eyes.

“you stayin’ here?” he asks curiously.

“for the time being.”

you interlock your fingers with his.

he nods and says, “what you really mean to say is; you want me to come with you.”

you purse your lips sheepishly. tommy thinks about it for a moment.

“new york city?” he pipes up.

“mhm.”

you’re nervous. was that an impulsive move? or is that question a result of your fear; him leaving just as fast as he showed up?

he deeply inhales and blows a raspberry, simulating a worried persona.

“okay.” he decides a beat later.

you blink and shake your head, getting whiplash from his behavior.

“wait, what?!”

“i was gonna come visit you anyway but this sounds better.” he nods like he’s made up his mind.

tommy says things like this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and to him, they are.

but for you, this is a commitment. a promise. something you can’t turn back from and you convey that to him.

“tommy,” you begin. “this is a very big adjustment. we’re moving in, together.”

“what else would i be doin’? where else would i be?”

“for starters, your family is here. i know you’ve made up with brenadan so i figured…” you trail off and hope tommy can fill in the rest.

a lopsided smirk is drawn to his handsome, smug face and he holds your hands.

“that’s sweet and you’re right. but he chose to make his family and i’m tellin’ you; there’s no place i’d rather be.”

he says is so intrinsically that your heart wills no choice but to believe him. there’s a silent promise in his words, one that he hopes you hear him make.

i’m not leaving you again.

“…okay.” you muse.

“okay.” he settles with a quick kiss to your lips.

Hold Your Breath (Pt 2)

pairing | post-civil!war!bucky x reader

word count | 15.8k words

summary | a year after the fallout of the sokovia accords, the avengers come out of hiding and turn to nelson & murdock for legal defense. as you work alongside them, the tension between you and bucky barnes simmers—still unresolved since the night you pulled him back from the edge in berlin.

tags | (18+), MDNI, p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotionally loaded sex, desperate sex, oral sex (f), tastefully filthy, post-civil war, canon divergence, legal drama (loosely interpreted), not legally accurate but emotionally accurate, slow burn, unresolved tension, friends to lovers, emotional intimacy, DAREDEVIL CROSSOVER, matt murdock being a protective menace, soft!bucky, angst/comfort, lots of lawyer stuff, don’t look too closely, minor!steve x reader

a/n | soooo many requests for a part two of this, so loosely based on this request. Enjoy folk

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

The storm had passed, but neither of you moved.

The warehouse around you was still—the creaks of its old bones quieter now, softened by the hush of early morning pressing against its walls. Somewhere beyond the steel and brick, the world kept spinning. But in here, in this makeshift room, time had slowed.

Bucky hadn’t said much since.

Not out of shame, not even guilt. Just… stillness. Like everything inside him had finally gone quiet.

You didn’t know how long you lay there. You didn’t care.

His body was still pressed to yours, skin warm, breath slow, steady now. At some point, you shifted slightly, your head tucked against his shoulder, one of his arms snug around your waist. The other lay across your back, vibranium fingers resting gently at your spine like he was afraid to let go—even in sleep.

Or whatever this was.

You didn’t know if he was fully asleep. You weren’t sure if you were, either.

You just… existed. Together.

And it was enough.

The room was dark save for the weak amber glow of an old light strip still clinging to life in the hallway. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned. The kind of silence that came only after something had cracked open.

Every so often, you’d shift, and his arms would tighten around you instinctively. Protective. Grounded. Like he still needed to know you were real.

You ran your fingers gently along the nape of his neck, brushing through his hair, and whispered soft things you didn’t need him to remember—just things you needed him to feel.

“I’m still here,” you breathed.

And he exhaled, long and low, his face pressing into your shoulder.

You didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

All you knew was that you were wrapped in each other, and that for the first time in what must’ve been years… he slept without fear.

────────────────────────

The soft blue wash of morning light filtered through the cracked windows as you slowly began to dress.

Your limbs moved on instinct, your body still humming with the aftermath of last night—not just the sex, but everything that came with it. The breaking. The rebuilding. The silence that wasn’t empty anymore.

His gaze was heavy—not hungry like before, but quiet, almost forlorn. Like every inch you put between you and the mattress carved a little more out of him.

You paused to pull your jeans up over your hips and glanced at him, and he was still watching.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans tugged back into place but still shirtless, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced. He watched you like you were already gone.

You paused, gave him a soft look. “Hey.”

His eyes flicked up.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just gave the smallest nod. A lie, but not one you’d call out.

You pulled your shirt over your head, not bothering to fix the buttons just yet. Bucky finally moved, reaching slowly for his own shirt, tugging it down over his chest. He moved like someone whose body felt heavier today. You didn’t push. You let the silence wrap around the both of you again.

Then—voices.

Faint, at first. Outside.

You stood instinctively, moving toward the warehouse’s main entrance, brushing your fingers against Bucky’s shoulder as you passed—just a soft press. “Be right back.”

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

────────────────────────

You stepped out into the chill, pulling your shirt tighter around your body, still half-buttoned from earlier. The wind carried the rustle of boots, the clink of gear, and quiet voices—tones you recognized even before you saw the faces.

Steve.

Sam.

And not just them.

Clint Barton stood to one side, squinting against the light like he hadn't slept. Wanda lingered near him, arms crossed, her posture at ease but eyes sharp as ever. And then there was a man you didn’t recognize—nervous, fidgeting, trying too hard not to.

“Oh, great,” you said, loud enough to carry. “I thought you were retired.”

Clint grinned. “I was. Then the world wouldn’t stop spinning without me.”

You snorted.

The stranger stepped forward next, hand extended. “Hi! Uh—Scott. Scott Lang. Ant-Man.”

You blinked. “Ant… what?”

“Ant-Man,” he said again, more sheepish this time. “It’s fine, you probably haven’t—uh, it’s complicated.”

You gave a small, puzzled smile, still reaching to shake his hand as you introduced himself.

Scott blinked, “Attorney like lawyer attorney.*

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Scott gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. Do you… have a card or something? I have a feeling I’m gonna need legal help after this.”

Your eyebrows lifted, but you reached into your bag and handed him one anyway.

“I like you already,” he added, tucking it into his pocket with too much care.

“Try not to get arrested, then.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “No promises.”

Steve had been watching from a few steps away. Now he moved toward you, expression tight with everything he couldn’t say. He looked tired in a way you hadn’t seen before—like the kind of tired that lived behind his eyes.

“Thanks for looking after him,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Of course.”

But he just stood there, gaze lingering, and suddenly he looked younger somehow—less like Captain America, and more like the boy from Brooklyn you’d first met years ago.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight, his chin resting briefly against your hair.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, voice muffled in his jacket.

“No,” he said simply. “But I’ve got to be.”

You pulled back slowly, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Be careful, Steve. Please.”

“I always try,” he said, too lightly. Then, more sincerely, “You should go back to New York. Before this gets worse.”

Behind you, Sam appeared with his usual dry grin, clapping you on the back.

Behind you, there was a pause.

Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulders, warm and easy. “Glad to see he didn't burn the place down.”

“Really missed your charming optimism, Sam,” you said dryly.

“I’m gonna pretend that’s not sarcasm.”

“You do that.”

And then you felt it.

Eyes.

You turned—

And there he was.

Bucky stood in the doorway, fully dressed, stiff in the shoulders like he was bracing for impact. His jaw was tight, his arms stiff at his sides, as if even existing around other people took work.

But it was his eyes that struck you.

Not blank. Not lost.

Just… guarded. And something else. Something small and aching curled behind them.

The light hit him in that strange, soft way—dust curling through it like a veil between you. Like last night had been a hallucination, and now he was slowly retreating back into whatever shadows he’d crawled out of.

You stepped toward him, slow, like approaching a wounded animal. For a breath, you thought he might back away.

But he didn’t.

You stopped just short of touching, voice quiet. “I guess this is it.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes searched yours with something close to panic—not sharp, not loud. Just quiet, restrained apprehension. Like his body knew you were leaving before his mind caught up.

And then—you moved.

Without hesitation, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

No preface. No invitation.

Just the steady press of your cheek against his shoulder, your heartbeat open against his chest.

He froze.

Just for a second.

And then—he folded around you.

One arm slid around your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, his palm splayed flat against your hair. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t pull back.

He held you.

Not loosely. Not politely.

Fully. Fiercely.

As if his body knew how to stay when his mind didn’t.

Sam made a low sound, almost a whistle. “Well… ain't that something.”

Steve stood a step back, face drawn tight, watching—his eyes didn’t narrow, but they didn’t blink either.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look up at Bucky.

“You’ll be okay,” you whispered.

Still, no words.

But his arms stayed locked around your waist.

You shifted, tried to step back.

And that’s when he grabbed you.

His arms tightened—one quick, almost frantic pulse—and before you could guess what was happening, his hand came to your jaw and he kissed you.

Right there.

In front of everyone.

You let out a small, stunned sound against his mouth, hands flattening against his chest—caught between the instinct to pull him closer and the need to stop him.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Like he was pouring every last thing he didn’t know how to say into you. Like if he could just press hard enough, stay close enough, it might change what came next.

Eventually, you had to break it.

You pulled back, breath caught in your throat, your cheeks burning.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy and sad, lips slightly parted like he’d already regretted it—but wouldn’t take it back.

You stared at him, then past him.

And couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

You just… turned.

And walked away.

Every step felt like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. Like something inside you was fraying.

Because Bucky’s need wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t even about you, not really.

It was survival.

And now it sat heavy in your chest—because whatever happened last night, however real it had felt in the dark, it was suddenly too complicated in the light.

And you couldn’t help but feel like you’d taken something he wasn’t ready to give.

────────────────────────

By the time you made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, the sun had long since dipped behind the rooftops, and the office was its usual brand of organized chaos—papers stacked on every surface, the smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air, and four overworked friends pretending they weren’t a little bit in love with the mess.

You were leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, scanning the top page of a police report with your glasses pushed up on your head. Foggy was pacing near the window, chewing on the cap of a pen like it owed him money. Matt sat in his chair, fingers steepled, listening as Karen flipped through another file.

“He’s claiming excessive force,” Karen said, voice even but skeptical. “But the responding officer was a foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter.”

“So,” you said, arching a brow, “a minor traffic violation turns into a broken nose and four cracked ribs, and that’s the story we’re running with?”

Matt gave a tiny shake of his head. “There’s video. Grainy, but enough to show the officer wasn’t the aggressor.”

Foggy stopped pacing, waving the pen. “Which means we either settle or poke holes in the narrative until someone blinks.”

You leaned over to grab another file, muttering, “God forbid we ever have a client who tells the truth.”

Karen snorted. “What fun would that be?”

“See, that’s why she gets paid the big bucks,” Foggy said, raising his coffee in salute. “Our legal assassin.”

You opened your mouth to say something equally smart-assed, but Karen beat you to it.

“Well, she does have experience with super soldiers.”

Your pen froze mid-note.

The room stalled, just for a second. Like the punchline hadn't landed—or maybe had landed too well.

You didn’t look up right away. Just capped your pen slowly, deliberately.

Foggy blinked. “Wait—like Captain America super soldier?”

“No,” you said calmly, still not meeting anyone’s eye. “I did not sleep with Captain America.”

Then you did look up—right at Karen, who had the decency to look stricken. You tilted your head. “That was said in confidence. Over Chinese food. And wine.”

Karen winced. “I thought Matt knew!”

“I didn’t,” Matt said quietly, not judgmental exactly, but there was a shift in the air. A subtle tightening.

Karen rushed to explain. “I thought she told you about the Bucky Barnes.”

Foggy made a small choking noise. “Wait—so, hold on. The Winter Soldier? That guy with the metal arm and murder eyes? You slept with—?”

You raised a hand. “Foggy.”

He shut his mouth with a sheepish grin.

You turned back to Matt, who hadn’t said anything else. His jaw was tight, unreadable behind those glasses. You could feel his attention like a weight.

“Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean we tell each other everything,” you said lightly, but the air had cooled.

Karen looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Foggy was half-shocked, half-impressed.

But Matt… he didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

When he did speak, it was quiet. “You told me you were going to Berlin for a few days,” he said. “You said it was personal.”

You didn’t blink. “It was.”

He tilted his head slightly, brows drawn. “You went to help Captain America.”

You sighed through your nose, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table. “I did help Steve.”

There was a beat.

Then, without warning, his voice cut sharper than you expected.

“And in what universe did you think sleeping with an international war criminal was a smart decision?”

The room froze.

Foggy blinked. Karen stopped mid-sip of her coffee. The air between the four of you shifted so fast it was like the ground tilted.

You set your pen down carefully. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m dead serious,” Matt said, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t just reckless—it was stupid. He’s unstable. He’s dangerous. And you—what in your right mind would make you do that?”

You scoffed, leaning forward now. “Wow. Okay. Are you shaming me, Matthew?”

“I’m trying to understand what part of this sounded okay in your head,” he snapped, voice rising just a notch. “He's a man that has just come out of severe brainwashing and you—what, thought it was a good time to sleep with him?”

Karen flinched. Foggy stood, trying to wedge a word in.

“Matt—come on, man—”

But Matt wasn’t finished.

“I knew helping Rogers was already a stretch,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “But this? You’re a lawyer. You’ve seen what men like Barnes do in your cases. You know what it looks like when someone isn’t capable of giving consent.”

That hit you in the chest like a blow.

You stood.

“You think I don’t know that?” you snapped, voice sharp now. “You think I haven’t been thinking about that every hour since I left him?”

Karen stepped between you, hands up. “Guys—hey, hey—”

But Matt didn’t back off. “Then what were you doing? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” you said, trembling now—not from sadness, but indignation—“that I’d never seen someone look more afraid to be alive. I was thinking that he needed someone to treat him like a human being for once in his goddamn life.”

Foggy stood as well, voice low but firm. “This is not the time.”

But the air was already too thick with everything that had gone unsaid for years.

Matt shook his head slowly. “He’s not your responsibility.”

“No,” you said bitterly. “But neither were you at Saint Agnes. And that never stopped me.”

Silence.

Even the hum of the old radiator seemed to hush itself.

Then the TV flickered—static for a second—before the volume kicked in. The newsroom anchor’s voice, flat and grim, broke the silence that had followed your argument with Matt.

“…former Avengers Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson are confirmed to be in hiding following a classified prison break from the Raft—a maximum-security facility designed for enhanced individuals. The prison housed members of the rogue Avengers detained after the Leipzig airport incident in Germany.”

You stiffened.

The anchor continued as footage played—blurry helicopter shots of the ocean-bound Raft. Steel, water, storm.

“Security footage has not been released to the public, but officials confirm the breakout was staged by none other than Rogers himself. The former Captain America is now considered a fugitive by the United Nations, alongside Wilson and others believed to be aiding him.”

Karen lowered her coffee slowly, frowning.

“Sources also indicate that James Buchanan Barnes—known as the Winter Soldier—was not housed at the Raft, but is considered armed and internationally wanted. Barnes was last seen with Rogers in Siberia and is now suspected to have fled with him. Their current whereabouts remain unknown.”

The words blurred.

The room receded.

Because you weren’t hearing the anchor anymore—you were hearing Steve.

“I don’t think this’ll end well.”

You had heard the resignation in his voice when he’d said it—like he was already bracing for the fallout. Like he already knew.

And now it was here.

Karen’s voice was a soft whisper beside you. “Oh God.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Matt didn’t say anything. His jaw was still tight, and you could feel his scrutiny like a second pulse under your skin.

But he wasn’t the one you were listening for anymore.

You gathered your files and walked toward the door, brushing past them all with a quiet, “Let me know if we're filing,” before stepping out into the hallway.

Karen looked at you like she wanted to say something—but didn’t. Foggy rubbed a hand over his face, sinking down into his chair with a pained groan. “Wow. That was… hilariously bad timing.”

And Matt… just sat there.

Arms crossed.

Jaw set.

Still convinced he was right.

And not feeling any better for it.

1 Year Later

Nelson & Murdock, Hell's Kitchen — Late Morning

The debate in the cramped office was escalating fast.

“You’re missing the point,” you said flatly, flipping the case file closed. “We’re not here to do what feels morally correct. We’re here to win.”

Matt’s head tilted, his brows knitting in that quiet, exasperated way of his. “It’s not about morality. It’s about precedent. If we push this—”

You cut in, calm but curt. “We let landlords in this city get away with enough. I’m not handing them another loophole.”

Karen raised her voice gently, trying to stem the friction. “Maybe we take five—”

You turned her way. “I’m not asking for much, just once—just once—to have one of you on my side.”

Karen put her hands up. “I’m not siding with anyone!”

“Right because you're always playing referee.“

“I’m not playing anything,” she replied, shoulders tensing.

You turned to Foggy, who had been suspiciously quiet.

“Don’t even try to claim neutrality. You always back him.”

“I do not—” Foggy began, already knowing he was beat.

You held up a finger. “You backed him on the parole hearing for that mob accountant who had bodies in three boroughs. You backed him when we took on the Russian construction union—without confirming who was financing them. Hell, you backed him on the Diaz brothers appeal and that guy confessed twice.”

Foggy winced. “That was one time.”

“Three,” you corrected, “It was three times, Foggy.“

The debate had just hit a simmer when the door creaked open.

Karen froze mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

You turned, already sensing something was off—and then your breath caught.

Four figures stepped inside. No one said a word.

Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. Sam Wilson. And James Buchanan Barnes.

All stood just inside the office. Not armored. Not armed. But carrying the weight of a hundred headlines and a year of silence.

Steve stood just inside the doorway, not in the uniform, but unmistakably Captain America. His jaw was a little tighter, with a beard now, but the way he held himself—calm, decisive, eyes scanning the room with practiced awareness—hadn’t changed.

Beside him, Sam Wilson, cool and watchful. Natasha Romanoff, all composed silence and lethal grace, and now… blonde. And then—

Bucky Barnes.

Long hair tucked behind his ears, jaw shadowed with a thick beard, dressed in black. His presence was quiet but sharp—like the air changed around him. His eyes, slate blue and piercing, found yours and held there. He didn’t blink.

You didn’t meet his gaze.

You shifted focus—to Steve.

Matt, from behind the desk, tilted his head. His senses picked up the weight in the air—the loaded silence, the tightened heartbeats, the shift in everyone’s posture.

Foggy, stunned, leaned toward Matt and muttered under his breath, “Uh—Cap, The Falcon, Black Widow, and the Winter Soldier just walked into our office.”

Matt didn’t even flinch. “I figured,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot of boots.”

Steve stepped forward, voice steady. “We need counsel.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked toward you. “And we're here for your help.”

You were still standing by the table, arms folded tightly. “That’s a long way to travel for a consultation.”

“We’re trying to re-enter the world,” Steve said. “We want to do it the right way.”

Karen finally found her voice. “I thought you were fugitives.”

“We are,” Sam said, with a small shrug. “Just figured maybe it was time to try something less dramatic.”

You looked at Matt—because it was still his firm.

Matt turned his face slightly toward the sound of Steve’s voice, his expression unreadable. “With all due respect… you’re not exactly the kind of clients we’re licensed—or funded—to represent. You’re under international surveillance, and we’re a neighborhood firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“We’re not asking for a full legal team,” Steve said. “We’re asking for her.”

Matt’s jaw ticked subtly.

His hands folded on the desk, his expression unreadable behind his dark lenses.

“Our jurisdiction doesn’t cover what you’ve been accused of,” he said, addressing Steve directly, though his words encompassed all four fugitives. “We handle housing evictions. Police misconduct. Petty criminal defense. What you’re asking for isn’t just risky—it’s out of our league.”

Bucky hadn’t said a word since stepping inside. But you could feel his gaze—hot, weighty, locked on you like gravity. You kept your expression neutral, your eyes on Matt.

“They’re not walking into any firm uptown,” you said, arms crossed. “And every second they stay on the run, they look guiltier. You know that.”

Matt nodded slowly—measured, cautious. “Then give us a minute.”

Steve gave a slight nod in return.

Without another word, Matt motioned toward the hallway. You, Foggy, and Karen followed him into his office, the door clicking shut behind you.

────────────────────────

The second the door closed, you rounded on Matt.

“This is the part where you tell me we’re turning down Captain goddamn America?”

Matt didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about Steve.”

“No. It’s about people who tried to do the right thing and were burned by bureaucracy.”

Matt stepped closer, voice low, deliberate. “It’s about us being a three-person law firm in Hell’s Kitchen with no security, no resources, and no international immunity. Do you have any idea what taking this case means?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “It means we actually do something that matters.”

He lifted his chin slightly. “We’d be standing against the United Nations. Against General Thaddeus Ross. Against the Sokovia Accords.”

You leaned in. “Which, by the way, are unconstitutional. Half the legal scholars in the country are already saying it.”

“And half the world signed on,” Matt countered. “Which makes it binding. These aren’t small charges. This is global policy.”

Karen stepped between you both, her palms lifted. “Okay, let’s all take a breath—”

“Karen,” you said, exasperated. “We do not need referee again.”

Foggy raised his hand, hesitant. “Not to interrupt, but… guys, I don’t think the walls are that thick.”

A beat.

Then— Sam's voice called from the other room.

“He’s right.”

You closed your eyes and sighed.

Matt dropped his voice, almost a whisper. “You’ve got history with Rogers,” Matt said evenly. “You’re not objective.”

You met his gaze, cold steel behind your eyes. “Don’t—”

“Are you doing this for them?” Matt pressed. “Or for us?”

A pause.

“For us,” you said finally. No hesitation. “Because if this firm stands for anything—if we really mean all that justice-for-the-voiceless rhetoric—then we don’t walk away when it gets hard.”

Matt stared at you. Silent.

Karen moved closer, her voice softer. “If we don’t help them… who will?”

Another silence.

Outside, the scrape of boots on the wood floor. Maybe someone pacing. Waiting.

Finally, Matt nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

“Then we do this carefully.”

────────────────────────

The door to Matt’s office creaked open and the four of you re-emerged, expressions tight and unreadable. The air in the main room was still thick with silence, though Sam leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a knowing grin.

“Let me guess,” he said lightly. “That was the ‘don’t take this case’ speech?”

Foggy gave a small shrug. “More like a group therapy session with legal consequences.”

Matt stepped forward, composed, and focused entirely on Steve. “There are serious risks here. For all of us. This isn’t one case. It’s two.”

He turned to the group at large, folding his hands over his midsection. “One is the Sokovia Accords. The legality of operating as enhanced individuals without government oversight. Violating international protocol, fleeing detainment, staging a breakout at a maximum security prison. That alone could get you extradited.”

He shifted slightly, his tone measured. “The second is Barnes.”

You felt it before Matt even said it.

“Everything the Winter Soldier did under Hydra’s control—assassinations, covert destabilizations, attacks on U.S. soil. That’s a separate case. Separate charges. Separate legal challenges.”

Bucky, who had remained still near the wall, barely reacted—but his jaw flexed, just slightly.

Matt continued, voice low and clinical. “Legally, emotionally, those two cases need to be separated. Treated with different strategies.”

You nodded once, slowly. “Makes sense.”

Matt turned to you, expression unreadable behind the dark lenses. “You’ll take the Sokovia case. With Karen.”

You blinked. “Matt—”

“—I’ll oversee Barnes’ case,” Matt said. “Foggy and I can manage the prep, the research, the filings.”

There was a beat. Just long enough for the subtext to land.

You knew why he’d made the call.

Because of Berlin.

You didn’t argue.

You just nodded. “Fine.”

Karen glanced between you both, clearly picking up on the tension, but said nothing.

Steve spoke up. “We trust you. All of you.”

Matt nodded once. “Then we’ll need everything. Every detail. Nothing sealed. Nothing omitted.”

Natasha, quiet until now, gave a faint, dry smile. “You’re going to be real popular in Washington.”

Matt didn’t return it. “I’m used to being unpopular.”

Your eyes flicked—briefly—to Bucky. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But he was still watching you.

You turned back to the team. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The old television bolted to the corner of the wall crackled with static before clearing into focus—just in time for the morning news anchor to smile with the smugness of someone who knows they’re about to deliver the most interesting story of the week.

“In a move that’s turning heads across the country—and sending the internet into overdrive—Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon have officially stepped out of hiding.“

You looked up from your case notes. Karen froze with her hand half-dipped into a bag of bagels. Foggy leaned in.

“Two days ago, in a move that surprised just about everyone, former Avengers Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson appeared at the Federal Court of Appeals in Washington D.C., accompanied by their legal representation from—get this—a small, previously low-profile law firm operating out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

The image cut to grainy footage of you, Matt, Foggy, and Karen flanking the group like a mismatched legal cavalry.

“Nelson & Murdock, previously known for representing low-income residents and suing city contractors for asbestos violations, now finds itself at the helm of the most closely watched legal proceedings since the Accords were signed. The defendants, who include Rogers and Romanoff, are seeking to challenge the legality of the Sokovia Accords themselves…”

The anchor’s tone shifted slightly, eyes flicking to the teleprompter.

“…and yes, among them is James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, whose history as a Hydra operative makes this not just a case of civil liberties—but of reckoning with war crimes. His charges, we’re told, are being handled separately by the same firm.”

The screen showed Bucky stepping out of a black SUV, flanked by Matt and you. His eyes were cast downward. Yours weren’t.

“Their lawyers declined to comment, but sources close to the case say the team has already begun mounting a complex dual defense—one tackling international law, the other psychological trauma under state-sponsored manipulation. It’s ambitious. Whether Nelson & Murdock are brilliant… or just insane? Time will tell.”

Matt muted the screen with the remote.

A beat.

No one said anything for a long moment.

“Brilliant or insane,” you murmured. “Could be both.”

Foggy popped a cold fry into his mouth. “Leaning toward insane.”

Karen smiled tightly, but her eyes were distant. “You know what this means, right? If we lose… this isn’t just bad press. It’s over. For the firm.”

You leaned back in your chair, the glow of the TV soft against your skin. “Then we don’t lose.”

────────────────────────

The hum of conversation and typing filled the small legal office, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the tired sigh of someone realizing they’d reread the same sentence for the third time.

Karen sat beside you at the center table, files on the Sokovia Accords spread open like a battlefield between you. Natasha leaned against the window sill, unreadable as always, arms crossed. Sam paced behind his chair, restless energy rolling off him like heat. Steve sat back, quiet but alert, his gaze following every word exchanged like a chessboard in motion.

“Paragraph twelve, subsection four,” Karen muttered. “The clause on oversight jurisdiction contradicts itself. It mandates UN supervision but assigns implementation to national governments.”

You blew a slow breath through your nose. “That’s either an oversight or a trap. Both are bad.”

“Welcome to international policy,” Natasha drawled, not looking up.

Sam made a low noise in his throat. “Well, joke’s on them.”

From beyond the glass wall of Matt’s office, another voice filtered through—rougher, heavier. Bucky’s.

“No. I don’t remember the name. He was wearing a blue ring, I think. Target was in Warsaw. Hydra flagged them as a threat to... something.”

Foggy’s voice followed, steady but gentle. “You’re doing fine, Bucky. Just talk us through what you remember, even if it’s fragments.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Matt’s voice, calm but firm. “And the handlers? The ones who triggered you—how often did they use the code?”

“It varied,” Bucky said. “If I resisted... more.”

You glanced toward the frosted glass separating the rooms. Bucky was a vague shape on the other side, head down, broad shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the chair. Matt stood opposite him, arms folded, Foggy sitting nearby with a yellow legal pad already half-filled in cramped handwriting.

“He’s been in there for two hours,” Karen said softly, reading your look.

“He’s cooperating,” Steve murmured. “But it’s not easy. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”

Back in your office, you flipped another page in the Accords briefing. Your fingers were starting to cramp.

“The entire structure of this thing is meant to constrain,” you muttered. “They want to turn the Avengers into government employees. And if they refuse, it’s jail. Or worse.”

“They tried that,” Sam muttered. “Didn’t work out for them.”

Karen leaned back and scrubbed a hand down her face. “We’re going in circles.”

“No,” you said, “we’re dancing around landmines.”

Another silence.

Karen stood abruptly. “Okay, this isn’t working. We’re all burned out. We need a break.”

You blinked, half in protest. “Karen—”

“You’re losing your mind over there, I’ve read the same paragraph three times, and Steve looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.” She pointed at the door. “I’m declaring a recess.”

From the other end of the table, Steve raised an eyebrow. “Recess?”

“Josie’s,” she clarified. “We go, we drink, we breathe. Otherwise one of us is going to snap and file a motion to burn the Accords in front of the UN.”

Romanoff arched a sleek brow. “What’s Josie’s?”

You didn’t look up as you gathered the pages into a pile. “A dive bar two blocks from here. Sticky floors, strong drinks. A Hell’s Kitchen classic.”

Sam grinned. “Sold.”

Karen poked her head into Matt’s office. “We’re going for drinks. You’re coming. No debate.”

Matt looked up, eyebrow raised. “Karen—”

“Even you need a break,” she insisted, voice lighter but not asking. “And Foggy, if you don’t close that legal pad in the next five seconds I’m stealing it.”

Foggy blinked like he’d surfaced from a fog. “Wait, what?”

Matt sighed, then turned toward Bucky. “Do you want to come?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid over to you—just for a second—then back to the floor. But he gave a quiet nod.

“Alright,” Matt said. “Josie’s it is.”

────────────────────────

The moment the eight of you stepped into Josie’s, the entire bar went still.

It was almost cinematic—the way conversation halted mid-sentence, pool cues hovered mid-shot, and every pint glass seemed to freeze just before reaching someone’s lips.

Only it wasn’t you they were looking at.

Their eyes went right past you to the four figures just behind.

The tension was immediate. You could feel it like static against your skin.

You squinted at the crowd and snapped, “What.”

It came out sharper than you meant—but effective. Just like that, everyone returned to their drinks and conversations, like they hadn’t just seen literal war criminals walk into their local dive bar.

You sighed, stepped inside, and motioned toward the back booth like it was any other Thursday night.

“Same rules apply,” you murmured over your shoulder. “No starting bar fights. No interrogating anyone mid-darts game.”

Sam let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it, but now I’m curious.”

“Don’t be,” Foggy muttered. “That guy with the dart tattoo takes it really seriously.”

Karen nudged him, leading the way toward the booth. “Come on, Captain America. Let’s see how you do in a place where the floor sticks and nobody salutes you.”

Steve offered a faint smile, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t just make a dozen patrons sweat through their flannel shirts. “Sounds...refreshing.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He followed silently, but you could feel his presence behind you—like gravity. Like heat.

You settled into the booth first, flanked by Karen and Foggy. Matt slid in next, followed by Steve and Natasha on the far side. Sam pulled up a chair. Bucky remained standing a moment too long, then finally sank into the seat next to Matt—putting the maximum amount of physical space between you.

Your stomach twisted, just briefly.

You didn’t look at him.

Karen raised a hand for Josie. “Eight whiskeys. Don’t ask.”

Josie nodded from behind the bar, unfazed as ever.

“You bring a circus, I serve a circus,” she called. “Just don’t bleed on the floor.”

────────────────────────

At some point, you’d drifted. The laughter around the booth was distant now—Karen leaning into Natasha as the former recounted some mildly incriminating story, Sam egging on Steve about a round of darts he absolutely didn’t want to play. Matt was nursing his drink with that subtle tightness in his jaw he always wore in crowded spaces.

You slipped away, needing a minute, and ended up at the bar under the flickering light that buzzed like it was dying. The wood beneath your elbows was sticky, familiar. Comforting, in a weird, grimy way.

A moment later, Foggy appeared beside you, sliding his hand onto the bar as he leaned. “I come bearing a noble quest.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Refills?”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Whiskey times eight. Josie’s gonna love us.”

As Josie started lining up the glasses, you glanced sideways. “How’s your case coming along?”

Foggy made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Difficult. Bucky’s… not great at giving detail. He gives you one name, two dates, and then he goes quiet like he’s talking through glass.”

You nodded, unsurprised.

“But,” he added, tipping his head toward you with a knowing look, “also distracted. Like, flinch-at-the-sound-of-your-voice distracted.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses, inspecting it before sliding it back down. “Anytime you walk into a room? His eyes snap to you like a moth to a flame. It’s kind of… sad, actually. Those big, quiet eyes practically begging you to look at him.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted, still in that frustratingly calm Foggy way. “I thought maybe I was imagining it, but after the fifth time I caught him zoning out mid-sentence because you walked past the hallway? It’s a pattern.”

You stared ahead, lips pressing into a thin line.

“My client,” you said after a beat, “is Steve. Natasha. Sam. I work on the Sokovia side of this mess. Bucky’s—” your voice dropped, “—not my responsibility.”

“No,” Foggy said slowly, “but you are avoiding him. And don’t tell me you’re not.”

You ran a hand over your face and muttered under your breath, “If you haven’t noticed, I have a very big, very real Matt-shaped fence around me any time I’m in the same room as Barnes.”

Foggy winced sympathetically. “Yeah… he does kind of hover.”

“Hover?” you echoed with a hollow laugh. “He treats me like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I so much as sit next to the guy.”

Foggy didn’t say anything at first. Then: “You don’t look like you want to combust.”

You were about to say something—something not entirely wise, maybe—but Foggy beat you to it, glancing over your shoulder with a quiet hush.

“Cap's on his way over here,” he murmured. “And he looks like a man on a mission.”

You turned just enough to catch the tall figure weaving through the crowd, eyes set squarely on you.

Foggy grabbed six of the whiskey glasses Josie had just lined up, balancing them with both arms like a bartender with something to prove. “I’ll leave you two with these,” he said, nodding toward the final pair left on the bar, “and, uh, good luck.”

You didn’t reply—just watched as he maneuvered his way back to the table like he was handling a tray of grenades.

And then Steve slid onto the barstool next to you. Quiet. Steady.

He didn’t say anything at first, just folded his hands loosely on the bartop, his presence as familiar as it was grounding.

“Hi,” you murmured, not looking directly at him as you nursed your drink.

He gave that small, sincere smile. The one that never failed to remind you why you'd once entertained the idea of something more.

“I know this is putting a strain on you,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I just wanted to thank you—for helping us. Again.”

You scoffed lightly, your tone flippant by design. “You know I’d do anything for you, Steve.”

But you kept your eyes on your drink. It was easier that way. Easier than meeting those too-blue eyes and seeing all the history sitting inside them.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he said after a pause. “I never have.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it was full. With things neither of you had ever said out loud. With everything you’d been, everything you almost were, and everything you now couldn’t afford to be.

Steve shifted slightly. “You’ve changed.”

That caught you off guard. You turned, just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“In a good way,” he added quickly. “Stronger. Sharper.”

You snorted. “Or maybe just tired.”

He smiled, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Regret, maybe. Recognition. You didn’t ask.

“You ever think about what things might’ve looked like... if this all hadn’t happened?”

His voice was barely above a murmur, heavy with something unspoken. The kind of question that didn’t ask for an answer, not really—but still lingered between you, expectant and fragile.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching in something like a sad smile.

“It probably would’ve been the same,” you said quietly. “You asking me for help... and me helping you. Without hesitation.”

Your eyes met his then—soft, sure. Unflinching.

“Just like now.”

Steve’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but something in his posture relaxed.

“Nothing more,” you added, voice gentler this time. “Nothing less.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. That familiar Captain instinct flickering just behind his eyes—always reaching for something better, something fuller.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew you meant it.

────────────────────────

The office was unusually quiet for a Wednesday.

Karen had gone out to meet a contact. Foggy was holed up in the back with a stack of transcripts, headphones in. And Matt—Matt was gone, off doing whatever it was he did when he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

You were at your desk, sorting through notes on the Sokovia filings, when you heard the soft shuffle of boots against hardwood.

You glanced up.

Bucky stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Not cold—never cold—but hesitant, like he was walking into enemy territory and wasn’t sure if he’d make it out the other side.

Your heart stuttered, but you masked it with a carefully neutral look. “Need something from Foggy?”

He shook his head, slow. “No.”

You set your pen down.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was brittle. Like one wrong word would crack the whole thing wide open.

Bucky took a few steps in. Close enough that you could see the faint bags under his eyes, fading but still present. A leftover from whatever truth he’d had to drag out in testimony.

His voice, when he spoke, was low. Rough around the edges like gravel. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

The question hung in the air.

You stared at him for a beat too long. You’d imagined this—this exact moment—so many times. And somehow, the real thing still knocked the air out of your lungs.

“I do talk to you,” you said, too quickly. “We’ve had conversations.”

He didn’t flinch. “Brief ones.”

You hesitated. Then stood, slowly, placing your hands on the edge of the desk like it might steady you.

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” you said finally, quietly.

“That’s not true,” Bucky said. “You know that’s not true.”

He took another step in, but didn’t crowd you. Never that.

“You used to look at me,” he said. “Back in Berlin. You saw me. Not the ghost. Not the asset. Me.”

Your throat tightened.

“I haven’t changed,” he said, a little more broken now. “Not really. But you… it’s like I became someone you’re not allowed to be alone with.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

There it was.

The thing you’d been avoiding. Not because you didn’t want to face it—but because you already had. Night after night. Every time you saw his eyes find you across the room and forced yourself to look away.

“I didn’t want to make things harder,” you said, voice almost a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. Not angry—just quietly devastated.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did—if you opened your mouth—you were afraid of what might come out. And there was already too much unsaid between you to risk making it worse.

Bucky took one more step closer, slow and tentative. Like a man approaching something sacred. “I need to know, did I… did I do something wrong? That night?”

Your breath caught.

Your whole body stilled.

“No,” you said, almost too fast. “No. You didn’t.”

He blinked, eyes narrowing slightly with confusion and something sharper—pain. “Then why do you look at me like it was a mistake?”

You turned away, suddenly unable to hold the weight of his gaze. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, trying to ground yourself. But your voice cracked as you spoke.

“Because I think I made a mistake.”

You heard him shift, barely a sound, but you could feel the air change between you. “What mistake?”

“I think I… took advantage of you.”

The words hit the room like a punch. You didn’t look at him—you couldn’t. You stared at the stack of case files on your desk, eyes burning.

“You were… not okay, Bucky. You were still half-lost, barely holding on. I kissed you to stop a panic attack, not because I thought we—God, I didn’t think. I just acted. And then you kissed me back, and it felt like if I pulled away you’d shatter and—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “And I let it happen. I let it go too far.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Then his voice, lower than you’d ever heard it. “You think that’s what that night was?”

You turned, finally.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or hold himself together.

“That night,” he said slowly, “was the first time I felt human again.”

You stared at him.

“The first time someone touched me like I wasn’t dangerous,” he continued, breath catching. “Like I wasn’t something to be handled, or feared, or fixed. You kissed me and I—” his voice broke, “—I didn’t know what it meant, or how long it would last, but I held on to it. For a year. In Wakanda. Every morning, I thought about you.”

Your heart ached.

“I don’t know what it is I feel for you,” he admitted, shoulders taut, “but it’s not infatuation. It’s not fantasy. It’s something I haven’t had in a long time. And maybe I only knew you for a day—but it was enough to remember the way you made me feel.”

He took a tentative step forward.

“You were the first thing that made me want to come back.”

Your knees nearly gave out at that.

Because this wasn’t just about guilt. Or trauma. Or old wounds.

This was about healing, too.

And somehow, heartbreakingly, he had found his in you.

You took a breath, shaky and too thin, eyes burning with the effort it took to keep yourself upright beneath the weight of his words.

Part of you wanted to say nothing. Let silence answer.

But you’d done that already. For months.

So instead, you forced yourself to speak—softly, but firmly.

“I thought what I did… that night, I thought it might’ve been selfish.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It wasn’t.”

You looked up at him, finally meeting those steel-blue eyes that had haunted you every time you tried to sleep.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know if I had the right.”

Bucky exhaled, the sound low and wrecked.

“You didn’t take something from me,” he said. “You gave me something. You made me feel… wanted. Safe. I hadn’t felt that in decades.”

A beat passed. Then another. Your hand twitched at your side, like it might reach for him. You didn’t let it.

“I care about you, Bucky,” you said, so softly it barely reached the space between you. “More than I probably should.”

Hope flared in his eyes—and that’s when you took a step back.

“But right now, I’m your lawyer.”

He blinked. “No. You’re not.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nelson and Murdock are my representation. You’re on the Avengers’ case.”

The smallest, saddest smile tugged at your lips. “Still. It’s messy.”

His eyes searched yours, quiet and patient. “I’m not asking for something now. I’m not asking for anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then what are you asking for?”

He swallowed. “That you stop looking at me like what happened between us was wrong.”

The crack in your heart widened.

And maybe you didn’t have the strength to tell him that you'd been looking at yourself that way, not him.

You nodded instead. Barely.

He stepped back. Gave you space. But didn’t stop looking at you.

And as he turned to leave the room, your eyes followed him.

────────────────────────

Josie’s bar was unusually full for a Tuesday. The crowd buzzed with quiet conversation, the low hum of sports highlights rolling on the TV behind the bar. But then the channel flickered—cutting to a breaking news graphic—and slowly, the room began to hush.

“After over a year on the run for their violation of the Sokovia Accords,” the reporter continued, “the trio was represented by a relatively unknown but fiercely competent law firm based out of Hell’s Kitchen—Nelson & Murdock.”

A round of murmured cheers rippled through the bar.

“And leading the charge,” the anchor said, “was associate attorney—” your name followed, clear and pronounced, “—whose legal argument reframed the Accords as unconstitutional under both domestic and international law. The case has since been labeled a landmark ruling on enhanced rights, government overreach, and jurisdictional ethics in conflict zones.”

A grainy clip of you outside the courthouse played next. Microphones crowded around you. Your hair pulled back, blazer sharp, your voice calm but firm under pressure.

“The Sokovia Accords were a rushed and fear-based overreach,” you were saying. “The world needs accountability, yes. But not at the cost of civil liberties, and not by punishing people for doing the right thing under the wrong rules.”

A quiet cheer went up near the bar. Someone clapped. You heard a voice—one of the long-time regulars—murmur, “That’s the one that comes in for bourbon on Thursdays, right?”

Josie herself just raised a brow from behind the bar, the closest thing she gave to a nod of approval.

“General Thaddeus Ross issued a formal response,” the anchor added, voice tight, “saying—quote—‘While I do not agree with the court’s interpretation, I respect the process. These individuals are no longer fugitives, and I trust they will now operate within a framework of accountability moving forward.’”

Muted scoffs met that.

“Yeah, sure he does,” Sam muttered under his breath, arms crossed where he sat across from you.

On screen, the reporter continued, summarizing the case’s outcome. “The general amnesty clause within the ruling ensures that enhanced individuals acting in good faith and without malicious intent will not be prosecuted under the original terms of the Accords. While some international critics have voiced concern, the decision is widely seen as a critical first step in rebuilding trust between superpowered individuals and governing bodies.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but his eyes found you—something quiet and full in them. He raised his glass. Just once.

You exhaled slowly, unsure whether it was relief or anticipation sitting heavier in your chest.

Because one case was over.

And the hardest one still waited.

────────────────────────

The holding area outside the Special Tribunal Court at Fort Meade, Maryland, was as sterile and impersonal as the military complex it belonged to—linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lights, and the low hum of overhead ventilation.

Outside the windowless space, armed guards rotated in silence. The tribunal room itself, behind a thick blast door, waited like a judgment chamber.

You sat stiffly on a bench too narrow for comfort, legal documents fanned out over your lap. Your fingers clenched the edges of one as your eyes burned with something hot and sharp.

Matt Murdock was nowhere to be found.

He hadn’t returned calls, hadn’t shown up to prep the night before, hadn’t replied to the increasingly frantic voicemails from Foggy. And now, with less than an hour until Bucky’s final hearing—he was still missing.

Foggy entered the room like a storm cloud. “I’ve called everyone I can think of,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Nothing. He’s not answering his phone, the apartment was locked up, Karen hasn’t heard anything from him either—he’s gone, and we’re out of time.”

You stood sharply, biting back the rush of frustration rising in your chest. “He had one case,” you said. “This was supposed to be his goddamn priority.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Matt,” Foggy muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is more than a case, Foggy. This is his life—” you gestured toward Bucky, who sat silent and watching “—and Matt just walked away from it.”

A long silence stretched between the five of you.

Bucky’s voice broke through. Quiet. “So… what now?”

Steve looked at you. So did Sam.

You stared at the stack of files on the bench. “I’ll take it.”

“You sure?” Foggy asked, already reaching for the briefing notes.

You gave him a look. “Do I look unsure?”

He swallowed. “Okay. Geneva precedents up top. Watch for prosecution's cross-exam strategy—she'll hammer your credentials hard, especially since you’re taking over so last minute.”

“Let her try,” you said under your breath.

Bucky rose slowly, his blazer stretching across his shoulders. He didn’t look at you—just toward the tribunal doors. “They’re going to call me a monster.”

You turned to face him.

“They might,” you said. “But they won’t win.”

His eyes found yours then—guarded, questioning.

“They’ll see a file, a record, a reputation,” you added. “I see a man who survived hell and still had the strength to pull himself out. That’s who I’ll fight for.”

His jaw worked slightly. And in the silence that followed, he nodded—once.

The weight of his trust settled over your shoulders, heavier than any closing argument.

You picked up your notes, spine straightening. “Let’s go win this.”

────────────────────────

The tribunal room at Fort Meade was cavernous and cold, more war room than courtroom. A long semi-circle of military and civilian officials presided behind bulletproof glass and steel.

The American flag stood behind the tribunal's emblem—flanked by the Department of Justice seal and the Department of Defense. The lighting was clinical, unforgiving, and the walls, though soundproofed, seemed to hum with silent judgment.

General Thaddeus Ross sat at the far end, half-shrouded in shadow, his arms folded and his jaw set in stone. Beside him were analysts from the CIA, a rep from Homeland Security, and the sharp-eyed lead prosecutor from the DOJ’s National Security Division—Assistant Attorney Caldwell. Her file on Barnes was a stack thick with ink and classified stamps.

The moment your group was escorted in—Bucky, Foggy, Steve, Sam, and yourself—all eyes shifted. You didn’t flinch. But you felt the air change.

Bucky didn’t look up. He hadn’t since the elevator ride down.

You took your seat at the defense table. Foggy beside you. Bucky just behind, shadowed. And for one sharp moment, you felt utterly alone at the center of this war.

The presiding military judge adjusted his mic.

“We are here to assess the culpability and legal standing of one James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier,” he began. “This tribunal acknowledges the unique nature of this case, involving alleged international war crimes, state-sponsored coercion, and actions performed under mind control.”

Then, he nodded to Caldwell. “Prosecution.”

She rose with the kind of practiced composure that could slice through steel. Her tone was calm. Precise. Measured.

“The defense will ask you to see James Barnes as a victim,” Caldwell began, voice resonant in the mic. “They will cite brainwashing, trauma, and a corrupted past. And yes—there is undeniable evidence that Mr. Barnes suffered under Hydra.”

A pause.

“But the law is not only built on sympathy. It is built on accountability.”

She turned toward the panel. “James Barnes was a lethal asset in a global shadow war. He executed heads of state. He destroyed civilian infrastructure. He has killed American agents on American soil. His body count surpasses a hundred and known ops occurred over seven decades.”

Then, looking toward your table:

“Whatever happened to his mind—his hands did not forget how to kill. And today, we must ask whether releasing him into society is an act of mercy… or a threat to every principle we claim to defend.”

She sat.

You didn’t blink.

The judge turned to you. “Defense. You may proceed.”

You stood.

Voice calm. Clear.

“For over seventy years, James Barnes was a prisoner of war in a war he never chose. He was stripped of identity. Language. Memory. He was tortured and rebuilt into a weapon—not by choice, but by force.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the lectern.

“Yes, he executed missions. But he also survived unimaginable horrors. His captors used science and brutality to shatter the man he was, again and again. And yet—he clawed his way out.”

You met the tribunal’s eyes, one by one.

“He did not run. He came back. He asked for help. And this country, after failing to protect him once, now has a chance to show that it remembers what justice really is.”

You stepped back, pulse hammering in your throat. Behind you, Bucky hadn't moved—but you could feel him breathing. Steady. Listening.

The tribunal was silent.

And the battle had begun.

And after a brief recess the tribunal resumed. You reviewed the witness list as your pen tapped softly on the table. Your jaw was tight. Foggy leaned in beside you.

“You good?”

You nodded once, barely.

The tribunal called its first witness: Colonel Elias Rourke, former liaison to SHIELD, now with Homeland Security. He swore in, stiff and iron-backed in uniform. His voice was gravel.

“Colonel, you had firsthand knowledge of the Winter Soldier’s activity?” Caldwell prompted.

“I did. I was stationed in Berlin during the assassination of a NATO peace envoy. Clean kill. No surveillance footage. The only evidence was a classified SHIELD transcript pointing to a ghost operative—metal arm, cold precision. Barnes.”

You watched Bucky flinch imperceptibly. You didn’t look back.

“And what was your assessment?” Caldwell asked.

Rourke’s lips thinned. “The man was Hydra’s blade. Deadliest asset in the game. We called him ‘death in the dark.’ Didn’t miss. Didn’t stop.”

Caldwell turned, satisfied. “No further questions.”

You rose slowly. “Colonel Rourke, you served under SHIELD, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware SHIELD was compromised by Hydra at the time of your assessment?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

“So your data, your field reports—all possibly filtered through an organization secretly aligned with the enemy?”

Rourke bristled. “That doesn’t change the kill count.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it does change how we interpret it,” you said smoothly. “Tell me, Colonel—how do we define guilt when the evidence comes from traitors?”

The tribunal rustled. Ross's eyes darkened. Caldwell leaned back.

“No further questions,” you said.

Witness after witness passed—some military, some from European intelligence. You dismantled their claims methodically. Not denying Bucky’s past—but reframing it.

Context. Compulsion. Control.

Then came your first and only defense witness: Ayo Sekayi, General of the Dora Milaje, flown in under diplomatic neutrality. Her presence silenced the room.

Ayo took her seat, graceful and firm.

You approached.

“General Sekayi, you worked directly with Mr. Barnes in Wakanda?”

“I did.”

“And what was your primary role?”

“Deprogramming. Erasing the Soviet Hydra conditioning. The trigger words, the synaptic trauma, the enforced behaviors. We dismantled them piece by piece.”

You turned toward the tribunal. “And your conclusion?”

She looked directly at Bucky.

“James Barnes is not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. What they built in him—we destroyed.”

Caldwell stood.

“General, can you confirm that these—‘deprogramming’ techniques—cannot be reversed or broken?”

Ayo narrowed her gaze. “Nothing in life is certain, Miss Caldwell. But I trust the work. And more importantly, I trust him.”

The prosecution rested after a tense exchange. Foggy passed you a note: You’re killing it.

But your stomach twisted.

The judge shifted in his seat. “Closing statements will begin in the next session. Tribunal adjourned until 1400 hours.”

You nodded, quietly collecting your papers. Bucky hadn’t spoken all day—but he stood when you did.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

The minutes before reconvening felt like a countdown to impact.

The tribunal room was heavier now. Not just because the panel of adjudicators had seen the evidence, heard the testimonies—but because they knew the weight of their decision. This wasn’t just about a man. It was about precedence. Politics. Redemption. War.

You stood at the lectern. Foggy sat beside you, calm but alert. Behind you, Bucky sat like he had the entire hearing—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, hands folded. Steve and Sam were across the room, watching, holding their breath through silence.

The presiding officer gave a nod. “Defense, your closing.”

You moved forward slowly. Let your silence stretch for two full seconds before speaking.

“James Buchanan Barnes was trained to disappear. Not just behind enemy lines—but inside himself. He was torn apart, piece by piece, rebuilt without memory or mercy. For decades, he was a weapon in human form. A ghost. A nightmare.”

You let your gaze sweep the tribunal.

“But that’s not who sits behind me today.”

Your voice softened, sharpened.

“He is not innocent. He will never claim to be. But he is not the man they made him. He is not their ghost.”

You swallowed.

“He is a man who has fought harder than most of us can comprehend to claw his way back into the light. He submitted himself to justice. He asked for this hearing. And what he’s asking for—what we’re asking for—is not exoneration without cost.”

You paused.

“We’re asking for understanding. For mercy. For recognition that justice must evolve alongside science, circumstance, and morality.”

Then, finally—

“James Barnes was a soldier. Then he was a prisoner. Then a weapon. But now—now he’s just a man, trying to find something like peace. Let’s not take that away from him.”

You stepped back.

The room was silent.

The prosecution’s closing was colder, but no less powerful. Caldwell spoke with solemn finality.

“However reformed, however rehabilitated—some weapons are too dangerous to unholster. James Barnes has been the tool of multiple regimes. Are we prepared to bet the lives of our citizens on the belief that it won’t happen again?”

She sat.

Then—nothing. Just deliberation.

Forty minutes of it.

Each tick of the wall clock pounded behind your eyes. Steve sat forward, elbows on knees. Sam paced. Foggy didn’t even pretend to read his notes.

Bucky never moved.

Then, the tribunal returned.

The presiding officer cleared his throat.

“In light of the presented evidence, the declassified testimony, and scientific evaluation…”

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table.

“…this tribunal finds James Buchanan Barnes…”

A pause.

“…not criminally liable for the acts committed while under Hydra control. Further, we acknowledge the legitimacy of his rehabilitation and no longer consider him an active threat to national or global security.”

A stunned silence followed.

But your heart didn’t lift. Not yet.

“We impose a five-year probationary review period. Mr. Barnes will remain under international observation and restricted combat engagement unless sanctioned. However, he will not face incarceration.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your chest.

Foggy muttered, “Holy shit.”

Behind you, Steve let out a slow exhale. Sam’s shoulders dropped.

But Bucky… Bucky just sat there. Still as a statue. His eyes weren’t wide, weren’t teary. But something deep in them shifted—like a plate in the earth, tectonic and unseen.

He looked at you.

And for the first time since Berlin, you let yourself look back.

Not with guilt.

But something closer to peace.

The gavel dropped.

Court adjourned.

────────────────────────

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a thud that echoed louder than expected. Your keys fell into the bowl by the entryway with a tired clatter.

The moment you slipped off your shoes, it was like your body remembered just how much weight you’d been carrying—shoulders sore, back stiff, head foggy.

The tribunal had ended just hours ago. One year’s worth of courtrooms, hearings, back-channel negotiations, UN statements, and defense strategies finally behind you. It should’ve felt victorious.

Instead, it felt like collapse.

You didn't turn on any lights. The glow from the city outside was enough—warm, amber halos from streetlamps slipping through your windows and stretching across the hardwood floor.

You moved by muscle memory, changing into an oversized shirt and sweatpants, tossing your suit into a corner without care. You’d earned at least a week of hermit-mode.

The pizza delivery guy barely warranted a word, just a tired smile and a muttered thanks. The glass of wine you poured wasn’t even your usual—it was whatever had been in your fridge long enough to gather dust on the cork.

You had just curled up on your tiny loveseat, plate in lap, wine within reach, when your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Karen Page

Drinks at Josie’s to celebrate? 🍻 Foggy’s already halfway drunk. And we found Matt.

You smiled softly. Sweet, thoughtful. But it hurt a little.

Your fingers hovered for a second before you typed:

Rain check? I’m officially horizontal for the foreseeable future.

Almost immediately came a heart emoji and a "Love you, you earned it."

That small glow vanished when the screen lit again.

Matt (1 Missed Call) Matt (2 Missed Calls) Matt (3 Missed Calls)

You didn’t even have the energy to read the texts—but they stacked like an avalanche.

Matt Murdock

Call me back. Please. I didn't know Elektra would show up. I didn’t mean for it to affect the case. I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.

You turned the screen face-down and shoved it under a couch cushion like a bad memory.

Pizza. Wine. Couch. That was all you had space for.

And for a while—it worked. The TV murmured in the background. The bottle slowly emptied. Your shoulders lost some of their coiled tension.

Until a knock sounded at the door.

You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Another knock. Firmer. You sighed, dragging yourself up with a muttered, “Matt, I swear to God—”

But when you looked through the peephole, your heart stuttered.

It wasn’t Matt.

It was Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair swept back, still slightly damp like he’d just showered. A simple navy t-shirt. Jeans. No jacket. And in his hands—

Flowers.

A small, uneven bouquet. Wildflowers. Not the kind you bought in shops. The kind you had to actually look for.

You opened the door without thinking.

When you opened it, the sound of the city filtered in faintly behind him.

Bucky looked… nervous. As in, genuinely uncertain of himself. The man who’d stood before a tribunal that morning like a stone pillar was now awkwardly holding out flowers that were slightly crumpled.

You blinked. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down, cleared his throat. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if this was okay.”

You looked at the flowers.

“I didn't know what kind you liked,” he said, suddenly rambling. “So I just… picked some.”

You stared at him, the bouquet still held between you like a question.

Then, softly, “You picked these?”

His jaw flexed, faintly sheepish. “Yeah. I mean—not from someone’s yard. There’s this stand up in the Bronx. The guy there… he helped me out.” He paused. “I remembered you smelled like lavender. That night. So I made sure there was some in there.”

He hesitated.

“And now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds a little stalker-ish.”

You didn’t say anything.

He shifted his weight. “You weren’t at Josie’s.”

“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”

“I figured.” His voice was soft. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to be around everyone. So I came here. Just in case.”

You leaned back against the doorframe, watching him with quiet wariness.

“Why’d you bring me flowers, Bucky?”

He looked down for a second, then back at you. “Call it a thank-you gift. For my lawyer.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, the first real one in hours. “For the last time, I’m not your lawyer. Matt and Foggy were.”

He didn’t flinch. “You were the one who argued for me. Who won my case. The one who sat across from me every time I wanted to give up.” A beat. “You always seem to be the one pulling me out when I’m sinking.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. Just reached out and took the flowers from him, gently, like they might dissolve in your hands.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a quiet nod. “I’ll let you get back to your night.”

And just like that, he turned toward the hall.

You watched his retreating back, something cold curling low in your chest.

You closed the door quietly behind him.

But you didn’t move.

Not at first.

And then your body did what your heart had been screaming for since the moment you opened that damn door. You turned, ripped it back open, and stepped out into the hallway.

The hallway was dim, amber from the old light fixture flickering overhead, but you could still make out his silhouette. Shoulders hunched slightly, hands in his jacket pockets. That quiet slouch he always slipped into when he was trying to take up less space.

“Bucky—”

He was only a few steps away, but he stopped like you’d shot him.

Turned slowly, brows drawn, eyes searching yours, “Yeah?”

You exhaled, stepping into his space without hesitation, bare feet cold against the worn floorboards.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just tired. Raw.

His eyes locked on yours, steady. Like he’d been rehearsing his answer.

“Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Your breath caught. That simple. That honest.

You stepped closer, heart thudding like a drum in your ears. “What if I want you?”

That was all the warning he got before your hands cupped his face, pulling him down.

And Bucky—he melted into it.

Like he’d been waiting for that kiss since Berlin. Since your hands had once pulled him out of panic and into something like peace. Like you’d opened a door inside him he hadn’t dared approach until now.

His hands came to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer—like he needed to feel you were real.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

This wasn’t the desperation of before. This was a storm that had built for a year, a longing that had aged like wine, richer now, deeper. And when you pulled him back into your apartment by the front of his shirt, he followed without hesitation.

Your back hit the door before you’d even registered closing it.

Bucky’s hands were on you—your waist, your thighs, your face. Everywhere at once, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first and was terrified he’d lose you if he stopped.

His mouth found yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and breath and the kind of hunger that came from a year of silence and stolen glances.

You moaned into him—high, needy—and he swallowed it like he’d been starved for the sound.

Then, without a word, his hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted.

You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your back slammed gently against the wall. His strength was effortless—of course it was—but the way he looked at you, like you weighed nothing and everything all at once, made your stomach flip.

“God,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours for a breath. “You feel real.”

“I'm real,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back down.

And he kissed you again, harder this time. Desperate.

You rocked your hips into his, and he groaned against your mouth—low, broken, like he was barely holding it together. The metal of his left hand braced against the wall behind your back, his right gripping your thigh so tightly you knew you’d feel it tomorrow.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“I wanted this,” he whispered. “Since that night.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. “Then take it.”

And he did.

He surged forward, grinding against you through your clothes. The friction was too much and not enough, the heat between you growing sharp and wild. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails dragging over the cotton of his shirt as you moved against him, meeting his thrusts with your own.

His lips moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane,” he breathed. “Every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe.”

You whimpered, tilting your head back to give him more. “Then don’t breathe.”

He laughed—sharp and breathless—and kissed you again like it hurt not to.

And still, the wall shook with every push of his hips.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was you, maybe it was him—but suddenly your hand was sliding between you, dragging the rough line of his zipper down.

You could feel how hard he was already, straining through the fabric, and Bucky hissed through his teeth when your fingers brushed him.

“Christ,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You want this here?”

Your answer was a breathless whisper at his ear: “Please.”

He growled—a deep, involuntary sound—and kissed you hard, teeth catching your bottom lip. His hands scrabbled at your sweatpants, pushing them down just enough, just enough for what mattered.

Yours were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Always closer.

There wasn’t time for finesse. Only need.

Only him.

You reached between you, helping him free himself, guiding him, your hands shaking. And when he slid inside, it was one motion. No hesitation. Like your bodies had been waiting for this, just this, for years.

The stretch made your head fall back against the wall with a soft cry.

“Oh, God—Bucky—”

“Shh,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your thigh like an anchor. “I’ve got you.”

And then he moved.

Slow at first, dragging his hips back and thrusting in again with enough force to make your breath hitch. The friction of clothes, the roughness of denim, the press of your back against the wall—it all made everything hotter, messier. You weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not here, not like this.

But it felt like coming home.

He was panting against your neck now, lips moving over your skin like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you. His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, making you cry out and cling to him.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel like—like I’ve been dreaming of you. And this is better.”

You arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not until you come. Not until I know you remember this every time you look at me.”

He was unraveling. You could feel it in the way his thrusts grew less controlled, how he trembled against you, how his breath turned ragged. Your own climax was building fast—too fast—but you chased it, grinding down against him as he thrust up, again and again.

When it hit, it was a wave that crashed hard, stealing your breath and your voice. You bit into his shoulder to stay quiet, and that did it for him—he gasped, buried himself deep, and came with a broken sound that might’ve been your name.

His forehead dropped to yours as the both of you shook through the aftershocks, your hands still clutching at each other like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be enough.

The only sound in the room was your shared, panting breath.

And neither of you moved.

────────────────────────

Your back still tingled from where it had met the wall—hard, unforgiving, but so forgotten beneath the ache of Bucky's body pounding into yours just moments ago.

You barely remembered how you got to your bed. One moment, his hands were gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your neck, his voice wrecked as he whispered how good you felt around him—and now you were sprawled across soft sheets, still trembling.

You were flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your lips swollen from his kisses and your thighs still parted, slick and sensitive from the way he just claimed you like he’d been waiting his whole life.

You were floating. Light. Feral with afterglow.

And then you saw him.

He was standing at the edge of your bed, chest rising in deep, uneven breaths. His eyes were locked on you—burning, stormy, like he wasn't quite done being wild.

His pants hung low on his hips, the fly undone, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with every breath. His metal hand was clenched at his side like he was holding back, barely.

You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting. “Bucky…? What are you doing?”

His jaw ticked. A muscle beneath his cheek jumped. He looked you up and down like he was trying to memorize the sight of you ruined and open for him. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Your breath caught.

He shedded the rest of his clothes with slow, deliberate movements—like he was daring you to look away. You couldn't. You wouldn't. His body was all hard lines and shadows, the silver glint of his vibranium arm catching the low light as he crawled onto the bed.

“Did you really think one time was enough?” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours as he moved between your legs. “After how long I’ve wanted you? After what you do to me?”

You tried to answer, but your words dissolved into a gasp as he began undressing you—slowly almost reverently, his hands pulling your top over you head, his mouth brushing the newly revealed skin. He dragged your panties down your thighs, kissing each inch of your skin as he exposed it.

You whimpered as his hands pushed your legs apart, his mouth hovering just above your soaked center. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, teasing, soft, then biting just enough to make you jerk.

Then he looked up at you—hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips red from earlier kisses—and said, “I need to taste you.”

And then he did.

His tongue touched you like a man possessed—like he was starved for you, like this was the only thing that would calm the storm raging inside him. The first long, slow lick made your hips jerk off the bed, a moan punching from your lungs before you could stop it. He groaned into your cunt, his hands—one metal, one flesh—gripping your thighs, holding you open, keeping you there.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped between licks, his voice muffled and desperate. “I could die like this. Right here. With you.”

He buried his face between your thighs, tongue plunging into you, then swirling up to your clit, his mouth wet and eager and relentless. He ate you out like he was drunk on you, like each moan you made was gasoline and he was the match. His metal fingers dug into your skin, grounding you, steadying you as his pace grew more frantic, more desperate.

You were already close again, still oversensitive from before, but he clearly didn't care. If anything, he was chasing that—your twitching thighs, your gasping breaths, the way your fingers tangled in his hair and yanked when it got too much.

“Come for me,” he whispered against you. “Let me feel it.”

He sucked your clit, fingers slide inside you without warning—two of them, thick and curling just right—and that was it.

You broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, spine arching, a choked sob tearing from your throat as everything inside you contracted around him. You were shaking. Panting. Utterly wrecked.

And still, he didn't stop.

Not until you were whimpering, tugging at his hair, begging.

Only then did he pull back, lips and beard shiny with you, chest heaving, eyes wild with satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he breathed, crawling up your body, kissing your throat, your jaw, your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”

Bucky stared at you like you were something sacred. Like he couldn't believe you were real. Like he was terrified this would disappear if he looked away.

His metal hand, now sleek and Wakandan-forged, cradled your cheek as his thumb swept across your skin. You leaned into the touch—there was nothing cold about it. Not anymore. Not when it was his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

“This?” you whispered, still breathless. “You mean… me?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Peace. Softness. Wanting something. Wanting you.”

You didn't say anything. You just kissed him again. Slow. Deep. Letting your lips speak all the things words couldn't. That he wasn't broken. That he wasn't just what they made him. That you saw him.

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’s taken in years.

Then he reached down, wrapped a hand around his cock—still hard, still aching—and slid it through your slick folds. You were so wet for him, still pulsing, your thighs sticky with your own release and his from before. He groaned, the sound low and raw in his throat.

“Bucky…” you whispered, arching your hips toward him, needing him inside you again—slow this time, deep, drawn out until it’s unbearable.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I need to feel you again.”

He lined himself up, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip—not to restrain, but to hold himself steady. He pushed forward, just the tip breaching you. You gasped at the stretch, and his eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.

“Fuck… You’re still so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours again. “You feel like heaven.”

He inched in deeper, groaning as your walls clung to him, as if your body was reluctant to ever let him go. He kept his pace achingly slow, giving you time to feel every inch of him sliding inside—filling you again, this time without the rush. No frenzy. Just presence. Just him.

When he bottomed out, both of you froze.

He stayed there for a long breath, forehead against yours, breathing your air.

Then he began to move.

The rhythm was unhurried, sensual—his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts. Deep and full, every stroke brushing places inside you that made your toes curl. His cock dragged against your walls like he was trying to leave an imprint, like he wanted your body to remember him.

Your fingers slid over his back, tracing the line of his spine, digging into his shoulder blades when a particularly deep thrust made you moan.

He smiled against your jaw. “Yeah… that’s it. I wanna hear you.”

He was whispering now—dirty things, soft things, things that sounded more like worship than filth.

“Feel so good wrapped around me… like you were made for me…”

“Can’t believe this is real. You—under me—letting me have you like this…”

“I’m not gonna rush this. Not when I’ve waited this long…”

And then he shifted—just slightly—and hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. You gasped, nails biting into his skin, and he groaned like he was unraveling.

He leaned back to look at you, watching your face as he moved inside you. The way your lips parted, your brows knitted, your hips lifted to meet his.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, keeping him close. He adjusted his angle, going deeper still, and you both moaned—low, guttural, lost in the feel of it.

The tension built again, slow and steady. Not a crashing wave this time—but a tide, rising and rising, until it’s all you could feel.

You were close. He knew it. He could feel you clenching around him, see your eyes fluttering, your moans growing more desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

And when you did—when you fell apart under him, soft and shaking, moaning his name like it was the only word you’ve ever known—he followed, hips stuttering, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you for the second time that night, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He collapsed onto you gently, his weight warm, grounding. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. He kissed your collarbone, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

He didn’t move.

And neither did you.

Not for minutes. Maybe more.

The weight of his body on yours was grounding, not stifling—his arms wrapped around you like you were something he’d waited too long to hold, and now that he had you, he couldn’t let go.

You traced lazy, absent-minded circles over the back of his shoulder with your fingertips. Felt the faint line of the scars that connected to metal. A ridged edge from something long healed, but never really gone.

He sighed against your skin. A deep, almost trembling sound. Like the tension had finally broken loose from inside his chest.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up in Wakanda again,” he murmured. “Like all this’ll vanish. The case, you… this.”

You turned your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “It’s real.”

He nodded, barely.

“I didn’t think I deserved this,” he said. “Not after everything.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t speak. Just kissed the side of his head, soft and slow.

Eventually he shifted—easing onto his side beside you, never more than inches away. His arm draped over your waist, his leg still tangled with yours. His forehead pressed gently to yours as if he needed that last point of contact to stay grounded.

No space. No distance.

And still—neither of you let go.

Your fingers brushed gently along the metal of his forearm, slow and absent. The room was dim now, the only light coming from the hallway through the cracked door. His breathing had evened out, his eyes half-lidded, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not yet.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He hummed in response, barely moving.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He didn’t answer right away. You didn’t push.

Eventually, he exhaled. “I don’t know.”

You waited.

“I think Steve and Sam… they’re still going to do it. The work,” he said. “Even without the Avengers. Even without the titles. They can’t not help people.”

“And you?” you asked gently.

He turned his head, eyes meeting yours in the dark.

“I don’t think I want to fight anymore.”

There was no shame in his voice when he said it. Just exhaustion. Honesty.

You nodded, quietly. “Then don’t.”

He shifted a little closer, brushing his thumb over your hip.

“I just want to be,” he said, voice low. “Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Not someone to be fixed. Just… a person.”

Your heart tugged painfully at the simplicity of it. The longing buried in those few small words.

“Maybe,” you said after a moment, voice light but not careless, “you could stay in New York.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. You felt him shift slightly, just enough to brush his nose against your hair.

“You’re from Brooklyn,” you added, teasing gently. “You’re practically built for rooftop fire escapes and overpriced bagels.”

That pulled a faint huff of laughter from him, the sound rumbling in his chest where it pressed against your cheek.

Then, softer—almost shyly: “I’ve taken a liking to Hell’s Kitchen.”

You smiled into the dark. “That so?”

He shifted, the tip of his nose brushing your forehead. “It’s loud, messy… smells like fried food and bad decisions most nights.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Accurate.”

“But it’s honest,” he added, voice softening. “People look you in the eye here. They don’t pretend not to see you.”

You swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah. It’s rough around the edges, but it doesn’t lie to you.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I need that. Somewhere that doesn’t look away when I walk by.”

You turned slightly to face him. “You don’t scare people here.”

“I used to.”

“You don’t scare me.”

His eyes found yours in the dark. There was something unguarded in them now—exhaustion, yes, but something gentler too. Something you hadn’t seen on his face since Berlin.

“Not even a little?” he asked.

You shook your head. “You’ve never scared me.”

He watched you a moment longer, like he was searching for a reason to disagree. But he didn’t find one.

The quiet was broken by the low buzz of your phone vibrating insistently from somewhere in the living room

You didn’t move. Just let out a soft groan and nuzzled further into the warmth of Bucky’s chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck like you could block the whole world out.

“Just ignore it,” you murmured, lips brushing his skin. “It’s probably Matt. Again.”

Bucky’s hand slid slowly along your spine, his touch soft, deliberate.

“He’s been calling?”

You gave a faint nod. “And texting.”

There was a pause. Then Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, brow furrowed.

“Texting?”

You opened one eye, smiling faintly at the confusion written across his face. “It’s a thing called voice typing, honey. Blind people use it. Revolutionary stuff.”

He huffed—quiet, but amused—and let his head fall gently back to the pillow.

“Still weird,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think he’d be that tech-savvy.”

You sighed, lifting your hand to lazily trace circles over his chest. “He’s not. Every message ends up with an accidental comma or two dozen typos.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his hand resting warm against your waist.

Then, almost reluctantly: “He was at Josie’s. When I left. I saw him.”

You blinked, but didn’t sit up.

“He looked… rough,” Bucky continued. “Like he’d been in a fight with a brick wall, and lost. Cuts, bruises. Said he’d been in an accident.”

You gave a small, tired laugh. “Matt’s always getting himself into accidents.”

“Does he?” Bucky asked, not pushing, just curious.

“Mmhm. Staircases, doorframes, the occasional wall,” you muttered. “Clumsy as hell.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, lips brushing your hair. “He apologized to me. For not showing. Said he should’ve been there. That it wasn’t fair to me. Or you.“

You went quiet at that and after a moment, you sighed, resting your head more comfortably against Bucky’s chest.

“I’ll forgive him,” you said, voice softer now. “Sooner or later. I always do.”

Bucky’s hand paused on your back.

Then, carefully—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer or not—Bucky asked, “You and him… were you ever a thing?”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His tone was neutral, but you could see it in the tension around his jaw. The quiet way his eyes avoided yours for a beat too long.

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

He didn’t respond immediately, just glanced away toward the dark corner of the room like it might have the answer.

“You’ve been around us for a year,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it. “You thought me and Matt were—”

“There’s obviously something,” he cut in, not defensive, just… honest. “There’s history.”

You watched him for a moment. Then sighed, laying your head back against his chest, cheek pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone.

“Of course there’s history,” you murmured. “We grew up together at Saint Agnes Orphanage. Sister Maggie basically drilled it into us that we were each other’s family. We were each other’s shadow for years.”

There was a pause. A breath of quiet between you.

“But,” you added, a wry smile tugging at your lips, “we’re also excellent at driving each other completely insane.”

That earned a small chuckle from him, low in his chest. His hand resumed that slow, absent stroke along your spine. But you could still feel it—that little line of worry sitting tight in his silence.

“I love him,” you said softly. “I do.”

His hand stilled again.

“But not like that. Not ever like that.”

The quiet stretched again. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Then, softly—not a question. Just a realization.

“You’re an orphan.”

You nodded slowly against his chest. “Yeah.”

There was another pause, longer this time.

His hand kept tracing that steady path along your spine. You could feel how the air around him shifted—not cold, not distant, just… deeper. Like he'd stepped into something personal without meaning to.

“Matt, Foggy, Karen…” you said softly, “they’re my only family.”

There was a pause. A soft breath between two heartbeats.

“Maybe not anymore,” Bucky said.

You stilled.

The air shifted again—warmer, somehow heavier—like the room had shrunk to only the space between you.

His hand didn’t stop its quiet movement across your back. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer. More certain.

“You were the first person to treat me like I wasn’t a machine. Like I wasn’t dangerous. You looked at me like I was still a man… even when I didn’t believe it myself.”

You didn’t move. Just listened.

“You didn’t try to fix me,” he went on. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pity me. You just… saw me. And that night in Berlin—when I was breaking—you didn’t pull away. You pulled me back.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his side.

“That never left me,” he whispered.

And that’s when it slipped out—bare, breathless, and truer than anything you’d said all night.

“You make it really hard not to fall in love with you when you say things like that.”

It was barely above a whisper. But it landed heavy between you.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

He just looked at you for a long, aching moment. Eyes open. Jaw tight with something deeper than tension.

Then, quietly, like it cost him something—but he gave it freely anyway:

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”

You didn’t have time to respond.

Because his mouth was on yours again—slow, sure, steady. Nothing like before. This kiss didn’t burn. It settled. Deep into your chest, into the space where grief and guilt used to live. It didn’t ask for anything. It just was.

Because now, unlike that night, there was no looming mission. No stolen hours. No fight waiting outside the door.

Now, he was free.

And he had time.

All the time in the world.

With you.

Danysdaughter Masterlist

• 19 • she/her • fanfic author • bucky barnes enthusiast • MDNI • POC girl

This blog is mainly for Bucky Barnes

My ask box is officially OPEN TO REQUESTS

RULES FOR REQUESTS:

→ fluff and angst is always allowed

→ any kind of smut is allowed, except the HEAVY bdsm kinda stuff (yeah I am no expert, so don't ask me to write for that freaky business)

→ If you want to request a part 2 to a fic i've already written, please tell me what you would like to see in part 2

→ i will not write anything to do with sexual assault or rape

→ I will not write about cheating (if it has to do with bucky barnes SPECIFICALLY — if it's a past relationship cheating is allowed)

•*⁀➷ I Think I Love You (5.4k words)

— fwb!bucky x new!avengers!reader

— [smut + angst + hurt/comfort + fluff]

you agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. but when loving bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.

•*⁀➷ Hold Your Breath (6.6k words)

— civil!war!bucky x fem!reader

— [angst + hurt/comfort + smut]

after a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.

•*⁀➷ Come Home To Me (14.7k words)

— 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader

— [fluff + angst + smut + hurt/comfort]

during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through your door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

•*⁀➷ The Soldier And The Vixen (14k words)

— 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader & winter!soldier x hydra!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

— [fluff + angst + graphic + hurt/no comfort]

once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred.

now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be

•*⁀➷ Still Yours (9.4k words)

— thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

— [smut + angst + hurt/comfort + fluff]

bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.

Hold Your Breath

pairing | civil!war!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.6k words (whoopsie)

summary I After a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in Bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.

tags | 18+, (MDNI!), p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotional sex, desperate sex, riding, dry humping, titty sucking, begging, subby!bucky, soft!reader, angst, soft dom!reader, vulnerable!bucky, slow burn to sudden burn, hurt/comfort, PANIC ATTACK! platonic!steve x reader, oh and PLOT! but premises: Fuck His Pain Away

a/n | THIS MIGHT BE THE FILTHIEST THING IVE EVER WRITTEN. uh, Matt Murdock cameo. and Steve and reader lowkey act romantic but they're purely platonic. inspired by THE Stiles and Lydia. ENJOY!

likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

The warehouse looked like it had been forgotten by time. Rust flaked off corrugated walls, the windows long since caked in grime and dust. Faint light filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, catching on floating particles like a snowstorm of ash.

You stepped through the open door slowly, your heeled boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The weight of silence sat thick in the air—one broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of aging steel. Sam stood off to the side, posted up by a boarded window, his eyes scanning the outside world like a hawk. Ironic.

He gave you a short nod in greeting, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell.

“He’s upstairs. With him.”

You nodded silently, then started climbing. Each step was slow, heavy with things unsaid. You reached the upper landing and paused at the threshold of a dim corridor, where you finally saw him.

Steve Rogers.

He was leaning against the doorframe to a room that looked like it had once been an office, now stripped bare. His arms were folded, his head slightly bowed, lost in thought. The sharp angles of his jaw were drawn tight, his eyes shadowed with more than fatigue.

He looked tired—drawn in a way you rarely saw. Shoulders too tight. Worry clinging to him like a second skin.

And yet the moment he looked up and saw you, something in his face unspooled.

“You came,” he said, voice low, thick.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Where else would I be?”

Steve gave a dry little exhale. “I don’t know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” you said.

He nodded once, but didn’t move from the door. The weight of the air between you stretched.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

You straightened, gaze steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You don’t have to ask.”

“I do.” His jaw flexed, eyes flicking away. “Because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We’re stretched thin. And Bucky… he’s not in a good place.”

“I know,” you said, voice gentler now. “Steve, I know. I’m not scared of him.”

He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, tension radiating from every inch of him. “I’m not either. That’s not it. It’s just—he’s been through so much. He barely speaks. Sometimes I think he’s back—my Bucky—but then I see that look in his eyes and I don’t even know who I’m looking at.”

You took a step forward, heart aching.

“You’re worried he’ll hurt someone.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

Then, almost too softly: “I’m worried he’ll hurt himself.”

That cracked something inside you. You reached out, fingers curling gently around his arm.

“Then I’ll be here,” you said, firm and calm. “I’ll sit with him through it. However long it takes.”

Steve looked at you, truly looked, and you could see it then—how much weight he was carrying. And how close he was to shattering under it.

“There’s more,” he said after a moment, voice even lower.

You nodded. “Tell me.”

He hesitated, like he didn’t know if he should. Then—quietly, brokenly—he said, “I don’t know what’s happening to us. The Avengers. The world. It used to feel like we were fighting for something good. Something that meant something. Now… it just feels like we’re tearing apart.”

You let his words hang in the air. Let him breathe. Then you stepped closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered.

But Steve shook his head. Slowly. Distantly.

“I don’t think it will be.”

There was something so human about him in that moment. Not the Captain. Not the soldier. Just a man who’d lived too long, lost too much, and still hadn’t learned how to stop hoping—even when it hurt.

He looked at you—really looked at you. The intensity in his eyes bordered on overwhelming. But what you saw there wasn’t fear. It was trust. Worn, heavy, aching trust.

“You can back out at any point,” he said, voice rough. “If it’s too much. If he—”

“I’m here,” you interrupted softly, a small smile blooming. “And I’m here to stay.”

Steve stared at you for a moment longer, then—without warning—you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He folded into you immediately, arms winding tightly around your waist like the weight of the world was something he could put down, just for a second, if he held onto you.

His breath was warm against your hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. “For being here. For me.”

Your fingers curled at his nape, anchoring him. “Always.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your waist. The kind of touch that said, I can’t ask for more, but I’d be lost without this.

You gave his hand a final squeeze, then watched as he turned and opened the door to where Bucky waited.

The door clicked shut behind Steve with a soft finality.

Bucky sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His hair was damp from where he’d splashed water on his face earlier. There was still blood crusted in his hairline from the fight in Bucharest. He hadn’t spoken in hours—not really. Just a grunt here and there when Steve checked on him.

The room was dark and cold, lit only by a single bulb hanging overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. Dust danced in the light. The walls were bare. There was a thin mattress pushed into the corner and not much else.

He could hear someone talking outside. A familiar voice. And a softer one.

Then footsteps. Boots against concrete.

He didn’t look up when Steve entered.

Steve took a breath and crossed the floor slowly. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t try to force conversation.

He just sat, giving Bucky space to choose.

"You holding up?" Steve finally asked.

Bucky shrugged. His metal fingers flexed slightly. “Still breathing.”

It took another minute before Bucky spoke again, voice hoarse, low.

“You’re leaving.”

Steve nodded. “Not for long.”

Bucky lifted his head, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. “Where?”

“Sam and I need to pull some others in. It’s moving fast.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened slightly. “You’re not?”

“No.” Steve gave him a look. “She’s staying.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “The woman outside.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Bucky paused, then asked—carefully, cautiously—“That your girl?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at the floor. “No. God, no. She’s… she’s just a friend.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘just a friend,’” Bucky muttered.

“She’s just my friend,” Steve said again.

Bucky studied him for a long moment, the gears clearly turning behind his tired eyes. “You trust her.”

“With my life.”

“And you’re leaving her with me.” That wasn’t a question. That was Bucky quietly testing the weight of what Steve was asking.

“I’m not leaving her with you like she’s a babysitter,” Steve said, voice firm but warm. “She offered. Because she cares. Because she’s kind. And because she’s not afraid of you.”

Bucky’s head dropped slightly. “That’s a mistake.”

“No,” Steve said firmly. “It’s not. You’re not the man Hydra turned you into.”

“You sure?”

Steve stood slowly, walking over to the window, eyes scanning the alleyway below. “Yes and she’ll be here when you need her. Whether you like it or not.”

Bucky grunted. “Sounds annoying.”

Steve chuckled. “You’ll get used to her.”

He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Bucky?”

He looked up.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve said again, softer this time. “But I do care about her. She’ll look after you. Let her.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, watching his friend’s back. The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, “She got a name?”

Steve turned back to him with a small, knowing smile. “Ask her yourself.”

Silence stretched. The tension in Bucky’s shoulders didn’t ease, but something in his eyes flickered. Not quite trust. But maybe curiosity.

────────────────────────

Outside, you were waiting patiently, arms folded, gaze flicking down the hallway as he approached. You gave him a questioning look.

“How’d it go?”

“He asked if you were my girl.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That’s a first.”

“I told him no. Just a loyal, stubborn friend.”

You nudged his arm. “Stubborn’s a little rude.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

He gave you a final, grateful look—the kind that carried years of friendship in one glance—then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving you standing in the dim hallway outside Bucky’s room.

You inhaled slowly, squared your shoulders, and turned toward the door.

The door creaked softly as you stepped inside.

The air inside was still—almost unnaturally so. Dim light filtered through the cracked blinds, casting lines of gold across the worn floorboards. The mattress sat low to the ground, old and bare, and on it sat a man who looked more like a memory than a presence.

Bucky didn’t look up right away.

He was perched on the edge of the mattress like he didn’t know what to do with his body. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on his knees. The metal one glinting faintly under the weak light. He didn’t move as you entered, didn’t speak—just turned and looked at you as if you might explode if he blinked.

His face was as unreadable as you'd expected. Blank. Cold. Not hostile, just... emptied out.

Still, you offered him the softest smile you could manage.

“Hi,” you said softly, introducing yourself.

No reaction. Not even a flinch.

You took a step forward, slow and steady, keeping your voice warm. “Steve asked me to check in on you.”

Still nothing. But he hadn’t asked you to leave either

“I’m not here to watch you,” you spoke, stepping forward slowly, palms open, posture relaxed. “Not like that. I’m just here if you need anything.”

Silence.

But his eyes followed you, blue and unreadable.

“I’m not an agent or anything,” you added. “But I figured a quiet face wouldn’t hurt.”

His gaze dropped back to the floor.

Your eyes drifted to the gash above his eyebrow again. The skin around it looked irritated. Dry blood had trailed down his temple, now flaked and cracking.

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured. “Your forehead.”

He blinked once. No acknowledgment. Just the same blank stare.

You nodded slightly to yourself, then crossed to the nearby table where Steve had left a bottle of water, some basic medical supplies. You grabbed a cloth and dampened it gently.

When you returned, you paused beside him.

“Can I…?” you asked gently, holding up the cloth just slightly. “Take care of that?”

There was a long pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—suspicion, uncertainty, maybe even something like confusion.

Then he gave a small, stiff nod.

You didn’t sit on the mattress beside him. That felt too close. Instead, you knelt down on the floor, leveling yourself just enough to reach him, and held the cloth delicately in your fingers.

“Okay,” you said, mostly to fill the silence. “This might be a little cold.”

You dabbed gently at the gash on his forehead, careful not to apply too much pressure. The dried blood flaked away slowly under your touch. You worked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the cloth against his skin and the hush of your own breath.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

But he watched you.

Close. Unblinking.

Like he was trying to find the trick in your movements. Waiting for the shift—when the care would curdle into expectation. Or interrogation. Or pity.

But you just kept working, your touch steady, your face calm.

After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low and rough, like unused gravel.

“You an Avenger?”

It caught you a little off guard, but you smiled faintly, not stopping your work.

“Not at all,” you said. “Maybe honorary. I just help Steve out. Here and there.”

You wiped the last of the blood from his temple, then lowered the cloth.

“But mostly,” you added with a small shrug, “I stick to New York.”

He was still staring at you. His brow twitched slightly. “Doing what?”

You chuckled, folding the cloth neatly in your lap. “I’m a lawyer.”

The expression on his face shifted for the first time—just a flicker, but there. His eyes narrowed slightly. Disbelieving, “A lawyer?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

His look said it before his lips did.

What the hell are you doing here?

You didn’t need him to ask.

You met his gaze—steady, warm, sure.

“A lawyer that knows right from wrong,” you said simply.

The room fell quiet again.

He stared at you like he was trying to see the catch—trying to spot where the kindness ended and the judgment began.

It didn’t come.

“I’m just here to help,” you said, barely above a whisper.

You stayed kneeling for a few more moments, wringing the bloodied cloth between your fingers, giving him space even while sitting right in front of him.

Bucky still hadn’t moved.

He just watched you. Not with suspicion exactly—more like quiet observation, like he was still figuring out what you were.

You gave him a moment, then sat back on your heels and rested your arms on your knees.

“So,” you started gently, as if you were just catching up with someone over coffee, “Steve said you were from Brooklyn.”

His eyes didn’t move.

You waited a beat. Nothing.

“I’m from Hell’s Kitchen,” you added, offering a half-smile.

Still nothing. But something in his eyes flickered. Just barely.

“Grew up around a lot of noise,” you went on, your voice soft but casual. “Corner bodegas. Fire escapes. People yelling out their windows at four in the morning.”

Another pause. You risked glancing at him again.

Still no words. But his gaze lingered now. Slightly more engaged.

“I used to go up on the roof with a book and just... tune it all out,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory. “Never worked. Some jackass was always blasting Sinatra or arguing about Mets scores.”

You caught a flicker at that—almost a breath of amusement in his expression. Almost.

“Guess Brooklyn wasn’t so different back then, huh?”

Still silence.

But now, he was looking at you—not through you.

You shrugged, eyes gentle. “Anyway. Just figured I’d try to talk. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His eyes finally dropped to the floor again, but his shoulders had eased. A fraction.

You added, “And if it helps at all… I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

That got you a flicker of eye contact again.

You smiled, soft and unbothered. “And you, from the looks of it, don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. So, we make a solid pair.”

No reaction.

You let out a small sigh.

The room had settled into a quiet sort of calm by late evening.

Bucky hadn’t spoken much—if at all—but he hadn’t pulled away when you refilled his water or dropped off a spare blanket either. A win in your book.

You hadn’t meant to take the call in front of him.

But you also couldn’t afford to ignore it—not when Matt Murdock’s name lit up your screen with its usual stubborn persistence.

You shifted where you sat on the edge of the room’s lone table, pressing the phone to your ear while still keeping Bucky in the corner of your eye. He sat on the mattress, back against the wall, arms folded stiffly over his chest. Watching. Always watching.

“Good evening,” you greeted softly, careful to keep your voice low.

There was a pause. Then, sharp and unmistakably annoyed, “Where the hell are you?”

You smiled. “Hi to you too, Matty.”

“I came by your loft, you weren't there.”

“No, because I’m in Germany.”

There was a long pause.

“…Germany?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize international borders exist, right? And that we’re not technically allowed to cross them at will?”

“You do realize you’re blind and still have better spatial awareness than the TSA, right?”

“You were just in New York yesterday,” he said, exasperated. “You can’t keep dropping everything the second Steve Rogers snaps his fingers.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Jealousy and judgment in one breath. Impressive.”

“I’m not jealous,” he bit out. “I’m concerned. You didn’t even tell anyone you were leaving the country.”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t plan to. Things moved fast. It’s not like I’m on vacation, Matt.”

“You think I don’t know what fast looks like?” he shot back. “This is the kind of fast that gets people killed. You’re not a soldier. You’re not—”

“I’m not you,” you snapped, before immediately softening your tone. “I’m not you, Matt. But you don’t get to lecture me about dropping everything for a ghost from your past when you've barely been present since yours came back.”

The line went still.

You exhaled. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“I know,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “I just… I worry. You matter to people, you know?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promised. “Just keeping someone safe until Steve gets back.”

There was a beat.

“…Is that someone dangerous?”

You glanced across the room. Bucky’s eyes were still on you, narrowed faintly in curiosity.

“No,” you said. “Not to me.”

Matt didn’t sound convinced. “Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

You ended the call with a gentle sigh, letting your head rest back against the wall.

Across the room, Bucky was watching you.

Not glaring. Not tense. Just watching—with that unreadable look he wore like armor.

You raised the phone slightly. “Work colleague.“

His brow lifted, slightly skeptical.

You tilted your head. “Okay, close work colleague.”

He didn’t respond. But you swore you caught the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something almost like amusement.

You didn’t press.

You just leaned your head back and closed your eyes.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

A faint but steady rhythm outside, boots against gravel, echoing just enough through the warehouse walls to mimic something far more sinister.

The blood drained from Bucky’s face in an instant.

His body snapped upright, rigid. His eyes locked on the door.

And his breathing changed.

Subtle at first. A slight hitch. A break in rhythm. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

And you weren’t.

You were halfway to the window already, your phone still in hand, distracted by the soft scrape of boots on gravel outside. You weren’t even looking at him when you said, “I’ll be right back. Just want to check it out.”

You moved with ease, brushing aside the edge of the tarp covering the glass. From where you stood, you caught a glimpse—just a guy with a backpack, head down, walking briskly down the alley. Civilian. No uniform. No earpiece.

Harmless.

You turned back toward the room, already ready to reassure—

And stopped cold.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the bed.

But everything about him had changed.

He was still seated, but his hands were clenched into fists, white-knuckled. His shoulders were drawn in tight, and his head was tipped down, jaw locked, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts.

“Bucky?”

His eyes snapped up.

Wide. Unfocused. Wild.

Your heart dropped.

You took a step closer. “Hey. You’re okay, it was just someone walking past. No one’s coming.”

But he didn’t hear you. Not really.

His breath hitched again, sharper this time. A low sound escaped his throat—almost a growl, almost a sob—and his metal hand twitched violently on his knee.

“I can’t—” he choked, fingers clawing at the edge of the mattress. “I can’t—breathe—”

You froze for half a second, then rushed forward, dropping into a crouch in front of him, palms out, voice gentle but firm.

“Okay. Okay, Bucky. You’re having a panic attack. I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you are. I promise, you are. You need to try to slow it down, or your body’s going to lock up on you.”

His chest was rising in harsh, ragged gasps now, every breath shallow and frantic. His eyes were darting around the room like he was trapped, like every wall was closing in.

You hovered your hands near his knees, not touching, just there. “I’m not gonna grab you. You’re safe. You’re in control. You’re not back there.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, body trembling. “I can’t—I can’t get out—I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey.” Your voice broke on the word. “You’re not trapped. I’m right here. You’re with me, remember?”

No response.

His breathing was worsening. He wasn’t inhaling fully anymore. Just choking down gulps of air like they weren’t sticking. His fingers curled against the mattress, his body rocking slightly.

He’s going to pass out.

You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice steady even as panic rose in your own chest.

“Okay. Listen to me. We’re going to ground, alright? Just do what you can.” You reached up, hovering your fingers closer to his arm. “Five things you can see. Look around, just five.”

He blinked rapidly, lips parted, shaking.

“Five things,” you repeated. “Just name them. Anything.”

“I—I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t—I can’t see—fuck—”

Your gut twisted.

“Alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered, watching his eyes roll slightly upward as if his mind was spinning off. “Bucky, please. Just hold onto something.”

But he couldn’t.

You could see the fight in him, but the grip of the attack had its claws in deep now, dragging him down. His hand jerked, metal fingers spasming like his nerves were short-circuiting.

He was slipping.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan.

You just acted.

You surged forward and crushed your mouth to his.

Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the scruff of his cheek, your lips moving against his like your breath could anchor him, like your body could pull him back from wherever his mind had gone.

At first, he didn’t move.

His breath hitched hard in your mouth, his body rigid.

And then—

He breathed.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders dipped slightly. His mouth softened just enough under yours. The rigid rock of his spine eased.

You pulled back after a beat, gasping softly, shocked at yourself, still close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

His eyes snapped open.

Blue. Wide. Raw.

You blinked, stammering. “I—I didn’t know what else to do. I read once—somewhere—that when you’re panicking, holding your breath can reset your lungs, and so—” You swallowed. “So, when I kissed you… you held your breath.”

His lips parted, still trembling.

Your hand was still lightly on his jaw. You started to pull it away, “I’m sorry—”

But then his hand—his metal hand—caught your wrist.

Gently.

He stared at you, breathing hard, but steadier now. Something wild still flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t panic anymore.

It was something else.

Something desperate.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Bucky’s hand—cold metal and trembling restraint—was still wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand pressed to his jaw. His skin beneath your palm was warm, rough with stubble, tense with something unreadable.

You should’ve tried to pull away again.

You should’ve said something. But you couldn’t speak.

Not with the way he was looking at you. Like you weren’t real. Like he’d dreamed you up in some quiet corner of his broken mind and was terrified you might disappear if he blinked too long.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Your mind raced, caught between guilt and instinct.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “I just didn’t know what else—”

And then you felt it.

His other hand.

You hadn’t even noticed it moving. But now, his warm, flesh hand was at the back of your head, fingers tangling through your hair, firm and certain.

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you in.

The kiss came fast.

No hesitation. No apology.

It collided with your mouth like a dam breaking—like a gasp swallowed between parted lips and bruised hearts. His hand on your wrist still held you in place, while the other tilted your head just enough to claim every inch of your mouth.

You made a startled sound—something between a breath and a gasp—and your hands moved instinctively finding his shoulders as you fell forward into his chest.

Your body hit his with more force than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he pulled you closer, like your weight grounded him.

His kiss deepened.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry.

Like he needed this more than air. Like the feel of your mouth, the press of your body, was the only thing holding him in the present. His lips moved against yours with bruising pressure, desperate and hot, tongue flicking past your parted lips like he couldn’t stand not to taste you again.

And you melted.

Every thought, every question, every ounce of guilt evaporated the second his tongue touched yours.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. Your knees threatened to give out. His breath was ragged in your mouth, nose brushing yours, body trembling with barely leashed tension.

This wasn’t just comfort.

This was need.

Pure and primal.

His hands were on you now—both of them. The right still cradled the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, holding you close. But the left… the left had found your waist, sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing along your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch but couldn’t help himself.

You felt the chill of metal and the heat of human skin, trembling and unsure.

He kissed you harder. Mouth moving against yours with clumsy, desperate hunger—no rhythm, no restraint. He wasn’t kissing to seduce.

He was kissing to feel.

When his lips broke from yours, they didn’t go far. They dropped to your jaw, then your throat, his breath hot and uneven as he murmured something unintelligible against your skin.

His tongue dragged along the side of your neck, followed by soft, open-mouthed kisses—rushed, messy, too fast. Like he didn’t know where to start. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you at once.

“God…” he breathed, mouth moving to your collarbone. “You’re so soft…”

His hands moved again, a little braver now—palming your waist, then your back, then your hips. He tugged at your shirt, his fingers grazing over the fabric like it was in his way, like he needed to touch more.

And that’s when your thoughts finally broke through the haze.

You gasped, blinking hard, fingers coming up to press gently against his chest.

“Bucky,” you said, breathless. “We should stop.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.

His lips paused just below your ear, trembling.

“This isn’t good for you,” you whispered. “You’re in a bad headspace, and I don’t want to take advantage—”

He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes wide and pleading, voice cracking.

“Please,” he whispered.

Your heart shattered.

“Bucky—”

“Please,” he said again, more desperate now. “I—I need to feel you. I need to know I’m still here. That I’m not… that I’m not him.”

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest.

His voice broke entirely. “Just… just let me touch you. Let me feel something that isn’t pain. Please…”

You stared at him for a long moment, his words still ringing in your ears, his hands trembling against your waist.

Let me feel something that isn’t pain.

The breath left your chest in a slow, trembling sigh.

And then you leaned in.

Your lips met his again—not rough this time, but slow, deep, deliberate. A promise.

Bucky responded like he’d been holding his breath.

His hands flew to your sides, tugging you closer until your knees straddled his thighs, until your chest was flush with his. He let out a broken, needy sound as you kissed him, fingers dragging up your spine, gripping, clutching, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He moaned at that—actually moaned—his mouth crashing into yours again as his hands started moving, frantic and restless, skimming beneath your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it was an obstacle, not clothing.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, holding his face between your palms like he was something fragile. You kissed him deeper, letting him pour himself into it, letting him need you. And all the while, you rocked slowly in his lap, hips rolling in a subtle, steady rhythm that made both of you gasp.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered against your mouth. “You feel so good… I can’t—can’t get close enough.”

He pulled harder at your shirt, his hands shaking with how desperately he wanted more of you. You broke the kiss just long enough to fumble with the buttons, undoing only a few before he lost patience entirely.

His hands flew up to your chest, and in one frantic motion, he tugged your bra down beneath your breasts.

“Bucky—”

But then his mouth was on you, and the words dissolved.

He latched onto your breast with a groan so guttural it vibrated through your core. His tongue swirled around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth like he was starved for it—like this was the only thing tethering him to earth.

You gasped, eyes flying wide, one hand clinging to his shoulder as your hips jerked against him.

“Oh my—Bucky—”

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His metal hand clutched your back, holding you in place as he lavished your breast with open-mouthed kisses, warm and wet and messy. His other hand palmed your waist, guiding your hips in time with his own.

You rutted against him harder now, both of you still fully clothed, the friction unbearable and perfect. His cock pressed thick and hard against you through his jeans, and the way he groaned into your skin when you ground down on him made your thighs tremble.

“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t stop.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him, anchoring him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed. “I’ve got you.”

And he moaned again, mouth still on your skin, hips jerking upward into you like he was begging you to believe him.

Your breathing was ragged. His lips were still wet from your skin. And when you pulled back slightly—only just enough to break contact—Bucky let out a whine.

Not a word. A sound. Broken, instinctual.

“Don’t—” he gasped, trying to follow you. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice barely stable as you pushed gently against his chest.

He let you guide him back, his body hitting the thin mattress with a soft thump, arms still reaching for you like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

“I’ve got you,” you promised again, voice low and sure, even as your hands moved fast.

You didn’t fully undress—didn’t need to. You shoved your jeans down, just past your knees, the waistband biting into your thighs as you knelt between his legs. Bucky’s chest heaved as he watched you, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was starving.

“God, you’re…” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re not real.”

You reached for his jeans, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, your own hands shaking now with the sheer pressure of what you were doing—what this was. You unzipped him, tugging his waistband down just far enough to free him.

And there he was.

Hard. Leaking. So fucking ready it made your mouth go dry.

He twitched when your hand wrapped around him—just once—and he gasped, hips jerking slightly off the mattress.

“Please,” he murmured again. “I—I need to be inside you. Please, I need—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You rose back up onto his thighs, grabbed his cock at the base, and positioned yourself with practiced urgency.

He held his breath.

And then—you sank down.

Slow, steady, deep.

Bucky cried out, head snapping back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as your heat wrapped around him. “Fuck,—Jesus—”

You couldn’t even breathe for a second. The stretch was intense, overwhelming—your thighs trembling as you adjusted, hands braced on his chest.

Beneath you, he was shaking.

Completely undone.

His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, not to guide you—but just to hold on.

You stayed there a moment, full of him, pulsing around him, feeling every tremble in his frame.

Then you leaned down, lips brushing his cheek, and whispered, “You feel that?”

He nodded, frantic.

“That’s real. I’m real. And you’re not alone.”

And then you started to move.

You moved slowly at first—hips rolling, drawing his cock in deep, then easing back up, dragging every inch of him against your walls. Bucky’s head tipped back, a shudder ripping through him, his mouth slack, eyes blown wide as his hands dug into your waist like he was terrified you might stop.

“God,” he rasped, “you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body wrapped around him, the rhythm building in your hips—it said everything.

You rode him harder, faster now, the tension rising like a fever. The denim of his jeans and the way your own clothes clung to sweat-slick skin made everything feel even messier, even more raw. The friction burned in the best way, every drag of your body against his driving him closer to the edge.

Bucky couldn’t stop touching you. His hands were on your waist, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where he needed you more. His voice was low and broken, a litany of groans and murmured please, please, please, even when you were already giving him everything.

When you leaned in and pressed your forehead to his, your fingers tangling in his hair, he was right there with you—breathing you in like oxygen.

His chest was rising fast now, the rhythm in your hips growing sloppy, desperate. You could feel him pulsing inside you, getting close.

Then—suddenly—he surged upward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was rough, needy, all tongue and teeth and shaky breath. He needed to be connected—to feel you pressed against him in every possible way as he unraveled.

And then he came.

You felt it—deep, hot, twitching inside you as he groaned into your mouth, burying his face in your shoulder, his entire body trembling as you held him through it. His arms clutched you tight, almost too tight, like if he let go you might vanish.

You didn’t.

You stayed with him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Lips at his temple. Your hips finally stilled.

You hadn’t come. You weren’t even thinking about it.

This—this—had never been about you.

It was for him.

To remind him that he was here. That he was human. That he was held.

You were still catching your breath, his body trembling in your arms, when it happened.

Without a word—without even looking up—Bucky shifted beneath you, tightening his arms around your waist. And before you could ask what he was doing, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and you barely had time to gasp before his body followed, pressing you down, caging you in.

“Bucky—” you started, surprised, dazed.

But the look in his eyes stole the words from your mouth.

Focused. Intense. Wild with a need you hadn’t seen before—but not for his own release this time.

For yours.

He was still hard inside you. Still there. And now, he began to move.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pounded into you—hips snapping forward with frantic rhythm, as if something had cracked open inside him and he couldn’t bear not to give you back everything you’d just given him. Every thrust was deep, hard, messy. His breath came in grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours, his body slick with sweat.

You clutched at his shoulders, your own body struggling to keep up as pleasure started to crash over you like a wave.

“Let me,” he panted, voice low and wrecked. “Let me make you feel good. You—fuck, you were so good to me—I need—I need to make you come—please—”

Your breath hitched, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as his cock drove into you again and again, hitting all the right angles now with dizzying precision. His hand slid down, slipping between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, desperate, trying to draw your pleasure up through every inch of you.

The pressure built fast. Too fast.

You were already so full, so overwhelmed—his voice in your ear, his fingers on your body, his cock so hard inside you—and the way he moved… God.

“You don’t have to—” you started, already trembling.

“I want to,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You whimpered, body jerking beneath his as the tension in your core snapped tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Please. I need to feel it.”

And then you did.

You came with a moan that tore out of your throat, back arching, hands clutching at his back as your body spasmed around him. Bucky groaned, dropping his head into your neck, hips still moving as he rode you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like giving you pleasure was what made him feel whole.

His body trembled as he came down, the last few ragged thrusts losing momentum until finally—finally—he stilled, buried deep inside you, heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it through his chest.

He hovered there for a moment, arms shaking, breath catching in his throat.

And then he collapsed.

Not all at once. Slowly, carefully. Like his strength gave out in stages. But even as he let himself fall into you, he caught his weight on his forearms, mindful, always mindful—never fully resting on you. He curled slightly, pressing his face into the crook of your neck like he needed to hide. Like the world was too bright again, too loud, and your skin was the only place left that felt quiet.

Your arms came around him without hesitation.

One hand slipped across his back, fingers splayed wide, gently grounding him with each stroke up and down his spine. The other cradled the back of his head, thumb sweeping slowly through his damp hair, cradling him like something precious.

His breath hitched once.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just held him.

He melted into it slowly, his metal arm resting against the mattress beside your head, his human hand fisting weakly in the blanket beneath you. You felt the tremble still in his muscles—aftershocks of everything he’d just released.

“Shh,” you murmured, soft against his ear. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His forehead pressed tighter to your throat.

“You’re safe now,” you whispered, voice low and steady. “Right here with me.”

He exhaled, shaky and fragile.

“You’re not alone. You’re not him. You’re not broken.”

He didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to.

He let you hold him.

You kept going, voice like a lullaby, your fingers never stopping.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you murmured. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip on the blanket loosened, and he shifted just enough to finally let some of his weight settle into your body.

Not too much.

Just enough to trust.

Compromised Positions

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky find yourself in one too many compromised positions, not that he's complaining.

Disclaimer: Steamy moments with a slight hint of smut towards the end, swearing, multiple undercover kisses, he fell first, she fell second, he fell harder. Mentions of domestic disputes, criminal neighbours. Bucky ties Reader's heels, shirtless Bucky, him in joggers, a lot of physical touching (innocent...at first). Gala kiss, undercover as a married couple, Bucky admires Reader's nails. Not Proof Read.

“Guys, you’ve got like, two minutes until they’re gonna notice you’re gone.”

“Relax, little Falcon, we’ll be out in time.”

You heard Joaquin sigh over comms. “That nickname,” he groaned. “I’m the Falcon, now.”

Bucky smirked. “Whatever you say, Big Bird.”

You all heard Sam chuckle as a groaning whine left Joaquin. “Not you, too.”

You nudged Bucky’s arm and pointed at the room. “In here.”

He closed the door behind you both before he joined you in the search for physical evidence. Pictures were taken on his phone whilst you looked for the file. 

“Jesus, have they never heard of organisation? What the hell is this?”

Bucky just looked at you. “Seriously? The chaotic organiser is judging their organisation skills.”

“At least I know where everything is.”

It was another thirty seconds before your anxiety kicked in. You considered it to be the same kind of anxiety mother’s got before their kids threw up in the middle of the night. And Joaquin’s voice confirmed your suspicion. 

“Guys, they’re back early.”

Bucky looked around the room. There was one exit and that would mean running right into them. “We can’t-”

“I’ve got a plan.”

Instantly, you grabbed Bucky by his henley and threw him over to the sofa as you removed your own jacket. The room wasn’t exactly an office – it was more of an overflow of actual office stuff. A storage closet. 

There was a chance your plan would work better than you both being compromised. 

“What the hell are you-”

You held Bucky down by his shoulders. “Just shut up.” 

The footsteps out in the corridor were getting louder. They were getting closer. So, strandling Bucky’s thighs, your knees digging into the worn sofa in the middle of the room, you kissed him just as the door unlocked. 

Considering you and Bucky had gotten through the building door pretending to be members of the society, it wouldn’t seem odd that two new-ish members were in a room they had been told about. 

Your hips shifted as Bucky’s legs moved, his hands putting just the right amount of pressure on your back to make the whole thing look believable. 

There were strangled noises from behind you both which quickly disappeared with a soft click of the door, whispered awkward voices and then quick footsteps leaving down the other end of the hall. 

It took Bucky a moment to get his breath back. 

“Good…good thinking.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Now let’s go, before they come back.”

Neither of you mentioned how you managed to avoid a confrontation with top members of the group. You didn’t talk about it either. It was a kiss that saved you both from a compromised position, nothing more. 

Until it happened again. 

Three months later, you were on a – meant to be – solo mission. 

An undercover identity built through a long career at Shield meant you still maintained the yearly invite to a rather pretentious gala on the Italian Coast. And, since words had been brewing around another multi-million dollar deal over a key to a vault that protected certain secrets of yours, meant you had to go. 

However, somewhere between the extra security, extra guests and a faulty switch, you’d almost gotten caught. 

Almost.

The third round of security was about to turn down the hall to the faulty security alert just as a hand came to the small of your back. You were about to say something until you recognised the face it belonged to. 

“Bucky?”

“Just trust me.”

That was all he said before you found yourself pressed against the prestinely polished wooden door frame a few feet away. His steady right hand lay on your cheek, tilting your face to his whilst his left softly skated down the length of your body, over the dip in your hip and to the top of the slit on your dress. 

Your breath was taken away as his lips were pressed against yours, his tongue being granted permission to taste you properly. 

Somewhere behind the thrumming in your ears, the two security officials joked quietly in Italian before flicking the warning light off and moving on down the hall. 

When you finally caught your breath, you asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re welcome,” was what he replied. 

“Bucky-” you warned. 

“Sam called me. Joaquin ran those checks you asked for and I was in the area.” He said it as if it was nothing. Like turning up, not only technically saving your ass but kissing you like that was nothing more than an average Tuesday.

That night you swore to yourself that it would only be a second one time thing. But apparently that was just another lie. 

A few months later, you had been put onto a mission. You were monitoring the supposed harmless janitor of the building. ‘Supposed’ as there had been warning’s flagged over his involvement with an elite terrorist group that had been targeting undercover Shield agents. 

And, despite knowing you were safe enough, Sam had provided you with a ‘boyfriend’ cover. 

And that boyfriend just so happened to be Bucky. 

He came to your apartment every few days. Stayed at least two nights a week. And helped you do laundry…

Even when you were both fighting. 

“I don’t need someone watching my every move, James. I’ve been in this job a lot longer on my own. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never not done it before.” 

You were sitting on top of the empty washing machine as your bedding was spinning around in the dryer. Bucky was folding the second piles of clothing considering they were his that he’d left overnight. 

“What if something had happened? What if you’d gotten caught?”

“I nearly did,” you told him. “When you came charging inside like some fucking-”

There were slow and heavy footsteps coming down the hallway. Without saying anything, Bucky reached out for you as you pulled him to stand between your legs. 

He leaned forward, his hands pulling you in by your hips as your hands pushed through his hair. Your mouth opened almost instinctively as his tongue swiped forward. A quiet groan left him and his fingertips gripped a little harder onto the soft skin exposed at your hips, before the door opened up. 

Sam rushed inside. “It’s just me.”

You and Bucky moved away from each other quicker than you’d come together. Bucky moved back to the laundry pile and wiped his lip as he thought about something other than the feeling of your legs hooking around his own and holding him in place. 

You wiped your own mouth, trying to hide the slight embarrassment as Sam stopped, realising what he, sort of, walked into. 

But there wasn’t time to question it. 

“Can you break your window?”

You looked at Sam confused. “What?”

“I need you to break a window in your apartment and call the janitor up. Joaquin is gonna come to ‘fix’ it. Eventually, he’s gonna have to sign papers in the office and we’ll be able to tag his desk top. It’s so old, Torres can’t hack it.”

“Jesus, really?” You hopped off the washing machine, ignoring the dull ache in your underwear. 

Sam nodded. “This dude is working with something from, like, the 90s.”

“For the amount that they charge for rent?” 

Sam nodded. 

Three hours, two struggling-attempts at a fitted sheet that decided for today to be the day it didn’t want to comply and one shattered window pane later; Joaquin had tagged the computer and you had a fresh window installed. 

Apparently, that mission was the catalyst for the next undercover assignment you received. Or rather, the undercover assignment both you and Bucky received. 

A new-ish wedding couple that have been house hunting for six months and had finally found the perfect one to try and start a family in. It just so happened to be across the street from a few different couples you would be quietly surveilling. 

Some for money laundering for elite underground teams that missed the idea of outfits such as ‘Hydra’ existing, some for potential involvement in weaponry sales overseas and some for recruitment to both groups. 

The other neighbours, however, were completely normal. 

Which seemed to be harder to deal with than the potential criminals living across the road. 

Considering you and Bucky had already made out more than once before, physical affection seemed to come a little easier than you had thought. It was still a little awkward, but overall, not as bad as it could have been. 

A week after moving everything in, you and Bucky agreeing to separate bedrooms, you’d gotten an alert one morning from the security camera doorbell. 

Someone was coming up the path. 

And you and Bucky were right in the way of the door. 

Still in your pajamas, bickering over which neighbour to start with, Bucky stepped forward and held onto your hips. He lifted you before your legs wrapped around him and you kissed him as if your life depended on it. 

Between each kiss came laughter to mask both the awkwardness and the fact none of it was real. It was all an act. It’s all it could be. 

The doorbell rang, then someone knocked on the window beside the frame of the door. You and Bucky pretended like you’d just been caught in the act. 

Your body practically slid down his as he let you down but kept an arm around your waist. As you answered the door, he remained fixed beside you. You opened the door enough to frame yourself and Bucky to the nine am neighbour who was holding a pie dish. 

As time went on, the affection became a little more subtle. Hand holding, open car doors, a helping hand down the front steps of the porch when you wore heels. 

Then, a few months later, you were both invited to the street BBQ. 

You were standing in the slightly open planned hallway, trying to get the buckle of your heels to play along. That was when your husband came jogging down the stairs in dark jeans, a fresh shirt and a brown jacket. 

“Need some help?” 

He didn’t wait for your answer after hearing you sigh as you lowered your foot, frustrated at your shoe. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate in bending down on one knee as you leaned against the back of the sofa. His hand gently holding onto your ankle,  he lifted your heeled foot to rest on him. He did the same with the next one, his thumb rubbing beside your ankle before he let you place it on the ground. 

His gaze didn’t leave yours as he stood. 

“You look incredible,” he told you.

A sundress, softer block heels to match and a smile that knocked him dead on his feet the first day he met you. 

“Ready to go?”

You nodded. “Let me just grab the food.”

“I still don’t see why we have to bring food to a BBQ we were invited to.”

“Because it’s good manners.”

“You know most of these people are criminals, right?” He asked you as he opened the door for you. 

You shrugged. “To them, we don’t know that…yet.”

Bucky locked the door before helping you down the porch steps. It was a short walk a few houses down. As one of the women ran over to you, holding your hands and complimenting your outfit, Bucky kissed your lips quickly before being ushered towards the buffet style table where the other husbands and partners were standing. 

But despite involving himself into the conversation, his eyes barely left you the entire night. 

Long after food, you found yourself sitting in your husband’s lap on one of the chairs. There were only a select few left, including you and Bucky. Which also meant chairs had become few and far between. 

You had planned to stand beside him, but without worry, Bucky had put his hand onto your waist and pulled you across until you were sitting comfortably. 

Your arm remained fixed on his shoulder and as the night went on, you started to get more and more tired. Your body practically melted against him as the faint buzz of alcohol took over and laughter passed between the remaining people, awake enough to hear the story. 

It was a little after midnight when you both returned home. Bucky pulled you into his side a little as his hand grazed over your hip and he kissed your head. 

“Go shower,” he told you. “You’ve still got sunscreen on.”

You nodded as you molded into his touch once again. “I know.”

“Give me them,” Bucky whispered quietly as he took the leftovers from your arms. “Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.”

By the time you had gotten out of the shower, you found a set of fresh pajamas on your bed. They definitely hadn’t been there in the morning. As you got dressed, you hesitated in the hallway for a second. Bucky’s room was just a little further. 

Yet, you stopped in your tracks when you saw his partially naked body through the crack in the door. 

He was buttoning his shirt on the hanger whilst he stood by his wardrobe door, jeans hugging his hips and the muscles a little tense in his back. 

It wasn’t like you’d never seen him shirtless before. But in those moments, he’d been hurt. You’d been cleaning a wound he couldn’t reach and wouldn’t let Sam touch since he considered him, “Too heavy handed.”

There was something far more intimate about how you were seeing him at that moment. 

Yes, he technically was your husband. And you were living in the same house. But, it was a mission. It was a cover. It wasn’t real. 

You’d thank him for the pajamas in the morning. After the feelings in your stomach had died down and the fictional image of you walking over and kissing the dip between his shoulder blades had disappeared. 

You tried to make it as casual as possible. And he accepted it as casually as possible. And you both very quickly moved on. A job still needed to be done. 

However, a few nights later, those lines blurred again. 

You’d been awake for hours, unable to sleep. Bucky had gone to bed an hour before you had, but you were the only one to wake up after having a rather intimate dream about your marriage partner. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push the image of him away. So, with a sigh, you’d dragged yourself from bed and gone downstairs. You’d kept the TV volume low as you turned it onto a rerun channel.

Only, as Dorothy hit Blanche on the head with a newspaper, there was a knock at your door. 

You muted the TV and reached for your phone to check the camera. 

You waited to the side of the front door until they knocked again. “Y/n? Are you awake?”

You rushed forward, shoving the hidden gun back into the security draw of the hallway stand. 

“Suzie?”

You unlocked the door to find one of the few women you’d become friends with in the last few months. She was one of the ‘normal’ neighbours. Only, it wasn’t normal for her to be standing in her casual clothes, sopping wet from the rain, outside your door at almost half one in the morning. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said with puffy eyes. “I-I saw the shine behind the curtains and I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Come on in,” you pulled her out from the wet just as the familiar sound of Bucky’s feet came down the stairs. 

“Is everything okay?” 

The sight of him shirtless in nothing else but joggers was doing nothing to put a stop to your imagination. Considering he usually slept in his underwear – a fact you’d learned one morning when your kitchen fire alarm had decided to let its battery die at five in the morning – it shouldn’t have shocked you the way it did. 

“Everything’s fine,” you assured him quietly as you met him halfway. A hand landed on his chest over his heart as you leaned up and pecked his lips. He kissed back. “Go back to bed. It’s just Suzie.”

Bucky’s tired eyes opened wide enough to recognise your neighbour in the light of the TV. He looked back at you and you just nodded. 

“I promise,” you told him before kissing him again as you felt his hand at your hip. 

He just nodded. “Okay. If you need me-”

“I know.”

You watched as he turned around and went back upstairs to bed before you turned back to Suzie. “Let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

“Oh, no. It’s okay. I-I can just-”

You shook your head, taking her hand in yours as you dragged her to the laundry room. You grabbed her a towel from the dryer before picking out an old paint-flicked T-shirt and some wide-legged joggers. 

“Put these on, I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, Y/n.”

You just nodded as you slid the laundry room door shut. She reappeared a few moments later, dressed and drying her hair with the towel, her eyes stained with tears once more. 

“What’s going on?”

“Me and Johnny had a fight.”

For the next two hours you sat with her in the kitchen as she cried her way through the story of how her and her boyfriend of three years had started their fight and how it had ended. 

“You can stay here for tonight. I don’t want you going back there.”

Suzie sniffled, “Thank you.” She hugged you tightly. “You’re such a good friend.”

Leading the way, you showed her the bathroom first which gave you time to tidy up the guest bedroom, as well as your own across the hallway – which just so happened to already look like nobody had been sleeping there.

By the time you reappeared, Suzie hugged you once more before you led her to the room and closed the bedroom door behind her. A few minutes later, you walked down the hallway towards Bucky’s room. 

He’d left the door ajar for you. 

Walking inside, you gently pulled the covers up and shifted under them until you were laying beside Bucky. And just as you thought he was dead-asleep, his arm came to lay across and pull you closer. 

As your hand ran up his arm and you settled against the mattress, you felt his nose brush against the crook of your neck. 

“Everything okay?” 

You swallowed a little before nodding. “Yeah. Her and John had a fight. I put her in the guest room. Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“My bedroom. You tidied it.”

Bucky had a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re my wife. You shouldn’t be anywhere else but right here, beside me.”

The use of his words, with his deeper morning voice was a pairing that would be haunting your ovulation dreams for a good while. 

By the time you both woke up in the morning, you leaned over to check the time on his alarm clock. It was a little after nine. You’d both slept in. 

“Suzie and I are gonna have a girl’s day today, so I might be back late.”

Bucky nodded. “Okay. Need me to do anything?”

You shook your head. “I’ll handle John.”

You leaned on your side as you watched your husband stand from the bed in his boxers and pull on his jeans, before zipping them up and buckling his belt. Then he sat back on the bed, his arm caging you in. 

“Are you sure? Because, you don’t have to.”

You looked at him curiously. “Have you ever seen yourself mad?”

He then looked at you, curiously. “What?”

“Because, though you might not be him, you still have that glint in your eyes.”

“Glint?”

You nodded. “You know, that I’m gonna kill you and not regret it, look. I don’t think John needs to be threatened by the Winter Soldier look…yet.”

Bucky relaxed and nodded. “What happened?”

“It’s little things that became one big thing. What they both need right now is some space.”

“If you need me, call me.”

You smiled, before watching him pull a henley down his body. “I know.”

However, when the back of his t-shirt became stuck, you leaped up and onto your feet rather than watch him struggle for the next five minutes. 

“Here, let me.” 

Suddenly, the room became a lot more quiet. Bucky felt your fingers lightly graze his bare back as you fixed his shirt and helped pull it down his back. And for a moment, he felt you lean against him. Or maybe he’d leaned into your touch so much, his knees had gone weak. 

“You know,” his voice was low as he spoke. “I like waking up to you with me.”

He didn’t know where the sudden confession came from considering less than two minutes ago, you’d both been talking about something completely different. All he knew was that it was the truth. 

Your breath hitched. “So did-”

Before Bucky could fully turn around to face you, there was a sound of a lock opening down the hall. Suzie was awake. 

“I better get breakfast started.”

Bucky nodded, his hands rubbing up and down the top of your arms as you leaned into his chest. He pressed his lips to your head. “I’ll go and check in on Sam.”

And for a few moments, you were left standing alone, his voice circling in your head. 

I like waking up to you with me.

The rest of the day ran swiftly. Having pancakes for breakfast before driving out to the local shopping mall and cafe. From where, you both got a manicure before ending up at a diner on the edge of town; John had been racing around town to find his girlfriend. 

Following multiple threats – both spoken, and silent – and constant apologies, Suzie and Johnny made up. But his actions were definitely going to be watched closely by you. Though nothing terrible had happened during the fight, and you doubted John would ever lay a hand on his girlfriend, he’d still hurt her. 

Which put him in your bad books. 

By the time you got home, John still providing Suzie the space she needed, you’d dropped Suzie off at home before pulling into your driveway, where almost instantly, Bucky had come outside and was standing on the porch waiting for you. 

“Where’s Suzie?”

“She went home,” you said as you locked your car and climbed the steps of the porch, Bucky taking your hand in his. “John apologised. I’m still gonna be watching him, but they’ve made up.”

Bucky smiled. “Good. You got your nails done?”

“Oh, yeah.” Between the diner and the long conversation home, you’d forgotten. “Like ‘em?”

Bucky nodded. “Looks great.”

You smiled to yourself before looking back up at your husband. What followed was a debrief of the day, before you both collapsed onto the sofa with some desert you’d brought back home from the diner. 

As whatever show Bucky had found for you both was about to flick onto the next episode before a pop-up ad came on asking if you wished to continue, you both took a break. Meanwhile, you pulled the blanket from you and stood before taking both empty bowls into the kitchen and laying them in the sink. 

And you took a breather for a second. 

For the last two hours, Bucky’s presence had been overwhelming – in the best sense, if the marriage had been real. But considering you were still trying to stuff emotions and images down into a box you kept meaning to lock shut, his presence was becoming more difficult to be normal around. 

That fuzzy line officially broke a few weeks later. 

The feelings had been growing stronger and more noticeable. The way he held you, the way he kissed you – even if it was quick. It left you wanting more. You’d also been spending more time sleeping in with him beside you than on your own. 

First it had been the night Suzie had stayed. Then it had been the sofa, waking up on his chest with your back against the sofa cushions. A few sleepless nights after that, he slept beside you, holding you close to him. 

After that, it became…normal…to wake up with him so close to you. His legs tangled with yours, his arm over you or around you, his steady heartbeat calming your own erratic one. 

Then, one night, you couldn’t sleep. 

You’d carefully peeled yourself from his arms and padded downstairs into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. But after standing at the sink for a few minutes, your own thoughts too loud for you to notice him behind you, Bucky’s hands came to lean on the sink counter. 

His hands were on both sides of you, caging you in. 

“You okay?”

You jumped a little. Bucky noticed, his hand coming to rest on your hip for a moment. Somehow, it calmed you.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just…couldn’t sleep.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a second before asking his next question. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You lowered the glass from your lips and swallowed the water in your mouth. “What?”

Bucky watched the side of your face, your lips freshly wet from the cold water, your mind spiralling and distant. 

His right hand came up to your left side to pull the hair away from your neck. Carefully, he called you back in before he leaned into you, his nose gently running up the length of your neck. 

Your breath hitched a little as you leaned against his bare chest but still held onto the glass as it balanced on the edge of the sink. 

“You’re tense,” Bucky said before he pressed a feather-light kiss to your exposed skin. And for a moment, he felt you relax. “Nightmare?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

For a moment, you refused to face him. You were yet to know feelings that went away on their own when they ran as deep as they did, but maybe it was a fluke. 

Then he kissed the crook of your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It’s you.” The words came out a quiet sigh as your eyes closed. As his lips left your shoulder, but his arms didn’t leave the space he’d created for both of you, he looked at you. 

Your eyes opened. “It’s you, Bucky. You’re in my head and my…”

Heart.

“And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of you. It feels like somewhere between that first kiss on the sofa and…waking up beside you, you’ve seeped into my bones. And I…I don’t know if I want that to stop.”

Bucky’s gaze roamed over yours and for a long time, he was quiet. But his arms never moved. 

“That’s why I can’t sleep.”

The silence continued for a moment longer until Bucky finally spoke. 

“Your name has been tattooed on my soul since the first day I met you, doll.”

You looked a little puzzled, because you were. So he explained, “The first time you smiled at me, I’m pretty sure I got knocked off my feet. And that day you kissed me…I was thinking about it for weeks until I saw you in that dress. You looked fucking stunning. From then I knew my feelings for you would never leave, not that I tried to make them. You’re tattooed on my soul, doll.”

Your gaze narrowed playfully. “Are you really having a feelings competition?”

Bucky shrugged, a smirk on his face. “Maybe. But I know I’ll always win.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’ve got you,” Bucky answered sincerely. “You’re more than I could ever dream of. And that includes ‘dream’ you.”

You chuckled, “Such a romantic.”, before leaning in and kissing him with a smile. But as the softness moved away for a moment, the kiss became something more. Something deeper. 

Bucky stood a little taller as he moved his hands from the counter and held onto your face. The glass in your hand clattered into the sink as the water fell down the drain and you turned to step into your husband. 

Placing an arm around your waist, he lifted you up and onto the island in the kitchen before he held your face again, his tongue swiping at your lip before you granted him access. He felt your legs lock around him as he pulled his mouth from yours, letting his wet kiss trail under your jaw before catching at your pulse. 

You breathed deeper as his hand came to your thigh, his fingers pushing under the hem of your shorts, the ache in your underwear growing more needy. 

Making it halfway up the stairs, you held onto the handrail as Bucky dropped to his knees and trailed his tongue on the inside of your thigh before tasting you like a man starved of his final meal. 

By the time the sun rose, the sheets had been changed and the tile markings on your knees had settled down. But Bucky’s arm remained fixed around your middle, his fingers tracing up and down your spine. 

“Promise me this isn’t a part of the mission.”

Bucky’s eyes opened to meet your tired gaze. “I promise this isn’t a part of the mission. I meant what I said last night; I don’t plan for this to stop when we move out.”

The memory of Bucky on top of you, his gaze locked onto yours as he inched himself into you slowly, floated over you. You smiled. 

“Good.”

Leaning forward. Bucky kissed you lightly before rolling you onto your back, his arms wrapped around you as his kiss moved from your lips to your neck and collarbone. 

He heard you giggle softly as he did so. “We’ve got work to do.”

“It’s Sunday, doll.” Bucky told you, before leaning down and kissing your bare skin. “Work can wait.”

SINNERS 2025 | dir. Ryan Coogler

Mother. She looks quite... Horrible? Yes. It's an excellent likeness. I like to think she can see us from up there. I don't want her to miss a single thing we do.

CRIMSON PEAK (2015) dir. Guillermo del Toro

You don't belong in this family. I mean that as a compliment.

Grace & Daniel Le Domas in READY OR NOT

Thunderbolts* (2025) + text posts

Fair fight

Tommy Conlon x Reader

Summary: You make sure your sister's abusive ex gets the point this time...

Warnings: mentions of abuse and serious injuries, reader has no mercy for the ex, violence, fluff at the end

You had his attention the moment you loudly entered the gym. Tommy still had good instincts, every source of threat getting on his radar, which left him always hyper-aware of his surroundings.

Wild, searching gaze settled on one of the guys near him and you started to march there. Your body language clearly screaming rage, there was no hesitation to punch the guy in the face the moment he turned to you.

He tried to hit you back but you managed to dodge, not expertly but clearly knowing some form of self-defence. You hit him again, aiming for his nose and the sickening crack could be heard a few feet away too. You definitely weren't going for a fair fight, aiming your strikes to do real damage.

Someone tried to grab you and that's when the subject of your anger caught you off guard. Your head whipped back at the force of the hit but you only blinked a few times in a quick session to shake it off.

After that, your temper only gets worse and you kick high, hitting your target in the face, and sending him down to the floor. The man trying to hold you down also gets a kick but to his knees, making him lose balance as well.

You are on the first guy before anyone else can intervene, hitting where you can while you start to shout at him.

"Not so tough when a girl hits back, huh?"

The comment makes the guys closest to you pause and exchange a look. People started to yell since this whole mess began but there was a moment of stunned silence after that.

Tommy doesn't know what made him move, it's not like he cares about much these days but his feet got him to you before he realised what he was doing.

Someone grabbed your hands from behind, pulling you off that asshole like you weighed nothing. Your back is met with a sweaty chest, your arms locked to your front and your legs trapped between his.

You slowly register that he murmurs soft, calming words but your anger is still burning in you.

"Let me go," you demand.

Squirming and trying to get away only results in a stronger hold. When you try to headbutt him, Tommy takes your wrists in one of his hands and catches you by your chin before your head could reach him.

Trapped in his grasp, you have no way to move. He is basically holding you upright at this point. But when your breathing starts to calm, matching his like he tells you and you go soft in his arms he makes the mistake of slowly letting you go after you assure him that that was it.

"Alright, I'm calm."

You move before he could grab you again and kick the son of a bitch in the stomach as he was heaving on his knees, sending him backwards, lying on the floor again and groaning pathetically.

"Stay the fuck away from my sister!"

Tommy is cursing himself as he pulls you back despite your protests.

"No, no, no. I'm done, I swear."

He throws you over his shoulder without a word and after a nod from Colt, he takes you to the secluded office at back.

"Seriously. Put me down!" You hit and kick him, although lightly, not meaning to hurt him. But taking in the guy, you are pretty sure it wouldn't have much effect anyway.

He lets you down, almost dropping you on the chair, eyeing you for a few seconds like one would a wild animal that could attack them. Whatever he sees is good enough to convince him you won't do anything stupid. Again.

He gets down on one knee before you, slowly reaching for your hands, gingerly hooking his fingers with yours, turning your hand to examine your knuckles.

You flinch when he is reaching up to take a look at your bleeding nose and that makes him pause. Finally, your eyes meet and both of you are shocked by the reflection of hidden emotions.

Looking away first, suddenly feeling shy and embarrassed that he, and everyone else in the gym, had seen you so out of it.

He guides your gaze back to him but your eyes are fixed on his full lips instead of his bright eyes while he carefully takes a look at your nose.

He asks you to follow his finger with your eyes and then asks if you feel dizzy or nauseous before gently touching your nose.

"Not broken but it will bruise pretty bad." His voice is soft and you find that the amusement you thought to hear is reflected in his expression. You make the mistake of letting your gaze wander back to his.

He smiles at your gasp, knowing that look and chuckles at your quiet answer.

"Worth it, " you reply to his assessment while he gets a kit and starts to clean up your wounds.

"I'm sure he deserved it but this wasn't a good idea." The tone of the statement and his expectant look told you he wanted to know the reason.

"The cops wouldn't listen to me. He hurt her before, I saw the marks but she always denied it." You sigh deeply, holding back the angry tears that threaten to spill again for the hundredth time today. "They said they'll need her testimony but she is kept in sedation for now..."

You scoff and look away again. Tommy cups your cheek and turns you back, seemingly only to treat take another look at your nose but the soothing brush along your skin tells you otherwise.

He silently encourages you to continue.

"He visited her." You let out a disbelieving laugh. "I saw the flowers and I just lost it. The same flowers he gave her every time after he lost his temper. She took him back every time. I couldn't..."

He stands up, stepping back to walk to the door when he sees the quick panic and the almost pleading look on your face that you surely didn't mean to display. So he graces you with another smile while bends down again and gives you a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder.

"I'll quickly clean up then I'll take you back to the hospital...?" At his unsaid question, you give him your name. Earning another hint of a smile as he repeats your name with what could only be called reverence then he turns to leave again.

"Wait," you call after him, making him face you again. "What's your name?'

"Tommy."

It's your turn to smile, hoping your gratitude shows in your expression.

"Thank you, Tommy."

He nods awkwardly then he steps out of the office, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a few minutes and you wonder how this terrible day could bring something good in your life after all.

A Keeper (Tommy Conlon x Reader)

Requests : @bsotstory “Hii!!! I lOVE your Tommy Colon fics!!!!!! Could you use the kiss prompts 44 and 9 for a first kiss between Tommy and the reader, maybe they have to share a bed in a hotel before one of tommy’s fights? ❤❤ Thank you!” AND Anon: “Hello can i request a Tommy Conlon and virgin reader with 11 14 and 15 prompts. Like they were dating maybe 5 or 6 months and she want to have sex with him cause she loved him and trusts him soo much.”

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol/pills consumption, smut (cute smut, ok?)

A/N: Sorry for ending all of a sudden, but it was getting too long 😂❤  (Smut prompts are in bold) Sorry for possible typos too, it’s 3 am 😂 

Your feedback is really important ❤

New city, new life; definitely better, but not always easier.

The lack of job vacancies for your profession was certainly an issue; looking for a job had been a tough mission, even with a college degree and a vast resume. Bills were accumulating and they didn’t pay themselves, so you had no other choice but to take a job as a barmaid in a little local bar. The working schedule bordered exploitation, but it was quite well paid and the owner was a kind old man whose helpfulness was only limited by his arthrosis.

The toughest tasks were invariably assigned to the rookie, meaning you, but changing the beer barrels was nothing compared to putting up with drunken folks.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?” – Running back and forth, you huffed exhaustedly while pouring drinks. Despite all the weariness, you kept distributing smiles and thanks to all the costumers.

“Come here a second, will you, please?”

“Sure, sure, sure!” – After serving all the tables around, you spun around one last time to check if everything was in order before walking to your boss. - “Is everything ok? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Do you see that guy over there?” – Mr. Barnes discretely jerked his head in direction of a man sitting on the farthest table.

“I thought Benjamin had taken care of that row of tables, that’s why I didn’t go there. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” – Just as you were about to turn and leave, your boss softly grabbed your arm to get your attention.

“That’s not why I called you, (Y/N). That’s Paddy’s youngest son.”

Seguir leyendo

Kastle fam! I’ve been out to sea without reception and owe you all a wrap up of our #kastlechristmas24 💀❄️ ☕️Thank you to everyone who shared fics and gifs!!! Hope this list is like a New Year’s present amid all the crazy going’s on. Sending lots of love to you all.

1. Was Too Afraid to Love You by @oh-no-thank-u

2. The Herpes of Makeup and Crafting by @fortysevenswrites

3. so flawed, so free by @ninzied

4. Reconnaissance by @elen-tari2

5. State of Fire by @oh-no-thank-u

6. Seasons Greetings - Which due to underway time will end like a Valentine Day gift for you lovelies 💌 😆

7. What Good is the Warmth of Summer @kastlenetwork

YAAAAAAYYY

KASTLE IS ALIVEEEEE!

Okay, what happens when I find him? What do you think happens?

EVERY TIME IS THE LAST TIME written by ganymede_elegy

It starts like this. She’s furious, anger hazing her mind and making her reckless. Reckless enough that she turns and leans across the center console and presses her lips to his. It’s not a good kiss. Her lips are pursed tight, as tense as she is, and he’s also tense, but she doesn’t break it off and soon his eighteen year old boy brain seems to take over and he’s kissing her back. Ok, maybe it starts earlier than that. Maybe it starts when an eight year old Robb brings home a skinny, sullen boy after little league hockey one day. He’s quiet, but Robb loves him and from that day on, Jon Snow becomes a constant figure in her life.

The Mummy (1999) dir. Stephen Sommers

Any good Kastle fics you'd recommend to fill the void?

Oh boy oh boy DO I ever, there are soooo many to pick but I just went through my bookmarks on ao3 so here are the links to my favourite completed fics :) 

Blood and Bone -  https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078994/chapters/32436396

Into the Woods -  https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778646/chapters/31671753

Office Space -  https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651653/chapters/31354614

The Bullet You Never Saw Coming -   https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388274/chapters/19217017

Don’t Fear The Reaper -  https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929223/chapters/29545491

You Behave - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003779

Watch Me - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13382850

Not Pete - https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934935

Pour - https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865695

For Whom There Are No Words - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6488695/chapters/14852386

Loss Like The Sharp Edges of a Knife  -https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273272

Between the Sinners and the Saints - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756550/chapters/15440989

It’s Not a Date, It’s a Rendez-Vous - https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149889

Heaven Sent the Saints Down (Hell Sent Them Up) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299413/chapters/14435479

Don’t Make a Sound - https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029389

“The other day, lying in bed, I felt my heart beating for the first time in a long while. I realized how little I live in my body, how much in my mind”

-Rodger kamenetz, from Terra infirma

Fyodor Dostoyevsky // Alanis Morissette

“I’m not the Queen. You are allowed to touch me.”

Their hands touch. Slowly, tentatively, they hug.

They become aware of the closeness of their faces, the feeling of each other’s breath.

Slowly, tentatively, their mouths seek each other. They kiss, becoming quickly more passionate.

– from the script of ep. 2

𝓜𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓷 𝓜𝓟…💘 💘 💘

                                     DAVID (CONT’D)

                          Even if it could cost me my job. 

                                            JULIA 

           Mmm. Sex with the Home Secretary. It’s a heinous crime. 

They laugh and we pull wide. See them moving under the sheet.

Bodyguard 1x03

Normalise hand written letters again

This tweet totally describes me

2K CELEBRATION → 🎁 for @nyx4​ ↳ richard madden + inspo:

Yes, of course yes

You got the James Dean... 🎶

Bodyguard || David & Julia || Temptation

This post is to celebrate and embrace the seriously brilliant acting performance from Keeley Hawes and Richard Madden in this scene, one of my favorite moments from Bodyguard.

They manage to create such a steamy, intense, mesmerizing and sexy vibe without one single line, but just their nuanced looks and facial expressions; for the most of the time they are not even in the same room, but the sex tension between these two characters is built so perfectly, it just palpable.

When the door opens, when David walks toward Julia step by step, when Julia looks at his face and then his lips with longing and abandon, one can just feel the tension and the passion vividly, which makes their final kiss so delicious and filfilling.

Nuevo fandom a la vista🙆‍♀️

Once the world was full of wonders, but it belongs to the humans now. We, creatures, have all but disappeared. Daemons… vampires… witches… hiding in plain sight. Ill at ease even with each other. But, as my father used to say, in every ending, there is a new beginning. A Discovery of Witches (2018– )