Bucky is gorgeous, even with everything he's been through, he's still the most beautiful person you've ever met, and you think some colors would just make him more handsome, why not do that?
Bubble bath ✿
Another sleepless night in the tower for Bucky, maybe this time he could find something to help him sleep, maybe more too…
Bubbling ★
Some days were harder than others, tonight both of you needed something to relax, but will only bath help? Maybe you two needed something more… (Sequel to bubble bath)
— ⟢ SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; use of third person & second person & pov changes; she/her pronouns for reader; pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?).
A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time. hope you’ll enjoy!
The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.
Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up.
His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.
The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.
Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.
Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space.
He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.
The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.
The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.
He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.
Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.
Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.
He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.
This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.
Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.
“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.
“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.
“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.
“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.
“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.
Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”
Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”
“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.”
“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.
“What?”
It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.
“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.
Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”
The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”
The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway.
“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.
He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.
Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”
He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.
She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”
Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup.
She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.
“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”
With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling.
“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.”
Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.
Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”
His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”
Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—”
“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”
Is he pouting?
“I finished the whole thing in two days.”
Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter.
“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”
And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.
It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”
Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.
The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.
Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.
“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”
“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.
“Excuse me?”
“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it.
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.
“Louder.”
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.
Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”
Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb.
Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.
Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.
“My wife has a beautiful garden.”
Madison goes still.
“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.
She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.
“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica!
“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.
“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”
Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”
And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures.
“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”
Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.
“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”
“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books.
Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.
“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”
Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”
“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.
“Such a brilliant woman.”
Making a fool of herself at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.
It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.
Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.
“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”
He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”
Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.
“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.
James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?
“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”
Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.
The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.
Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!
Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.
“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression.
“My wife.”
Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”
“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.
Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.
“I—”
“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.”
“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.
“FUCK!”
Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise.
It's Madison and she is... a mess.
Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee.
They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here.
“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks.
“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk.
“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.
“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface.
Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.
“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”
“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.
“He switched to some shitty herbal tea, or something. Last week!”
“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?”
At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.
“For God’s sake, is she even real?”
As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.
The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts.
“Sweetheart.”
Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room.
“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms.
“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs.
“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”
“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words.
“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.”
Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl.
“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.
“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.
The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”
“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.
It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month.
Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time.
And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling.
So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.
Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.
From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing.
“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders.
He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.”
“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.
“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”
“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.
“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”
Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.”
“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases.
“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.
“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”
Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up.
“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.
“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”
He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.
“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”
“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”
Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.
“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?”
Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps.
“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more.
“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”
Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice.
“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”
You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.
Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream.
“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses.
“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips.
“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.
His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.
“I have a hunch we did, my love.”
She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life.
But Natasha wasn’t at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown.
And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.
It’s impossible to not notice the intern’s pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular.
With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”
Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator.
“I’m resigning.”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
pairing: stepbro!bucky x f!reader
summary: bucky let you sleep in his bed after a nightmare. As childish as you think you are, apologising profusely, bucky’s sure he doesn’t mind, even while his mind runs rampant and his body reacts thoughtlessly.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, stepcest, dddne, non/dubcon, smut, somnophilia, porn no plot, grinding/dry humping, m!masturbation, mention of oral (f!rec), side fuck, cuddle fucking, loser!bucky, sub-ish!bucky, multiple orgasms (m!rec), fucking it back in, creampie(s), clit stim, overstimulation, the l-word, make-outs, mentions of Nat, Steve, Sam, Clint, Tony and Pepper, mentions of drinking/getting drunk, mention of parents (your dad, his mom), college/classes mentioned . . .
word count: 5.5k
a/n: im kinda giggling bc the title sounds like some Ozian word lmfao.. im sorry this took so long to write, but geez it was kinda fun !! i wasnt too sure where to take it but i hope it's fine <3
thank you to the person who made this request !!!! <3 <3
and uhm happy seb day lmfao
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
Sleep never came easy for Bucky.
Ever.
Most nights he laid with his head on the pillow, hair messed from tossing and turning, keeping his eyes shut until the morning light reflected orange over the lids.
Tonight was more or less the same. Weeks of classes and study sessions with Steve and Sam in the back corner of the library, results unknown, grades totalled up in red marker, sitting on the desk of his professor's desk — all of it accumulates in his head. Even while he's tucked in comfortably, duvet pulled over his shoulders, his face pressed into his pillow and his eyes stayed closed, counting up and up until numbers repeated and jumbled into thoughts of college and classes, and you.
A break was supposed to be nice, just a couple of weeks to let yourself rest — to see family and lie in for a few more hours than usual. Instead, Bucky's brain has been rewired with your presence.
Just a few years after your parents married, his mom had moved both you and your father into his house. Bucky's studies had been too important to let go, meaning the wedding went on without his attendance — he barely even looked at the pictures before he was back home. A home that no longer felt the same.
It felt as though every object had shifted one inch to the left. Bucky went on through the hallways with a furrowed brow, shoes toed off at the door, kicking his bedroom door shut and sliding his duffel bag off his shoulder.
That was the last time Bucky properly got some sleep.
After he had woken up, his mother greeted him with a knock on his door and open arms, making him follow her to the kitchen where she was cooking dinner. He tagged along, sleep still stirring through his movements and words as he recalled the last semester, but once his mother hopped into action beside you, chopping vegetables at the countertop, he paused.
You both looked at each other for a split moment too long before your step-mom held your shoulders and introduced you both, urging you forward to shake his hand. A tight and shy smile on your face, you mumbled a quiet 'hi'. He repeats the greeting, holding out his hand and shaking yours. Bucky knew he was well and truly fucked.
He still is. A few years into his studies, he'd learn about your own course and studies at college, your favourite songs and movies, what shirt you wear more often than others. You both created a bond, something close to friends, only there was an added wall of propriety. Some nights were still spent at the kitchen table, or your bedroom floor, talking about absolutely nothing or listening to you rant about your group project — only they'd linger on into silence, looks that last too long, or just soft musings that get either one of you bashfully shoving the others knee.
During these nights, Bucky would sigh and turn over, and repeat the same routine, so on and so forth. Until his eyes ached with the will of keeping them shut and his ceiling took on a more interesting role. But no, his pillow suffices, as with the speckled blackness behind his eyelids and the soft, warm embrace of his pillow and sheets.
It isn't until a rattled creak of the old floorboards, Bucky realises that the universe had granted him permission to rest, only for it to have been snatched from his hands. He sighed, tired, exhausted, and pressed deeper into the pillow, stretching out his legs and praying that sleep could come before the sun rises and the rest of the world wakes up.
But the sounds press again, footsteps, slow and steady, trying not to press on the faulty wooden boards and wake someone up. They get louder with each pass, and soon Bucky's head connects. It's you, with how close the steps were, how they don't sound like they want to take up space, methodically tiptoeing down the hallway, and closer to his door.
He counts the steps, body locking up and refusing to react when his door quietly creaks open. And he doesn't move at first when your voice sounded.
“Bucky..?” His eyelids twitched, humming under his breath. You itch closer to his mattress, voice mumbling a little louder, “Buck? Are you awake?”
With a groan, he stretches, eyes half closed, cheek pressed against his pillow as he looked up at you. Even blanketed in dusk, he can make out your sweater, worn and stretched over the neck from use and the fabric frays at the wrists where you fiddle. Your legs bare, covered by tartan sleep shorts that dust over your mid-thigh — boxers to be exact, something your ex left behind ages ago, and the more Bucky thinks about that possibility, the more he struggles to stop his eyes from rolling.
“I am now,” he mutters, smiling a little dumbly, involuntary as he stares at your face. “Wha’s the matter?”
“I had a nightmare,” you gulp, stepping back, “it’s stupid, I should go back—“
Shuffling around, he moved to the other side of his bed, holding himself up with an elbow, the other flipping the blanket up for you. “S’not stupid. C’mere.”
Floorboards creek and the mattress dips with your weight, knee first before sliding down and underneath the covers. As Bucky folds the duvet over you, his arm grazes your shoulder before moving back, pressing both hands into the line where his thighs meet.
He watches the silhouette of you getting comfortable. Shuffling, sliding your hand under the pillow, scooting backwards until suddenly it all stops. Midnight never felt more quiet. Fuller in a way. Warmer with bodies in one bed, its nothing like Bucky had known before.
Sleep almost evades him, eyes slitting down, brain dozing off, but your quiet voice catches his chest.
"Buck?" you start, mumbling into your pillow.
"Hm… Wha's up?"
Sighing sleepily, you ask. "Can you… Can you hold me?"
Pausing for a moment, the quietness swells and the only thing he can hear is the trees swaying with the wind, mixed with blood rushing through his body.
"Mmh… What?"
"Doesn't matter."
He follows your orders from before. Protective arm slung around your middle, pulling you into his front and keeping you there. Firm and tight, and so completely warm. Nosing into your hair, he murmurs again, drowsy in newfound tiredness only your comfort can bring.
"Jus' go t'sleep, s'okay, I got you."
Even in rest, your stomach twists at his soft slurs. Jumbled murmurs, something only sleep can make up, his lips pressed too close to the pillow. But his warm breath teeters so close to your ear, and his arm flexes autonomously around your stomach, tighter.
It's warm. It's safe. All the tension from the dream earlier on eases from your shoulders and all that's running through your brain is the tight hold he has around you, body and mind. You seem to drift off like that. Guarded by the safe hands of Bucky and his easing breaths behind you.
Only a few dreamless hours later, the room still silent and dark with midnight, does Bucky's mind wake him up.
Torrid, almost, and warm. A soft body against his that he does not recognise and his subconscious self seems to have awoken him as a result, alarmed at the new sight and feeling of your presence.
His hand now rested on the side of your waist where your sweater had ridden up, and the skin on skin contact got his heart racing in a millisecond. He dared to move even a twitch, forcing his lungs to ease back into a rhythm even as his pulse beat like a drum against your back.
So soft and plush. Your skin soaked in heat and silk so perfect he felt as if he were still hooked beneath his sleepy eyes, stuck in a deep sleep.
It's until you shuffle back into his hot chest with a sound. Light and airy, a soft kind of noise that just pulls out of your throat, unable to hold it back as sleep evades, but Bucky's mind holds it and he feels like a deer who's just heard a twig snap.
Your spine fits perfectly against his front, cradled into him like a puzzle piece, your ass nuzzles into his crotch.
It's not intentional, he has to remind himself, body stiff, mind blank and dumb at the first place of your warm back. You're asleep, leaning into him for safety, a subconscious movement of security Bucky mentally rebukes himself for the initial shock. How his breath stuttered, lungs trembling to a stop. You were so close, so soft and even though the room was dark with hues of black and blue, he thought you were beautiful.
Thoughts after 10 P.M. cannot be trusted. He remembers his friend Nat told him that once while at a group hangout — Steve and Sam laughing with their legs stretched out, Tony whispering something into Pepper's ear, arm on her shoulders, Nat sandwiched between both Bucky and Clint. Empty beer bottles tipped over, dribbling into the already sticky second-hand carpets, truth or dare slowly turning into a group discussion, and Steve gets a little too giggly and mouthy after a couple drinks.
Sobriety has never felt so awful before. Bucky's hand instinctively pulls, tightening over the torrid skin of your side and he regrets it instantly. How plush you are, how soft your skin feels, how you move back into him again and this time theres no hiding the evident twitch in his pants.
"Shit." He hides behind a sharp exhale of breath, a little lunge of noise from sleep. But his hips already begin to move. Shakily, unceremoniously. His movements are uneven, softly unsure and slow, just enough to let his cock swell and perk with interest. Half hard, thickening beneath his sweatpants. Clothes rustle. Your shorts to his pants, making the hem glide down with each uneven drag his cock pulls on the swell of your ass.
"Jesus… fuck." He whimpers as his weeping tip gets caught between your legs. Dragging his chub up from the heat staining between your legs, and through the valley of your cheeks, his cock slaps against his abdomen as he lets go.
The force of the drag has his tip on display, precum catching the damp air from beneath the coverings and he curses himself for wearing sweatpants without underwear that night. The ache that courses through his hips moves him like a marionette.
He keeps moving like that for a couple minutes more — hand firm to yours hip, and his cock dragging across your ass and the hem of his sweatpants, caressing the underside of his head with each hump. His jaw hangs open, only to shut on particular thrusts, hissing through his teeth as the need for more drenches his mind and body.
It isn't long until his pants are hastily pulled off, thighs shaking, body and hands trembling with excitement, need and desire, and immorality.
You asked for safety and he brings you… this?
"I'm sorry." Bucky whispers breathlessly into his bedroom, directed to you, and your content, sleeping self, but the words lose meaning once his dick drags hot and bare across your ass.
A moan cracks through his throat which he quickly catches with a quick snap of his jaw. Heaving breaths and hums caught inside, between his teeth and under his tongue.
Becoming desperate now, his hands slide from your hip and over your middle, holding you tight into his hold, praying the metal wont disturb you from your sleep, and you don't stir fully. Your body grants him a sound, something tiny and almost lost within the deep breaths he expels from his nose, and you shuffle back into him
It hurts. Everything. But all the conscious thoughts about depravity and carnality are quickly drowned out by the newfound rustle of your shorts being pulled down by his thumbs.
Warm, new skin to explore. His hips move away to let the rippled hem slide from the swell of your ass, down to your thighs. He almost keeps it as such, but he's already here.
They pool at your feet, and before he can lean down to shuck them off, your leg moves. Pulling one up to an angle, laying on your front, your foot slides from the leg of the shorts easily for him, only to have your cunt on display.
Bucky's stops breathing. He's close, too close, to your pretty pussy, and he doesn't want to wake you with a sudden air sticking to you.
But you're wet, glistening with the soft light that peeks from outside. He licks his lips involuntarily, and he can almost taste you. He cant, not now, that's too much, you cant wake up with his face buried between your thighs, what if you make too much noise…
His cock twitches against his thigh as if to remind him of where he is, a pulse that stickies his tip, a bead of precum pearling over him. He grips the base of his erection, tightening his fist around his shaft, cutting off an orgasm already, he sits with the scene you present him with.
His free hand gently rubs the globe of your ass, awaiting some kind of response, a push back into his palm, a sound, but nothing rumbles past your lips, so he keeps going. Fisting his cock, squeezing at the tip and dragging down, spreading his arousal across his shaft, he spreads your cheeks. A firm grip tightens over his base again, mouth wide open, and the hand that occupied your ass slaps over his mouth while he forces himself back.
Head back on the pillows, blankets over the both of you as if you both were just merely sleeping, he snakes his arms back around your torso again, hips dragging across your ass with shaky exhales, and his cock finally traps between your thighs. A pause lingers while he lets himself feel, dragging his dick in and out, coating himself with your arousal.
"Please, please, please — holy shit." He whispers and whines against your shoulder. His movements sharpen a touch, forcing your ass to jiggle as his hips slap against it.
A hand snakes between you both, and he can't take it much longer. Both middle fingers find the soft underside of his head as he ruts, softer than before, and pushes in. It takes a few moments. Dragging his cock down, pushing in, only for it to catch at the last second and swipe up to your clit.
His tip juts in, enveloped by your tight, sopping hole. Pausing his movements and easing his breathing, he sighs sighs; pulling out and pushing himself back in, easing his size inside of you in slow, thick, increments.
Bucky holds you through the ordeal. Willing his body not to get ahead of itself and ram his cock inside, to bury himself balls deep and rut inside of you without repercussions. His hips twitch with the need, stretching out without a thought.
The need worsens when you begin to understand.
Around his arms, Bucky feels your ribs stutter and pause, only to breathe out tightly. Your cunt pulses too. Your walls begin to mould around his shaft, now squeezing with the intrusion as if trying to figure out what's going on. Slacking and tightening around him, letting his dick fuck slowly inside of you before finally his balls press to your ass. He lets go of a deep breath, forehead to your shoulder, holding your hips to his, hugging you tight into his back, to keep himself from falling off the edge of relief.
And your noises. Bucky presses his lips to your skin, brows taut, distressed. He had whipped his forehead from your shoulder when his ears perked up with the sound. The gentlest of breaths sharpening against your pillow as pleasure gets the best of you.
"Stop, stop, stop," He mouths his pleas to your shoulder blade, voice lost as he stays inside of your tight heat.
"Can I fuck you?" He hates himself for asking — shaft soaked with your arousal, balls pressing tight against your cunt — but he cant stop himself.
The smallest of humps, a reflex of muscle, a jerk of his hips rips a growl from his throat. The ruts keeps coming, humping his size inside of you, pulling out not even an inch, to keep you stuffed full over and over again. But he keeps asking.
"Please… Please, can I?" His mouth clicks with spit, whispering and dragging his cock through your walls.
Your body moves for you. A wracking heartbeat that Bucky can feel as his lips press on your back, rustling ribs and trembling thighs.
As your unconscious body comprehends, Bucky starts to gain confidence. Moving his cock out and pressing it back in, easing half of himself out just to ram his tip up to your cervix. He begins thrusting his length out, keeping his tip snug and warm inside of you and thrusting back in.
You begin to hum. Melodic and shaky, uneven sounds that shudder out of you with each clap his balls make to the backs of your thighs. Then your arms move. Tight holds to his hands around your stomach, following up to his bicep and shoulder.
"Bucky..?" You whisper, eyes still closed, but your brows pull with question. Your mouth slacks with breaths, and he eases his face closer until you're breathing him in.
"I'm sorry. I'm right here."
It's then your eyes open. Slacked from the sleep he pulled you from, adjusting, blinking in the scenery. You hum again, and gasp as his cock drags over your spot.
"Is it there? Was that it?" He asks, like an excited dog. He pants on your shoulder, grinding himself against you.
It's too much. One minute you're asleep in Bucky's arms, his bed, and the next he's learning how your body reacts from the inside out.
Before you could counteract, trying to move yourself forward, try and gain semblance, his hand pulls you back. Trapping your body with an arm to your chest now. You don't speak, too full from emotions, from his cock. The sensations he's giving you, from his breath that seeps through the fabric of your shirt, and how the hand that palms your breast.
"What're you doing…" Its rhetorical, he knows this, but the night makes him dumb. Or maybe that's just your tight pussy.
"Wanted to make you feel good," he says softly. "You fit so nice on me, backed into me… m'sorry, I couldn't help it."
As his voice dissolved from whispers to moaned mumbles, your back begins to slack. The sudden pressure of his hand to your tit sends shivers down your spine, hardening your nipples. They drag sensitively against your shirt, and your breath gets deeper.
Bucky keeps fucking into you, rocking his pelvis up, only now theres an added pleasure as he tweaks your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, trapping it under your shirt.
You moan, gulping around it, trying to suppress it. It feels so good, you pulse around him.
"Fuck, don't do that," his hips begin to stutter, and dick twitches inside of you. "Gonna cum if you keep doing that, please—"
You do it again. Out of resistance, a weird kick of superiority — you clamp your pussy around his weeping cock and he growls between his teeth. Hands tightening over your middle, fingers trapping your nipple, you convulse around him again with the shock.
Both of your sighs fall into shudders as his hips stutter. What already soaked the inside of your thighs with sticky arousal and humid sweat, now accumulated together with an additional heaviness.
His hands tightened their grip on your waist, humming behind a locked jaw and shut eyes as he came inside of you. Hips pumping up with each spurt, dragging inside of your wet heat desperately thrusting to get every last drop of him inside.
Only when the pleasure subsided — the haze of his orgasm waning and your momentary shock of how full he pumped you, how desperately he held you, and had you — you realised now the heaviness wasn't just his tacky cum coating your walls, dripping from between you both.
He was still hard. Achingly so.
When Bucky's head fell from the clouds of pleasure and ecstasy, he let out the smallest whine of realisation, maybe even embarrassment or fear, of releasing inside of his poor stepsister unprotected. But his hands moved before you could ask.
"You didn't cum…" He whispered against the cool shell of your ear. His soft lips and rough stubble, already growing after a day, had you clenching around his thick cock, pulsing out around his shaft, releasing his stickiness to sit and slide down his balls.
"I…" You swallow around the words, trying to find a fixture to settle, to open yourself from this daze and clean yourself up quick before your dad and his mom wake up. But Bucky still lingered in a foggy shock. Almost as if he knew the damage was done, his dick was still hard and drooling, nestled inside of you like it was made to be there.
Before you could actually speak, one hand moved to the inside of your thigh, opening it up and holding it around his hip to spread you open. While the other moves down and locked to your stomach. Holding you close to his front, he uses his elbow to keep your leg from falling shut.
“Want… Want you to cum.” He mumbles, stroking his fingers down to where you meet to feel how stretched out he has you. To fumble at the slightest touch of his cum drowning your pussy, gliding the release up to circle your clit.
“Bucky—“
“Fuck, please,” his breath skims hot against your neck, nudging his head against your hair. “God, please I need you to cum.”
He kept moving. Even after coming, hard for that matter, his hips kept driving into you and his fingers played deftly. Staying in deep, humping himself against your ass like a dog.
You couldn’t protest, not when his own spend drips out between you, when his cock fills you so fucking good, arms wrapped around your middle to keep you close, fingers tight on your clit, breathing small and quick on your skin — he sounds so good, feels so good, its all too good to let go.
“Buck… What if someone hears?”
He wheezes, “We—We gotta be quiet… huh?"
A sharp thrust hits you closer than expected, making your throat contort in a whine and clench around him involuntarily.
"Geez, wha'did I just say?" He whispers sharply. The hand that splayed protectively against your stomach itched upwards, skimming up your navel, to the edge of your ribs, the plush of your tits, until he clasps around your mouth. Four fingers to one cheek while his thumb strokes the other. Its a contrast with how much force he puts into pushing his palm onto your lips, forcing your head back into the pillows, onto his shoulder, and his hips never let up their grinding, even as the rhythmic squeak of the bed frame begins to flow.
You whine a little more openly now, eyes lazily rolling shut, hoping the covering of his hand blankets the sounds that would have poured loud through the four walls and down the hallways. How much worse the wet sounds of your joint pleasure sounds dull through the duvet, how you clench tighter around him, heartbeat stuttering in your lungs and cunt alike as he draws teasing lines and circles around your slick, puffy clit.
Bucky smiles into your shoulder, enamoured completely with how precious and pliant he has you. He could cum again, he wants to so fucking bad with how soft your walls pulse around him, but he can feel your nub twitch and harden beneath his wet fingers, the pulsing easing faster as you mumble garbled nonsense through the cracks of his fingers.
"You like being shut up… you like this, don't you?"
As a confirmation, added to the validation of a nod, you hand comes up to grab a hold of his hip behind you, fisting at his side, nails digging crescents. Its snakes lower to hold his ass in your hand, a bruising sensation that only has him rutting in deeper, hiding his own noises into the damp skin of your neck. Leaning into your space, wiping his hot breath down your throat, lips dragging up and down, teeth nipping.
"Are you close? You're so fucking tight, I can feel your heart beating… so fast. Did I do that?" He whispers, balmy on your jaw and cheek.
"Can I cum inside you again? I'm sorry, m'sorry I didn't ask before, it was an accident. I didn't mean to cum inside you, didn't mean to fuck you…" Bucky can't stop mumbling. With the tight grip your pussy holds him in, wet and hot, his balls sticky, plapping against your ass, drawing up in pulses similar to your own. It's the only way he can strive off his second orgasm.
It's lucky for you, the sensation of his cock humping inside of you, his fingers stroking your clit and his hot breaths and whiny words have you so, so fucking close.
"Bucky—" you whisper behind his palm. Eyelids drooping, fist still curled into his glute like a vice.
"M'so bad, so, so bad. You jus' felt so good, looked so fucking pretty, I'm so sorry, I love you, I really do an' I'm sorry for that, but… fu-huck, I already did it once."
Your free hand whips up and curls around his wrist as you begin to cum. Hips moving back into his own on their own accord, twitching and shaking as your pussy contorts, choking his cock. You hum shakily into his palm, holding it to your mouth, even though his own hands begin to tighten, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder as he chases your orgasm with his own.
It's disgustingly wet. Two creampies, sticky and white, coating your thighs, his own too. A ring of arousal at the base of his cock, laying like honey, dripping down his balls.
He keeps fucking you like that. Already finished, dragging out the last of your orgasms even as you lay there, bare, trembling with aftershocks. Overstimulated bucks of your hips as he keeps dragging his fingertips over your abused nub, the fist that occupied his ass now quickly held onto his wrist, prying it off with a sigh of relief, shutting your legs from around his thigh.
"M'sorry, m'so, so sorry."
Both his hands move to keep you close, wrapped around your middle like a teddy bear. His dick stayed trapped inside of you. Softening, lightly twitching still, and his hips, they keep softly rolling with the smallest of movements. You believe he has no clue he's doing it.
Minutes drag by like that. Breathing evening out, his hips pumping minutely against the soft swell of your ass, easing to a final stop, slipping out with a small, tired sigh. It sounds sad. You can almost see the dip between his brows as he keeps his arms tight on your middle. His cock rests soaked between you both, stuck to the mattress, warm and slick to your ass cheek.
You keep staring into the void of his bedroom. His curtains closed, apart from the tiny slither of outside where trees danced with the wind and stars twinkled. A world moving onward.
"You love me?"
Bucky moves up then, the warmth of his front half lost as his head cocks to, and his hands leave your stomach to instead pull himself up. "What?"
"You," you begin, still not moving from your place, but your voice never wavered from a whispered hiss. "Said you loved me."
He huffs deeply. It swirls against your ear, and lays cold and delicate against the spit slicked area he licked clean on your jaw and neck.
"I'm sorry—"
"You keep saying that like you mean it," your voice hardens slightly. "But I don't think you are."
"Christ, can you at least look at me?" He whispers, a hand falls to your bicep, he squeezes but almost immediately, he tears it away.
"I can't. Your cum will spill everywhere." It comes jokingly, light, a hint of a toothy smile on your face as you say it.
It aggravates Bucky. It makes him groan, palms, still smelling of you, wiping and digging into his eyes before he could find any semblance of himself. But he turns you over anyway. Your hole makes a sound that makes you retreat, shutting your legs and eyes tightly, lips pulled into a line, cringing, but Bucky doesn't register.
He kisses you. Its a soft question at first, his lips touching over yours mid retract. Thinking it's a block, your body unwilling under the weight of sex and sleep, he pulls himself off from you.
Your eyes meet for one second. Pupils wide. His cock swung bare between his legs, against your thigh. One second of your mind telling you to keep joking and irritating him, poking at wounds. But his hairs messy, all rugged from the pillow, and your hand runs over it, straightening it out, only for you find yourself tugging him into your open mouth. Spit slicked and uneven.
His lips are so unfairly soft as they move over yours, his tongue gliding over to taste and explore. Trapping your top lip between his, slowing down to savour the warmth and your soft gasps fanning over his chin.
"If you have a nightmare again, you can always come to me." He mumbles against your lips, kissing and sucking through the words. His hands hold the sides of your face, guiding you through the movements and its intoxicating.
"Okay."
Your own whispers get lost down his throat and into the spit slicked sounds. Bucky's lost in it, mumbling through each press of his wet lips across your skin as if this is the last moment he'd get. Dragging kisses from your mouth to the corners where your lips meet, to your cheeks and nose, your temple where his nose drags across your hairline, the scent of your shampoo and sweat accumulating and messing with his senses.
"An—And if you can't sleep, you can always come to me," he presses the words to your forehead, reverberating across your hairline. "Is that okay?"
There's nothing else for you to do but nod. You can't do anything but nod. Your body still teeters between the now and thirty minutes ago — both of you still bare from the waist down, tingling with sex like supernovas beneath your skin, and you're still wet and sweaty, soaked with fluids now drenching the bed sheets.
But everything's lost under his cherry red, kiss bitten lips, his soft asks and hands, so gentle over your cheeks. Bucky pulls away, enough for the tip of his nose to touch yours and his forehead to brush your own. He makes a sound, strained almost, a sigh.
"It doesn't have to be," he whispers and it glues to your lips. "Okay, that is."
"It isn't," you begin. Feeling Bucky's muscles tighten, and sharp inhale, your hands reach for his face, copying the same movements as him, stroking across your cheeks with the smallest touch of your thumbs. "It's a weird situation. Maybe we can work something out."
"Work something out." He repeats, and you nod.
"When we go back to college, maybe," you whisper, dragging a hand over his hair, stroking it back. "The logistics are…"
"Weird."
"Very," With eyes locked to his, you keep playing with the strands of hair between your fingers, and his own hand follows to yours, stroking a warm palm across your hairline. "We should probably get cleaned up."
"Probably." He repeats.
You lick your lips, nodding. "And put our pants back on."
He nods with you, as if the notion would will you both from the weird sanctuary you created for the night. Savouring the hot feeling of your skin touching one another, his thigh pressed to yours, how natural everything felt, how none of you were shy about the nakedness of your legs and eyes.
"Are you gonna regret it?"
It mulls over your head, sitting on it. It has Bucky's heart beating faster in his chest, tweaking with pangs as the seconds pass by before you answer.
"I don't know, Buck." Its truthful, and Bucky doesn't mind how it calms him down. It's warm here, so stay in the present.
He doesnt have to speak, neither do you. The silence says everything. As does the soft rustle of the trees and the crickets, the creak of the bed when one of you moves that you both don't ask about. His head hits the pillow, and this time you sink into a dreamless sleep with legs tangled and a new excitement for classes to start.
I didn’t know i could like this so much, maybe somnophilia is something I like, and for sure this make me like it more, maybe if there's a future for them I will definitely read it, your writing is amazing too, i felt so immerse in it, loved a lot ♥️♥️
You fell through time by accident — and now you're stuck in 1943, watching Bucky Barnes charm every woman in the room but you. So you start to wonder: did the man you left behind ever really want you, or just keep what was convenient? He's about to answer that. He just doesn't know it yet.
◌⃘ Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x nurse!Reader and present!Bucky Barnes x scientist!reader
◌⃘ Word count: 2.5K
◌⃘ Warnings: angst, because I don't feel well and this is how my brain works when I'm sick.
The small dance hall in Brooklyn smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, and you had been standing against the back wall for the better part of an hour, watching the man you loved fall in love with everyone but you.
Not that he knew you. That was the cruel logic of it all. To Sergeant James Barnes, you were nobody. Nothing but a nurse he'd been introduced to twice, and forgotten both times. A face in a crowd of pretty faces, but by no means the prettiest.
You had stopped being able to feel your own face somewhere around the third song, no longer pretending to smile.
"You gonna dance, or you gonna be a wallflower all night?"
You turned. One of the girls— Doris, or maybe it it was Lilian, you weren't paying attention— was smiling at you with the social grace that women in this time seemed to possess effortlessly. They belonged in a way you never would. You gave her something that was probably a smile.
"I'm alright watching."
"Watching him, you mean." She followed your gaze to where Bucky stood in his dress uniform, left arm braced against a pillar as he leaned down to murmur something into the ear of a redhead who laughed like he'd hung the moon. "Half the room's watching him. Don't feel bad, sweets. He's real generous with the old charm."
Generous! You laughed to yourself, that was certainly one word for it.
You'd been in 1943 for eleven days. Eleven days since the machine in your lab had done whatever it was that it did. There had been a surge of power, a blinding flash of light and the smell of ozone that still hadn't left your nostrils. You had woken up staring at a strange sky, in an alley between two buildings you didn't recognize.
Eleven days later, you had talked your way into a nursing post with the competence that only came with training from a program that wouldn't exist for another sixty years.
The first time you had seen him, you hadn't been able to move. You almost walked past without a backward glance. The thing that had gotten your attention wasn't how he looked, it was his voice. It hadn't changed. What had changed was how freely he laughed
It was all you could think of as you lay on a narrow rented bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking: He's here. He's alive and whole and here, and he has no idea who I am.
You'd thought seeing this version of him would be a comfort.
You'd been so stupid.
So there you were, contemplating your existence, a woman out of your own time. And you realized that the thing nobody told you about time travel was that it was mostly waiting.
You had managed to track down a physicist— a nervous, but brilliant scientist who was well ahead of his time and happened to work for Stark Industries and liked to carry out experiments in his basement.
When you'd described the machine, he had gone very pale and very quiet and then become very interested. He offered to help you. He thought it would take weeks. He speculated a great many things, and every one of them required you to stay close to the war effort, close to the base, close— by fate or by accident— to Bucky-freaking-Barnes.
You should have quit, but you needed the money and a place to stay. So you saw him. Constantly. At the mess, in the corridors, at these godforsaken dances the other nurses dragged you to. And every time, the same knife went in.
Because Bucky Barnes flirted with everyone.
You watched him do it like a case study you had a vested interest in. I'm a way, you did.
He flirted with Lilian and Doris and Elizabeth, with Marian and Margaret and even Sandy. He flirted with the girl who sold cigarettes and the middle-aged woman who ran your boarding house who flushed like a school girl every time he tipped his cap.
He flirted with the same energy that other mean breathed— unconsciously, effortlessly and with enthusiasm. With the whole world except you.
With you he was polite. God, the politeness was utterly devastating. Every 'ma'am.' Every 'miss.' Every nod.
Once— and only once— he caught you looking at him for too long across the mess hall and you had noticed a flicker on his face. It wasn't interest, no you knew his expressions well enough, it was something closer to confusion. Almost as though he couldn't quite figure out why this particular nurse kept staring at him like she was drowning.
You'd looked away so fast you'd spilled your coffee.
So here's the thing you could quite wrap your head around. It was the splinter which kept digging it's way deeper. He was still Bucky. Before the fall. Before seventy years of ice and torture. Before his free will had been ripped away. It was still him. The same kind man you loved.
And his man had looked at you and felt nothing.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," Lillian said. "Never a good idea at a dance."
"Sorry." You forced a smile and made yourself relax. "Long shift," you lied with a shrug.
She patted your arm sympathetically and drifted off in the direction of a corporal who had been eyeing her from across the hall. And then you were alone. Again. Listening to Bucky laughing at something across the room, his eyes crinkled and nose scrunched. You had to close your eyes.
In the present, you told yourself, he loves you.
But did he?
This thought was the poison of the past, the reason the past eleven days had hollowed you out and given you reason to doubt. Because you'd met your Bucky broken. You'd met him after— after the Soldier, after the torture, after the long slow work he had done to put himself back together, with therapy and effort and the kind of hard-won stillness that made his rare smiles feel earned. Your Bucky was quiet. He was careful. He loved you the way a man loves the shore after a shipwreck— grateful, fierce, like something he'd been afraid to hope for.
When you thought back, this stillness had always felt like the depth in your relationship. That his quiet devotion was the shape of a man who had survived far too much to be careless with his heart. That when he reached for you in the dark, when he said your name with reverence, when he told you that he loved you, it was the truest thing in him.
Only now you'd seen the before.
Now you'd seen who he was when the world hadn't broken him yet.
And that man— that carefree, radiant, flirtatious man— he wouldn't have looked at you twice. That man had a type, and you were watching him charm her across the dance floor right now, and it most decidedly wasn't you. It was never you.
So what did that make what you had back home?
It was the ugly thought. The one that had been circling your brain in different iterations for the last eleven days.
He's with you because you were there.
Because you'd been kind to him at the worst point of his life.
Because you were willing, and steady, and you'd stayed when staying was hard.
Because a drowning man doesn't check whether the hand pulling him up is the one he'd have chosen.
He grabs what's offered.
You were what was offered. Convenient. Present. Undemanding.
Not chosen. Settled.
You believed it completely, while standing in that dance hall. It sank deep into your bones, like the weight of something you'd always half-known and finally let yourself see.
"You're that nurse."
You startled so badly at his voice that you knocked your purse off the table. Bucky was standing in front of you— right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the pomade and the wool of his uniform. And he was looking at you with that faint, puzzled crease between his brows. He bent down and retrieved your purse without a second thought.
"I— yeah. Sorry. Yes. I'm a nurse."
Brilliant. Very cool. Totally nailed that response. You mentally face palmed yourself.
"You keep looking at me." He said it plainly, without judgement. "All week. At the mess, and now here." He paused, studying your face. "Do I know you? From somewhere? I feel like I oughta, and it's drivin' me half crazy tryna figure it out."
You don't know me yet, was the thought didn't say. You won't know me for another eighty years.
"No," you managed in a flat tone. "You don't know me."
He studied you. And for one horrible, hopeful second you let yourself imagine that something would spark between you. That he would recognize something buried deep inside himself, the one who would one day become the man you loved. That he'd feel it, the way you felt it. The impossible gravity that existed between you.
He didn't. You watched him not feel it. He just gave you a small, courteous, sorry-can't-place-you smile and the last shred of hope shattered in it chest.
"Well," he said. "You alright? You look a little—" he gestured vaguely at all of you, "—pale. Rough night on the ward?"
You laughed dismally. "Something like that."
"You want some air? You look like you want some air."
And there it was. Not attraction. Kindness. The reflexive decency of a good man toward a woman who looked unwell. He'd have offered the same to Doris or Evelyn, to the redhead or the blonde, to anyone really. You knew it, and you took it anyway, because you were weak and you loved him and this was the closest he'd stood to you in eleven days.
Outside, the night was cold and wet and smelled of the harbor. Bucky lit a cigarette, offered you one, seemed unsurprised when you shook your head. For a while neither of you said anything.
"You got somebody?" he asked finally, and your heart lurched dangerously. "Back home, I mean. You got that look. Like half of you is somewhere else."
You laughed and it came out wrecked.
"Yeah," you said. "I've got somebody."
"He treat you right?"
He loves me like a man loves the thing that saved him, you thought. And I don't know anymore if that's the same as loving me for me.
"I don't know," you said honestly. "I used to think so. Now I'm not sure he'd have picked me. If things had been different. If he'd had… options. I think maybe I was just… the one who was there."
Bucky was quiet a moment. When you looked at him he was frowning— not the usual puzzled frown, it was something more thoughtful.
"That's a helluva thing to carry," he said. "You wanna know what I think?"
He looked at you, barely waiting for you to answer before he continued.
"I flirt with every dame in that room. You've seen me, don't pretend you haven't." He gave you a rueful half-smile. "It's easy. Don't cost me a thing. You smile, they smile, everybody has a nice night, nobody gets hurt. It's—" he searched for the right word, "—it's cheap. You understand? It's the cheapest thing I got."
You stared at him.
"You know what's not cheap?" he went on, looking out into the night. "The stuff that costs you something— and that's not the girl you charm across a dance hall. That's the one you'd still want around when there's nothing charming left in you. When you're scared, or sick, or done things you can't take back."
He exhaled smoke. "A fella who's had it easy, he'll flirt with anybody. Don't mean anything. But a fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person—" he shrugged, "—seems to me that's the only kind that counts. The rest's just… noise."
You couldn't breathe.
He didn't know how deeply what he'd said had resonated with you. He couldn't have. He was just a kind man being kind to a sad woman outside a dance hall, offering the accidental wisdom of someone who'd one day live every word of it. But he'd reached across eighty years and removed the splinter from your heart.
A fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person.
That was your Bucky. Not a drowning man grabbing for the nearest hand. A man who had been through the absolute worst the world could do. A man who had every reason to be closed and cold and careful with the little warmth he had left. And instead who spent it, deliberately, expensively, on you.
Not because you were convenient. Because when everything cheap had been burned out of him, you were what remained. You were the thing that counted.
The flirtation you'd been grieving wasn't the love you knew. It never had been. It was the noise. And your Bucky had gone silent with everyone else in the world and still turned, in the dark, toward you.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Bucky looked faintly bewildered. "For what? I didn't do anything."
"You'd be surprised," you said, tears slipping down your cheeks before laughing at the way he was hastily patting his pockets for a handkerchief with the flustered gallantry of a man way out of his depth
And for the first time in eleven days the ache in your chest had somewhere to go.
The scientist sent for you nine days later. You had pulled yourself away from the pub, one last glance at the Sergeant before you scurried away under the cover of darkness.
The machine hummed and the basement reeked of ozone. Suddenly your heart was pounding and you were looking back at the strange world you were leaving. At the war that hadn't broken him fully yet. At the still charming boy who would become, through unspeakable years, the quiet man who loved you.
I'm coming home baby, you told him, across the space-time continuum. I finally understand what I'm coming home to.
With that vow, you stepped into the light.
When you opened your eyes it was day and you were back in your lab, surrounded by your things and there— there was already someone crossing the room toward you at a dead run. Someone with a metal arm and a face raw with grief and terror that lasted twenty days. Someone who caught you and held you like the shore holds the shipwreck.
"You're back," Bucky said into your hair, over and over, wrecked and reaching only for you. "You're back, you're back, you're back."
"I'm back," you said. "I know exactly where I am."
It was a few days later when the words finally came spilling out. The two of you were in bed together— a place the two of you had spent a lot of time since your return.
His vibranium arm was heavy across your torso and the TV in your room was murmuring softly in the background to no one in particular.
You had already explained about the basement science you'd enlisted from a slightly creepy man for eleven days, which had brought a disgruntled expression to his face. But you'd been careful around the part that mattered, and Bucky, who noticed everything, had noticed that too.
"You saw me," he said finally. It wasn't a question. "Back then. You tell your story right up to it and then."
You went still in his arms.
"What was I like?"
He tried to keep his tone relaxed, but there was something mixed into his voice that you didn't expect. Not curiosity… dread. His thumb had stopped moving against your knee and was pressing into your skin harder than he realized.
"I don't—" He stopped, then started again, quieter. "I don't remember a lot of before. Just pieces. So whatever you saw, that's more than I've got." He paused, taking a breath. "Was I— was he someone you liked?"
And you understood, then, what he was really asking. Not was I charming. Not was I hot in the uniform. He was asking whether the man he used to be— the whole, unbroken version, the one the war and the ice hadn't gotten to yet— measured up to the ruin she'd come home to. Whether you'd looked at the original and wished you'd gotten that one instead.
You almost laughed. If he only knew.
"You were charming," you said, and felt him flinch, just slightly. "God, where you charming. You flirted with every woman in Brooklyn. The redhead, the cigarette girl, the landlady— everyone." You watched his jaw tighten even though your voice was light and playful."
"Yeah?" He breathed.
"Yeah, with everyone 'cept me. You didn't look at me twice."
"I— I'm… sorry," he said roughly, and he meant it, absurdly, apologizing for a man who perished eighty years before.
"Don't be." You caught his hand, laced your fingers through the cool metal of his. "You know… I stood there hating it. Eleven days. That's how long I watched you charm the whole world and skip right over me, and I thought— that's who he really is. That's the real Bucky. And the real one wouldn't have picked me."
His eyes came up to yours, dark and stricken, but you continued. "I was afraid that you only loved me now because you were different when you found me. Because I was there… and willing… and you grabbed the nearest hand."
"That's not—" His voice cracked. "That's not—"
"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. "I know it's not. You wanna know how I know?"
He didn't answer. He was barely breathing.
"Because he told me. Outside a dance hall, one cold night, not knowing who I was— he told me the flirting was the cheapest thing he had. That the stuff that counts isn't the girl you charm across a room. It's the one you'd still reach for when there's nothing charming left in you."
You felt him go rigid. "He told me a man who's been through the wringer and still reaches for one particular person— that's the only kind of love that counts. The rest is just noise."
The silence stretched out between you and when you pulled back to look at him, his eyes were wet.
"I said that?" he whispered.
"You said that."
"To you?"
"To a sad stranger you'd never see again." You smiled, and it wobbled. "You reached across eighty years and fixed the exact thing that was breaking me, and you didn't even know you were doing it. You always do it, Buck. The charming one skipped over me. This one —" you pressed his metal hand flat against your chest, over your heart, "— this one ran across a room and held on like I was the only fixed point left in the world. I don't want the one who flirted with all of Brooklyn. I never did. I want the one who counts."
He made a sound, half broken laugh, and pulled you into him, face buried in your hair, arms locked around you like he was afraid you'd fall through time again if he let go.
"I'd skip over the whole world," he said into your neck, wrecked and certain. "Every time. I'd skip over everybody but you."
Summary: You step in to help Bucky at a bar and sparks fly.
Word Count: Over 1.4k
Warnings: Kissing, mean girls, instacrush, AU, confident reader, slight insecurities, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Don't mind me, lovelies. Just thinking of nerd!Bucky thanks to this @nixakimbo edit. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @strangergraphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The bar was a little louder than Bucky preferred. Too many voices overlapped as he tried to talk to Sam and Steve, sound waves colliding in ways his brain tried to map out, too much bass vibrating through the floor and his bones. It was overstimulating, a friction of noise and movement that left him hyper aware of his own body in the space. He only agreed to come because they promised it would be one drink and they wanted to unwind outside of an apartment or lab.
So, he went and braced himself for impact.
He sat at a table and nursed a beer, his glasses perched low on his nose and feeling a little overdressed in his blazer. The lighting wasn’t too great, but at least he was able to see the guys. No one else looked his way.
They hardly ever did even when he wasn’t trying to fade into the background.
He was just in the middle of discussing the way sound carried in enclosed spaces when someone bumped his shoulder. Cold liquid splashed over his knuckles from his glass. He heard a scoff behind him.
“Oh. Sorry,” he blurted out automatically, even though it wasn’t his fault.
He looked behind him and saw the sneering girl who bumped into him. She looked him up and down like she was trying to figure out why he was in her orbit. It was a look that made him feel much smaller than his size.
“Wow.” Her lips curled in a mocking smile. “I knew this bar had gone downhill lately, but I didn’t think they let geeks in.”
Heat flooded Bucky’s cheeks as her surrounding friends giggled. He fumbled for a napkin, his hand suddenly too big and clumsy. A weak laugh escaped because that was what he did sometimes when he didn't know what else to do.
“I, uh, I prefer nerd instead of geek,” he tried to joke, something to distract him from the ringing in his ears.
“How about ‘loser’ instead? I mean, if the glasses fit…” she retorted.
The girls laughed louder as his face burned brighter. Sam and Steve didn’t and he knew they were two seconds away from saying something. His best friends didn’t like bullies in any size or form.
“I’m…”
He wasn’t a loser just because he wore glasses and was passionate about things like science. He’d say he was conventionally attractive, his physical attributes at least passing enough that some would admire him if they looked hard enough. The most important thing was that he was a good man. A loving man. But he swallowed hard, the words stuck in his throat instead of defending himself.
Why did he bother to come out tonight?
“Hey.”
A voice cut through the noise in his mind. Calm. Clear. Confident.
Bucky looked up and, for half a second, his brain simply stalled.
A few heads turned as you walked toward his table with your head held high. He couldn’t help but stare since you were one of the most beautiful people he has ever laid eyes on. Even with the bad lighting in the place you burned so bright, like a lone star in the sky.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said to him.
Bucky looked around to see if you were talking to someone else. The lie sounded so sincere and convincing that he believed for a second you really were there to meet him. He wished you were.
You winked at him, subtly urging him to play along. “It’s okay,” he replied, his voice soft.
You stood close, not invading his space when you stopped but enough that he felt your warmth. Your presence made the small group of girls wordlessly move back, and his throat went dry. You glanced at his damp hand and sleeve, your eyes softening when they moved back to his face.
Was he dreaming?
“Is there a problem?” you asked, giving the mean girls a glare that made them squirm.
He didn’t spare them a glance, too busy paying attention to you. “No.” His voice cracked. “I’m fine.”
You smiled, something small and warm, and you leaned in just enough that only he could hear you over the noise. “May I kiss you?”
His heart slammed against his ribs. “What?” he asked in a whisper, convinced that he misheard you.
“May I kiss you?” you repeated gently, your smile widening. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
He pulled back and searched your face for the punchline. He waited for the cruel smirk or mocking laugh. There wasn’t any.
“You’re… Wait, you’re serious?” he asked incredulously.
You tilted your head and moved closer, like you two were sharing a secret. “Completely.”
He heard the girls mutter something between them, but he blocked it out. Why would someone like you want to kiss him? And did he have anything to lose since his dignity had already taken a hit tonight?
“Yeah.” His voice didn’t break this time. “Yeah, you may.”
Your hand came up to brush his jaw, his pulse going wild when you closed the gap. You didn’t rush, giving him a chance to stop you or pull away. He wouldn’t dare.
Your lips brushed his and his knees nearly gave out.
God.
The world around him narrowed to the feel of your mouths together, closeness and warmth wrapping around him. The kiss was slow, grounding, and somehow intimate in a setting that was anything but. You kissed him like you knew exactly what you were doing and exactly what it was doing to him. It felt like he was being kissed by someone who wanted to kiss him.
The bar felt oddly quiet when you pulled back, your eyes half-lidded and his lips tingling. Sam made a sound, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t stop looking at you, his unexpected heroine.
Your thumb brushed his lower lip and he shivered. Did the kiss get to you, too? Did your heart swell? Was there crackling under your skin?
You turned to the girl who bumped him and your smile sharpened just a touch.
“Next time, watch where you’re going,” you said smoothly, your eyes flicking to Bucky’s damp sleeve. “And apologize to my boyfriend.”
Bucky just about short-circuited.
Boyfriend.
The girl’s mouth fell open, her friends suddenly finding the drinks in their hands very interesting. Bucky wondered if you were telling her to apologize for the spilled beer or her rude words. Maybe it was both. Either way, you raised an eyebrow and waited for the apology.
“Sorry,” the girl mumbled, like it pained her to do so, before she stomped off with her group trailing behind her.
You turned back to Bucky, your expression soft again. “I’m sorry, too,” you told him, surprising him. “I saw what happened and I couldn’t ignore it.”
“Don’t be sorry.” His stomach did a funny flip as he smiled gently. He couldn’t remember the last time someone gave him butterflies or stood up for him outside of his friends. “I appreciate it.”
“And you’re okay?” you asked, your brows furrowing.
He nodded, still stunned and his mind buzzing over you calling him your boyfriend, even if it was just to help him. Did you ever do that for another guy? “Yeah, I think so.”
“I’m glad,” you said, giving a shocked Sam and Steve a nod when you turned to walk away.
Bucky’s eyes widened and he felt a rush of bravery or foolishness wash over him, reaching out and lightly catching your wrist. You didn’t pull away. That was a good sign.
“Don’t go,” he practically begged, his ears burning as he cleared his throat. “I just…” He pushed his glasses up. “May I buy you a drink?” he asked, holding his breath.
Anything to keep you from walking away.
You glanced down at his hand and back up, your eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
He exhaled, in slight disbelief that you agreed. He dared to look at the guys, both of them now sporting grins and he was sure he’d hear about it later. “You two mind if I-”
“Go,” Sam urged in a whisper and Steve nodded in approval.
You looped your arm with Bucky’s and he felt tingles down to his toes. “Thanks for letting me steal him away.”
And as Bucky went to the bar with you, feeling more confident than he had in days, he knew with a thrill that you’d just stolen his heart, too.
So, do we like him? Do we want more? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen (dubconnish) dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 8.6k
⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)
synopsis:
The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.
← previous fic | main masterlist
There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.
As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.
“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”
“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.
“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.
“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”
“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.
“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.
Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”
Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you, Bob—”
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”
Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.
And John, of course, does.
“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”
“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.
“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”
Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”
“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression.
“We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”
Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.
Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”
Ava, John, and Bob shrug.
Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”
It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.
So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.
“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”
You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.
Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.
“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.
Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”
“Our team needs a healer.”
To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.
“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.
Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.
“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”
You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”
Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.
You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.
“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”
“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”
That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.
“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”
“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.
“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”
“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”
“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”
John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.
“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”
The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.
“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”
Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”
The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.
Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.
Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.
It actually makes perfect sense.
Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.
Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”
“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”
“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.
Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.
“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”
Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”
While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.
“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”
Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.
Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.
“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”
Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.
“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”
Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?
With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.
“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”
Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”
You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.
“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”
“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”
You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”
Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.
You furrow your brows. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.
“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”
Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.
“Here,” you say. “Try it.”
Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”
“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”
He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”
You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.
Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.
He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.
“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.
Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”
You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”
As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.
But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.
The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.
He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.
What the hell is happening?
He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.
He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.
“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.
When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”
You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.
“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”
With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.
The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.
He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.
“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.
You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”
You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”
You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.
When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.
“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”
“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”
You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”
Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.
It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.
There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.
A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.
“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.
Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.
His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.
In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.
The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.
His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.
“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”
“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”
You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”
You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.
“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”
While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.
“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”
Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.
“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.
You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.
“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”
Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.
He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.
He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…
“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.
That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.
He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.
You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”
Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.
As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.
Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.
You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.
You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.
“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”
Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.
You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.
You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.
It doesn’t sound like pleasure.
It sounds like he’s in pain.
Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.
“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”
Silence, save for his labored panting.
Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”
You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.
You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.
You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.
He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.
Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”
“Where are you going?”
You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”
Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”
You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”
“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”
You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.
“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”
He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.
The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.
“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.
Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.
“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”
“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”
His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.
“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”
You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it.
With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.
His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”
His cock twitches at the realization.
“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”
Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.
“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”
Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.
“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”
Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.
His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.
Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.
The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.
With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.
“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”
He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”
Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.
“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”
You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.
“On your knees,” he urges.
Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.
“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.
Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.
He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.
“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”
You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.
His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”
Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”
Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.
You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.
“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.
“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”
Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.
“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.
You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.
“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”
His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.
His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.
You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.
He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.
“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”
“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”
He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.
“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”
A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”
“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”
Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
“Bucky—!”
You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.
Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.
“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.
Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.
“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”
His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.
A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.
“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.
The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.
“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”
The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.
With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.
Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.
A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.
He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.
Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”
You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.
“Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”
He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”
His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.
“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.
Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.
His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.
Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.
Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.
A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.
He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.
Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.
“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.
Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.
That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.
“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”
A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.
John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.
“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.
“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.
“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”
“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”
Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”
“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”
Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.
The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.
The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.
“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.
The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.
“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”
“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”
Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.
John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.
John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”
Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”
“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.
Bucky’s jaw clenches.
Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.
His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.
You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.
The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.
Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“I’ll go.”
this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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God I love this, sex pollen Bucky is definitely one of my favorite 💖💖
"He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides."
Werewolf au | Werewolf! Bucky x Reader where sex could trigger a transformation.
WC 1.5K
TW Explicit sexual content with no anatomical detail, werewolf transformation during sex, monster sex, size difference, biting, claws, breeding kink and references to Hydra experimentation, fem!reader.
In this universe, Hydra had not made Bucky Barnes into a super soldier.
Super soldier serum required a clean formula. Hydra had tried, too, but the subjects had been too imperfect to even try perfecting it.
So the serum they put in his veins had been older than the super soldier program. This time, it was stranger. Its ingredients were dragged out of a black-site freezer in the middle of nowhere, labelled in German, written over three times, surrounded by warnings even Hydra scientists pretended not to fear.
They had wanted a weapon that could track by scent, a weapon that could heal through bullets, a weapon that would tear through doors and men with the same indifference.
So no, in this universe, the Winter Soldier program didn’t actually make soldiers. They had made wolves instead.
Bucky never liked talking about the early transformations. He would only tell you little pieces sometimes, after a transformation under a full moon, while your fingers moved slowly through his hair. He would tell you about the cages, the muzzles. He once told you that moonlight made it worse, but pain could force it, too. Fear and rage could force it. Want could, too, though that was the one that terrified him most, because he wanted you.
You had known that from the beginning, from the very first time he buried his face against your neck and froze, breathing you in like you could smell the sweet blood under your skin. You had known it when his hands trembled on your hips, his eyes flashing gold in the dark and he looked away because hunger burned through.
But you had never been afraid of it the way he wanted you to be.
You were afraid sometimes, obviously, you were not stupid. You had seen claw marks in steel doors. Sometimes, you had woken to him pacing the apartment like his bones didn’t bend right, hands shaking at his sides, mouth locked tight because speaking would show you the teeth.
But fear had never been a rejection, not when it came from you. Especially when the very few times the wolf had shown himself, he still looked at you with Bucky’s eyes and held himself back from tearing you apart because the wolf was still Bucky, and Bucky still loved you.
Tonight, he was already too close to the edge.
Bucky was holding you down without meaning to. Your chest was pressed flat into the bed, breasts curving the sheets below you, cheek buried in the pillow, knees spread beneath him. He was behind you, inside you, moving with that wild instinct he always thought he could control, one hand gripping the mattress beside your head. The other held your hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how strong he was when he was still trying.
Then, his breathing changed, wet against the back of your neck, dragging out of him like the monster had started breathing through his lungs. His rhythm faltered, his body locked behind you. For one sick, suspended second, he was frozen while buried deep inside you.
“Fuck,” he growled out, the word was barely human.
You felt his hand leave your hip and slam into the mattress beside your ribs. The whole bed jumped. The bones in his arm whined softly, clawing into the sheets like he was trying to anchor himself there instead of in you.
Bucky knew the shift was coming before you did.
His hand tightened beside your head.
“Don’t move,” he said, breathing coming out as a thin inhale, then dropped halfway deeper, wetter, too large for a human chest.
“No,” he whispered as a tremor travelled through him and the bed creaked. “Not now.”
His fingers flexed against the mattress, and you heard the soft pop of joints shifting before his half-transformed nails dragged across the fabric.
Scrrrrch.
The sheet split beside your face.
“Bucky,” you breathed.
“Don’t,” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t say my name like that. I’m trying not to—”
His sentence snapped off into a growl, then he grew.
You could have looked back, but you didn’t.
All you could do was feel it happen.
Heat flooded through him first, pouring into you from every place his skin touched yours. His thighs thickened against the backs of yours. His hips became heavier, wider, forcing your body lower into the mattress. The hand beside your head spasmed, nails sharpening into claws that pressed careful half-moons into the sheet.
And inside you, he changed too.
You let out an impossible mewl.
It was slow enough, and you felt him like a pulse. It was a deep swelling as the transformation dragged through every inch of him, making him thicker where he was still buried in you, stretching you around the wolf. Your body clenched down instinctively, confused and overwhelmed, and Bucky made a gutted sound above you.
The wooden frame gave a crack under a weight it had never been built to hold. You could feel fur brushing over your lower back, then along your thighs. His chest lowered over you, broader now, pinning you beneath him until you could barely move. You felt his mouth against your shoulder, half-formed canine teeth grazing your skin without biting down as drool slipped hot onto the back of your neck.
You gasped into the pillow.
Bucky went still again, and you could feel him fighting it.
Then his nose dragged against your skin, smelling your arousal.
“Oh, fuck,” he rasped. “You’re dripping,” he said, almost horrified that him being half a monster turned you on this much. “Sweetheart, you’re—”
His hips jerked before he could stop them.
You sobbed into the pillow.
He felt how wet you were, he felt how badly you wanted the thing he had spent years trying to hide from you.
You made a sound you didn’t recognize, half fear, half pleasure, helpless and broken against the pillow. Bucky answered with a growl so deep it shook through your spine. The bedframe slammed once against the wall because the change itself had thrown his weight forward.
He tried to pull back.
You grabbed blindly at the ruined sheets.
“Fuck,” you begged. “Please don’t stop.”
He could only growl, more monster than human now.
“I don’t care if you change,” you gasped, pushing your hips back into him. “I don’t care, Bucky. Please.”
The sound that came out of him was almost a snarl.
He was still careful where it mattered, claws buried themselves into the mattress and never you.
Still, the rhythm that followed was not human anymore.
He moved, and the room seemed to tilt.
The first thrust dragged him almost out before forcing him back in deeper, changed and so much bigger than before that your hands clawed uselessly at the ruined sheets. Your breasts pressed harder into the mattress, thighs shaking beneath him. Fur scraped your skin with every roll of his hips, rough against the backs of your legs, more silken over your spine when his chest bowed over you.
You could feel the werewolf behind you now.
It was no longer a man half-changing. Bucky’s whole monstrous body bracketed yours, breath pouring over you in wet, animal bursts. He drove into you like he was trying to bury the last of his humanity there and trust you to give it back later.
The bed was dying under him, headboard slamming into the wall hard enough to knock dust loose. Metal brackets squealed, sheets tore in long strips beneath his claws as the mattress dipped and buckled under the punishing motion of his hips.
Bucky’s mouth dragged over your shoulder. His tongue swept over the place his teeth had scraped. “God,” he growled, some human mind in him resurfacing to enjoy you. “God, you feel—”
The words dissolved into nothing as you whimpered.
He only fucked you harder, burying his monstrous face against the side of your throat, pained by how much he wanted you.
“Mine,” he growled, then immediately shuddered like the word had escaped him. “Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t—”
“Yours,” you choked out.
The bed cracked again as Bucky snarled into your shoulder.
He was a werewolf, and he was fucking you like one.
And he was still yours.
Eventually, as you reached your high, your body clenched around him, shaking under his weight, and Bucky’s growl turned savage. His hips drove deep and stayed there as he finished in you, his entire changed body above you. The bed gave a final, miserable crack beneath both of you, one side dropping just enough to make you gasp as he caught your body, huge arm hauling you safely against him even before the frame finished collapsing.
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then the transformation began to pull back.
You felt the slow recession of him inside you, fur thinning beneath your fingers where your hand had found his forearm, claws withdrawing from the mattress. His chest shrank against your back until he became familiar again, still broad and strong, but human enough to recognize.
Bucky didn’t move at first.
He stayed behind you, breathing hard, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades like he was afraid to lift his head and see what he had done.
You were still catching your breath when he finally spoke. “Fuck.”
You smiled weakly into the pillow.
Bucky exhaled, his voice still half a growl. “I’m gonna get us a stronger bed frame.”
-
this is a queued post! I am currently either getting married or on my honeymoon! enjoy! 💕
Sooo do you remember, Ducky fanart I did based on @nrilliree fanfiction a while ago? Well in my therapy they gave us stuff do redo your old clothes and well I did this:
So yeah I will have a t-shirt with Ducky because why not 🤣
Bucky had spent months trying to figure you out, only to find himself becoming more intrigued with each passing week. If anything, he found himself wishing he'd noticed you sooner.
Your dedication was admirable, It was the little things, really.
The security rotations you'd painstakingly learned just to slip past them unnoticed. The six guards that had become eight after he'd quietly hired two more, curious to see if they'd finally be enough to stop you.
They weren't, and he wasn't surprised.
He really must've been out of his damn mind, any sane man would've tightened security.
Bucky had turned it into a game.
A test.
And you never disappointed.
You obviously weren't a threat, at least not to his life.
Tonight, however.
Tonight he intended to see just how far you were willing to go to get his attention.
OKAY FUCK THIS IS SO GOOD, I HAD TO MAKE A MOODBOARD OUT OF THIS IDEA 😫
he loves the thrill of having a stalker, he's cocky and he is definitely not afraid of you. this is exciting. he's thinking about you, when you are thinking about him... i just know that first meeting (when he's not sleeping) is going to be full of sexual tension---
