bucky barnes is soooo loud in bed he can’t help it…after decades of nothing he’s just super sensitive and needy. can definitely picture him trying to pull you away multiple times a day to have sex. love him sm.
im so sorry this turned into a stucky moment too😭
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Bucky Barnes was a man of few words outside the bedroom—quiet, calculated, the Winter Soldier’s ghost still lingering in his silences.
But in bed he was so loud.
Desperate, broken-open sounds that spillled from him like he’d been holding them in for decades.
Which, of course, he had.
It started innocently enough that first morning back at the safehouse.
You and Steve had barely finished coffee when Bucky’s hand found your waist, tugging you back against his chest with that needy little whine already building in his throat.
“Missed you,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck.
But the way his hips rolled forward, hard and insistent against your ass, said more than words ever could.
Steve raised an eyebrow from across the kitchen, smirking, but didn’t stop him.
None of you could ever really stop Bucky when the hunger hit.
Within minutes, he had you both in the bedroom, clothes half-shoved aside because he couldn’t wait.
You ended up on your back with Bucky between your thighs, Steve’s hand tangled in Bucky’s hair, guiding him down.
The first slide of Bucky’s cock into you dragged a shattered moan from deep in his chest—raw, helpless, loud.
His head dropped to your shoulder, metal arm braced beside your head as he rocked forward again, another broken sound tearing free.
“F-fuck—so warm,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Missed this. Missed you squeezing me like that—ahh—”
He was already trembling, oversensitive from years of nothing but cold and silence.
Every thrust punched another cry out of him: high, needy whimpers when you clenched around him, guttural groans when Steve leaned down to bite at his shoulder.
Bucky tried to muffle himself against your neck, but it was useless.
He couldn’t stay quiet.
Not when you felt this good.
Not when Steve’s fingers joined the rhythm, pressing into him from behind and making Bucky’s whole body jerk.
You loved it.
Loved how he fell apart so easily now, how the Soldier’s control shattered the second pleasure touched him.
You rolled your hips up to meet him and Bucky sobbed, hips stuttering.
“Too much—please—don’t sop, don’t—”
Steve chuckled low, voice rough with affection.
“Easy, Buck. We’ve got you.”
By the time he came the first time—shaking, loud, spilling deep inside you with a wrecked shout that echoed off the walls—Bucky was already trying to catch his breath for round two.
He didn’t get it.
You and Steve traded a look and gently pinned him down instead, taking turns drawing more of those delicious sounds from him until he was a sweaty, oversensitive mess between you.
That was just breakfast.
By lunch, he was pulling you into the hallway closet like a man possessed.
“Just need a minute,” he lied, voice already breathy as he dropped to his knees.
His mouth was hot and eager, tongue working you open while he moaned around you like you were the one doing him a favor.
Every little hum and whimper vibrated through you until you were gripping his hair and coming with his name on your lips.
Bucky followed seconds later, untouched, grinding against your leg with a muffled cry.
Steve found you both there, flushed and half-dressed, and simply shook his head fondly before dragging you to the couch for round three.
Bucky rode him slow and filthy, head thrown back, moans pouring out unrestrained—Steve’s name, yours, curses in at least three languages.
The neighbors probably hated you.
None of you cared.
Afternoon found him cornering you in the laundry room while Steve was on a quick supply run.
Bucky bent you over the humming dryer, metal hand gentle on your hip even as his thrusts grew frantic.
“Can’t—fuck—can’t help it,” he panted against your ear, voice cracking on every other word. “Been empty for so long. Need you. Need to feel you—oh god—right there—”
He came so hard he nearly collapsed, legs shaking, loud enough that Steve heard him from the driveway and came running—only to join in the second he realized what was happening.
Evening blurred into night.
Dinner was abandoned halfway through when Bucky pulled you into his lap at the table, grinding you down with soft, desperate noises.
You ended up on the floor, Steve fucking into Bucky from behind while Bucky buried his face between your thighs, moaning and licking and whimpering the whole time.
Every time you praised him—
“Such a good boy, Buck, so loud for us, let us hear you.”
—he’d shudder and get even louder, until the room was filled with the wet sounds of sex and Bucky’s broken, beautiful cries.
Later, when the three of you finally collapsed into bed, tangled and sticky and sated (for now), Bucky curled between you like he belonged there.
His voice was hoarse from use, but he still whispered, almost shyly,
“Didn’t mean to be so… much.”
You kissed his temple, Steve’s hand stroking down his back.
“We love you like this,” you murmured. “Needy. Loud. Ours.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, a tiny needy sound escaping before he could stop it.
His cock twitched against your thigh, already half-hard again.
“Give us ten minutes,” Steve teased, grinning.
Bucky groaned, hiding his flushed face in your chest, but his hips rolled forward anyway.
“Can’t help itt,” he mumbled, voice muffled and already thickening with want. “Missed feeling alive.”
You smiled into his hair, fingers threading through Steve’s where they met over Bucky’s waist.
The Soldier had decades of silence to make up for.
Lucky for him, you and Steve were more than happy to let him be as loud as he needed multiple times a day, every day, for as long as it took.
a series of encounters that could have happened between Civil War and Infinity War
Steve doesn't regret going against the The Sokovia Accords. He never would have signed them, he had to be there for Bucky, and together they had to stop Zemo. He doesn't regret anything, but he's not happy that he and some of his closest friends are on the run from 117 116 of the governments of the world. It eats at him. That festering wound leaves a Nomad who's not the Steve he used to be.
And it's this exiled Nomad Steve Rogers you cross paths with.
But he can't ignore the deepest parts of who he is.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] SOFT DARK to light, explicit smut, rough sex, emotionally damaged Steve, lonely reader, "fluffy angst"
COMPLETED SERIES: final word count 48.5k
↠ July 3, 2017: When He First Got Me (Steve POV)
↠ July 4, 2017: You Should've Seen Him
↠ September 28, 2017: Pull the String
↠ September 28, 2017, around midnight: Put Me Back on My Shelf
↠ January 2, 2018: Danger in the Heat of my Touch
↠ February 10, 2018: Just Say When
↠ March 10, 2018: It Fit Too Right
↠ March 21, 2018: Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night
↠ April 30, 2018: I Felt More When We Played Pretend
↠ May 21, 2018: For Keeps This Time
↠ June 1-3, 2018: Should've Known it was a Matter of Time
↠ June 8, 2018: He's Gonna Miss Me (Steve POV)
↠ November 30, 2023: Stole My Tortured Heart
↠ December 1, 2023: Because He Loves Me
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 9.3k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: I know I said I would maybe post 2 parts per week from now on, but then I realised I have way too many stories that are waiting to be posted...
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev - Next
By the time Steve got back to the Tower, the city had already climbed fully into the day.
The building looked exactly as it always did from the outside – glass, steel, impossible money, the polished arrogance of something built to survive impact – and for a moment that irritated him more than it should have. There was something obscene about how normal it all appeared. As if the place had not watched you walk out of it the day before. As if Bucky was not somewhere inside it still bleeding into his own consequences. As if Steve himself had not left only a little while earlier with your taste still on his mouth and the promise to come back resting heavier on him than anything else in the world.
He parked, headed inside, and did not let himself think too hard until the elevator doors closed around him.
Only then did the quiet catch up.
Not the kind from the safehouse. Not intimate, not human. The Tower’s version of quiet was mechanical and curated, softened by excellent insulation and expensive engineering. A hum behind the walls. The faint whisper of cables and hidden systems. The elevator moving upward with impossible smoothness.
Steve watched the floor numbers tick by and, against his better judgment, his mind went back to the doorway in Brooklyn.
To your hands around his neck.
To the way your fingers had slipped into his hair with an ease that still unsettled him because it had felt so natural.
To the warmth of your mouth, deliberate this time, fully awake, no confusion in it at all.
And most of all to that tiny, involuntary sound he had made when your teeth caught his lower lip.
The memory hit so vividly that he had to look away from his own reflection in the mirrored panel, as if privacy still mattered from himself.
His mouth twitched before he could stop it.
By the time the elevator opened onto the residential level, he had schooled his expression back into something neutral enough to pass. Or so he hoped.
He did exactly what he had come back to do.
No detours.
No checking whether Bucky’s door was open.
No lingering in the common room to see who was watching him too closely.
He went straight to his quarters, shut the door behind him, and crossed to the bathroom with the blunt efficiency of a man trying not to think about how badly he wanted to turn around, skip all of this, and go straight back to you.
The shower ran hot enough to steam the mirror within minutes.
Steve stepped under it and braced both hands against the tile for a second, letting the water pound down over the back of his neck and shoulders. Mission grime loosened. The stale smell of travel, fuel, sweat, city air, safehouse dust. One layer of the last twenty-four hours stripped away after another. Usually the heat helped him reset. Returned his thoughts to a practical line.
It did not work today.
Because the moment his body stopped moving, your kiss returned with merciless clarity.
Not the first one this morning – quick and startled and interrupted.
The second.
The one by the door.
He closed his eyes and let the water run over his face.
It made no difference.
He still felt the press of your mouth with humiliating precision, as if his skin had memorized it. The hand that came up to scrub water back from his hair slowed halfway to his mouth without his really deciding it. His fingers touched his lower lip.
Just lightly.
The exact place where you had bitten him.
A ridiculous, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
It stayed there a second too long.
If anyone had seen him then, they would have laughed. Or worse, understood. Steve Rogers, standing under scalding water with his fingertips at his lips like some half-struck idiot replaying a kiss instead of preparing for the day like a sane man.
He almost laughed at himself.
Almost.
Instead he exhaled slowly, tipped his head forward under the spray, and admitted one simple truth to himself because there was no point lying in an empty bathroom.
He had liked it.
Not merely in the broad, abstract sense that anyone liked being kissed by someone they cared for.
He had liked it in detail.
The warmth.
The softness.
The intention in it.
The way you had smiled against his mouth like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
That thought lingered.
He shut the water off before it could pull him any farther down that road.
Afterward he dressed quickly – clean jeans, a dark T-shirt, a fresh henley left unbuttoned at the throat because his hands seemed less interested in buttons than usual. He towel-dried his hair and looked at himself in the mirror just long enough to confirm that he no longer resembled a man who had slept in his clothes in a Brooklyn safehouse and then been kissed breathless in the doorway.
He was not sure he succeeded.
Still, Tony first.
Everything else second.
The Tower was more awake now. Somewhere down the corridor, somebody laughed too loudly at something on their phone. An elevator chimed. Music drifted faintly from the gym. It all felt disjointed to Steve, like the building had resumed its ordinary pulse while the people inside it had not agreed on the same reality.
Tony’s lab, however, was exactly as Tony’s lab always was: light, motion, noise, and controlled chaos masquerading as genius.
The doors slid open to a room full of holographic screens, suspended schematics, scattered tools, and at least three open projects in different stages of disassembly. Classical music played from somewhere overhead – something string-heavy and dramatic enough to announce either inspiration or impending violence. Dummy’s little mechanical arms twitched near a workbench covered in components Steve did not bother trying to identify. One corner of the lab had been taken over by what looked suspiciously like the exploded remains of a coffee machine.
Tony stood at the central station with his back partly turned, one hand moving through a cluster of blue-lit displays while the other held a screwdriver like a conductor’s baton.
He looked up the moment the doors opened.
The expression that crossed his face was brief but unmistakable.
Suspicion first.
A sharp, measuring sort of suspicion, as if he had already written Steve’s entrance into a script he deeply disliked and was waiting to see whether the next line would confirm it.
It irritated Steve because he understood it.
Tony, for all his noise, had always been fiercely protective in the strangest, most specific ways. And right now Steve looked very much like the oldest friend of the man who had blown up your life. If he had come in here to urge patience or fairness or any of the other words people used when they wanted consequences diluted, Tony would have cut him apart for sport.
Steve spared them both the trouble.
“She asked if you could get her a new phone.”
Tony’s entire face changed.
Not softened – Tony Stark rarely softened in ways anyone could trust at first glance – but the suspicion went out of him at once, replaced by brisk focus so immediate it almost looked like relief.
“Of course she did,” he muttered, already turning back to the nearest console. “Because naturally Barnes couldn’t just betray someone like a normal idiot, he had to do it in a way that ended with property damage.”
He flicked two fingers through a floating menu. “Color?”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“The phone. Color.” Tony glanced back over one shoulder, impatient now that he had shifted into task mode. “Did Quantico ask for black, silver, obnoxious floral, blood-red vengeance chic, what?”
Steve thought about it.
“She didn’t say.”
Tony made a face. “Useless. Fine. I’ll default to something she won’t throw across a room on sight.”
There was an entire rack of boxed devices in a glass-fronted cabinet near the rear wall – of course there was; Tony approached preparation the way kings approached fortifications. He walked over, keyed something in, and began pulling components down with the speed of a man who had long since optimized this exact kind of emergency.
Steve watched him for a second.
Tony talked while he worked, not because he needed help but because silence had never suited him when anger gave him momentum.
“She’ll have everything transferred.” Box open, seal gone, screen already booting under his hands. “All contacts except the one I blocked myself preemptively, because I prefer not to watch version two meet the wall, if I have to take a guess to what happened to version one. Music account still there. Passwords preserved. Photos too, assuming there’s anything on the old one recoverable enough for FRIDAY to scrape.”
His fingers moved over the setup screen fast enough that Steve could barely follow.
“And she’s got access to Deezer,” Tony went on. “And Tumblr, because apparently the internet insisted on inventing one site specifically for reading increasingly deranged text posts and emotionally unstable fiction at three in the morning. Fanfics, I think. Or occult manifestos. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
Despite everything, Steve nearly smiled.
There was something so profoundly Tony about the way he tried to make care sound like mockery, as if affection became safer when wrapped in sarcasm and technical competence.
“Thank you,” Steve said.
Tony did not look up.
“Don’t thank me.”
The words came flat, but not dismissive.
Tony finally set the phone down on the bench and turned fully toward Steve, arms braced on either side of the console behind him. The humor had burned off his face now, leaving something colder and more pointed.
“I’m currently combing through the Tower’s security footage,” he said, “to find out exactly who Terminator decided to torch his life with.”
Steve did not answer immediately.
The nickname might have drawn a tired snort from him on another day. Not this one. Not with the rest of the sentence attached to it. The room felt sharper all at once, the bright holographic light suddenly too clean around the edges.
Tony watched his face and added, “What? You think I’m kidding?”
“No,” Steve said.
Tony gave a short nod as if that was at least one thing not worth arguing about.
The classical music shifted overhead into something more aggressive.
Steve glanced at the suspended screens nearest Tony. Most held harmless project data – engineering diagrams, diagnostics, a rotating model of some suit component. One, half minimized, showed a grid of timestamps and camera angles.
He looked back at Tony.
“Is it someone from the Tower?”
Tony’s mouth tightened.
That was answer enough before he even spoke.
“If Natasha saw them once,” Tony said, “then my money says yes.”
He reached for the phone again, thumb dragging through the last stage of setup with rough efficiency. “And when she wants to know – and she will, because I know her and so do you – I’m not doing what Romanoff did.”
There was no real accusation in the name, but there was disagreement. Clean and hard.
Steve thought of Natasha downstairs the night before, perched in the armchair with that cut-glass stillness of hers, admitting she had seen enough once to know something was wrong and then holding it in until events outran her. He understood how it could happen. Understood hesitation. Understood the danger of naming what you could not yet prove.
Tony plainly did not care.
“When she asks,” he said, “I’ll tell her exactly who stabbed her in the back while knowing damn well what they were doing.”
The lab seemed to go quieter after that, though the music kept playing and mechanical arms still moved in the background. It was only the kind of silence that came when somebody finally said the ugliest thing in the room aloud.
Steve leaned one hand against the edge of the workbench nearest him and looked at the phone in Tony’s hand.
He found, unexpectedly, that he did not know what answer he wanted.
Not because he wished to protect the other woman. He didn’t.
Not because he thought you were too fragile for the truth. He had already seen enough to know the opposite. You might break, but you would want facts in your hands when it happened.
No– what stopped him was the shape of the next wound. The way betrayal widened when it acquired a face. A specific one. Somebody you had passed in hallways. Shared meals with. Maybe laughed with. Somebody who had looked at you and known exactly what they were doing anyway.
He thought of you in the safehouse saying it was not revenge, or you would have done it in front of Bucky.
He thought of the way you had kissed him in the doorway after that, with gratitude and dangerous honesty and no idea yet, perhaps, of how much sharper the hurt might still become once the nameless part of it became named.
Tony seemed to read some version of that on his face because he sighed and leaned back against the console.
“I know,” he said, a little more quietly. “It’s ugly.”
Steve met his eyes.
Tony lifted one shoulder. “But ugly doesn’t get less ugly because everybody tiptoes around it.”
No. It didn’t.
That was part of the problem.
Steve thought of Bucky in the ruined bedroom, saying he had ended it the day before as if chronology had any power to clean morality. Thought of the blood on his knuckles. Thought of Sam refusing to give up your location. Thought of the shattered phone in the safehouse and the toast plate in the sink and your hand in his hair.
“I’m going back to her,” he said.
The sentence left his mouth before he had fully decided whether to say it.
Tony’s brows went up just slightly.
Not mocking. Not shocked. Only registering.
“Good,” Tony said after half a beat. “You should.”
Steve almost asked whether Tony thought that wise. Whether he saw complications Steve was trying very hard not to stare at directly. But Tony, for once, seemed uninterested in teasing him toward that edge.
Maybe he understood too well what kind of morning this was.
Instead he held the phone out.
“It’s set. Charger’s in the box. I threw in noise-canceling earbuds because if she’s staying in one of my depressing little witness apartments, she deserves at least one luxury. And before you ask, no, Barnes does not have the number, and won’t get it from me.”
Steve took the box.
It was lighter than it should have felt.
“Thanks,” he said again.
Tony clicked his tongue. “You thanked me already.”
“I meant it again.”
That won him the faintest narrowing of Tony’s eyes, as if a second thank-you carried implications he had not expected. Then Tony huffed out something almost like a laugh and waved him off with the screwdriver.
“Get out of my lab, Rogers. I’m busy being vindictive and useful.”
Steve turned to go.
At the doors, Tony’s voice stopped him once more.
“Hey.”
Steve looked back.
Tony had already turned partly toward the security screens again, but his expression when he glanced over was serious in the rare, unvarnished way he usually reserved for moments after catastrophe, when all the jokes had burned off and left only the clean metal underneath.
“If she asks before I finish,” he said, “don’t lie to her.”
Steve held his gaze for a second, then nodded once.
“I won’t.”
Tony looked satisfied with that, or at least satisfied enough.
The doors slid shut behind Steve as he left the lab.
The corridor outside felt almost dim after all that bright machinery and sharp-edged certainty. He stood there for one second with the phone box in one hand and the whole conversation still moving around in his head.
Tony’s anger.
Natasha’s silence.
Sam’s protectiveness.
Bucky’s collapse.
Your face in the morning light.
It struck him then, not for the first time but with new force, how completely the Tower had rearranged itself around your absence. Everyone was reacting to the shape you had left behind. Some with rage, some with guilt, some with efficiency, some with watchfulness. Nobody untouched. Nobody neutral.
Least of all him.
He looked down at the box again and thought, absurdly, of Tony making sure your Deezer and Tumblr still worked, muttering about fanfiction while plotting digital vengeance. The detail was so oddly tender it nearly caught him off guard.
Then he thought of the safehouse, of you waiting there perhaps with your headache mostly dulled by now, maybe sitting by the window, maybe pacing, maybe trying not to think too hard about the kiss before he got back.
He had promised.
That mattered more than reports. More than the rest of the Tower’s tense orbit. More than the ugly knowledge Tony was dragging out of camera feeds one timestamp at a time.
So Steve headed for the elevator again with clean clothes, a new phone, and the sharp certainty that whatever else the day became, he was going back to you exactly as he said he would.
The second ride to Brooklyn felt different from the first.
The urgency was still there, but it had changed shape.
Earlier, Steve had ridden through the city with anger sitting under his skin like a live wire, every red light another insult, every mile between the Tower and the safehouse another chance for his mind to build worse versions of how he might find you. Now he rode with cleaner clothes, damp hair drying in the wind, Tony’s carefully packed replacement phone tucked under one arm at stops, and the memory of your kiss returning often enough to make the whole world seem strangely sharpened around the edges.
He hated how easy it was, now, for his thoughts to split in two.
One path led to you in the morning light, tired and honest and wounded, asking if you were taking advantage of him.
The other led to your mouth on his in the doorway, your hands in his hair, the bite at his lower lip, the small smile that had followed.
And beneath both ran the same steady current: you were still hurting. None of that had changed. Whatever passed between you now existed inside that fact, not outside it. Steve held onto that with both hands. He had to.
By the time he parked outside the safehouse again, the day had advanced into that thin pale brightness New York sometimes wore before afternoon fully settled. The building looked no less anonymous than before. But this time, when he climbed the stairs, the knot in his chest was not made of dread.
He knocked once.
The door opened almost immediately.
You did not hesitate.
That, more than anything else, struck him first.
No cautious “Who is it?” muffled through the wood. No wary pause. No dragging footsteps that told him you had to decide whether to trust whoever stood outside.
You just opened the door.
You had showered.
The evidence of the night before had not vanished – no miracle had touched your face and turned grief into grace – but the water had restored some basic human shape to you. Your hair was still slightly damp, brushed back from your face in a way that made your features look clearer, less wrecked by sleep. You had changed clothes too. Clean ones this time, softer, simpler, nothing dramatic. You looked more awake. More alert. Less like someone surviving minute to minute and more like someone bracing for the next hour on purpose.
Still fragile.
Still sad.
Still carrying hurt in the slight guardedness around your mouth and the faint shadows beneath your eyes.
But steadier.
Steve felt something in him loosen at the sight.
He held out the box. “Tony.”
You took it and stepped back to let him in. He followed you into the apartment, closing the door behind him while you opened the package right there in the middle of the living room with an impatience that had less to do with excitement than with wanting one practical thing in your life restored.
You slid the phone out first.
Then the charger.
Then your fingers caught on something else in the box and paused.
Steve saw the expression on your face change before he saw what you were holding. You pulled out a credit card with one brow lifting slowly, and attached to it by a bright yellow Post-it was Tony’s handwriting, all aggressive slant and careless confidence.
For self-care.
For one second, you only stared.
Then a sound escaped you – small, startled, not quite a laugh and not quite the beginning of tears. Something in between. Something that made Steve’s chest tighten unexpectedly, because he recognized that expression now: the particular shock of being cared for when you had not asked for that exact shape of care.
“Tony,” you said under your breath.
There was so much in the single word that Steve did not bother translating it. Exasperation. Affection. Grief. Gratitude. The absurdity of receiving a revenge-proofed phone and an emergency spending line from a billionaire who coped with emotion by pretending it was logistics.
“He set everything up,” Steve said. “Your contacts, your accounts. Blocked one number.”
Your mouth thinned briefly. You did not ask which number. You did not need to.
You slipped the card and the note back into the box for a second, then reconsidered and slid the card into your bag instead, as if even in your current state you understood Tony well enough to know refusing that particular gesture would somehow be ruder than taking it.
Steve watched you for a moment longer than necessary.
The apartment felt different than it had that morning. Not lighter, exactly. But less airless. The shower had washed the smell of stale liquor from the room. The broken phone still lay by the wall for now, but it no longer felt like the center of the place. The bottle from last night had disappeared into the sink, rinsed but not yet thrown away. The curtains were open a little wider. Somewhere along the way, between his leaving and returning, you had done the small ordinary things people did when they were trying to reclaim control one gesture at a time.
He found himself absurdly proud of you for it.
Not because showering was heroic. Because getting upright at all after a day like yesterday could be.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
You looked up from the box.
For a second he thought you might say nothing. Or sleep. Or ask him to stay inside where the world could not touch either of you for a few more hours.
Instead your gaze dropped to his hand.
More specifically, to the Harley keys hanging from his fingers.
When you answered, your voice held an odd kind of caution, as if you were asking for something half impulse and half necessity. “Would it bother you if we went somewhere?”
His answer came without pause. “Where?”
You shrugged, but it was the shrug of someone naming a need too shapeless to explain fully. “Forest. Out of the city. Doesn’t matter where.”
Steve did not hesitate.
He had expected something like this, maybe. Not the specific destination, but the impulse itself. The need to move. To put distance between yourself and every wall that remembered yesterday. Between yourself and the Tower skyline even from afar. Between yourself and asphalt and glass and all the human density of a city that would keep existing while you fell apart in it.
“Okay,” he said.
Nothing more elaborate than that.
He reached for your hand.
You let him take it.
The contact came as naturally as if he had been doing it for years, and that nearly undid him for a second. Your fingers fit into his palm with tired trust, and he held on while you grabbed the safehouse key, slung your bag over one shoulder, and stuffed the phone inside with the rough practicality of someone who did not have energy left for tidiness.
Then, just like that, you left.
The city swallowed you both again for a while.
Steve got you onto the bike carefully, waited until you were settled, and felt the exact instant your arms went around his waist. He closed his eyes briefly behind the visor when your head came to rest against the center of his back. Not because the contact was unexpected. Because it was too easy to like.
Then he started the Harley, and Brooklyn fell away behind you.
He did not ask you to talk on the ride.
Did not shout over the wind to fill the space with plans or false brightness. He only drove north and west, out through the long thinning seams of the city, toward the first place his mind supplied that would give you trees enough to disappear into and road enough to breathe on. The Palisades made the most sense – close enough to reach without turning the ride into an ordeal, far enough that the skyline would finally loosen its grip. If he kept going, he could find you river views, cliffs, dense wooded trails, the smell of wet leaves instead of concrete.
So that was where he went.
The farther you got from Manhattan, the more the world seemed to unclench by degrees. Buildings gave way to stretches of road. The air changed. Traffic thinned. The river flashed silver now and then through gaps in the guardrails. The wind cooled as the city heat dropped behind you.
Still, grief did not loosen just because scenery improved.
Steve felt that too.
At first it was only in the way your hold on him changed. Most of the time your arms stayed steady, your body leaning into his back with a quiet, almost exhausted dependence that made him hyperaware of every inch of contact. But sometimes, without warning, your grip would tighten in a different way. Not for balance. Not because he had braked or turned. A small convulsive pressure, as if something had gone through you all at once.
The first time it happened, he knew immediately.
You were crying.
Not loudly. Not even enough that he could hear it over the engine and the wind. But he felt it. In the tiny tremor of your hands where they clasped over his middle. In the sudden damp warmth that seemed to exist even through layers of clothing where your face pressed against his back. In the way your whole body curled inward around him for a few seconds as if you had tried to make the hurt smaller and failed.
Steve’s throat tightened.
He did the only thing he could do without pulling over and forcing words into the moment.
He lifted one hand from the handlebar at the next straight stretch and laid it over your hands where they locked against him.
Just rested it there.
A weight. A promise. A quiet acknowledgment: I know. I’m here. I’m not making you explain it.
He felt your grip tighten under his hand in answer.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
And when the next wave came twenty minutes later, or maybe forty – time had gone strange inside the motion of the ride – he did it again. Hand over yours. Warm pressure. Nothing spoken. The same answer every time.
Eventually the road narrowed into greener country.
Trees gathered closer. The smell through the visor shifted from traffic and hot pavement to damp earth, leaves, river air, the clean mineral scent of a place less built over. Steve turned onto a quieter road, then another, following signs he barely needed to read. He knew enough of the area to find a stretch where the woods came right up near a small trailhead and the traffic fell away into almost nothing.
When he finally parked and cut the engine, the silence that rushed in was immense.
Not total. Never total. The forest had its own sounds. Wind moving high through branches. A bird calling once and then again farther off. Tires hissing faintly on a distant road. The ticking of the cooling engine beneath you both.
But compared to the city, it felt like stepping into another language.
You did not move right away.
Steve waited.
Then your arms loosened from around him, and he climbed off first before turning back to help you down. Your hand landed in his automatically the second your boots touched the ground. Not out of ceremony. Out of instinct. He closed his fingers around yours and together you started walking.
The forest was not deep wilderness, not truly. This close to the city, everything had a trace of human reach on it – worn footpaths, signs half-hidden among the trees, a rail fence in the distance. But it was enough. Enough space for the branches to knit overhead in places. Enough shade. Enough leaf litter underfoot. Enough living green to muffle the rest of the world.
You walked without speaking for a while.
Steve let you set the pace.
The path dipped gently, carrying you a little farther from the road, and the air beneath the trees felt cooler. Sunlight broke through in long, thin bands that shifted with the leaves above. Somewhere nearby water moved – faint, maybe just runoff or a stream he could not yet see. The ground smelled rich and damp beneath the sharper scent of pine.
You still held his hand.
He kept thinking about that, against his will.
Not because it was the first time. It wasn’t anymore. Because in daylight, in motion, under the open sky, it looked less like crisis and more like choice.
That thought was dangerous.
He kept it to himself.
When you finally spoke, you did not look at him.
Your eyes stayed ahead on the path, or maybe not even on the path, maybe on nothing at all. Your voice came low, almost too low for the words to survive intact.
“Do you think she’s prettier than me?”
Steve stopped.
You did not. Not immediately. You took one more step before the rest of the sentence cracked open inside you.
“Do you think that’s why–”
Your voice broke.
Not delicately. Not in some cinematic catch. It simply failed you halfway through, the words collapsing under the weight they had carried too long. The question itself remained hanging there, unfinished but complete in meaning.
Steve’s heart clenched so hard it felt almost physical.
He understood at once what this was.
Not vanity.
Not pettiness.
Not really even curiosity, though it wore that shape.
This was the oldest wound betrayal knew how to make. The one that hollowed people out from the inside and then whispered that maybe the damage had always been there, waiting to be noticed. Maybe you were not enough. Not beautiful enough, not soft enough, not easy enough, not whatever enough the other person had required to keep choosing you.
He had heard some version of that question in different forms before, from different people, though rarely spoken aloud. Most were too proud. Too ashamed. Too aware of how exposing it sounded.
You asked it anyway.
That alone told him how badly this had gotten under your skin.
He moved before he thought better of it.
He stepped in behind you and wrapped both arms around your shoulders, drawing you gently but firmly back against him.
Your body yielded at once, as if the effort of staying upright inside that question had already used too much of what you had left.
Your hands came up to his forearms where they crossed you, holding on there instinctively. He felt them trembling the second they touched him.
That almost broke him.
You were not sobbing this time. Not yet. It was worse in some ways, the quiet of it. The way your whole body seemed to vibrate on the edge of collapse while you stood there staring straight ahead into the trees, trying to survive your own thoughts with his arms around you.
Steve lowered his mouth near your temple, not quite touching.
“No,” he said.
The word came immediate and certain.
Then, because he knew certainty alone would not be enough against the poison already working through you, he tightened his hold slightly and went on.
“No. That’s not why.”
Your fingers clenched harder on his arms.
He could feel how hard you were fighting to keep your breathing even. One inhale. One exhale. Then another that shook halfway through.
Steve closed his eyes for a second.
He wished, with a depth that startled him, that he could take the whole question out of you. Physically remove it. Drag it away from wherever it had lodged in your chest and grind it into the dirt under his boots. But people were not machines, and hurt was not a foreign object you could extract once it became belief.
So he did the only thing possible.
He told the truth.
“This isn’t about you being less,” he said softly.
He felt your head dip, just slightly, as if the words hurt as much as they helped.
Steve kept speaking anyway, slow and careful, giving each sentence room to land.
“It’s not because she’s more beautiful. Not because she’s better. Not because there was something missing in you that he went looking for somewhere else.”
He swallowed once.
In another life, in another cleaner story, perhaps he would not have presumed to speak for Bucky at all. Perhaps he would have refused to interpret another man’s betrayal. But this was not about defending Bucky. It was about stopping the lie before it rooted deeper in you.
“He did it because he failed you,” Steve said. “Because he made selfish, cowardly choices. Because whatever was wrong was in him, not in you.”
A long silence followed.
The forest moved around you both. Leaves whispered overhead. Somewhere, farther down the trail, a branch cracked under some small animal’s weight. Steve felt the warmth of your body through your clothes, the fine shaking still in your hands, the slow unsteady rise and fall of your breathing against the cage of his arms.
Then, very quietly, you said, “That sounds nice.”
The words were not cruel.
They were tired. Raw. Honest.
Steve understood at once what you meant: that it sounded like comfort, like the right thing to say, like something decent and clean in the face of humiliation. But sounding right and feeling true were different things, and you were not yet able to make the leap between them.
He nodded once against your hair, though you could not see it.
“I know.”
His hand shifted from your shoulder down one arm until he could cover your trembling fingers with his.
“I also know it probably doesn’t feel true right now.”
That made you let out one strangled breath that might have been relief or grief or both.
Steve rested his cheek briefly against your temple then, no more than a second. Grounding. Human. There.
“If you want the truth from me,” he said, “I’ll give you that, not the easy version.”
You stayed very still.
So he gave it.
“The truth is, being cheated on makes almost anyone ask that question. It gets into your head and starts tearing at whatever was already tender. Makes you compare things you shouldn’t have to compare. Makes you look at yourself through his betrayal instead of your own eyes.” His fingers tightened carefully over yours. “That doesn’t make the question true. It just makes it cruel.”
Your head lowered another inch.
Steve could not see your face from where he stood behind you, and in some ways that made this easier. It let you hide. It let him hold you without asking you to perform composure for him.
He looked out over the trail instead, over the green dimness and the moving light, and let his voice drop lower.
“You want to know what I think?”
You nodded once.
He hesitated.
Not because he lacked an answer.
Because he had too many.
Because all the true ones were dangerous.
Because what he thought about your beauty had long ago moved far beyond anything neutral, and he had spent months – longer, probably – teaching himself not to let that show except in those looks you now claimed you had always known how to read.
Still, there were truths he could say safely enough.
“I think he was an idiot,” Steve said.
That pulled the smallest, wettest almost-laugh out of you.
Good.
He held onto that tiny break in the pain and kept going.
“I think anyone who made you feel like you had to ask me that doesn’t deserve the power he still has over your reflection.” He let out a slow breath. “And I think you’ve been hurt badly enough already without helping him do the rest of the job from inside your own head.”
That hit.
He felt it in the way your hands moved on his arms – not looser, not yet, but less desperate. The trembling eased a fraction. Your shoulders sagged back into him with a weariness that finally admitted how exhausted you were.
After another long moment, you turned your head slightly, enough that your voice reached him more clearly.
“He really never told you?”
The question came so small he almost wished he had not heard it.
He answered anyway.
“No.”
That, at least, was simple truth.
You nodded once more. Steve was not sure whether that comforted you or not.
Then you whispered, “I don’t think I even want to know who she is for the moment.”
Steve believed that too.
Not forever, maybe. Tony had been right about your appetite for answers. Eventually the namelessness of it might become unbearable in its own way. But right now? Right now the faceless hurt was enough. A name would only sharpen the blade while the wound was still open.
“Then you don’t have to know today,” he said.
Today.
Not ever.
He chose the distinction on purpose, and he suspected you noticed.
You did not comment on it.
Instead you covered his hand with both of yours and leaned back harder against his chest, closing your eyes at last.
Steve held you there beneath the trees and let the forest keep breathing around you both.
He could have stayed like that for an hour.
Could have rooted himself into the path and become one more unmoving thing in the landscape if it meant giving you one place where you did not have to carry your own weight completely.
Eventually you spoke again, so quietly he had to bend his head to hear it.
“I hate that I care.”
That, more than anything else, sounded like the truth at the core of your pain.
Not only that Bucky had done this. Not only that it hurt.
That some part of you still cared enough for the answer to matter.
Steve closed his eyes once more.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
He did not tell you not to. Did not rush to say you would stop soon, or that caring was weakness, or that feeling conflicted meant you were not healing correctly. None of that would have helped. Some wounds came with loyalty still tangled in them, and cutting the loyalty free all at once was rarely possible.
So he only held you.
Your hands remained on his arms.
His chin rested lightly near your temple.
And when the first tear slipped silently down your cheek – not the violent grief of last night, just one quiet surrendering tear he could not see but somehow knew had come – Steve tightened his embrace by the smallest fraction and stayed exactly where he was until you were ready to move again.
You kept walking after that.
Not with any destination in mind. Not toward a marked trail or scenic overlook or anything that would have justified the drive in practical terms. You just moved beneath the trees because motion felt easier than stillness for a while, and because the forest offered a kind of privacy no room ever truly could. Here, there were no walls to throw voices back at them, no city glass, no elevators humming up and down beside other people’s grief. Only earth underfoot, roots breaking the path in rough dark ridges, and the endless layered sound of leaves shifting against one another overhead.
Steve did not let go of your hand.
Sometimes your grip loosened when your thoughts drifted too far inward. Then a branch would snap somewhere or the path would dip, and your fingers would tighten around his again, as if your body remembered before your mind did that he was there. He learned the rhythm of it quickly. The ebb and return. The way sorrow moved through you in waves instead of lines.
The day remained cool beneath the canopy. The air smelled of wet bark and moss and river stone somewhere in the distance. Sunlight reached the ground only in fragments, pale strips sliding over trunks and fern and the backs of Steve’s hands when they passed through the brighter patches. The woods were not silent, not truly. They clicked and sighed and whispered with small life. Somewhere above, a bird called twice in a sharp descending note. Somewhere farther off, water moved over rock.
Steve understood, now, why you had asked for this.
It was not only escape.
It was scale.
The city made grief feel trapped inside architecture, reflected back from windows and steel and the faces of strangers. Here, pain had room to thin out at the edges. Not disappear. Never that. But spread. Become part of something larger than the four walls of a safehouse and the memory of a kitchen and a ruined room in a tower.
After a while, when the silence between you had settled into something companionable again, Steve asked, “Why the forest?”
He kept his voice low, not because he feared to startle you, but because the place itself seemed to ask for quiet. It absorbed noise and returned it gentler.
You did not answer at once.
You stepped over a root, ducked beneath a low branch, and only then said, “Do you remember I grew up in Acadia?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
He did remember.
Not because you talked about it often. You didn’t. But because Steve remembered details people offered once when they mattered, especially when they came wrapped in the tone you had used the handful of times you mentioned childhood. Not nostalgic. Not exactly bitter either. Just factual, with the kind of restraint that usually meant a story had sharp edges under it.
You looked ahead as you spoke, not at him.
“When my stepmother started in on me – my weight, my clothes, whatever she felt like criticizing that day – and my father never once told her to stop, I used to disappear into the woods.”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
The words were simple enough, but he heard the childhood inside them all the same. A girl being picked apart in her own home while the one person who should have intervened stayed silent. Not dramatic on paper, maybe. No bruises someone else could point to. Just the slow intimate violence of being watched and found wanting over and over until the walls themselves started to feel hostile.
He pictured you younger without meaning to. Smaller. Angry in the way children got angry when they still half expected fairness to exist if only someone older would finally choose it. Pulling on boots, maybe, or not bothering with boots. Walking out before dinner or after. Head down. Jaw set. Heading for trees because the trees at least did not speak.
“Given the number of psychos in the world,” he said, “you got lucky.”
It came out drier than the tenderness he felt under it, which was probably for the best. If he let too much softness show every time you revealed another broken place in your history, he would never stop.
You gave a little shrug. “I know.”
Then, after a beat, quieter, “But the forest never scared me. It was a refuge.”
That lodged somewhere deep in him.
Steve looked around with new attention then – not at the trail itself, but at the way you moved through it. The almost unconscious certainty in your steps now that you had had time to settle into the place. The way your shoulders sat a little lower than they had in the city. The way you lifted your face slightly every so often, as if checking the air for something familiar.
A refuge.
Not because it was safe in the practical sense. It wasn’t, not entirely. He had already said as much. But because it was honest. Trees did not ask you to explain yourself. Did not tell you what to be. Did not watch your pain and turn it into commentary. They simply were. You could bring any amount of ugliness to them and they would not flinch.
Steve understood the appeal of that more than he liked to admit.
You walked on until the trail widened around a massive old trunk that rose from the earth like part of the land deciding to stand upright. It was enormous – easily wider than Bruce in the Hulk form, which was saying something. Its bark had gone dark with age and weather, deeply ridged and furrowed, roots like thick ropes disappearing into the ground in all directions. Moss climbed one side. The crown vanished so high above them that the branches seemed almost to join the sky.
You stopped in front of it.
Steve stopped too.
For a second neither of you spoke. The tree seemed to create its own silence. Something about its age, maybe. Its mass. The sheer indifferent fact of its existence.
Then you said, “Steve?”
He looked at you. “Yeah?”
You still were not looking at him.
Your gaze stayed on the bark, one hand trailing lightly over its surface as though touching it grounded you. When you finally spoke, your voice had changed. Softer. More careful. As if each word had to be chosen and released separately.
“Can I kiss you?”
For one startled second, Steve could only stare.
The question itself hit him almost harder than the morning kiss had.
Not because he had not imagined kissing you again. That would have been a lie too obvious to survive even inside his own head. He had imagined it often enough in the hours since the safehouse doorway that he had stopped letting the thought complete itself. But because you asked.
Permission.
After everything that had been taken from you without honesty. After all the blurred lines of the last day. After waking in his arms and kissing him and hearing him stop you because he would not let something true get tangled with revenge. Now, here, in the forest of your childhood refuge, you asked.
The care of it went through him like a blade wrapped in velvet.
So, because deflection arrived before thought sometimes, and because if he answered too directly right away he was not sure what his own voice would do, Steve said, “You’re asking permission now?”
You turned your head enough to give him a look. Tired. Slightly offended. Entirely yourself.
“It’s not exactly charming to answer a question with another question.”
Despite everything, something in him almost smiled.
“Why?” he asked.
Your brows drew together. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to kiss me?”
There.
The real question beneath the easier one.
Steve watched your face closely as he asked it, watched the answers move behind your eyes before they became language. He was not challenging you. Not trying to trap you into proving something. He only needed the truth spoken plainly between you. Needed to hear that this was not self-destruction wearing a different face. Not the same ache reaching for a different body because the first one had become unbearable.
You looked away again, toward the tree.
When you answered, your voice came quieter than before, but steadier too. As if saying it aloud cost something, and you had decided it was worth paying.
“Because…” You stopped, swallowed once, started again. “Because when you kiss me, I don’t think about anything else.”
Steve’s breath caught.
You kept going.
“Because it feels good. Because I like it.” Your mouth tightened slightly at the honesty of that, but you did not take it back. “And because right now I need something that feels good.”
The words hung between them in the cool green air.
Steve understood the risk in them instantly.
Not manipulation. Not cruelty.
Need.
Plain, exhausted, aching need.
And that was exactly what made his next breath so difficult.
Because the answer he could have given as a man – simply a man, selfish and hungry and already too aware of how your mouth felt – would have been easy. He could have stepped into you then, cupped your face, kissed you under that tree until the rest of the world blurred at the edges, and some part of him would have loved the simplicity of it.
But Steve was not only a man with a pulse and a mouth that still remembered yours.
He was also the person standing nearest your hurt.
That mattered.
He looked at you for a long moment, and because he had already asked for truth, he gave you the same in return.
“That’s not a small reason,” he said.
You folded your arms loosely over yourself, not defensive exactly, but bracing. “I know.”
“No,” Steve said gently. “I mean it.”
He took a step closer, not enough to touch you. Only enough that the space between you felt intentional instead of accidental.
“If you want me to kiss you because you like it, I understand that.” His voice lowered. “If you want me to kiss you because it gives you five minutes where your head shuts up and stops hurting you, I understand that too.”
Your eyes lifted to his then.
There was vulnerability there again, naked and sharp-edged. But there was also stubbornness. And the beginnings of shame, maybe, because now that the reason had been spoken, perhaps it sounded ugly to you. Too selfish. Too needy. Too much like using comfort without being able to promise what it meant.
Steve reached out before he thought too hard and touched two fingers lightly beneath your chin, not lifting, only anchoring.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting comfort,” he said.
Your throat moved once.
“But,” he added, and felt your whole body listen, “I need to know you’re not asking for it because you think you owe me something. Or because Bucky made you feel empty and you want to fill the space with the first thing that works.”
Something in your expression changed at that. Not offense. More like relief that he understood the exact ugliness you were trying not to become.
“I don’t owe you anything,” you said immediately.
He believed you.
“And this isn’t about filling a space with the first thing that works,” you said, quieter now. “If it were, I wouldn’t have asked you why you looked at me like that. I wouldn’t have cared if it hurt you.” Your eyes stayed on his. “I asked because it’s you.”
That nearly undid him.
Steve let his hand fall.
The forest seemed suddenly too vivid around them. The bark texture of the tree at your side. The cool air in his lungs. The weight of his own body in his boots. The way your hair still held the faint damp memory of your shower when the breeze moved it. Every detail sharpened because the thing between you had crossed another threshold and there was no going entirely backward now.
He took one more step in.
Close enough to see the pulse flutter in your throat. Close enough to notice the way your breath changed when he entered your space. Close enough that if either of you leaned a fraction, the answer to your question would no longer be verbal.
“You don’t need my permission,” he said softly.
Your brows lifted a little. “No?”
A faint, helpless smile touched his mouth then, gone almost before it existed. “You asked whether you could kiss me. I’m telling you I’m not stopping you.”
That made your lips part slightly.
You looked at his mouth again.
This time he felt it everywhere.
Still, he did not move first.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he had asked for honesty, and now he wanted you to be the one to cross the last inch if this was what you truly meant.
You stared at him another second, then another. Steve had enough time to notice your hands trembling still from what the day had done to you, enough time to see you inhale as though bracing yourself for impact, enough time to think, absurdly, that the entire forest seemed to be holding its breath.
Then you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
This kiss was nothing like the morning one.
Nothing like the one in the safehouse doorway, either.
Those had carried urgency, gratitude, relief, the immediacy of the moment. This one began slower, almost reverent in its caution, as if you were confirming to yourself that you were allowed. Your mouth brushed his once, then again with more certainty. Steve answered gently at first, one hand coming to your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, and the second he felt you soften into it, the restraint he had been holding like a shield shifted into something warmer and deeper.
You sighed against his mouth.
The sound melted straight through him.
He kissed you more fully then, still not hurried, but no longer holding himself at such a punishing distance either. He could feel the truth of what you had said – that kissing him made you stop thinking for a while. He felt it in the way your body gave up some part of its rigid vigilance. In the way your hands, which had hovered uncertainly at first, came up and settled against his chest as if they had finally found somewhere to rest.
Steve let his thumb move slowly at the base of your skull.
You made another small sound. Not hurt. Not sadness. Pure feeling, stripped simple.
He almost lost himself there.
Because he liked it too. God, he liked it too much. The softness of your mouth. The way you opened to him by degrees, careful and then not so careful. The subtle change in your breathing as the kiss deepened and with it the strange new knowledge that this was no longer only comfort borrowed from catastrophe. Something real lived in it now. Fragile, badly timed, dangerous – but real.
When you finally drew back, it was only enough to breathe.
Your forehead came to rest lightly against his chest instead of his own because you had let yourself slump closer while kissing him, and Steve tightened his arm around you automatically to keep you steady.
Neither of you spoke for a few seconds.
The silence afterward felt different than before. Less haunted. Not healed – nothing so simple – but quieter inside the bones.
Steve looked down at the top of your head and said, very quietly, “Anything else in there besides pain?”
Your answer came muffled against him.
“For a few seconds? No.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Maybe that should have made him sad. Maybe it did, a little. That even now the best he could offer you was a pause in the storm rather than a way out of it.
But a pause mattered.
A pause could be mercy.
Steve rested his cheek lightly against your hair and said, “Then we’ll start there.”
He did not know whether he meant the kiss, or the day, or whatever impossible thing stretched ahead of them both.
Maybe all of it.
You nodded once against him and stayed where you were, beneath the enormous old tree, with the forest holding your grief at the edges and Steve’s arms around you while the world, for one brief and honest moment, asked nothing more.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
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Okay so I was thinking about reader and Bucky getting kinky and she straddles him and tells him to tell her all his fantasies and he’s either caught up or misunderstands and starts talking about the future he imagines for them all the time. Her in a wedding dress, then their kids, and celebrating their anniversaries etc. and readers just kind of ‘…oh🥺’ and they end up making love really sweetly
Bucky’s hands were warm on your hips as you settled into his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. The room glowed soft amber from the lamp on his nightstand, the city outside his apartment muted by the steady patter of rain against the windows. His gray Henley hung open, exposing the broad stretch of his chest beneath you, and the lazy smile on his face made heat curl low in your stomach.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“Can you blame me?” you teased, fingers dragging through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
Bucky’s hands tightened instinctively, thumbs brushing slow circles into your thighs. “Little minx.”
You grinned at that, leaning down just enough for your noses to brush. The evening had already been full of lingering touches and heated kisses, the kind that made the air between you feel thick. You could still taste whiskey on his tongue from the drink you’d shared earlier.
Your fingers traced down his chest thoughtfully before you bit your lip. “Can I ask you something?”
His brows lifted. “Depends.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s what worries me.”
You laughed softly and shifted in his lap, feeling the way his breath caught at the movement. “Tell me your fantasies.”
Bucky blinked.
You tilted your head. “Like… the things you think about. The stuff you want.”
A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, surprisingly shy for a man who could pin you against a wall with one hand and make you forget your own name. “Doll…”
“C’mon,” you coaxed, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I told you some of mine.”
“Yeah, but yours were filthy.”
You smirked proudly. “Thank you.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, but his expression softened after a moment, blue eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to decide how honest to be. You expected him to say something teasing eventually—something about bending you over the kitchen counter or hearing you beg for him.
Instead, his thumbs stilled against your skin.
“I think about seeing you in a wedding dress.”
Your teasing smile faltered.
Bucky kept going before he could overthink it, voice quieter now. “All the time, actually.”
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly.
“I think about waitin’ for you at the end of the aisle,” he admitted. “Think I’d probably cry like an idiot the second I saw you.”
“…Bucky.”
“And you’d laugh at me for it,” he said with the faintest smile. “But then you’d start crying too, so it’d be even.”
That soft, achy feeling spread through your ribs so fast it almost hurt.
You had expected dirty confessions. Kinks. Secret desires whispered into your skin.
Not this.
Not him looking at you like you hung the moon while he talked about marrying you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You think about that?” you asked softly.
“All the time.”
His hands slid higher along your waist, grounding himself against you. “I think about what kinda flowers you’d carry because I know you’d change your mind ten times before deciding.” He huffed a small laugh. “Think about dancing with you after. You’d have your head on my shoulder and I wouldn’t wanna let you go all night.”
You could feel your eyes burning already.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, completely wrecked by how sincere he sounded.
Bucky frowned slightly, suddenly uncertain. “Was… that not what you meant?”
“No, I just…” Your throat tightened. “Jesus, Buck.”
The tips of his ears turned pink. “I can stop talking.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Something tender flickered across his face then, and he relaxed beneath you again.
“I think about kids too,” he admitted quietly. “A little girl with your eyes who wraps me around her finger immediately. A boy that follows Alpine around the apartment and drives you crazy.” His mouth twitched. “Think about teaching them how to ride a bike. Taking family pictures where nobody cooperates.”
A watery laugh escaped you.
“And anniversaries,” he continued softly, almost embarrassed now. “You and me old and gray. Maybe taking trips somewhere warm because my bones hurt in the cold.” His fingers brushed your cheek gently. “I think about waking up next to you for the rest of my life.”
Your heart genuinely ached.
Because Bucky wasn’t saying it casually. He wasn’t throwing pretty words around to charm you.
He meant every single one.
“You’re supposed to be telling me your dirty fantasies,” you whispered shakily.
His expression turned impossibly fond. “Honey, this is worse.”
Your lips parted in surprise.
“I spent seventy years thinking none of that was ever gonna belong to me.” His thumb swept beneath your eye when a tear escaped despite your best efforts. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
That did it.
You bent down suddenly and kissed him hard enough to steal the breath from both of you.
Bucky made a startled sound against your mouth before melting beneath you instantly, metal hand settling carefully at your lower back while his flesh hand cradled your jaw like you were something precious.
The kiss changed quickly after that.
Every slow drag of his mouth against yours felt weighted with all the things he’d just confessed. Every touch lingered. Every breath shared between you felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache.
You pulled back only enough to press your forehead against his.
“You want all that with me?” you whispered.
“There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more.”
Emotion clogged your throat so badly you could barely breathe around it.
Bucky’s gaze searched yours carefully. “Hey,” he murmured. “Don’t cry on me now, sweetheart.”
“You made me emotional.”
A soft laugh left him. “Yeah?”
“You’re talking about babies and wedding vows while I was trying to seduce you.”
“I am seduced,” he promised solemnly. “Very seduced.”
You laughed wetly, and the sound seemed to relax him completely.
His hands slid up your back slowly before he kissed you again—gentle and unhurried. The kind of kiss that felt like home.
And when you finally sank into him later, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain tapped against the windows, there was nothing rushed about it.
Bucky touched you like he was memorizing you.
Like he already saw forever every time he looked at you.
His lips pressed against your shoulder, your jaw, your wrist where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his mouth. Between kisses, he whispered soft things that made your heart squeeze impossibly tighter.
“My girl.”
“So beautiful.”
“Love you so much.”
You clung to him afterward, legs tangled with his beneath the blankets while his fingers lazily traced circles against your bare spine.
“Y’know,” you mumbled sleepily against his chest, “next time I ask about fantasies, I’m specifying.”
Bucky’s laugh vibrated beneath your cheek.
“Too late,” he said softly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You already know the worst one.”
You tilted your head up. “What’s that?”
His eyes softened so completely it nearly ruined you all over again.
Summary: It's been a few months since Steve was pulled out of the ice and immediately had to fight aliens with the newly formed Avengers. He is doing fine with all that, all things considered. Which is why he's so upset when he's suddenly benched from missions and forced to welcome a support omega into his home. He's fine!
Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), mental health issues including but not limited to panic attacks, PTSD, disassociative flashbacks—Steve's not doing well! Possible slow burn, I genuinely don't know. We'll see what happens! See each chapter for individual warnings. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 7.9k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: I want to thank every one who has reblogged and commented on the first part, I didn't expect such engagement for this story and it really warmed my heart. This entire story has been beta read by Cassie -`♡´-
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
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Sam was still in the common room when Steve came back down.
Natasha had gone. Or maybe she was somewhere just out of sight, giving the illusion of absence while missing nothing. The television was still on mute. The spilled water still darkened the coasters on the coffee table. Nothing in the room had changed except Steve.
He felt changed.
Not in any noble sense. Not wiser. Not calmer. Only tighter somehow, as though every nerve in him had been pulled one notch too far and would stay that way until something gave.
Sam looked up the second Steve entered. One glance at his face seemed to tell him enough to make him straighten from where he sat.
Steve did not stop walking until he stood directly in front of him.
“Which safehouse?”
Sam’s expression closed immediately. “Steve, I don’t think–”
“Which,” Steve said again, “safehouse.”
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Something in the room shifted anyway. Sam’s posture changed, some reflexive recognition of command old enough between them that neither of them had to name it. Steve hated that he used it now. Hated even more that he could not quite bring himself to care.
Sam held his gaze for a long second. Then another.
Steve knew what he must have looked like in that moment: drawn tight with anger not yet cooled, fresh out of Bucky’s ruined room, still carrying the echo of the things said there. Sam was right to hesitate. Steve knew that too. If their positions had been reversed, he would have hesitated himself.
But he also knew something Sam did not.
He knew exactly what Bucky had just tried to make of this.
He knew how close he himself had come to saying something he would have regretted.
And he knew, with a clarity that had only sharpened since he left that bedroom, that the last thing he wanted was to let the night end with you alone in some borrowed apartment, probably drunk and hurt and convinced that if anyone came after you, it could only be on Bucky’s behalf.
He would not let that be the shape of this.
“Sam.”
Just his name.
That was all.
Sam exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Brooklyn,” he said at last. “Dean Street. Building looks half condemned from the outside, three floors up, apartment 3B.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “She might not open the door.”
“I know.”
Sam stayed seated, but his expression sharpened. “Because you’re his best friend.”
Steve looked at him.
“Not tonight,” he said.
The words came out before he could soften them, and maybe there had never been any chance of that. They landed with an ugliness he felt immediately, because Bucky was still Bucky no matter what he had done, because history did not vanish in a single evening, because love and fury could coexist far more easily than people wanted to admit.
But Sam only watched him for a moment and then nodded once, as if he understood the distinction Steve had not managed to phrase cleanly.
Steve bent, scooped up his duffel from where he had dropped it near the elevator, and then set it aside again. He did not need it. He only needed his jacket and the keys to the Harley in the bowl by the sideboard.
His fingers closed around the metal with a small hard sound.
“Steve,” Sam said as he turned.
He paused.
Sam’s voice lost some of its edge then, became something lower and more careful. “If she tells you to leave, you leave.”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah.”
It was the only promise he could make.
The city at night usually cleared Steve’s head.
The motorcycle helped. The speed. The cold air striking his face hard enough to feel like punishment. The clean necessity of movement, one street opening into the next, traffic lights bleeding red and green over wet pavement, the engine vibrating up through the frame and into his bones. Usually it was enough to strip a man back down to instinct and road and weather.
Tonight it did nothing.
Or not enough.
The ride to Brooklyn did not take long, but Steve felt every block of it anyway. He stopped at lights and saw nothing around him except fragments of the evening replaying themselves in loops too sharp to blur together.
Natasha in the armchair, saying, I saw them. Once.
Sam on the couch, saying, She said if she started talking, she might stay.
Bucky in the wreckage of his room, blood on his hand, saying, I was going to ask her to marry me.
And worse still, afterward – mean and ugly and broken in exactly the wrong direction – You gonna take your shot, finally?
Steve tightened his grip on the handlebars.
Cold wind rushed past him, but it did not cool the heat in his jaw. He could still feel the fabric of Bucky’s shirt twisted in his fist. Could still see that look in Bucky’s face, half viciousness and half invitation to violence, as if being hit might have made him simpler to bear.
It had nearly worked.
That was what kept scraping at Steve on the ride over. Not only what Bucky had said, but how close Steve had come to giving him what he wanted. Not because Bucky deserved mercy. Not because Steve had suddenly become soft. Only because he knew too well what it meant when pain started searching for a fist to turn itself into. He had lived too long around men like that. Been one, once or twice, in quieter ways.
But underneath even that anger was something else now. Something steadier and harder to outrun.
You.
The thought of you alone in that safehouse would not leave him.
He pictured a dozen versions at once, each one worse than the last. You pacing the floor with your phone in your hand until Bucky’s messages turned the screen into something unbearable. You staring at a wall with a drink you never even wanted that badly. You sitting perfectly still in that dangerous kind of calm that came only after too much crying, when the body had exhausted itself into numbness and the mind kept going anyway. He knew enough about heartbreak to understand that solitude could help and still feel vicious. He knew enough about you to know you would rather chew through glass than let half the Tower witness you coming apart.
The bike growled under him as he turned onto the narrower Brooklyn street Sam had named.
Dean Street.
The building was exactly what Sam said it would be: anonymous, weathered, one of those old brownstone conversions that looked tired enough to be ignored by everyone except the people who knew what sat behind the doors. Stark had always favored places like that. Money hidden under shabbiness. Security disguised as neglect.
Steve parked at the curb and killed the engine.
The sudden silence rang.
He sat there for one second longer with both hands still on the bars, staring up at the dark windows. Not all of them were lit. One on the third floor showed a thin seam of lamplight through crooked blinds.
Maybe you were there.
Maybe you were asleep.
Maybe you were crying.
Maybe you were furious enough to throw the door in his face before he said two words.
He almost hoped for the last one. At least it would be movement. Fire. Something easier to bear than imagining you quiet.
He swung off the bike, crossed the sidewalk, and took the stairs two at a time.
By the time he reached 3B, his pulse had settled into that dangerous, deliberate rhythm it always found before a hard conversation. He stood outside the door and listened.
At first, nothing.
Then the faintest scrape from inside. Maybe a footstep. Maybe the sound of someone shifting against furniture. Then silence again.
Steve lifted a hand and knocked.
No answer.
He waited, counted two heartbeats, and knocked again, gentler this time.
Something thudded faintly inside. A pause followed. Then your voice came through the door, blurred at the edges and thick in a way that made something low in Steve’s chest pull tight.
“Who–” You stopped, swallowed, started again. “Who’s there?”
You slurred the words.
Not dramatically. Not enough for a stranger to mistake it for anything more than exhaustion if they wanted to be generous. But Steve knew your voice too well for that. He heard the softened consonants, the way the words stuck together in your mouth before you forced them apart.
You had been drinking.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Not because he judged you for it. God knew he did not. But because it added one more image to the list forming in his head: you alone in this place, reaching for the nearest thing that dulled thought by even a fraction.
“It’s me,” he said, pitching his voice low and steady through the wood. “It’s Steve.”
Silence.
He heard something shift again on the other side. A foot dragging this time. Then the scrape of a chain, the click of one lock, then another.
The door opened.
You stood there with one hand still on the frame as if you needed it to stay upright.
The first thing Steve noticed was your eyes.
They were swollen. Not wildly, not in some theatrical way, but enough that the skin around them had taken on that tender, rubbed-raw look that came after hours of crying and too little sleep. Your hair was a mess, falling around your face in tangled pieces. You had changed clothes at some point – sweatpants, one of those oversized shirts that might have belonged to you or might have been dragged from some emergency closet in the safehouse – but there was nothing settled in the way you wore them. Nothing restful. You looked like somebody who had stopped halfway through existing and then forgotten how to finish.
And yes, you were unsteady.
Not falling-down drunk. Not far gone. But your weight favored the doorframe, and when you shifted it took you a second too long to find your balance. In one hand you held a bottle by the neck. The label had peeled halfway off, but Steve did not need to see it clearly to know it was not vodka and not whiskey. You had always rolled your eyes at both, called them too obvious, too cinematic, too eager to turn misery into cliché.
Rum, then.
Of course.
You stared at him with an expression that seemed to war with itself in real time – surprise first, then suspicion, then something hotter and angrier rising over both.
“Go,” you said.
The word snagged halfway through and came out rough.
Then, because one was not enough, “Go away, Steve.”
He did not move.
Your fingers tightened around the bottle. “I don’t– I don’t need to hear anybody defend him.”
The way you said him told Steve more than a hundred details could have. It came wrapped in disgust and injury and the kind of forced distance people used when a name itself had become too intimate to bear.
He met your stare. “I’m not here for Bucky.”
Your mouth twisted like you didn’t believe him. Fair enough.
He went on anyway. “I’m here for you.”
For a second you only looked at him.
The hall light hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere farther down the building, plumbing knocked in the walls. Steve could smell the city through a cracked stairwell window – rain not yet fallen, old brick, distant exhaust. Underneath it all, drifting out from the apartment behind you, came the smell of stale liquor and air gone too warm from a room shut too long.
Your gaze stayed on his face, hard and searching and not nearly as unfocused as your balance had been.
He wondered what you saw there.
Bucky’s oldest friend.
The man who had not been here.
The man who could so easily have come to plead someone else’s case.
The man who might have known. Might have guessed. Might have chosen silence like Natasha had, except without even the excuse of once having seen enough.
Steve held himself still and let you look.
At last something in your expression shifted – not softening, exactly, but tiring. You stepped back and jerked your head toward the inside of the apartment in a movement that was more permission than welcome.
“Fine.”
He entered without a word.
The safehouse was small. Smaller than he had expected. A narrow entry opening straight into a living room with an old couch, a low table, a standing lamp in the corner, a kitchenette barely visible through an archway, one closed door that must have led to the bedroom. Stark money showed in the bones of the place more than the decorations. The windows were reinforced. The lock on the door was better than the rest of the building deserved. Everything else had the bare, temporary feel of a place meant for waiting, not living.
You lurched ahead of him toward the couch, then missed the cushion entirely in spirit if not in direction and let yourself collapse to the floor just in front of it.
Not gracefully.
Not even intentionally, Steve thought.
More like the floor had simply arrived and you had accepted it.
You folded yourself there with your back half against the couch and lifted the bottle straight to your mouth for another swallow. Steve followed more slowly and stopped a few feet away.
That was when he saw the phone.
It lay in pieces near the far wall, black screen cracked to powder, casing split open, part of it under the little side table as if it had hit once and skidded. The sight made him stop.
He looked from the wreckage to you.
You caught the glance and gave one small, ugly shrug that said enough on its own. Then you muttered, “I got tired of it buzzing every two minutes every time he called or sent another message.”
Steve looked at the broken phone again.
He could picture it. The relentless vibration. The screen lighting up in the dim room over and over until the sound itself became an assault.
“You could’ve turned it off,” he said.
The words came out before he had quite thought them through.
You gave him a look over the rim of the bottle so flat it made him wince inwardly at once. “Yeah,” you said. “Could have.”
He almost apologized.
Instead he came forward and lowered himself to the floor beside you, leaving enough space not to crowd, not enough to feel detached. The wood under him was hard. The apartment felt too warm after the ride. Up close he could hear the unevenness in your breathing now, the way you kept taking in air like your chest had forgotten its own rhythm.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then you asked, very quietly, “Did you know?”
The question cut through the room with more force than anything louder could have done.
Steve turned his head.
You were still looking ahead, not at him. The bottle rested loose in your hand between your knees now, your shoulders curved inward as if trying to protect something that had already been hit too many times. But he heard it in your voice anyway, buried under the drink and the anger and the effort it took to keep it level.
A sob, pressed down into shape before it could become sound.
“No,” he said immediately.
You swallowed.
The silence after that was tiny and terrible.
Then, “You promise?”
This time you did look at him.
Steve had faced gunfire with steadier nerves than it took to hold your gaze right then. Because this was not really about information anymore. Not only that. It was about the narrow, shaking ledge you were standing on with trust in anyone at all. It was about whether one more person in your life had seen the trapdoor open beneath you and let you step anyway.
He answered the only way he could.
“I promise.”
He did not dress it up. Did not reach for an oath or explanation. Just the truth, clean and simple, because anything else would have sounded like defense.
You searched his face for another few seconds, as though checking the seams of the words for cracks.
Then, without warning, you held the bottle out toward him.
He stared at it.
“You know that doesn’t do anything to me,” he said.
Your mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Yes. But you’ll look less like you’re judging me if you drink too.”
For one absurd second, that nearly broke his heart.
Not because of the bottle itself. Because even now – even drunk, even wrecked, even furious – you were trying to manage the optics of your own unraveling. Trying to make it less ugly for the person sitting next to you. Trying to negotiate the terms under which you could fall apart and still keep some piece of pride intact.
Steve took the bottle from your hand.
The glass was warm where your fingers had been.
He tipped it back and swallowed.
The rum burned all the way down, fierce and sweet and rough, useless against a body that metabolized too fast for any ordinary relief to last. Usually that immunity amused other people. A party trick. A mildly tragic side note to the rest of him. Tonight he hated it.
For once he would have liked the blur. The dulling. The permission not to feel every second as sharply as it arrived.
He handed the bottle back.
“I’m not judging you,” he said.
That was true, but the sentence felt inadequate the second it left him. Because he was judging something. Bucky. Himself, maybe. The whole ruined shape of the night. He was judging the fact that this was where you were: on the floor of a safehouse in Brooklyn with a broken phone and a bottle of rum because someone you loved had taken a knife to the center of your life and then tried to call it love anyway.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw you wipe at your face hard and fast with the heel of your hand, almost angrily, as though tears themselves were an insult added to injury.
You leaned your head back against the couch and covered your eyes with one forearm.
The pose looked temporary at first. Defensive. A way to hide from the room for a second.
Then the sound came.
It was not loud. It was worse than loud. A small, involuntary noise – part breath, part sob – as if something inside you had slipped despite your grip and broken the surface before you could stop it. It caught Steve so sharply off guard that for a second he forgot to breathe.
He turned fully toward you.
Your name left him almost without sound, a murmur more than speech.
You shook your head immediately, arm still over your eyes.
No.
Don’t.
Not that.
He understood.
Or thought he did. You did not want him to ask if you were alright when both of you knew you were not. You did not want the kind of comfort that came dressed in phrases too small for the wound. You did not want to be watched while the first crack widened.
Steve looked at your hand instead – the one still loosely holding the bottle by the neck.
Slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to refuse, he reached over and laid his hand over yours.
Your skin felt warm. Tense. Damp at the wrist from where tears had tracked down and you had not noticed.
You did not pull away.
That alone felt like trust. Fragile. Barely there. But real.
Steve eased the bottle from your fingers with a gentleness that seemed to matter more because he had to think about it. Not because he feared you. Because tonight everything hurt, and he had no wish to add one more rough edge to the list.
He set the bottle aside out of reach.
Then he put his hand back over yours.
He had no plan beyond that.
No speech. No strategy. No careful sentence he meant to give you now that would make the night survivable. He only knew he did not want to let the contact break. So he sat there on the floor of that small apartment with his hand over yours and listened to the silence gather around the two of you.
Then you broke.
There was no warning beyond the sudden tightness of your fingers under his.
One second you were rigid beside him, holding yourself together with the last ugly scraps of pride and anger and alcohol. The next you folded – completely, violently, as if whatever had been bracing you from the inside had finally given way. The arm over your eyes dropped. Your whole body jerked with the force of the first real sob, and before Steve had more than half understood what was happening, you had turned into him.
Not delicately.
Not with any grace or intention that might have left room for embarrassment later.
You just came apart and ended up in his arms.
Steve caught you on pure instinct.
One arm went around your shoulders, the other across your back, and then somehow you were against his chest with all the weight of your grief thrown into him at once. He adjusted fast, shifting so he could hold you properly without toppling you both sideways, one hand moving up between your shoulder blades in a slow steady pass that he hoped felt grounding and not pitying.
You were shaking.
Not a little. Not the contained trembling of someone trying not to cry. Your whole body convulsed with it, each sob hitting hard enough that Steve felt the impact through his own ribs. The sound of it tore through him. Not because he had never seen anyone cry before. Not because he was sentimental enough to mistake tears for intimacy. But because this was you, and because there was nothing performative left in it now. No anger sharp enough to shield. No drunken sarcasm. No restraint. Just pain, raw and total and too large to be made dignified.
He held you tighter.
Not crushing. Never that. Just enough that if the world had felt like it was giving way under your feet, there was at least one solid thing left in it.
“It’s alright,” he heard himself murmur, though he knew it wasn’t. The phrase came out instinctively anyway, worn smooth by old comfort, useless and necessary all at once. “I’ve got you.”
Your hands had fisted in his shirt without him noticing when. One of them twisted hard in the fabric over his shoulder. The other pressed flat against his side as if confirming he was there, real, not going anywhere in the next second either.
Steve kept one hand moving against your back in a rhythm he did not have to think about. Slow. Repeating. The kind of touch meant to soothe a frightened animal or a grieving child or a person too deep in hurt to bear stillness.
He had no right, maybe, to know how naturally it came.
That thought passed through him and vanished. This was not the time to examine what it said about him. About the way his body seemed already to know how to shape itself around your pain as if it had been waiting for instruction.
He rested his cheek for one fleeting second against the top of your head.
Your hair smelled faintly of shampoo and stale apartment air and rum on your hands. The scent struck him with such aching familiarity that he had to close his eyes.
Everything in him tightened then in a different way.
Because he was holding you.
Because you were crying into his shoulder.
Because Bucky’s vile accusation still rang somewhere at the back of his mind, and Steve hated that it did, hated that it had managed to stain this for even a second, because this was not that, would never be that. There was nothing opportunistic in the agony of wanting only to make you feel safe while knowing he could not fix the thing that had broken you.
That was the truth at the center of it.
He could not fix this.
He could not take back the night in the Tower.
He could not unsay anything Bucky had said.
He could not return you to the version of yourself that had woken up two mornings ago still believing in what you had.
He could not even offer you the ordinary small relief of a drink hitting your bloodstream the way it hit everyone else’s.
All he could do was stay.
So he did.
He let you cry.
He did not tell you to calm down. Did not ask you for details. Did not say Bucky’s name. He only held you while the sobs tore through you in waves, each one harsh enough to leave you gasping afterward. He felt the heat of your tears soaking into his shirt. Felt the way your shoulders tightened before every fresh break and loosened just slightly after. Felt the violence of how hard you had tried not to let this happen.
And God, that got to him.
The effort of it.
The fact that you had tried so hard to hold it in. In front of Sam. At the door. On the floor with the bottle. Even just now, under your arm on the couch, refusing the first crack of sound as if grief itself were one more indignity to fight.
Something deep in Steve’s chest ached with a force that bordered on helpless rage.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the situation. At Bucky. At himself, maybe, for not having been here sooner, though he knew that was irrational. At the unbearable human truth that sometimes the best people got hurt in the cheapest ways.
He opened his eyes and stared over your shoulder at the room.
The broken phone lay by the wall like evidence. The lamp in the corner cast a warm dull circle over the floorboards. Shadows gathered in the kitchenette. There was a glass in the sink with water gone untouched. A blanket half pulled from the arm of the couch. Small things. Temporary things. A place to hide and hurt in private.
He thought suddenly of you arriving here that morning alone.
Unlocking the door with Sam’s keycard.
Walking into these quiet rooms with your bag and your grief.
Putting your things down somewhere.
Maybe standing in the middle of the apartment not knowing what to do first because the whole day had become an afterimage.
Maybe checking your phone once, then again, then again until the calls and messages made something snap.
Maybe throwing it. Hard.
Maybe opening the bottle because it was there or because it wasn’t and you had gone to buy it anyway.
The image nearly undid him.
His grip tightened by a fraction before he forced it to ease.
You shifted in his arms then, not away, only deeper somehow, your forehead pressing against the base of his throat as if trying to hide in the space under his chin. The movement was blind, all instinct and exhaustion.
Steve’s heart stumbled once, hard enough to feel.
He hated himself for noticing that.
No– not hated. That was not right.
He hated the timing of noticing. Hated that his own body remained honest even when he wanted nothing from it except steadiness. Because there was tenderness in him for you. More than tenderness. There had been for some time. Quietly. Carefully. In a locked room inside himself he had no intention of opening. He had known it in fragments: the extra second his eyes found you when a room got loud, the particular relief of your laugh, the way your opinion could steady or unsettle him more than he admitted. He had kept all of that under such tight discipline it had barely become language.
Now, with you in his arms and devastated, he felt only the cleanest version of it.
Not desire. Not hope. Nothing so selfish.
Just the ferocious ache of caring for someone and being unable to bear what had been done to them.
Steve bowed his head slightly until his mouth brushed your hairline.
The kiss, if it could be called that, was barely there. A pressure more than a gesture. Thoughtless in the best sense – done the way one might touch a bruise without meaning to, or a prayer one did not realize one still knew.
He froze the second he realized he had done it.
You did not seem to notice.
Or if you did, you mistook it for what it had been: not romance, not a line crossed, only comfort spilling over into whatever language the body found first.
Still, Steve felt a complicated surge of shame and protectiveness both.
He drew back the smallest distance and kept one hand moving between your shoulders.
Minutes passed. Or maybe less. Maybe more. Time had gone strange. Your crying did not stop all at once but slowly frayed, the hardest edges wearing themselves down into quieter shudders. Every so often another sob caught unexpectedly in your chest, smaller now, more exhausted than sharp. Steve stayed exactly where he was through all of it.
Eventually your grip on his shirt loosened by degrees.
Your breathing, though still uneven, began to lengthen.
One of his knees had gone half numb from the angle, and his shoulder ached under the weight of how tightly you had clung to him, but he did not shift. The discomfort felt irrelevant. Almost welcome. A physical thing to hold alongside everything else.
At last you made a sound – not words, just the rough exhale of somebody surfacing and hating that they have to.
Steve loosened his hold only enough to let you breathe more easily if you wanted. He did not force distance between you.
You stayed where you were.
He looked down and saw only the top of your head, the curve of your cheek turned into his chest, the damp shine of tears on the skin he could see.
So he said the only true thing left that did not ask anything of you in return.
“I’m here.”
Your fingers tightened once more in his shirt, weakly now.
Whether in answer or reflex, he did not know.
Either way, Steve took it and let the rest of the apartment fall away.
For a little while after that, neither of you spoke.
The room settled around the two of you in layers – lamp light in the corner, the faint hum of old plumbing in the walls, distant traffic moving somewhere below the window, the softened creak of the building easing into night. Steve stayed exactly where he was on the floor with you folded against him, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand moving slowly up and down your back in the same patient rhythm he had fallen into without thinking.
Your crying had quieted, but it had not truly ended.
He felt it in the occasional tremor that still moved through you without warning. In the way your breathing remained uneven, catching now and then as if another sob waited somewhere just beneath the surface and changed its mind at the last second. In the damp heat of your cheek through his shirt. In the stubborn tension that still held parts of you tight even in his arms, as though your body had not yet received permission to believe the worst of the moment had passed.
Steve knew that feeling.
Not this exact hurt. Not this shape. But the way grief clung to the body even after the sharpest crying stopped, as if the body knew before the mind did that pain was not a wave that came and went but weather that settled.
He let the silence stay.
He did not rush to fill it. Did not ask whether you wanted water, whether you wanted him to move, whether you wanted to lie down, whether you wanted to talk. He had the strong suspicion that too many questions would break the fragile thing the room had become. You had already spent enough of the day being forced into speech you did not want.
Then, after a few more seconds that felt both brief and endless, you spoke into his shirt.
“Steve?”
Your voice came muffled and rough from crying, the syllable almost lost against him.
He tipped his head slightly. “Mm?”
You did not move away when you asked it.
“You’re really not here to defend him?” You swallowed and tried again, more carefully this time, though your words still dragged at the edges. “And not to try and convince me to go back to him?”
The question entered him more deeply than it should have.
Not because he did not know why you asked. He knew exactly why. Bucky was Bucky. Steve was Steve. History had a gravity all its own. If Steve had spent the evening at the Tower hearing what happened, seeing Bucky half-out of his mind upstairs, and then shown up on your doorstep less than an hour later, of course some part of you would assume he had come as an emissary. Not because you were foolish. Because the world had just proved itself faithless in one direction and your mind would naturally search for it in others.
Still, hearing the doubt in your voice – small, exhausted, raw – made something inside him ache.
He kept his hand moving over your back.
“No,” he said.
He let the word settle before he went on.
“I told you. I’m here for you.” His thumb traced once, absently, along the line of your shoulder blade through the fabric of your shirt before his hand resumed that same slow path. “If you want to talk about him, we can talk about him. If you want to call him every name you can think of, I’ll listen. If you want silence, I’m here for that too.”
As he said it, Steve realized he meant it more fully than he had known until the words were already out in the room.
Because there was no version of tonight in which he intended to steer you anywhere. Not toward forgiveness. Not toward anger if you were too tired for anger. Not toward some noble calm you did not owe anybody. If you wanted to sit in the wreckage and hate Bucky until dawn, Steve would sit there and let you. If you wanted to say you still loved him and hated yourself for it, he would hear that too. If you wanted to say nothing else at all, he could do that. He could do quiet for as long as quiet needed.
You gave a small nod against him.
The movement brushed your forehead against the hollow just below his collarbone, so slight it might have meant nothing to anyone else. To Steve it felt enormous.
Not because it was intimate, though it was. But because it was trust. Frail, bruised trust offered in increments so small another person might have missed them. Tonight you had let him in. You had let him sit beside you. You had let him take the bottle from your hand. You had cried in his arms. And now you had asked the question that mattered most to you in the moment and accepted his answer with that one exhausted little nod.
He felt the weight of it all at once.
He also felt something like fear.
Not fear of you. Not of being here.
Fear of mishandling the moment. Of giving even a trace too much or too little. Of letting any feeling of his own – however buried, however carefully chained – show through in a way that would make this about anything other than your hurt. Steve had spent much of his life being trusted in one way or another. As a soldier. As a leader. As the man who stepped between danger and softer things. But this felt different. More delicate. He was not holding a line. He was holding a person, and not just any person. You.
So he stayed very still except for that one hand on your back.
The silence returned afterward, but it had changed.
It was no longer the silence from before – the brittle one at the door, the heavy one in the apartment, the silence of swallowed sobs and suspicion and grief pressing too hard against your throat. This one felt quieter in a different sense. Thoughtful. Worn through. The kind of silence that followed truth spoken simply enough to be believed.
Steve listened to your breathing while it gradually, stubbornly, tried to find some steadier rhythm.
His own thoughts refused to stay still.
Now that the immediate urgency of your breakdown had passed, they returned in slow, dangerous tides. Bucky’s room. The blood on his hand. The shattered frame by the door. The words he had thrown like knives because he had wanted pain to spread and not remain his alone. Steve still felt the echo of them, but they sat differently now that you were in his arms.
Before, the anger had been sharp, almost abstract in its force – moral, immediate, easy to direct. Here, with the reality of you leaning on him and trying not to shake apart, the anger changed shape. It became quieter and somehow much worse. Less like fire. More like a bruise pressed repeatedly with deliberate fingers.
This was what Bucky had done.
Not only the cheating. Not only the lies.
This.
This ruined exhaustion.
This question you had just asked because you could no longer safely assume anyone arrived for your sake alone.
This wary relief when told no one was here to persuade you back toward what hurt you.
This body gone limp with alcohol and crying because there had been no better place to put the pain.
Steve swallowed once.
His hand never stopped moving.
He thought, with a kind of tired astonishment, that Bucky still had no idea what he had truly broken. Maybe he understood the event. The facts. The magnitude in broad strokes. But not this. Not the lived shape of what betrayal did once the adrenaline burned off. Not the little aftershocks. The questions. The suspicion. The humiliation that lingered in the body. The way it made a person feel foolish for having believed the wrong thing for too long.
Or maybe he did know and that was worse.
He looked down slightly, though he could see little of your face from this angle. Only the curve of your temple, the dark fan of lashes still damp, the softened line of your mouth where it pressed into his shirt.
His chest tightened again.
He could not save you from this. He understood that. He could sit here and keep the room quiet and let you breathe and hold you through the worst of tonight, but he could not reach backward in time and become the person who had knocked on your door before all this happened. He could not give you back the version of your life in which love had still felt like shelter instead of threat.
All he could offer was presence.
It felt pitifully small.
It also felt, right now, like the only honest thing in the world.
You shifted again after a while – not away, but enough to tilt your head back slightly against the couch so your voice did not disappear entirely into his shirt this time.
“Steve?”
He answered immediately. “Yeah?”
There was a pause before your next words, and he felt them forming in the way your breathing changed first.
“You… would you stay tonight?”
Nothing in him moved.
Not outwardly.
Inside, though, the question landed with startling force.
For one instant his whole body went very still around it, as if even his pulse paused to listen.
Stay.
It should have been simple. In one sense it was simple. You were hurt, drunk, exhausted, raw from crying, alone in a safehouse with a broken phone and too much night left. Of course he would stay. There was no moral dilemma in that, no real question of duty. If Sam had asked him before he came over whether he meant to remain until morning if needed, Steve would have said yes without hesitation.
But hearing it from you directly changed the air.
Not because the request was romantic. It wasn’t. Not remotely. Steve knew that with absolute clarity. You were not asking him for anything except what the words plainly meant: presence through the dark hours, a witness, a guard against the silence once grief grew teeth again and you had no one to hand it to.
Still, the intimacy of being asked did something to him.
Not the kind of intimacy Bucky had accused him of wanting. Nothing cheap. Nothing triumphant. Nothing that made him feel like he had won anything. God, if anything it made him feel smaller. Humbled. Careful. Almost afraid.
Because tonight you were giving him something fragile without dressing it up as such. You were saying, in the only way you could still manage, I don’t want to be alone when this gets quiet again.
Steve’s hand paused on your back for the briefest moment before continuing.
“Yes,” he said.
He heard, in the very next heartbeat, that the answer had been too quick. Not wrong. Only too immediate, too instinctive, as if he had been waiting for the chance to say it. He did not want you to hear it that way. So he added, gentler, “If you want me to.”
A tiny, tired sound left you then. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Just some soft frayed noise that meant the effort of words had cost more than you wanted it to.
“I do,” you said.
Steve let out a breath he had not noticed himself holding.
“Then I’ll stay.”
You nodded again, slower this time.
The room fell quiet once more.
Steve became painfully aware of practical things then, perhaps because practicality was safer to think about than the other sensation still moving through him – the one made of tenderness and protectiveness and the dangerous knowledge that if you asked him to remain, he would do it without resentment, without boredom, without even the secret wish that dawn came faster.
He looked around the apartment over your shoulder. The couch would do if needed. The floor too, if you insisted on the couch. There might be blankets in a closet. Water in the kitchen. Maybe aspirin, though with your phone destroyed and your emotions raw, a headache tomorrow morning felt inevitable no matter what he found. He could lock the door. Check the windows. Put the bottle farther away if you’d had enough or leave it if taking it from you now felt too parental. He could make coffee in the morning. Or tea, if your stomach turned at the thought. He could say very little. He could say exactly what you asked for and nothing more.
He had always been good at making himself useful.
That instinct, usually so steadying, suddenly felt insufficient.
Because usefulness was only part of what was happening here. The rest was far less tidy.
The truth was he wanted to stay.
Wanted it with a force that unsettled him.
Not because the night gave him some opening. Not because he thought pain might draw you closer in a way ordinary days never would. He despised the shape of that idea before it even fully formed. No – he wanted to stay because leaving now felt impossible in the face of your voice when you asked. Because he could not bear the picture of you waking in the night disoriented, reaching into empty air. Because there was something in him that had apparently decided, long before he ever admitted it, that if you needed someone at your side in the dark he would go.
The realization sat in him quietly and changed nothing and everything at once.
He kept his thoughts to himself.
After another minute or two, your body began to soften against him in increments so subtle he might have missed them if he hadn’t been paying such close attention. The rigid lines of strain in your shoulders loosened. The hand that had knotted his shirt eased, opening and closing once as if unsure whether it still needed to hold on that hard. Your breathing slowed, though every so often it still hitched on the tail end of a spent sob.
Steve brushed his palm once more between your shoulder blades and said, very softly, “Do you want to stay here?”
You did not answer at once.
He waited.
Finally you murmured, “Don’t make me move yet.”
He almost smiled.
There was no amusement in it, only a weary kind of tenderness. “Okay.”
So he stayed exactly where he was.
If anyone had told him, when he stepped off the elevator at the Tower less than two hours earlier, that the night would end with him sitting on the floor of a Brooklyn safehouse while you leaned against him and asked him not to leave, he would have called them insane. The whole evening still felt unreal in places, too jagged to fully process. But this part – this quiet aftermath, this solemn permission to remain – felt more real than anything else had since he came home.
He found himself wondering what tomorrow would be for you.
Whether the anger would come back first or the grief. Whether embarrassment would try to rise where trust had been tonight. Whether you would regret letting him see this much. Whether you would ask questions you had not wanted answered yet. Whether Bucky would keep trying to call from whatever number he could find, whether Tony would intervene, whether Natasha would already be building a defense around your absence sharp enough to cut through anyone curious.
He could do nothing about tomorrow right now.
That, too, was a kind of discipline.
He lowered his head slightly until his temple rested for a second against the couch above yours, just enough to anchor himself in the present. The fabric smelled old and clean. You smelled like salt tears, tired skin, and rum. The room felt warm. His legs were beginning to protest the floorboards. None of it mattered.
After a while, you shifted one hand from where it had fallen in your lap and reached blindly, as if through instinct more than intention, until your fingers caught in the sleeve of his jacket.
Not gripping. Just holding.
Steve looked down.
Your eyes were closed now.
Whether you meant to sleep or simply could not keep them open any longer, he did not know. But your fingers stayed there in the denim, and Steve felt the contact all the way through him.
He covered your hand lightly with his free one for a moment.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
He did not know whether you were fully awake to hear it.
Maybe it did not matter.
Your grip loosened only after that, not because you let go but because trust, for the moment, had done enough work that you no longer needed to cling so hard.
Steve sat with you in the soft hum of the apartment and let the night continue around you both.
And when he thought of leaving, even for the practical purpose of getting you a blanket or water, he found he could not quite bring himself to move until you asked.
GENERAL taglist: @/mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Could I please request Stucky / reader, where the reader has Cold urticaria (Allergic to the cold). Were the get hives, itchy, can’t stop shivering and can’t probably warm up.
And the last one (can’t probably warm up) is the main thing. So Stucky comes home after something you can choose, and the reader is laying down with like a lot of layers.
I know the whole thing that super solider are cold but I personally head-canon them to run hot. That’s were they come like soft smut maybe were they ‘warm’ the reader up.
Warm Blooded (18+)
Stucky x Reader (18+)
[A/N] Not gonna lie I started writing this and missed the bit about soft smut so now we've got back to back smut 😂 This is very soft though 😘 Thank you for the request lovely, hope you enjoy!
Neither Steve nor Bucky likes being cold for obvious reasons. They’d been surprised by how much you hated it though. Bucky remembers the weekend the heating had broken, the way you’d insisted they had to go and find a warm hotel to stay in until it was fixed. You’d practically begged but both men were reluctant to look for somewhere else to stay – they’d both become homebodies after everything they’d been through, not even particularly liking to go on vacation when they were home from missions. They wanted to stay in their familiar space with their favourite person.
When you’d broken out in hives they’d changed their minds and had brought you to the compound, bundling you up, fixing you a hot water bottle and cuddling you in between them in bed in one of the spare rooms. From then on if you said you were cold – they believed you.
“It’s cold urticaria.” You’d explained to them “I’m basically like… Allergic to being cold. And when I do get cold it can take me forever to warm back up.”
Bucky had nodded, his hand rubbing your cheek which was still freezing cold “I’ve never heard of that before.”
“It’s pretty rare. Most people think I’m just being dramatic when I say I’m allergic but I literally am.”
“Noted.” Steve had said, kissing your other cheek “We won’t let you home until that heating is fixed.”
They’d kept their word. The heating had taken a while to fix so the three of you had stayed in the compound until your apartment was habitable again. By that time Steve and Bucky were practically climbing the walls with desperation, not liking to mix their work and home lives so closely but it was worth it to keep you safe and comfortable.
Today is a particularly cold day and while they’re training Bucky and Steve think about you often, wondering how you’re coping. You’d already text them, asking them to grab some food on the way home so they figure you’ve already hunkered down for the night. There’s a snow storm predicted so Tony tells everyone to go home early, not wanting to be stranded at the compound anymore than anyone else does. Steve drives while Bucky taps his metal fingers against the window, watching the clouds outside. It looks ready to go any minute now.
They stop at the store, stocking up on food for the next few days and Bucky grabs a couple more blankets, a hot water bottle and heat patches. Steve raises his eye-brows and grins “Don’t they already have a hot water bottle? And heat patches are for pain-”
“They will need another one if it snows. And they’ll be in pain if they get too cold. I just want them to be comfortable.” Bucky says stubbornly, making Steve laugh though he stocks up on hot chocolate sachets and tinned soup. Just in case.
When they get home neither of them is surprised to find you lying on the couch, hiding beneath about seven blankets. Steve heads into the kitchen to unpack the groceries whilst Bucky comes in, prodding your cheek with his metal finger “Ah too cold.” You whine.
Bucky grins but quickly removes his hand, running his flesh one over the blankets “Cold sweetheart?”
You nod as Steve comes into the room, laughing at the sight of you “Feeling sorry for yourself?” He asks.
“It’s freezing!” You complain. Steve goes over and checks the heating – it’s on full blast. It quite often is when you’re home “I told you we should travel somewhere hot during the winter months. Even if it’s just for a couple of weeks.”
“What would we need to go away for?” Bucky teases “Everything we need is right here.”
“Except for the sun.” You complain “You got all those superheroes as friends and not one of them can control the weather? Seriously? You got a guy who can produce thunder storms but not one who can make it a little warmer?”
Steve smiles, going to take your hands in his own when he sees you’re already wearing gloves. He rubs his own hands over them anyway “Where would you wanna go?” He asks.
“The Maldives.” You answer immediately “It would be nice and warm, and I've heard it's beautiful-”
“It would also take us like an entire day of flying to get there.” Bucky huffs.
You sigh, knowing how Bucky feels about flying. The actual flying aspect itself is fine. The confined space? Not so much. Bucky doesn’t even really like road trips, wanting to stop every couple of hours. You’d be lucky to get him on a flight to Washington, let alone the Maldives.
“We could fly to Cancún?” Steve suggests “Only a couple of hours and it’s probably warm there this time of year.”
You can tell from his expression that he doesn’t really want to but in typical Steve fashion you know he would if you really wanted to. You pull the blankets tighter around you “Too late. Look.”
They both look out the window and sure enough the snow has arrived, already falling thick and fast. It would look magical if you weren’t so frickin’ cold. Steve smiles, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your cheek “Well I didn’t mean right now. But before the end of the month.”
You glance at Bucky who just rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically “If the flights only a couple of hours I’m sure I can handle it.”
Steve rubs his hand over your back, pressing another kiss to your cheek “I’ll start dinner in a minute. In the meantime… Do you want a hot chocolate?”
You nod, shivering “Fuck yes. I’m so cold.”
“Yeah?” Bucky asks, his hand finding its way through your many layered blankets to squeeze your knee “Guess we’ll need to warm you up then.”
“I couldn’t get out to fill my water bottle, I- Oh.” You gasp as Bucky’s hand moves up to your thigh, his thumb rubbing over the fabric of your pyjamas. They’re a thick pair, one you’d pulled on to make yourself as warm as possible but the feeling of his thumb stroking over you still sends a shiver down your spine.
Steve leans over, pressing more kisses to your cheek that slowly make their way down your chin and to your neck. You tilt your head back, allowing him more access as Bucky’s hand strays even further up your thigh. Steve’s own hand snakes beneath your blanket, his hand rubbing your stomach as he keeps kissing your neck. Bucky leans over, pressing his own kiss to your neck, rougher than Steve’s – you feel his teeth sink lightly into your skin and you gasp again.
Steve and Bucky both exchange glances, their warm hands running over your pyjamas, touching wherever they can reach beneath your fortress of blankets. They’re always warm, it makes you jealous. Must be something to do with the super soldier serum because their temperature seems to always be perfectly regulated. No allergies and they never get sick. It infuriates you.
You can feel their hot breath against your neck and it makes your cheeks flush – you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips when Bucky bites your neck again. Steve smirks, his hand finally making its way beneath your pyjama top and working slowly up to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipple and you whimper this time, wanting them both but also not wanting to leave the warmth of your blankets. Bucky laughs, pulling back a little to nip at your earlobe “I think you need a hot shower. I think we all do.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Steve murmurs, kissing your jawline, his finger rubbing around your nipple “But first… That hot chocolate?”
You nod and manage to whisper “Y-Yeah… Hot chocolate and then hot shower. Sounds good.”
You love sharing a shower with them both when you’re cold. Their large bodies fill up most of the space, and combined with the warm water it quickly stops any shivers or chills you have. The thought of their hands roaming over your wet, naked body makes you flush even hotter.
The two men exchange a smirk and Bucky pulls you into his lap, wrapping the assortment of blankets around you whilst Steve disappears into the kitchen. Your blood is finally running warmer as you lean your head on Bucky’s shoulder and you know one thing for certain – neither of them will let you go cold tonight.
A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940’s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x f!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940’s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x f!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
another month, another bit of terrible news; i found out SNAP is going to continue giving me just $24/month. it makes no sense, i make less than before so why are they giving me so little? i did everything they asked, i proved everything. financially things keep getting more dangerous, worse, and terrifying.
i make $220/week. i live in an adjusted rent apt but even so my portion of the rent is $750, and electricity is monopolized by one company who overcharge us so my half is usually around $85-110. idk wtf to do anymore. we apply for everything we can to try to get any asst. but things are dire. we live in this moldy apt that no lawyer will help us sue, we are being lied to by the owners, our health problems are worsening, and my aunt is trying to take the apt issue on by herself.
i also lost my insurance and can't afford self pay. there are many over the counter medical supplies i require for my disabilities which i can't get assistance paying for. i am disabled and getting worse, but i'm trying to apply to everywhere i can for job(s).
i stay sick, barely sleep, faint often, and i'm in a lot of pain. it is getting harder dealing with growing symptoms due to not having money to buy my meds. many of them u can't just stop taking all of a sudden, but the pharmacy won't give me any for free and even with the goodrx/adjusted pricing i have no money to buy them. indigent care will not give me asst with these meds or allow me to see my required specialists- just in case anyone was going to suggest that.
i'm not new to being poor and struggling, but it has never been as INSANELY TERRIBLE as it is now. please help me. anyone please. i'm very tired from working and i'm hungry and really need my medications.
please consider sending any amount at all possible. i need help w every possible thing: FOOD, medicines and otc medical supplies, rent, electricity (which i need to stay on for medical purposes), & sanitary/toiletries. *i've gone to as many free places, charities, kklllland filled out as many applications for help on these things as possible and still need help.*
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦Chapter 31 - Chapter 33✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: Everyone takes a meeting✦
✦warnings/tags: enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: We're pretending Brave New World never happened because i am da boss and i say so thank you.✦
✦Chapter Title from American Teenager by Ethel Cain✦
You thought you’d have more time.
You’re not a fool. Fleeing a country has consequences, especially when you’ve been basically declared an enemy of the state. But you went to an incredibly powerful nation, and you’d taken Sam. Everyone loves Sam. He’s their cool Captain America, who actually knows how spices work and—if his stories are to be trusted, which they’re not—can eat more hot dogs than Steve Rogers ever could.
Bucky had snorted, when Sam told that story. You’d tapped his chest with raised brows, and gotten a shake of his head.
You’d smiled, leaned your head on his shoulder, and kept listening to Sam just fucking lie. But it had been amusing. And you’d been entertained.
Because Sam was the beloved, entertaining Captain America who swore and told loud, boisterous stories while still playing humble. The public loves him. You know, because you’ve called in favors for signed Sam Plushies before, they’re always a disgustingly effective hit with the auctions.
But they’ve declared another, more beloved Captain America an enemy as well. And that seemed to be pretty effective.
You sigh, staring at yourself in the small mirror of your room. You need to stand up. Go out the door, and face the music that you sort of conducted. They’re here for you. Everyone is only here because you, apparently, are something covered in diamond and stardust.
You don’t feel covered in diamonds and stardust. You mostly feel kind of sick, and tired, and in pain.
The Mist is still rising. Still boiling and burning under your skin. It makes your bones heavy and head spin and you can’t really fucking breathe without it feeling like it’s smoke and ash.
You’re going to slip into the Show, without letting any of it leak through.
There was a small, uselessly hopeful part of you that had hoped you’d never have to play into the show again.
“You good, Butterfly?” Bucky calls from the bathroom, and you hum, tracing your finger over the line of your own lips.
“I’m okay.” You murmur, trying to refocus on your hair. “Are you almost ready?”
“Should be, but I don’t think it matters.”
You look to the bathroom with a frown. “It matters, Bucky, I need you with me-“
“I know. That’s why I’m goin’. But,” he leans around the door, hair dark and wet and falling over his flat expression. “I don’t think they’re here to see how pretty I can be.”
You flush, and there’s water running down his shoulders as well. This doesn’t feel like playing fair. “But you can be so pretty, James.”
He chuckles, retreating back into the bathroom. “Yeah? What, like a wet cat you found on the side of the road?”
“Yes.” You start to do your hair, smiling at your reflection. “And I adopt you, and you put mice in my bed because you love me.”
“I do love you.” He murmurs, walking fully out of the bathroom in your periphery. “But I’d never put mice in your bed.”
“So you don’t love me? Because when a cat loves their human, they bring them food. Like mice. And if you’re going to provide for me, Sergeant, I expect at least a squirrel-“
Your words are cut off as Bucky grabs your chin, and tips your head back. The kiss is long and deep, your hands flying up to grab his metal forearm, to try to reach up and touch his face. He holds you firm through it, flesh arm wrapping over your chest and pulling you into his back. You’re dizzy, when he pulls away. Mostly just trying to get your balance as his thumb swipes over your lower lip, and his clear, blue eyes almost sparkling on yours.
He’s shirtless. You can feel the hard muscle of his back, and the softness of his stomach, and it’s sort of intoxicating. There’s a security to it. Bucky’s holding you, and he’s solid and unmoving, and not even your own body can hurt you as long as he’s here.
Shirtless.
With perfect, mismatched shoulders and huge arms that are wrapped so certainly around you. With water dripping from his hair, down his chest, and over his body, the heat of him makes your head spin as you try to catch your breath.
“I love you like a person,” Bucky mutters your name, his tone almost reverent, and it’s not really helping anything. “My feral, weird, little person.”
You frown at him. “I’m not little-“
“You’re little to me.” He gives you a small, teasing grin. “Loud and little and big.”
“That’s-“ Your breath hitches as his thumb drags over your cheekbone, and it’s like he’s mapping every inch of your face. “Buck, that’s an oxymoron-“
“With such a smart mouth.” He leans down, and your words die as your noses bump. “So good and smart and, in your fuckin’ spirit,” he kisses the space between your eyes. “Little.”
You swallow, and you don’t feel little. You’ve never felt little. It’s not even about your body or height or anything, it’s always just been you. Too big, too demanding, too much, and they’re all here for you but what are you worth at all-
“I love you.” Bucky says your name firmly, tipping your head firmly back. “Yeah, maybe you’re a lot, sweetheart. But I’m having a great time trying to handle it.”
Your flush might burn you alive. “It’s not your job to handle me-“
“Yeah, but I wanna.” He grins. “You’re a pretty big catch, babydoll. I’m gettin’ pretty lucky.”
This isn’t a fair game for him to be playing. Not when he wins every single time.
“You think I’m a fish?” You try weakly, and Bucky chuckles.
“I told you. Think you’re a person.”
“You call me butterfly, that’s not a person.” You mock gasp, wiggling to sit up a little straighter, get a little closer. “Do you think butterflies are people? Bucky, did they not teach you what bugs are in the 40s?”
He just gives you an amused look. “No. What’s a bug, baby.”
“Me. I’m a bug.” You grab his hand over your chest, trying to keep him as close as possible, and he raises his brows.
“You look pretty big for a bug, sweetheart. And I’ve heard they got scales and shells.”
“I’ve got scales. You just can’t see them.”
“Yeah?” He rubs his thumb in firm little circles on your jaw. “How do I see them?”
“We have sex.”
He laughs. “Nice try, sweetheart. You know the deal.”
You pout up at him, tugging on his arm. “Don’t you want to see my scales-“
“I’ve seen most of you,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze with darkened eyes. “And I don’t think you got scales, but I got a few guesses for what I will see, when I take you.”
“Take me?” You whisper, and it’s not the teasing tone you want it to be.
Not when Bucky nods, looking at you like he’d been locked underground for a hundred years, and was finally getting to see the sky.
“I’m not goin’ easy on you, babydoll.” He murmurs, and you swallow. “You’re not gonna be walkin’, when I’m done. For the better, I think. Gives me a good reason to carry you, stop you from falling over your own feet.”
You press your thighs together, and you lost this one. So fast, you lost and won, because you don’t want him to go easy on you. You’ve been on top and on the bottom and turned into a million different kinds of toys for horrible games you didn’t want to play.
Bucky’s looking at you like you’re going to be his instrument. Like he’s going to tend to you, and care for you, and touch you just right to make something good.
But he’s also looking at you like he’s trying to figure out the best way to ruin you while keeping your dignity intact.
You don’t care about dignity. You sort of lost that with him a long time ago.
And if it’s Bucky, and he loves you and keeps you, then you’re not above fucking begging.
“James.” You mumble, and Bucky’s lips twitch as you gape at him.
His thumb presses firmly against your lower lip. You part it without thinking, letting your tongue swipe over the pad of the finger. He makes a low sound from his chest that’s almost animalistic, and you feel feral. You have to climb him like a tree, the arm around your chest needs to play with your tits or wrap around your neck or pin your hands over your head. He has to put those metal fingers inside of you, or use them to play with you while all that strength slams in and out of your cunt-
“Calm down, Butterfly.” He drawls, and he’s saying it like he’s amused, but you can hear it under his voice. Bucky’s own, heady need.
You can feel it, poking against your back.
Bucky raises his brows, daring you to say something, and you pointlessly squeeze the metal of his forearm.
“We got a meeting, sweetheart.” He mutters, drawing fully up. “You need help gettin’ ready?”
You scowl. “No, but- Come back-“
“No, we gotta fix this first.” He pulls your hand up, kissing your knuckles. “Once everyone is off our fuckin’ backs, I’ll take you out, and-“
“We can have sex?”
Bucky’s eyes flash with a low, hungry affection that makes you feel sort of lightheaded.
“Yeah, Butterfly. We get through this, I’ll fuck you into next month.”
Oh. That sounds nice. “Promise?”
“On your life.” He presses a final kiss to the top of your head, and steps away. “Get changed, sweetheart. If we leave them alone with Sam too long, they’ll probably decide to make us war criminals, too.”
You laugh softly, still not thinking that fast as you watch Bucky move around the room through the mirror. He grabs his clothing—muscles rippling and flexing and he must know what he’s doing to you, the asshole—and walks into the bathroom, throwing you a small grin before he closes the door.
It’s helpful, to let you focus on getting yourself ready—you have proper motivation now, you’re moving pretty fast—but you also know he’s not doing it just to stop you from being distracted. There’s some old-fashioned modesty he seems to be holding onto, where you change in separate rooms and avoid the sight of each other fully naked. You’re obeying his silent, unspoken rule, but only out of love for him and respect for his privacy.
You don’t think it’s a boundary thing, though. You’re never going to test it, but you think that if it’s not just I’m James Barnes and I’m a million years old, it’s his way of making sure you don’t break his no sex before a date rule.
Which is fair.
If he showed you what you’d felt pressing against your back, you would’ve dropped to your knees and taken him in your mouth there. You’re pretty sure that if you dropped your bathrobe and stood in the center of the room naked, that was all it would take for Bucky to snap, and-
The pain flashes suddenly, turning white-hot and blinding and your mouth falls open in a silent scream-
“Christ in hell.” Bucky mutters, fists flexing at his side as he stares at you. “This is playin’ dirty, babydoll.”
You smile at him, keeping your hands innocently tucked behind your back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, James-“
“Don’t call me that when you’re lookin’ like this.” He cuts you off with low, firm words, and you flush. “I mean, goddamnit, Butterfly. You’re gonna kill me.”
“Why?” You tilt your head at him, and he gives you a flat look.
“You know what you’re doin’.”
“No, I don’t. What am I doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he reaches up to run a smooth, metal hand over your waist. It’s cold and hard, but he’s touching you so fucking lightly it makes you shiver, a small moan falling from your lips.
“Yeah. There you are.” Bucky’s eyes rip from where he’d been touching you, locking onto yours. “You care about this party, Butterfly?”
You shake your head, and he lets out a heavy breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Care about this dress?”
“No.” You breathe out, and he nods.
“Cost a lot?”
“Too much, but I got it for free as a gift-“
That’s all he needs to hear. The fabric rips as Bucky slams his mouth against yours. Kisses you so brutally for how he’s touching you like you’re priceless, hauling you into his arms in a heartbeat as you tangle your fingers in his hair.
“No party.” He grunts against your lips, metal hand running up your spine. “Got better things to do to you.”
You moan, then giggle as he drops you onto the mattress without ceremony, trying to still reach up and get him closer-
It all falls away as fast as it came, and you blink at yourself in the mirror. You look okay. Your hair got messed up by the rush of power, but nothing you can’t fix.
What won’t be fixable is the wood of the vanity, rotted under your fingers.
But that’s what you’re doing all of this for.
To be free of the bond, to be free of the pain.
To maybe, if you get luckier than you’ve ever been in your life, have that future with Bucky.
He loops his arm through yours, as you leave your bedroom. It’s almost two in the morning, but Sam said the President was still on East Coast time, and hadn’t been willing to listen to most everyone telling him that maybe acting like it was only 4pm wasn’t the best diplomatic strategy.
At least you’d gotten the time to clean up. It’s a small grace, that he lent you.
It’s the only thing that’s going to allow you to slip back into the Show, and get through this with your head held high.
T’challa set aside a large, open room for the meeting. It’s near the top of their palace, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, and all the stars sprawling over the sky. There are two secret service agents that eye you and Bucky, as you walk into the room, but don’t say a word. Sam and Yelena are already seated—Sam in his full Captain America gear, like he’s trying to fucking remind everyone or something, and Yelena looking mostly bored—and there seems to have already been a firm divide set in the room.
They took one side of the table, where T’challa is sitting with his hands neatly folded, the Dora Miljae terrifying and silent behind him, Shuri to one side of him, and someone you haven’t met—a beautiful woman, with short hair and almost glowing skin—on the other.
On the other side of the table—the other side of the room—there’s the Americans. A nervous looking, gray-haired man who looks like he’s maybe enjoying this less than you are, and keeps shooting T’challa apologetic expressions. A few aides and diplomats you only recognize from the news, as well as a small, dark-haired woman with a tablet, staring at you and Bucky with wide eyes.
Her eyes flick to the windows, where the last two people are surveying the city, deep in conversation.
The president, with his white hair and clean-shaven face, and Valentina, arms folded over her chest.
T’challa nods to you, as you and Bucky cross the room to sit on the not going to kidnap you side, and Valentina clears her throat, still looking at the president.
“Mel, ask them how there’s no fucking light pollution. That shouldn’t be possible, this is a large city. I mean,” she laughs to herself. “Not as large as New York, but still. Big. I don’t understand how they’re doing it.”
“Um.” The wide-eyed girl clears her throat, still looking at you and Bucky. “I think that might need to be a conversation for later-“
“Don’t be ridiculous, it can’t be some sort of state secret- Oh!” Valentina turns, her eyes landing on where you and Bucky have sat down. “They’ve graced us with their presence! Lovely. Mel, table the light pollution conversation.”
The girl nods, and T’challa clears his throat.
“It is not a conversation, Director. We simply only use lights that are necessary, and our streetlamps only cast down-“
“Wow, how interesting.” Valentina cuts him off with a roll of her eyes, dropping at the chair next to the girl—Mel—and staring at you and Bucky. “You two change slowly, don’t you. Should I be worried about preparing a maternity ward?”
You flush, and Bucky’s fingers curl on your side.
“It’s late, Valentina.” Sam cuts in, voice bored. “They were probably in bed, I know I sure as shit was.”
“And I’m sorry about that.” President Ross, arms behind his back and a small smile on his face, finally speaks up. “But you know. Desperate times, desperate measures.”
“You think these are desperate times?” Yelena says, raising her brows. “It is four people. You cannot handle four people? Were you not elected for your leadership skill?”
Valentina laughs. “Oh, Yelena, nobody’s elected for their skill-“
“I like to think I was.” Ross cuts Valentina off with a shrug. “But I also recognize that it probably had something to do with my pretty face. I’d say not as pretty as yours, King T’challa, but you did inherit your mantle.”
T’challa gives him a small, measured smile. “Well, I did fight for my throne. And win. But I do not think you are here to discuss the history of my country, Mr. Ross.”
Ross chuckles. “No, I’m not. Heard all about it from Everett anyway.” He nods to the nervous man, eyes slowly scanning over the table. “Let’s see if I’ve got my briefing right. I know all the Wakandans, but, not her.” He nods to the woman next to T’challa, and he sits a little taller.
“This is Nakia. She is here to advise me, and-“
“She can speak for herself.” Nakia cuts him off with a glare, then looks to the President. “I am not in your briefings because I am of no importance, Mr. President. I am here for the king.”
Ross nods slowly. “Well, lovely to meet you, miss. I know the Princess, and the guard who gave us such a warm welcome.” He grins at the Dora Miljae, who look mostly unimpressed. “Which leaves these four. I’ve read the Red Room files, I know Yelena. Sam, of course, is a frequent customer-“
“He means he’s been on the wrong side of history before.” Sam drawls, and Ross just laughs.
“Always fun to try and deal with him. At least Rogers would have let me finish a sentence.”
Bucky tenses beside you. “Not if the sentence was stupid.”
Ross’ eyes flick over to you, and you grab Bucky’s forearm under the table. The Mist is pricking at you like a cold needle under his attention. You can’t lose control here. It would be so fucking bad, for so many reasons.
“Mr. Barnes.” Ross says slowly, scanning over you and Bucky. You’re only holding him under the table, where Ross can’t see. And Bucky’s playing into the Show, sitting tall and defensive, just like a bodyguard should be. Nothing more.
It’s not worth much, if Valentina’s already told him what she knows about you and Bucky. You’re still going to play it anyway.
“You’re looking well.” Ross says smoothly, holding Bucky’s gaze. “Better than the last time I saw you in person. But that was in a similar situation.” He glances at Sam. “You seem to be a bad influence on my Captains.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, but only you see it. “Captain America isn’t yours, Ross. Steve made that pretty damn clear.”
“Steve Rogers liked to test how far he could push it. And as far as I recall, every time he did it was in your name-“
“Bucky didn’t ask for that.” Sam cuts in, eyes narrowed. “We stand with him because he’s a good man, and you like to try and take things that don’t belong to you.”
Valentina laughs. “Oh, dramatic. See, that’s always the thing, isn’t it. They do belong to us, because you’re nothing without the America in your Captain, Mr. Wilson. Just as Barnes is just another broken war veteran, without that arm.”
“And who breaks those veterans.” You say softly. Valentina’s eyes dart to you—everyone’s do—but you don’t waver. You’ve played this game a lot more dangerously, without anyone behind you. You can keep it going easily.
Valentina’s lip curls slightly. “Look who has a voice now.”
“I always have a voice.” You smile at her. “I just don’t waste it on people who can’t hear anything but their own.”
Ross chuckles, ignoring Valentina’s glare as he watches you. “This her? The mouthy one?”
Bucky’s hold on you becomes possessive. “Don’t call her that.”
“What, mouthy? I mean, she certainly doesn’t seem to be that worried about it.” Ross laughs again, and it’s a little emptier. A little colder. “But I wouldn’t be either, if I was a Nazi doomsday weapon.”
“Hey,” Sam snaps, sitting up. “Watch it-“
“I am watching it, Mr. Wilson. I’m watching my entire country fall into a panic, because there’s some rich girl who’s got an iron grip on the Starks and can eat the world. You think I like having to fly to Wakanda to deal with this? You think I wouldn’t rather be at home, not thinking about how to accuse one of the most technologically advanced countries in the world that they should turn over the fascists they gave asylum?”
“Be careful what you say, Mr. President.” T’challa says, his voice low but firm. “I know who Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes are. I have fought against them and with them in battle, and I do not appreciate my guests being spoken to like that.”
“And we are the most technologically advanced country.” Shuri adds. “Not one of. The most.”
“Oh, our apologies.” Valentina snorts. “I didn’t realize this tiny African country could be scaled to almost half a continent.”
“Valentina.” The nervous man—Everett, the President called him—cuts her off softly. “We talked about this. Stick to what we need.”
Nakia hums, leaning forward on the table. “And what is it that you need? People? Do you deal in human trafficking, sir?”
Everett turns red, and Ross sighs.
“See, I knew this was going to get ugly. I’m not looking to buy, so we’re not doing… that.” He waves a hand, making a sour face. “But I have been caught up by the director, and I agree with her assessment of the situation.” He says your name, and you swallow, gripping Bucky’s arm. “She’s too dangerous to run around alone. I won’t declare war over it, but I highly recommend you turn her and her little squadron of protectors, King T’challa. We’ve run this through before, I don’t want to do it again.”
“Well, you lost the first time, did you not?” T’challa says smoothly. “And as I have made clear, I will not be turning over anyone. If that is all, me and my friends were all woken from our sleep-“
“Oh, you can sleep all you want in the morning.” Valentina cuts in, voice tense. She’s getting impatient. “Listen, here are the facts. She,” you keep your face neutral and bored, as Valentina points a manicured finger in your direction. “Was part of a Nazi breeding program to make a weapon that could kill us all. It used stolen American blueprints, and was guarded by the Winter Soldier and White Widow, who just happens to have found her the moment Hydra started to resurface. She’s been known to associate with Alexander Pierce, her mother worked for shield, and if it has a Nazi parent and Nazi boyfriend, it’s probably a Nazi.”
You feel sort of lightheaded, and the Mist is stabbing up your spine and into your skull. You’re not any of that. You can’t control what your mother was, you were a child, you had to survive so you did, and you don’t even fully remember the lab, don’t remember Bucky or Yelena, didn’t know Miles was Hydra, didn’t know anything.
You don’t know who you are.
Everything hurts, and Sam is shouting something that’s probably a defense of you, but you can’t hear it over the ringing in your ears because you never wanted to do anything wrong, you didn’t ask for this, and you don’t know who you are-
Bucky’s saying your name. Your breathing is labored and fast—the room is starting to spin—and your gaze shoots to his, your mouth opening to call his name-
“Light the flame.” The man in the coat says, and you blink at him. You don’t know how. You’ve never known how.
You can feel it under your skin. You can always feel it under your skin, but you can’t figure out how to grab it and wield it. There is no one to teach you. Only the woman with her blonde hair and low words, the doctors who tell you what to be, and the man who stares at nothing and doesn’t breathe.
“Go on.” The man in the coat points to the wood. “Light it. Fast.”
“I- I don’t-“ Your voice is only a whisper. “I don’t know how.”
“Then learn.” The man sneers, taking a step back to the door and flicking off the light. “You do not leave until the flame is lit. “Солдат. Come.”
The man who stares at nothing walks out the door, the man in the coat follows, and it slams closed behind them. Leaving you in the dark.
And the Mist can’t light any flame. Nothing in you feels like fire, except maybe the drum of your heart.
You don’t like the dark.
You don’t like being alone.
It’s getting too loud, and louder, and louder.
The fire doesn’t light.
But the door—the titanium one, that always closes with an echo and never leaves enough room for air—rusts, then crumbles to nothing.
And there’s a way out.
You blink, and the light is too bright. Your eyes are out of focus, your skin almost numb from the pain, and you can just manage to give a strangled gasp for air as cool fingers brush your brow.
“Breathe,” Bucky—you’d know his voice anywhere—mutters your name. “It’s alright, no one got hurt. Just breathe.”
You do your best, turning your face into his touch and hoping he can shield you from it.
The shouts around you.
“See?!” A frozen, female voice—Valentina, you know as your senses return—is shouting. “She’s a weapon, you’re just going to leave that kind of power to go unchecked-“
“It is not unchecked.” A controlled voice—T’challa—says smoothly. “I do not see a weapon, director. I see a woman in pain, and we have very good doctors-“
“We have good doctors, too. We have Harvard-“
“Oh, shut the fuckin’ hell up, Valentina.” Sam’s voice is closer, and filled with both anger and worry that makes you feel sick. “Harvard ain’t a medical school-“
“They actually do have one, though.” Yelena cuts in. “She is a bitch, but she is right. I know. I applied.”
“Why would you apply to medical school-“
“I wanted to learn about anatomy- For perfectly legal reasons, Mr. America. You cannot take my pardon now-“
“Wasn’t going to.” Ross mutters, and he doesn’t sound as wound up as the others.
His voice is too calm. Too smooth.
You know it. It’s the pure, certain voice of a man in power who wants something, and is trying to figure out how to get it.
Who is certain they will get it.
“Sam.” Bucky says from above you, and you want to tell him never to let you go. To let you wrap around his neck, so that everything can be okay. He won’t let you fall, he just has to not let you go. “Sam, get the chair.”
There’s some movement, and you don’t want to know what happened to your chair. Bucky tries to sit you in the new one, but you grab at his shirt. He can’t let you go. He can’t let you go-
“Listen, King T’challa.” Ross says, and you feel sick. You can’t speak, or you’ll vomit. You trust T’challa, but you don’t want to leave your fate up to more men.
And because you’re needy and weak and afraid of the dark—which is sort of all you can see, dancing spots in your vision—you cling to Bucky like he’s going to vanish, and leave you to scream until someone finally hears.
“I believe that our top priority should be neutralizing Hydra. They’re a global threat, and taking them down forever is going to look a hell of a lot better than running another smear campaign against Captain America.”
“You never had to run the first one-“
“But I did, Wilson. And I’d do it again. But it’s annoying.” Ross sighs. “Propaganda costs money, and it’s the most boring part of my job. So here’s my offer. I take the Leviathan, but I keep her comfortable. Five-star hotel, waiting service, she can even bring Barnes and they can bang it out on every surface they can find.”
Bucky tenses around you, his fingers pressing into your back, and Sam makes a gagging sound.
“That’s goddamn disgusting, man-“
“Maybe. But I’m not here to judge. I’m here to protect my country, and even if you girl isn’t a nazi-“
“She’s not.” Bucky cuts in, words firm. “I fought the nazis. You think after all that I’ve been around, I’m gonna turn around and be with a nazi?”
“Which is all well and good.” Ross says firmly. “But I’m telling you, Barnes. I don’t care if she’s a nazi or not. She’s dangerous, and she’s got Hydra associations. I give my word she’ll be taken care of, both of you will be, but we need time to assess her threat.”
Bucky’s almost curving over you, and before you can grab him and beg him not to let them take you, T’challa speaks up.
“That is a generous offer, Mr. Ross. Unfortunately, I must decline.”
Ross is silent for a moment, then, “We would pay you handsomely-“
“Wakanda is not struggling enough to take such deals.” T’challa says your name coolly. “She is under Wakandan protection, and as long as she is not willing to go with you, she will not. Thank you.”
There’s another long moment of silence, and by some miracle, Ross gives up.
“I hope you reconsider.” He says, and there’s a scraping of chairs you hope means they’re moving, because you’re too afraid to look anywhere but Bucky’s clenched jaw. “I won’t be declaring war over this, but do know that until you turn them over, you won’t be able to look to America for aid.”
“That is alright.” T’challa hums. “We have plenty aide of our own.”
It takes a while for everyone to leave. Valentina tries to push it a few more times, but Ross—seemingly just giving up, although you don’t fully trust it—makes her leave with everyone else. T’challa says a few low words of reassurance to Sam before leaving with the Dora Milaje, and Shuri asks Bucky about the EKG.
He tells her quickly, that your powers fried it again. She doesn’t seem angry so much as fascinated, and promises a solution in the morning.
She also tries to ask you more questions.
Bucky keeps you tucked into his chest, and makes her leave.
“What did you see that time?” He murmurs in your ear as Nakia and Yelena exchange a small conversation about American intelligence operations.
“Not the future,” you mumble, and your tongue feels like sandpaper. “I- I don’t know. I think the past.”
Bucky hums, rubbing circles on the bottom of your spine. “What in the past.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, and it makes your head stab with pain, but you try to remember. For Bucky.
“I was in a dark room.” You whisper in his ear. “And- I think you were there.”
He’s silent for a moment. “As the-“
“Yeah.”
“Did I hurt you?”
His voice is low and heavy, and you lean back to find him watching you so carefully. You don’t know if he’s thought about that before. You don’t want him to think about it ever again.
“No,” you reach up to cup his face, and Bucky’s lips press together in a tight line. “You’d never hurt me, James. You didn’t. Not even when you were… Not you.”
His throat bobs, and he leans into your touch with a heavy sigh.
“Alright.” Sam cuts in as the door closes behind Nakia, and you twist to see him standing with his arms crossed. “The hell are we supposed to do now? Lay low and hope they give up?”
“We could kill them all.” Yelena shrugs, barely flinching under Sam’s glare. “What? It was not a serious suggestion, Sam Wilson. I was making a joke.”
“Yeah, it sounded like one-“
“That is because it was-“
“Yelena,” you say softly, and she looks at you with a serious expression.
“Бабочка.”
“You know Valentina. Is she-“
“She is serious.” Yelena sighs. “Very serious. That woman? Never jokes. Which is lame-“
“But useful for information.” Bucky mutters, still rubbing his hand on your spine. “And she does joke, Yelena. Her jokes are all just…”
He trails off, and Yelena raises her hand.
“Mean? Cruel? Flat out bitchy-“
“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “All of that. Butterfly, I think our best hope is to lay low and hope she forgets-“
“She won’t forget, Bucky.” Sam raises his voice, words low and tense. “She saw it. She knows what that power can do, she’s not going to let go of it.”
You swallow, because you’ve been trying not to think about it. What it looked like, for you to use your powers in front of everyone. Why it would cause such a big freak out.
But if you twist, and look back to where you’d been sitting, you don’t need to think that hard.
There’s a black, rotting spot where you’d been before. The stone of the meeting table has been eroded, and the wall behind you has peeling paint, the gold inlays faded.
At the center of the spot, moss is starting to form.
You’re trying not to think about it.
But Sam’s right. That’s what Valentina and Ross want. The World Eater that Hydra made, turned into theirs. Just like everyone always has. Just like Miles almost did.
And you go still for a moment, as you think. For long enough that Bucky mutters your name, his voice dripping with worry.
You offer him a small smile.
This isn’t forever. You’ve seen the future.
There’s another side, and you might have a few ideas how to get there.
“What are you thinking,” Bucky mutters, and you huff a dry laugh.
“Nothing you’ll like.” You look to Sam and Yelena, before you can second-guess it, or Bucky can press. “We need to get Miles out of the Boy.”
There’s a long silence, as everyone stares at you. But they need a second to think. So this is a silence you can sit in, and wait out, as they process however they have to.
Which is, apparently, with a lot of anger.
“Are you crazy?!” Sam shouts, and that’s about what you expected. “We just got rid of him, and you want to bring him back?”
“I know, Sam.” You sigh. “It’s not like I want to see him, we just need him-“
“Is it for sex?” Yelena asks, and Bucky goes rigid below you. “If Bucky Barnes is not providing, there are other things, like-“
“It’s not for sex.” You say quickly. “We need him to get to Hydra. He’ll know where they are, how their base works, how to get us in and out.”
Sam gapes at you. “You want to go hunting Hydra? Like it’s fuckin’ bigfoot?”
“No. I want to hunt them like they’re people trying to hunt me, and I’m engaging in a preemptive strike. Actually, it’s not preemptive. They tried to kidnap me first.”
“No, we’re taking care of Hydra. As a show of goodwill, and also to get them off our asses.”
Sam nods slowly. “That… That is what Ross said was his priority. But Hydra’s been damn quiet for a while-“
“They’re intimidated by the government being down our necks.” You wave him off. “But that won’t last. So we need to be fast, and get Miles out of the Boy.”
There’s another pause, and it looks like you’ve got Sam and Yelena on your side, but-
“No.” Bucky grunts, and you look down to find him glaring at you.
“James-“
“No. We got enough goin’ on, Butterfly, and if he comes out, he’s gonna try and use the bond. No.”
Fuck, that’s a good point. “We’ll deal with that after we figure out how to get the Boy to vomit him up.”
Bucky mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“Bucky, we’ll have to do this eventually.”
His eyes flash, voice low. “But not now. Hydra’s not bothering us, and they will, but I’d rather not chance the fuckin’ fight. We got enough problems.”
“But this takes care of two problems.” You whisper, leaning down until your noses bump. “You remember what Miles said, Buck. They think I’m their property.”
Bucky’s jaw tenses, and it doesn’t matter if you’re talking about Hydra, the government, or Miles.
It’s all the same.
All people who want to own you. Who think they’re owed you.
And you know that’s what makes him agree. Not the logic of the plan, or the risk being worth a big payout.
He’s not letting anyone own you like that. Never again.
And you love him for it. More than you think you can figure out how to say.
“Fine.” He mutters, still looking at you. “But if we think for one second he’s going to try anything-“
“Sam will beat him up.” You say with a small smile, leaning down until your nose bumps his. “Thank you, Bucky.”
He grunts, kissing your cheek, and Sam clears his throat.
“I will beat him up. You’re not gonna have to ask me to do that, I just will-“
“Thanks, Sam.” You mumble, moving to capture Bucky’s lips with your own, and Sam lets out a dramatic sigh.
“You’re welcome. Now have fun pretending we ain’t right over here.”
Bucky reaches up to hold the back of your head, speaking against your lips. “We will. C’mon, Butterfly.”
You squeal as Bucky stands, never once breaking the kiss.
You know he hates this. The whole situation, and the idea, and all of it.
But he doesn’t hate you.
And that’s all you need. Just Bucky. Holding you close, not leaving, and loving you half as much as your heart beats for him.
So something darker is going to come with the morning.
But you don’t care.
As long as you have Bucky, everything is going to be good.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You whisper as he walks, and he sighs.
“Anything. I’m keepin’ you. Just-“ He pulls back, pausing in the middle of the hall. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”
You smile at him. “I could never. You’d stop me.”
“Damn right I would.” He mutters, giving you a soft kiss. “Let’s go back to bed, Butterfly.”
You nod, and no nightmares will come.
Bucky will fend them away.
✦End note: They are very bad at making plans✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Chapter 40 - Read on a03! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: You and Bucky have peace.✦
✦warnings/tags: enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: Happy finale and new year! they're gonna FUCK.✦
✦Chapter Title from Still Into You by the Paramore✦
You meet Sam for lunch, at a quiet, roadside diner.
“This place smells like wood,” Sam mutters as you sit down, and you laugh.
“I know. But it’s Bucky’s favorite.”
“The wood smell?”
“The pancakes.” You smile at the waitress, who gives you a smile in return. You come here often enough, they might recognize you by now.
They might recognize you from TV, as well. If they do, they never say it, and you never bother to ask.
You know that’s how they recognize Bucky. There had been a little girl a few weeks ago, who’d been staring at his metal hand with wide eyes. He’d coughed, and shifted to hide it under the table. When you’d asked if he was okay, he’d nodded, but it had been his quick, jerking nod that meant he just didn’t want to talk about it in public. Eventually the little girl had shuffled over, holding the hand of her mother, and whispered that she was Bucky’s biggest fan.
He’d turned a shade of red you’d never seen before. Signed her napkin with a tight smile that went all the way to his eyes, and been lighter for the rest of the day.
You don’t think it’s that hard to believe, that people would love him. You tried not to, and it was nearly impossible.
When you get home, you’ll tell him that Sam didn’t get asked for any autographs. Whatever kind of day he’s having, that will make him smile.
“How’s work been?” You ask, spinning the straw around your glass, and Sam sighs heavily.
“Impossible. I’m turning into an anarchist, kid, these men- They ain’t even able to tell me they know Hydra is out of the system.”
“Well, you know they’re not-“
“I do know, but I’d appreciate them lyin’ to me about it.”
You snort. “So the roundup is going slow?”
“Impossibly slow. Turtle with a weight on its back.”
“How’d the weight get there- Ah. Don’t tell me.” You grin at him over your drink. “Crossfit program.”
Sam gives you a dry, amused look. “Y’know, clean-up would go faster if it wasn’t just me doing it.”
“Did Yelena quit?”
“No, but- You know how she is, always doin’ her own fuckin’ thing. And neither of us have powers, real powers that make Hydra agents cower and shit themselves. If you know two superheroes-“
“Sam.”
“What? I’m just sayin’-“
“Bucky would kill you.”
“Which is why I’m askin’ you.” Sam gives you a charming, hopeful grin. “You’ve got the whole time gimmick going, and- Whatever else you can do-“
“Mind travel. And maybe moving between realities.”
Sam pauses, doing a slight double take that almost makes you laugh. “What?”
“We’ve been working on it. Shuri’s been sorting through all the files, and- You know how I’m made of dark matter or whatever? Well,” you wave a hand casually. “There’s a lot that can do. Buck’s been taking a course.”
“Hm. Can you jump to a reality where my two best friends actually want to work with me?”
“No.”
Sam groans. “C’mon-“
“We don’t actually know if I can do that yet, and- Sam.” You lean over the table, giving him a pointed look. “You don’t want us in the field together. I can’t shoot a gun, or use my powers without Buck-“
“You used them to escape. I can just kidnap you every week.”
You keep your face flat, and Sam sighs.
“Fine. But if Bucky-“
“Sam.” You raise your fork, eyes narrowing, and Sam snaps his mouth shut. “If you even suggest to Bucky that he needs to come out of retirement for any reason, I will cut out your fucking tongue.”
“Ow.” Sam grimaces, even as he smiles. “Graphic. You know, I still have it within my rights to tell Barnes to lay off of you, as your self-appointed brother-“
“Uh huh. You wanna call him right now and try to tell him that?”
Sam flinches back. “Hell no. Actually, that might get him out of- Shit-“
You’d wadded up a napkin, and chucked it square at Sam’s face. He whines like a wounded animal, and you just load a second one up, raising your brows in a challenge.
“Truce, truce-“ He holds up his hands in surrender, and you lower the mock weapon. “Won’t say anything to Bucky, not like he wouldn’t kick my ass anyway.” He pauses. “You know I’m just fuckin’ with you, right? You two are happy, and- I mean, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but…” He sighs. “You deserve it. Bucky deserves it. Would never wanna drag you out of whatever kinda peace you got now.”
You smile at him, and you know he means it. Sam’s using his rare, heavy and serious tone.
And you also know that you were never in danger of him actually trying to bring you back. As well as he and Bucky work together, Sam’s got a lot of competent people on his team who aren’t going to make him international fugitives again—unless Yelena gets bored—and you’re pretty sure he’s of the opinion that if Steve Rogers got to retire, Bucky gets to as well.
He’s an old, grumpy fucker. You’re still trying to teach him about modern times, because he’s been up for years now but there are always things he missed. Always new things, that make him scowl and mutter to you that time just keeps damn moving, and people need to calm the hell down.
“What the hell is Matcha.” He’d grunted last week. “And Crocs. ’S like a… Crocodile?”
“That’s the derivative.” You’d hummed, hanging around his shoulders. “We should get you crocs. You’d look stupid in them.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, reaching up to hold your arm. Keep you around him. “You think I’d like ‘em?”
“No. You’d think they feel weird, and then I could buy you the old man slippers that you’ve been refusing-“
“I’m not a million, and my legs still work-“
“You read newspapers every morning and feed the birds. You’re like my grandpa.”
He’d scowl. “Butterfly-“
“You’re old.” You’d sang softly in his ear, kissing over his beard. “And I love you, and you’re a bajillion- James-“
He’d flipped you over, onto the couch, and kissed you until your legs were spread beneath him and you were scratching at his back in desperation.
You tell Sam all about the Crocs, and make a large point to leave out that last part.
“He likes bein’ a housewife, huh.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “He’s not a housewife.”
“He doesn’t have a job-“
“Shuri’s been sending him engineering work.” You shrug. “He made the Boy a mechanical bird.”
“And the Boy ate it?”
“Immediately.”
Sam snorts, but something’s shifted in his face. He’s watching you so carefully, like he’s looking for something he isn’t sure how to find or understand. Like you’re a puzzle he’s been putting together for years, and suddenly all the pieces have shifted slightly, and everything is falling into a perfect place.
You know he carries some of it. You all do, but Sam… He’s apologized to you, quietly when Bucky isn’t around to hear. Not because he doesn’t trust Bucky, but there’s a defensiveness that comes with his presence. Like a shield of armor that blocks you from even the creeping shadows behind you. And the apology isn’t for Bucky. It’s an apology that has to exist with Bucky, because Sam never would’ve been on the run if he hadn’t been trying to save Bucky. He might have been around more, after the Blip, if he and Bucky hadn’t been working the Flagsmashers.
And you still wouldn’t change anything about the past. If Sam had never fought with Bucky, they never would’ve gotten close enough for Sam to trust him with you.
Sam might still have been busy, and you never would’ve had Bucky to see you.
You might not have gotten Bucky at all.
But the apology, it’s still just for you and Sam. An apology for not seeing, even though there was no way he could have. For letting things get as far as they did, simply just because he wasn’t there.
You tell him it’s okay.
Things are better now.
“It suits you, kid.” Sam says finally, and you rarely hear him sound like this. Gentle, like he’s speaking to a child.
You feel a little like a child for a moment. And you know you don’t need approval to do anything, but it still makes you feel bright. Sam knows you, he half raised you, and he thinks this is good. You sit up like a child being praised for a job well done. Sam smiles at you like a parent who knows somewhere along the way, something went right.
“You like workin’ from home?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And- Are you happy?”
Sam knows the answer. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.
He still grins when you nod, words floating easily out of your mouth.
“Yeah. I am.”
When lunch ends, Sam makes you promise to tell Bucky that he better keep stayin’ above board, and says that you need to organize another game night at your new place. That Sarah will fly up, and bring her boys, and you can bring your siblings. That it’ll be easy, and no one will have to worry about Miles—still only a body in the jungle somewhere, all the way across the world—and you and Bucky can sneak off openly so Sam can make fun of you.
You tell him you won’t be sneaking off when you’re hosting. Sam points out that Bucky won’t care, and you know he’s right.
It really does suit him. Maybe more than it suits you, because you get restless. You drive back to the city for big meetings and events, because you still can’t bear to do nothing.
But you do less.
And you don’t sit in the dark anymore, or take the subway just to watch people and try to imagine you’re a little less alone.
You’re not alone.
Bucky’s there, and this life is a good one.
You hug Sam goodbye. Promise to respond about game night later.
It’s springtime again. In the city, that meant people flooding the streets and the insufferable heat being enough to stick to your skin and make you feel like you’re being buried alive in the open air. To have everything around you be alive and you know that you’re barely more than a ghost, flitting through the world, wandering until someone sets you free.
But you’re free now.
And spring means color, and light.
Golden sun washes through the trees, making glowing patterns on the highway as you drive back home.
Back to Bucky, and the quiet life you’re building together.
It had taken nothing to convince him. You’d brought it up, he’d hesitated for a single breath—you’d been able to hear the thoughts about Stark and deserving forming then dissolving in his head—and then he’d nodded.
You hadn’t gone back to your old apartment, because Bucky and Sam could do it for you. There had been one weak argument that you’d lost the second it started, and that had been all. A fight mostly for the show of it, to remind Bucky that you didn’t just roll over and do nothing. And he’d just smiled at you the whole time, kissed the top of your head, and sent you up to the new place to decorate.
It’s a sprawling property, bigger than either of you know how to deal with. Bucky’s taken to managing the grounds himself, even after Pepper volunteered a keeper, and you think it’s good for him. He seems to like doing things that create with his hands, and as much as he loves his work with Shuri, it’s still all machines.
It’s nice, to have him show you the plants he’s been growing, and see his small, proud smile that he made something. You press the flowers he grows into art. You cook together, using his tomatoes and lettuce and zucchini for dinner, and the apples and plums for desserts. There had been an old tree in the front yard he chopped down, and he’s been spending his spare time learning how to wood work. He made the whale you put on the front porch.
“It’s supposed to be a mouse.” He’d grumbled, and you’d laughed.
“I like whales better anyway.”
He hadn’t argued after that.
You’d thought about starting a farm, but the Boy’s penchant for killing birds had squashed that quickly. He still vanishes for hours sometimes, in a way that he never did when Miles was around. One night you walked down the stairs, and find him sprawled on the hallway carpet.
He’d blinked at you slowly, rolling over and exposing his belly. You’d knelt, rubbing it gently, and he started to purr.
There had been tufts of white, clinging to his black fur. You’d shown them to Bucky, and he’d shrugged it off.
“Lotta animals in the wild. Maybe he’s gettin’ into fights.”
“He’s not a fighting cat, though.”
Bucky had given you a flat look. “Butterfly. He ate two people.”
You’d just smiled. “That we know of.”
He’d rolled his eyes, and kissed your head. You bring it up randomly sometimes, just to try and give stranger and stranger justifications. He’s a secret agent. He’s running an underground fighting ring. He’s secretly been a white cat the whole time. Bucky’s dying his fur in the middle of the night and hiding it from you. Every time you just the same tired but amused look, and Bucky kisses you with a muttered, sure, Butterfly.
It’s easy. You get up in the morning, and roll over to find him snoring next to you. He makes coffee and you shower, he heads out to the garden and you go to your office, finishing your work and then joining him with a book. No one bothers you. The Show doesn’t go up for a single second.
Today, you get home and you feel like you’re floating. There’s a cherry blossom tree that Pepper said Tony planted when he left the property to you, in the hope that it wouldn’t be grown by the time you moved in, and you’d get to see every time it bloomed.
He’d been a few years too optimistic.
But you do love seeing it bloom now.
Bucky’s napping on the couch, when you get home. You’d picked it out—you’d picked out most everything, because anything Bucky did contribute was just a painting he saw at a flea market, with a mutter of thought you’d like this one, Butterfly—and it might be the only thing he loves more than the bed.
You’d showed him the recline feature.
He’d never looked back.
Bucky sleeps like an old man, when he’s actually sleeping. There’s the half-awake eye-rest that he does when you’re anywhere but home—still monitoring the world, his arm tight around your shoulders—then there’s this. Head lolling to the side, snores rumbling in his chest, eyes closed and unlikely to open for a while.
You crawl into his arms with a smile, and he pulls you tight against his chest.
His body knows you. He doesn’t stir.
So you just lie there for a while, letting time move slow and easy, with nowhere to be in the world.
“Hey, baby.” Bucky murmurs after a long time—or really not time at all—his voice rough and lips brushing your ear. “How long you been back?”
“Don’t know.” You whisper, and he grunts.
“Lunch with Sam good?”
You hum, angling your neck, and smile as Bucky obliges your silent request. His lips brush your skin, warm and certain, and you let out a soft, happy sigh.
“I brought you some leftovers.” You murmur. “It’s the chicken pot pie.”
“Good. ‘Cause I don’t feel like cooking. Do you-“
“No.” You trace the panels of his arm, smiling at the air. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”
Bucky nods, and you just lay there for a while. Eventually you have to pee, and when you pull his arm out from around you, he groans and stand up like he has no other choice. You kiss the top of his head with a light laugh, and he mutters something about going for a walk that you mindlessly agree to.
“You should wear a jacket.” You tell him before you go.
“‘M warm.” He shrugs, extending his hand for you to take.
“It’s supposed to rain, James-”
He cuts you off with a slow, lazy kiss, then murmurs against your lips. “I think we’ll survive.”
You roll your eyes, but don’t push any further.
When you walk the grounds, you talk about nothing. Bucky wants to start keeping bees, for his garden, and you suggest he call Yelena. She seems like the type, to understand bees. You tell him about Grace’s foundation, and fundraiser ideas, and how you think Sam is seeing someone but can’t figure out who.
“It was something in his face. And he kept checking his phone-“
“I check my phone all the time, Butterfly.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re seeing me. Unless,” you gasp dramatically. “Do you have a mistress?”
“Uh huh.” Bucky says dryly, and you clutch your heart, pouting up at him like he’s just stabbed you.
“Am I the mistress?
“Yep.”
“I knew it.” You sigh, leaning into his arm. “Do you like me better than your other girlfriend?”
Bucky smiles, eyes shining in the setting sun, and kisses the top of your head. “So much better, sweetheart. You’re my favorite.”
You smile, hanging off his arm, and return to your rambling.
It does rain. You look up at Bucky with a smug expression, and he scowls. Covers your mouth with a hand before folding his body over yours, shielding you from the water.
“Not a word.” He grumbles, and you just grin. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
You laugh, and Bucky’s lips twitch. You tell him to shower when you get home—he’s covered in mud—and he sits you on the bathroom counter as he strips down.
It’s a marvel to see, every time. A broad, thick and scarred body that’s seen a century and countless forms of death, but somehow remains yours. You hop of the counter, and peel your shirt over your head. Bucky’s nostrils flare, and he does nothing but extend a silent hand.
“You like to torture me.” He mutters as you step into the steam.
“I love it when you make your I’m in control face.”
“I don’t have a- That face-“
“You’re making it right now.”
Bucky scowls, and you just giggle. He shuts you up fast, when he backs you against the wall and kisses you until your knees give out. When his cold metal hand—a sharp contrast to the burning water—drags between your legs, parting your folds open and toying with you until you cum with his name on your tongue.
You still haven’t had sex. Bucky’s patient, and you’re restless and confused, and it hasn’t made a good combination. You’ve felt him everywhere but inside you. Last month he realized his arm had a vibrator function, and it killed a whole afternoon.
There’s just been… Something. You’re not sure. Shadows that you stare at, when the nights get long and Bucky had to distract you. Times when you shower alone, and suddenly you feel something crawling over your skin. Bad days, where the Mist builds and you lie on the bathroom floor until Bucky gets home from the farmer’s market, scooping you into his arms and reminding you that there’s nothing out there anymore to hurt you.
Sometimes it feels like there is.
Sometimes it feels like something’s watching you.
But you have Bucky, and he won’t let anything hurt you.
So it keeps getting better.
Tonight, you watch Mamma Mia again. Bucky says he only watches it for you, but you catch his fingers drumming with the songs. He eats his chicken pot pie, and you steal bites that he pretends not to see.
It’s peaceful. Simple.
Perfect.
And you don’t know what it is. Maybe his sweatpants are even better on his body than usual, as he fails to hide the outline of his cock beneath the fabric. You shift in his arms, climbing into his lap until your ass is pressing in him, and his arm tightens around your stomach. He won’t protest, or even move you above him—he’s always such a gentleman, and you know he’d rather shoot himself than worry you with his own sexual needs, no matter how many blowjobs you happily give him—and you can feel him getting half-hard, pressing up into you.
Bucky’s always been strong, but the physically labor of the property has made him impossibly stronger, and you could swear he’s bulkier than he used to be. There’s a new softness to his stomach as well, from easy months of him eating cheese out of the fridge and never worrying about whether the morning will be more filled with blood than the afternoon. He got a haircut last week—from you, in the kitchen—and has been using all the hair products you bought him exactly as you instructed. He cut his nails this morning—the white had started to show—and he smells like rain and something clean, earthy, and purely Bucky that might be driving you out of your mind.
So maybe it’s all that. And maybe it’s the sweetness of his kisses on your neck, or the casual certainty of his hands on your body. It could the night wind outside, making you curl even closer to him than normal. It could be that he keeps claiming that this movie is fine, but his thumb is tapping on your knee, in perfect time to the songs.
It could just be nothing at all.
But something shifts. A heat that’s been blooming for him, that’s remained controlled—if not even a little tampered, by a long weight over your chest, made of so many stones it’s taken months to be able to just breathe—suddenly changes.
It roars.
And you need him. Now.
You twist in Bucky’s lap, trailing your mouth lightly up his jaw, and he hums. Grabs your chin, guiding your lips together. Your fingers slide into his hair, as you straddle him completely, and his hands fly to your ass with a grunt.
His hands squeeze, as he angles his head to deepen the kiss. You tug on his hair, and he groans into your mouth, his cock twitching in his pants. Right against your core.
You grind down, and Bucky grunts, leaning back down into the pillows. He drags you with him, the kiss growing sloppy and open as you both start to run out of air. You drag your mouth down and over his jaw, and Bucky’s fingers dig into your ass, a deep sound rumbling from his chest.
One massive hand glides under your shirt, skimming lightly up your sides. You arch into the teasing touch, and Bucky takes the permission to move higher. Up and between your bodies, until he’s palming at your breasts. He takes a nipple and rolls it between his fingers, chuckling as you whimper above him.
You shove off his chest, ripping your top over your head, and dive back down to resume your assault on Bucky’s neck. He fondles at you, rubbing your ass and teasing your peaked nipples, and it’s making your head spin.
He’s not close enough. You need him as close as he can get.
Your hand runs between your bodies, sliding over his stomach before grabbing the hem of his shirt. Bucky lets you pull back, just long enough make sure you’re equally bare. He watches with an almost animalistic expression, as you shimmy out of your pants and underwear.
His tongue flicks over his lips, as you let two fingers glide between your legs, your fingers circling your clit as you readjust over him.
His eyes widen as you lean back down. Your tits press against his bare chest, your nails raking his back and shoulders as you start to fuck yourself on his crotch.
“Shit-“ He groans. “Butterfly, slow it down-“
You suck on a soft part of his neck, and Bucky lets out a harsh breath.
“Fuck- Baby, that’s-“
You grind down, fast and desperate, and he’s poking through his pants. You can feel it, and it lights you on fire, and-
Bucky hits your ass lightly, and you moan headily against his skin.
“Jesus, ‘course you like that- Shit-“ Bucky’s hips jerk up, and you giggle against him. “Think it’s funny, too, but you’re starin’ something that you can’t finish-“
He moans your name openly, when your teeth graze near his throat, and he spanks your ass again. You’re rolling your hips as fast as you can manage, the heat pooling between your legs, Bucky’s cock thick against you, and-
“Alright, ’s enough.” Bucky grabs your hips, rolling you onto your back, and you squeal. One huge arm holds him over you, the other grabbing your jaw to force your gaze against his, and you writhe uselessly into the cushions. There’s no friction anymore, and you need it so bad, but Bucky above you is a sight enough on its own.
His hooded, blown out eyes and pink lips, hanging open as he takes ragged breaths. His bare chest, muscled and broad, already shining with a thin layer of sweat. You reach up, half in a trance, and run your fingers lightly down to his abdomen. Bucky makes that deep rumbling sound again, and you giggle.
“You think this is funny?” He grunts, nostrils flaring as he tracks your every movement. His voice is rough.
It goes straight to your pussy, and you spread your legs wider.
Bucky’s eyes dart down to the motion—to your bare, wet pussy, spread between your fingers as you keep smiling up at him—and you can see his muscles ripple with restraint.
He rasps your name, looking back up with almost a pleading expression. “You wanna do the parallel thing again? That what this is?”
You shake your head, and he swallows.
“Just me watchin’?”
Another shake. You could spend the whole night, just touching yourself as he names things you could do. But you can see the hard outline of his cock, tenting in his sweats, and you don’t think you can go another minute without it.
“James…” You coo, grinding up into your own hand, and Bucky looks like he’s not sure if he should pounce, or retreat.
You only call him that when you want him over you. Bucky is for when you sit on his face, or he lets you sit on his chest, and stroke him at your own pace.
James is something saved for when you want him to stuff your mouth with his cock or force you to ride his thigh until you’re crying.
The unspoken code hadn’t been created on purpose. Something in him just seemed to stir when you called him James in these situations. You know every nerve in your body buzzed, when that hunger flashed over his face and his grip got demanding and possessive.
But only when you asked him to.
And there’s nothing better, than pleading for Bucky to give you something and watching him cave, before every other feeling but pleasure is wrung from your body.
For so many months, it’s had only been his hands and mouth doing the work.
Now, you need more.
“Fuck me,” you give him your best pleading eyes, and Bucky makes a sound like you shot him.
“I- Fuck-“ He swallows, and you didn’t know he could get any harder. “Butterfly, that’s- You can’t just say that, you gotta-“ He cuts himself off, eyes wide on yours. “You’re… Not joking.”
You pout up at him, dragging your free hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, rubbing two fingers over your clit. He follows the motion with a predatory focus.
He’s seconds from snapping. From just taking care of it, the way he does best. The way no one’s ever done for you before.
“James,” you breathe out, and Bucky’s attention snaps back to your face. “Please.”
His tongue darts out again. “You sure?”
You nod, and one of his hands comes down to your thigh, rubbing firmly back and forth.
“Words, babydoll,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the very apex of your thigh.
You shive, nodding desperately. “Please, James, I- I want you- Want all of it-“ You pull your knees up to your chest, exposing yourself more as you rub your pussy faster. “Please, give it to me, please-“
“You gonna listen?” He cuts you off, raising his brows as his voice becomes deep, a little taunting. “Or are you gonna be a fuckin’ brat?”
“I’ll listen.” You say quickly, too quickly, but you don’t care.
Bucky smirks. His hand catches your wrist, carefully dragging your hand away from your core. “Yeah?” He presses two fingers over your entrance. “You gonna be good?”
You nod, as soft sigh leaving your mouth, and Bucky leans down. Kisses you so mockingly gentle, as his thumb rubs circles around your clit, and you spasm below him. You don’t get a chance to grab at his hair or plead, before he’s standing up and dragging you with him. Into his arms bridal style, the kiss never breaking. You cling to him, as he walks you into your bedroom, and squeak as he tosses you down onto the bed.
Bucky grabs your ankles, pulling you forward, and kneels at the edge of the mattress. Your knees hang off the edge, guided apart as he settles between them. You blink at him in a lustful daze, reaching up to just touch him, but he catches your wrists again. Pins your forearms over your stomach, giving you an unimpressed look.
“Said you’d listen,” he scolds, and your cheeks heat.
“Sorry- Fuck-“
Bucky takes his free hand, and spanks your pussy lightly. Your eyes flutter, your head falling back with another small gasp, and Bucky repeats the motion.
“Listen, pretty girl.” He grunts, running his hand firmly but gently over the perfect sting. “All you gotta do is listen.”
You nod, even though you can’t see, and Bucky dives down. Licks a firm stripe up your pussy, before swirling his tongue around your swollen clit. He groans at your taste, and you strain against his arms, trying to grind into his face. Bucky ignores you, keeping your lower body pinned firmly down, your knees open from his broad frame between them.
His free hand—the metal one—rubs up and down your inner thighs as your eyes roll back in your head. You know what sinful things Bucky can do with his tongue, but it never fails to drive you out of your mind. He plunges it in and out of your cunt, his beard leaving a hot burn against your sensitive skin. His nose rubs against your clit as he devours your pussy like a man starved, the heat of his mouth making you feel like you’re turning into steam and light.
You’re writhing below him, desperate for just a little more. You gasp and wiggling, but can’t find the voice to scream him, to beg for release.
But Bucky knows you. And he doesn’t need to be told.
His plush lips wrap around your clit, and you almost fly out of your skin as his tongue starts to flick, light and rapid against your clit. You’re shaking in his hold, silent tears of need streaming down your face and your mouth hanging stupidly open.
Then Bucky’s thumb teases over your entrances, pushing a little in before sliding out. He replaces it with two thick fingers, slamming into you and pressing up. Crooking against that deep spot inside of you, the rubbing in perfect time with his tongue.
You fall over the edge, stars dancing at the edge of your vision as Bucky works you through your orgasm. He’s panting, when he finally draws back.
It’s a sight, him over you. Dog tags hanging off his body, wiping his beard of your release, grinning like you’re a present and he gets to unwrap you however he pleases.
And he’s pleased before. So many times.
But tonight, he pulls his sweats and boxers down, and you think you might be drooling. You certainly feel dumb, as he crawls over you and kisses you so deep and passionate. Like you’re a priceless, sweet thing made of glass, rather than a girl who was about to beg for him to stuff Her puffy lips with his cock.
Bucky rubs himself between your pussy folds, the head of him bumping your clit, and your arms fly up around his neck.
“I know.” He mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Deep breathes, babydoll. I’ve got it.”
You gasp, turning your face into the mattress, and Bucky hums.
“That’s it,” he presses the tips against you, and your back arches off the bed. “There you go, Butterfly,” Bucky fucks the tip into you, and your legs spread wider. “Bein’ so good, so pretty and sweet. You wanna feel this cock? Want me to fuck you properly?”
You nod, nails digging into his skin, and he smiles.
“What’d you need to say-“
“Please.” It’s barely a whisper. You can’t really remember how words work. “James, please fuck me- Oh-“
Bucky’s thumb finds your clit again, swiping firmly circles.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, and suddenly, you’re being rolled over.
Bucky flips, so that he’s on his back and you’re being held on his chest. He squeezes your hips once, before taking one of your hands and guiding it to the base of his cock. He hisses, as your fingers wrap around it, and grunts out an order for you to hold it. You do, and Bucky grabs your hips again. Picks you up, and slowly guides you down on his cock.
Your mouth falls open, as he slowly splits you open. He hits deep, so deep, and drags tantalizingly over every single spot inside of you. You’ve never felt anything like his stretch, filling you until you can barely take it, and he’s not even moving.
Just bottoming out, and holding you above him with a lidded, starved expression. His chest heaving, hands gripping you tight enough to leave bruises in the morning. Your legs feel like jelly, your head light with pleasure and desire, and you can’t do anything but paw at his chest in a silent request for more.
“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, his hand rubbing slowly and reverently back up your side. “You’re so tight, sweetheart, feel so fuckin’ good.”
You give him pleading, hopeless eyes, and he chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know. Just- Alright-“
Bucky rolls his hips up, pulling your body back and forth, and you almost cum right there. It’s so good, so deep and hard and deliberate.
Bucky groans, quickly setting a perfectly torturous pace, and he’s so deliberate. Every thrust feels designed to drive you out of your mind, every touch fanning the flames building in your lower gut. The room fills with the sounds of your skin slapping against his, with Bucky’s voice as he talks you through it.
So good and just like that.
“Takin’ my cock so well,” he grunts, rubbing his hands up and down your sides as he fucks up into you. “Pussy was made for me, never felt anything like you, babydoll, so fuckin’- Mine-“
His eyes are almost black with want, his thrusts getting harder and faster. He wraps an arm around your lower back, pushing up to pin you down on his cock as he drills your already soaked and abused pussy. Bucky wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, sucking it like candy, and a moan leaves your lips.
A loud, wanting moan. A heady, fevered sound you didn’t know you could make.
“Yeah, you like that,” he mutters, and you nod, pulling at his hair. “Such a pretty noise, Butterfly, make it again for me-“
You do, easily, and Bucky groans. He switches to your other nipple, and you moan again. And again, as he crashes up into a harsh, bruising kiss. He’s fucking you like a man possessed, his body hard and soft all at once beneath your hands, and you try to grind back down to meet him, but you can’t find the strength.
But Bucky’s got it.
He spanks your ass once, before smoothing over the hurt and reaching up to grab the back of your neck. He leans back, trapping your eyes on his as his thrusts grow short and uncontrolled.
“James-“ You manage to whine out, a silent warning as you feel your release coming, and Bucky moans.
The sound sets you off, and you cum with the loudest, lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. Shaking and fluttering around Bucky’s cock, his pace never faltering as he watches you unravel above him.
But then you come down. And he looks like he’s about to explode.
“Where,” he grunts, his thrusts growing shallow, his jaw clenched with restraint.
You place your palms flat on his chest, shoving him down into the cushions. A new strength surges through you, and Bucky looks up at you like you’re an angel as you bounce on his throbbing dick, dragging him over the edge with everything you have.
He cums with a groan, and you grind down onto his cock as his hot release shoots up into you.
For a second, you both just stare at each other, lost in the floating haze of the moment.
Then you giggle, overwhelmed and dizzy from him, all of him, and Bucky groans.
He reaches up to grab you, rolling you onto your back, and kisses all over your face as you just keep giggling.
“That good, huh.” He mutters, and you nod happily.
“Mhm.”
He just sighs, the sound lined in affection, and settles over you easily.
You just lie there for a while, until you stop giggling. Bucky’s hands mindlessly roam your body, and you comb your fingers through his hair. Bucky kisses you again, before he rolls off the bed. Slow and deep, his hand cupping your face and his knee pressing between your thighs. You shake at the pressure, and he chuckles against your lips.
“I know, Butterfly.” He murmurs. “I got you.”
He does.
You had forgotten what it felt like. For this to feel like more than a transaction. For it to feel like a connection, instead of a performance. To lie there after because there’s nothing else for you to do, and to get as much—if not more—than you gave.
That was nothing but good. You feel nothing but good, Bucky lingering all over your skin. He wipes you clean with a warm washcloth, but it doesn’t remove the brand of his touch. He crawls into bed at your side, and you’ve never curved into someone so fast.
He’s safe. His lips skim the back of your neck, and you want it.
You’d forgotten what it was like to want it.
To be wanted.
You weren’t sure you’d ever felt that at all.
But you’re sure Bucky won’t let you forget. You’ve never been more sure of anything at all.
Time still drags, but the silence is comfortable.
You remember something you’d forgotten.
“Sam wanted to go to dinner.” You murmur to him in the dark. “Told him I’d get back to him tonight.”
Bucky sighs. “Sam can wait,” is all he says. And you agree.
Sam can wait.
Everyone in the world but Bucky can wait.
This is the only place you’ll ever need to be.
✦End note: Thank you so so much for reading and coming on this journey with me! So. Here's the dealio. I made too much lore. Like wayyyyy too much lore. So much lore that we've kind of barely scraped the surface. As such, POF was divided into three stories a few months ago, and this is only the first one. I do want to say that this is firm conclusion to this chapter of their story, but—in the old manner of the mcu trilogies—there are still things to come. I can't say with 100% certainty when the next one will be ready and out, and I don't want to make promises in case I can't keep them, but one day in the medium future. Bucky and Butterfly will return. I hope to see you there! And if not, thank you for being here at all!✦
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