Ari0131

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Still You- Drabble

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word count: 500 ish

Content: newly established relationship, hurt comfort , fluff , insecurity , crying

a/n: wrote this small thing when writing for comfort <3 I’m still taking a moment with being fully online but some days are better and today I wanted to share this little piece!

my masterlist --- requests always open!

You hadn’t expected him. Not today. Not when your hair was scraped back in a frizzy ponytail , your glasses slipping down your nose, sweatshirt three sizes too big and eyes puffy from crying—again.

The knock had been soft. Almost hesitant. Like he already knew what kind of day it had been. Like he always seemed to.

You thought about not answering. You’d been dodging texts all morning, letting calls go to voicemail, half-hoping the world would forget you existed for a little while. But something about him—his name lighting up your screen, the way he knocked once and didn’t knock again—made you stand, slow and heavy, and shuffle to the door.

When you opened it, Bucky was standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his eyes scanning your face with quiet concern. The late afternoon sun haloed behind him, but he looked at you like you were the light.

“Bucky?” you blinked at him, voice raw. Your heart tripped over itself.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped forward slowly and took one long look at you—really looked. At your tear-streaked cheeks. Your smudged glasses. Your unwashed hair and trembling hands.

Then, without a word, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

One warm hand cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing the dried salt of old tears away like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“No makeup, huh?” he murmured, voice low, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all week.”

You gave a soft, choked laugh that caught on a fresh breath. It wasn’t pretty. But it was real.

“You’re just saying that,” you whispered.

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. His forehead gently met yours. “I don’t expect you to be anything but you.”

The words hit you in the chest harder than you expected. No one else had said them like that before. Not without expecting something in return.

Your walls started to crumble, piece by tired piece. And without thinking, you leaned into his chest, into the heat of him, the safety of him. His arms were around you in a second, wrapping you up like a weighted blanket you didn’t know you needed.

He didn’t try to fix anything. Didn’t tell you to stop crying or explain. He just held you. Let you be soft and messy and real in a world that expected you to be fine all the time.

You breathed him in—sandalwood and city air—and for the first time all week, you didn’t feel like you had to try so hard to hold yourself together.

You just breathed.

And let him hold you.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

hi. just a reminder

your feelings are real. even the small / messy ones.

you don’t have to explain your discomfort. or prove your pain.

if it hurt, it matters. if it happened, it counts. 

even if it was while holding a sandwich and no-one flinched.

love, someone who believes you

[iamthatonefangirl]

kk picture this:

bucky finally being able to use a phone and one day he goes on his camera roll bc he remembered he took a pic of some file or something he need to take a look at again…

and suddenly seeing a pic of you, that he knows he didnt take himself…he also knows you didnt send him that pic…meaning you took it with his phone yourself…

its you on you knees on the bed, your fav pillow between your thighs, tits out- one of your hands around your neck holding it like he usually does, dog tags visible around your neck as well, and you r looking so sweet but sooo horny- directly into the camera…lips all glossy too…

he wonders how long this has been in his camera roll, how long he has been oblivious to this masterpiece on his phone, how long he has been neglecting you like that, how long you waited for him to find it…you wanted him so see it…ofc you did…so now he hast to to do smth about it…

alright ily chao chao

- 💋

oh I am OBSESSED with this idea wait a damn minute

once he sees it, all the thoughts start coming to his head

how long has he not known about this image? (the answer: two months.) how many missions had he been on since you took it that could he could have used it to get off to? (the answer: 7.)

the second he sees it he's already pulling his cock out oh my god you look so gorgeous to him. and maybe he gets a glimpse of the pillow between your thighs and it's got a fucking wet spot on it. dear god. he wants to replace that pillow with his fucking thigh or his hand, anyway to feel you

maybe you're at work. maybe he knows he's about to pull something.

"what's up, baby? I'm at work," you whisper to him when you pick up the phone. "is everything okay?"

"oh, yeah, all good," he says into the phone, and you hear his clipped little breaths between his words

"are you-"

"oh, yeah." he affirms, entirely shamelessly. "I found your little gift for me in my photos."

it's been so goddamn long since you took it that it takes you a beat to think about it, and then it comes to you. you smirk to yourself, putting your head down at your desk and speaking lowly.

"finally found that, huh?" you taunt

"yeah, baby, and I'm so hard just thinking about it... got you on speaker, gotta look at how sexy you look, fuck..."

"you enjoy yourself. I gotta go."

"no, just... stay on the phone. don't even gotta say anything, fuck, just let me..." he says, moaning as he takes in a new part of the picture every time

you quietly slip your airpods in and listen as he talks your ear off while fucking his fist, all while you're in the office pretending to work.

[buckyblogs]

MY BUCKY FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

• ‘come home to me’ - during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows. but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire. (14.7k) @danysdaughter

! • ‘promise without ceremony’ - Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process. (3.9k) @cheekybarnes

• ‘lessons in lovemaking’ - You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned. (smut masterlist) @artficlly

• ‘this is (not) fine’ - personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator. (smut - 9.1k) @artficlly

• ‘take me home’ - the team discovers bucky's relationship with you when bucky searches for you in the hospital after hydra attacks new york (secret marriage - 1.7k) @parkers-gal

• ‘jackass’ - Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. (secret marriage - 3k) @aquaticmercy

! • ‘lumberjack!bucky series’ - Roots and Branches is the main story, Hardwood the follow-up, and the rest are one shots that you can read -or not- in the order you desire. (oh my god i love this) @vunblr

• ‘moving in’ - You're moving into your brand new apartment with Bucky. (beefy!bucky smut) @brunchable

• ‘movie night’ - You come home exhausted from another day of work, not expecting Bucky to surprise you with a little heart-warming gesture to show you how much he appreciates you. (fiance) @brunchable

• ‘my neighbour is a p⭐️’ - Things have turned awkward. You and Bucky hasn't spoken with each other for a few days now. But is the much needed space making things better or worse? (part 3/3 - other parts are in their masterlist!) @brunchable

• ‘all the apple cider and no more haunted houses’ - you and bucky barnes have a love-hate relationship—you love him and you believe he hates you—but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light. (smut - 11.1k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the forever third wheels’ - it's the weekend of your town's annual valentine's day carnival and you go with your group of friends, though you can't help but be sad you don't have someone special in your life. your friend, and fellow third wheel, bucky barnes makes it his mission to give you a valentine's day you won't soon forget—and show you how special you are to him. (6.6k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the day after’ - Your new roommate introduces you to her brother, but you met him last night. (implied smut - 2.3k+) @navybrat817

! • ‘like he means it’ - You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. (oh my god 😭😍 - mentions of sex - 13.6k) @marvelstoriesepic

*! • ‘summer surprise’ - You've been looking forward to kicking off the summer with a week on your dads new boat. You decide to have one last night of fun before committing to a week on the sea with your family. But you're thrown into a world of shock when you realize the older man you slept with, only days prior, is not only friends with your dad, but also joining you for the trip. (age-gap! - 21k) @pome-seed

*! • ‘we couldn’t stop’ - During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together. (Bucky & Steve - 7k) @societyfolklore

* • ‘fractured light’ - In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s. (oh my god - sobbing 😭 - 30k+) @onlyforsebastianstan

*! • ‘captain, stg, grumpy, and their doll!’ - (poly!relationship, Steve x Reader x Bucky | Stucky x Reader - 1.5k) @mercurial-chuckles

* • ‘a favour’ masterlist - The team is close, obviously. They thought they knew everything about each other… until Y/N drunkenly admits to the team that she’s never had sex. And she’s eagerly waiting for that to change. Everyone is happy to step up to the plate, regardless of Bucky’s feelings for Y/N. Can he confess before it’s too late? (4 parts - 7.5k+ total) @buckysbabygorl

*! • ‘tied in trust’ - You only asked for something light—just a little teasing, some rope, a blindfold. But Bucky Barnes never did anything halfway. Not when it came to you. (literally my dream scenario with Buck - 7k) @buckyseternaldoll

WILL KEEP UPDATING!

* means new, ! means personal favourites

MAKE SURE TO FOLLOW AND CHECK OUT ALL THESE AMAZING AUTHOR’S CONTINUED WORKS!

[pellucid-constellations]

Checks and Balances

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough. 

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Injury (kinda), hospitals, angst, an abusive boss, protective Bucky!!

a/n: Ahh a Bucky fic that's not an AU (that's also one million words)! Idk how the government works tbh so sorry if things are a little inaccurate there lol. This takes place right before Thunderbolts! Thank you for reading, I love you!! ❤️❤️

Masterlist

~~

“Congressman Barnes,” you greeted, a slight nod of your head the only acknowledgement you could afford. Senator Brown was only a moment away from screaming at you again, and you could only take so much screaming in one day.  

Bucky, unfortunately, did not care about being screamed at by Senator Brown. He took your upper arm in a light grip and shot you a confused smile. “What, you avoiding me? Can’t be seen in the halls talking to me?” 

A fairer assessment of Bucky’s interruption was that he didn’t know of the wrath Senator Brown could incite upon you. Sure, Bucky knew that Brown was a hardass, and by association, his executive assistant would have to put up with it, but he had no way of knowing just how terrible the man was. 

When you met Bucky a few weeks ago, you had been alone in a hotel lobby. The heels accompanying your freshly pressed pantsuit had been killing you, and you needed a moment for your feet to breathe. Bucky, apparently, also needed a moment away from the conference, and you had gotten to talking when he plopped into the overstuffed armchair beside you. 

He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.

In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of. 

As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known. 

Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold. 

“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?” 

Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—” 

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky. 

Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall. 

Three days later, he brought it up. 

You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit. 

“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression. 

You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle. 

Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?” 

After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds. 

“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.” 

“You’ve been working for him for three years.” 

“Right.” 

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.” 

You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.” 

“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?” 

“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.” 

You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears. 

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?” 

Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.” 

“To check on me?” 

“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—” 

Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump. 

“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way. 

“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.” 

“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—” 

He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet. 

Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.” 

And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.

You: Free Saturday morning?

He answered you almost instantly.

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone. 

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are 

You: …maybe 

And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished. 

That was perfect. 

It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet. 

You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance. 

As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road. 

“Someone order an Uber?” 

Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced. 

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.

“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?” 

A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.” 

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.” 

Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” 

Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.” 

You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors. 

Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear. 

You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself. 

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.” 

Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.” 

“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke. 

Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?” 

“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”

You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different. 

Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows. 

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.” 

“Of course it stands.” 

You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel. 

~~

Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it. 

Both answers left the other person less than satisfied. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?” 

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.” 

“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.” 

You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?” 

Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?” 

Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds. 

“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking. 

“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.” 

Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained. 

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was. 

It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant. 

“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail. 

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.” 

“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.

“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?” 

“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.” 

You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.” 

Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.” 

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?” 

You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?” 

“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.” 

With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.” 

“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it. 

~~

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you. 

You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble. 

Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace. 

It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult. 

Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him. 

So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship. 

At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible. 

You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return. 

It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at. 

Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head. 

You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought. 

“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building. 

You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.” 

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.” 

“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness. 

But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—” 

“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”

“Right now, maybe.” 

You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.” 

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” 

“You can definitely believe that.” 

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.

You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way. 

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.” 

“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.” 

You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?” 

“Hey, I have other friends.” 

“I haven’t seen ‘em.” 

“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.” 

“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.” 

As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship. 

~~

Approximately four days later, everything went to shit. 

Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was. 

It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it. 

You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you. 

“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!” 

“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”

“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—” 

You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers. 

Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians. 

“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic. 

“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?” 

Did you ever. 

When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on. 

You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more.

You greatly regretted setting that up for him. 

You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head. 

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you. 

The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening. 

The glass door to the office swung open. 

“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?” 

The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action. 

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?” 

Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips. 

“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?” 

“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still. 

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?” 

You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest. 

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.” 

“Wait, I—” 

“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—” 

“Bucky, don’t—” 

“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?” 

“You shut your mouth before I—” 

“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.” 

Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably. 

You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt. 

Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—” 

“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.” 

Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office. 

You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so. 

~~

Bucky’s POV

Bucky was losing his mind. 

After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed. 

It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt. 

He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough. 

Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth. 

When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.

He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage. 

“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.

He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused. 

Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes. 

Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie. 

That had been three days ago. 

You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours. 

Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you. 

He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay. 

Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that. 

Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at. 

Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon. 

“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.” 

“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued. 

“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”

“Dating?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing? 

“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.” 

“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”

Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.” 

“And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed. 

Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked. 

He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.” 

“What, you mean like blackmail?” 

“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.” 

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable. 

“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself. 

~~

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend. 

You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician. 

That was not the case for this gala. 

Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day. 

Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that. 

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.” 

You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing. 

It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance. 

Obviously. 

You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out. 

“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return. 

“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?” 

As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. 

You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel. 

He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry. 

“Why would you do that?” you asked. 

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.” 

“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?” 

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind. 

The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space. 

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away. 

“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.” 

“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed. 

“You were.” 

“Was not!” 

“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.” 

You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall. 

“Fine. What do you want?” 

Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest. 

Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed. 

Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice. 

“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door. 

“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.” 

“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes. 

“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.” 

All you could get out was, “Why?” 

Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.” 

Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it. 

All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted. 

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.” 

Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?” 

“I’d be blacklisted.” 

“He can’t do that.” 

“He can.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet. 

Amazing. 

Just amazing. 

You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it. You prayed that Brown was already drinking and wouldn’t catch on. 

Thankfully, your prayers were answered. 

While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown. 

Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. 

You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.

When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach. 

“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.” 

“But—” 

“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you. 

Was D.C. even worth it? 

Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty. 

You took three bites before it started to sink in. 

You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe. 

Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen. 

The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!” 

“Brown, what is she allergic to?” 

“How should I know?” 

“Well, do something!” 

As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything. 

“Move.” 

Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief. 

Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind. 

“I got you, okay?” 

“F-f-feels—” 

“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” 

The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear. 

“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?” 

“B-bucky—” 

“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?” 

“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.” 

“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?” 

“An accident, obviously.” 

Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now. 

“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.” 

Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone. 

“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—” 

The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it. 

Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head. 

~~

After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye. 

He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.

He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest. 

“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands. 

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?” 

It only took you a moment to make a decision. 

You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected. 

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman. 

But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway. 

[aquaticmercy]

Sinnerman

Summary : Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favourite jazz club.

Pairing : Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Jazz singer! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mafia AU. Possessive behaviour. Infatuation. Mentions of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), alcohol consumption, forced engagement, fake death, protective!Bucky, eventual happy ending, lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 7.4k 

Requested by : Ko-fi request from @ruexj283 <3

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

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Masterlist

The club smelled like cigars and sin, just the way Bucky liked it.

It was his haven — his favourite spot to cool down after a long day. He loved the dim red lights, the haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers, bourbon on his tongue, jazz in his eardrums. He came for the music, sure, but more so for the control. He owned this place in all but paperwork — the bartender knew what to pour without asking, the manager nodded whenever he walked in, and the girls didn’t even dare make eye contact with the crime boss, just the way he liked it— he never liked attention that invited further questions about his… business.

Until you.

That night, you stepped onto that stage like the room had been waiting for you.

Oh, Bucky thought. A new singer. 

Fuck, no one warned him about you. Your voice was as thick as honey, your face sweet as sin. You were dressed in a black and slinky dress, your curves caught the light just right, your lips wrapped around the mic like a lover, looking out into the crowd like you weren’t afraid of a damn thing.

Bucky was fucked the second you opened your mouth.

“Won’t you come along with me,” you sang sweetly, “to the Mississippi?”

He whispered a curse to himself, fingers tightening around his glass. You weren’t just singing — you lived the music, bled it out in those sultry notes. You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. But Bucky… you had him by the throat.

“We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams…”

His eyes never left you. Not once. The music slowed, swelled. You held the last note just a little too long, and his mind went places it shouldn't have.

“Steam down the river, down to New Orleans.”

He imagined your lips bruised from his teeth, mascara running as you sobbed out another note for him, only him, somewhere deep in the cabin he had in the woods, where he kept all his most sentimental items. He closed his eyes and imagined no noise but your voice and the creak of the wooden floor under his boots. He’d keep you there — pretty little thing, singing just for him.

God, the things he’d do. The things he wanted to do.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

When your set ended after ten songs and you disappeared backstage, Bucky stayed in his seat, half-hard, half-crazed, drunk on something far more dangerous than the whiskey in his glass. Obsession had a name now. Obsession had a pretty voice and a perfect body he was still dying to feel in his lap.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver money clip — peeled a few hundreds off like dead skin. He gestured to the bartender.

“Send a bottle of Blanton’s and this—” he slid a folded note across the bar “—to her dressing room.” 

The note was simple.

"Sing for me again. -J.B.B."

And then he left, boots echoing in the alley outside, teeth clenched so tight he tasted blood from his gums.

He’d see you again. He had to.

Because Bucky Barnes never left things unfinished — especially not obsessions.

—

Over the next few weeks, the jazz club turned into a shrine.

You were seducing every man and woman in the room, looking right through them all, like they were insects under your heel — and he was no exception.

Oh but he was.

Because unlike the others, Bucky didn’t beg. He didn’t chase. He simply wanted. And when Bucky Barnes wanted something, the world rearranged itself in his favour, right?

Your voice haunted the velvet-lined walls, and Bucky Barnes made sure the goddess on that stage was worshipped properly. He sent everything backstage, from diamonds, to silk, to perfume from Paris, to lipstick in a custom gold case — the exact red shade he imagined smeared on his skin. It always with the same card, always ending in the same initials: — J.B.B.

But you never responded.

No thank you. You didn't even give back coy little notes. You did not even glance his way after the music stopped.

You sang, you smiled, you disappeared behind that red velvet curtain like a mirage. And it was driving him insane.

He watched you from the shadows night after night, never missing a set. A cigarette untouched in his hand, arms tight, eyes following every movement of your hips as you swayed in time with the music. You were wearing them.

The diamond drop earrings.

His diamonds.

They kissed your throat as you sang and caught the stage lights like stars. He’d picked them himself — rare, handcrafted, perfect for your delicate ears. He’d imagined your fingers brushing them, your neck bare save for their shimmer. He wanted to see them on you.

And tonight, he did.

But when you turned, he didn’t see a glance in his direction. You did not say a word, not a word. Not an acknowledgement.

You’d just finished your final number, a slow version of My Funny Valentine that made a grown man at the bar weep into his bourbon. The spotlight dimmed. 

When you stepped into the dressing room, a waiter stepped into your dressing room, clutching his tray nervously. "Miss? Uh, there's a gentleman asking for you."

You tilted your head, smiling like a cat that already knew what was waiting. "Hmm… bring him in."

The door opened.

And in walked Bucky Barnes — tailored to kill in a three-piece midnight suit, eyes like the ocean. You recognized him instantly.

The girls have told you about the mob royalty— the killer who looked like a god who didn’t discriminate against whom he put a bullet through. People disappeared when Bucky Barnes wanted them to. Men with ambition feared him. Women with sense stayed away.

But you just blinked, feigning innocence. You weren’t going to satisfy him like that. 

“Hi,” you greeted, almost amused.

He didn’t answer at first, staring at the curve of your thighs beneath your robe, the sharp point of your stiletto digging into the plush carpet, the glitter of his diamonds in your ears.

“Were the earrings not enough to get your attention, sweets?” he said finally, his voice rough.

You blinked at him, genuinely puzzled. You reached up, brushing your fingertips against one of them.

“Oh,” you said, your voice light. “These were from you?” You gave him a sheepish little smile, like a cat playing with a bird. “Sorry,” you said, and laughed, “I get so many gifts I forget who sent what.”

That shattered something in him.

And all those notes, all those boxes, all the hours he spent picking out the perfect shade of red, the perfect scent, the softest lace for your skin — all of it just ended up buried under gifts from other men.

That little ottoman in the corner — he’d heard about it in the last few days— a joke among the staff. Your gift box, they’d say, the graveyard of failed suitors.

That was when you cocked your head and said, “Wait. Who are you, exactly?”

God.

Bucky took a slow step forward. His teeth clenched so hard he could feel the pressure in his jaw. Still, his voice came out calm.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Is that what we are?” You raised a brow, “Friends?”

He gave a smirk. “We will be.”

You hummed, looking him over like he was a piece of art you hadn’t quite decided on. “Didn’t expect a man like you to send me diamonds.”

Whatever that meant. For all he knew, you were just trying to get under his skin.

“I sent more than diamonds,” he said, stepping even closer. “You never answered.”

You shrugged. “I don’t usually respond to men who try to buy me.”

“You wear the earrings.”

“Because they’re pretty,” you said innocently.

You walked across the room, as if knowing exactly what was on his mind, and popped open the ottoman.

Bucky’s blood went cold.

Inside were jewelry boxes, perfume bottles, lingerie, notes.

So many fucking notes.

“That’s where all the gifts go. I don’t have time to sort them all. There’s just… so many.” You turned back to him, smiling like sin. “It’s sweet, though,” you added lightly. “All these men trying to impress me.”

A nerve twitched in his cheek.

He wanted to burn the whole pile. He wanted to take the earrings off your ears gently and push the pin through the eyeballs of all these men. He wanted you marked by him — in bruises, in scent, in his name whispered into your skin until there was no room for anyone else.

He wanted to destroy it.

To flip the ottoman, scatter everything, scream mine like a fucking animal.

Instead, he walked toward you. When he stopped, he was close enough to feel the warmth of your body, to smell your perfume. Your breath hitched — just slightly — and he caught it.

But instead, he took a slow, calculated step toward you.

“None of those men matter,” he said slowly.

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “No?”

“They don’t even know how to touch a woman like you.”

You gave a little laugh “And you do?”

“I’d learn you,” he said, taking another step. “Every sound. Every look. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

You pretended to be amused, but your breath was already shallower. He could tell. 

“So dramatic,” you teased, stepping back toward the mirror, deliberately putting distance between you. “All this because I didn’t say thank you?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said.

“Don’t I?” you whispered, sweetly mocking. “You look like you want to strangle me and kiss me at the same time.”

He looked down. “Something like that.”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “And what exactly do you want, Bucky?”

“I want you to look at me when you sing,” he said darkly. “I want you to wear those diamonds and know they’re from me. I want you to stop letting a dozen pathetic men think they’ve got a chance.”

“Get in line,” you whispered.

My fucking god.

But still — you leaned in close. So close your lips almost touched his jaw. 

“What,” he asked through gritted teeth, “do I have to do to get your attention?”

Your lips brushed his ear. “Try harder.”

Then you pulled away with a soft, smug smile and turned back to your mirror, reaching for your lipstick— the one he gave you.

It was pretty clear— he was dismissed.

Bucky stood behind you, breathing shallow, watching the way your hand trembled just a little as you uncapped the lipstick.

So… you weren’t entirely immune.

Good.

—

He became impossible to ignore.

His attention became more deliberate. More romantic, possessive in a way that felt carved into the bones of the earth. Bucky Barnes didn’t just want you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on. He moved heaven, hell, and every dollar in between to make sure you knew it.

And he did it beautifully.

Every night, your dressing room transformed.

Fresh roses, red as blood, climbed the walls like ivy. You tried to count them once, just for curiosity. You gave up somewhere around two hundred. Their sweet scent wrapped around your throat every time you stepped inside. Even when you went home, it lingered in your hair, on your sheets. 

This was Bucky’s scent. This was Bucky’s intention.

Then came more gifts. Not tokens — treasures. You’d find them tucked into satin-lined drawers you had in your dressing room. Designer gowns in every shade he’d ever seen you in, stitched to fit your curves like a second skin. He bought out the entire fall collection of a Parisian house you once mentioned in passing. You opened the boxes one by one, gowns tumbling out.

There were perfumes — rare, discontinued blends that couldn’t be found in stores. He must’ve hunted down perfumers in underground auctions to get them. Each bottle had the same engraving:

Don’t want you wearing anything that’s not mine. — J.B.B.

Oh, did he keep his promise. 

He upgraded your shoes. Italian leather stilettos, and then ballet flats for after your set. 

And the jewelry — Christ, the jewelry.

The diamond earrings were just a start. He gave you a delicate bracelet that you’d worn every night since. He gave you a choker of black opals that complimented your eyes. A silver anklet with sapphires so dark they looked black in the shadows. Each piece came in velvet boxes with his handwriting tucked neatly inside.

There were nights you tried to reject it all. You’d say to the staff and band backstage, “He’s insane. Who needs this much lace?” but even they noticed the way your voice faltered when you said it.

See, you used to throw out letters from men after one read — now, you hid his in a drawer. You kept every one. You read them when you couldn’t sleep. You memorised the way he described you.

And you did crave it. 

You loved it.

You loved how he knew you preferred gin over bourbon, so he sent crates of imported gin from Belgium. He knew your feet ached after sets, so a footstool appeared beneath your vanity, carved with roses. He bought the painting that hung in the corner of your dressing room— the one you said reminded you of your childhood— and replaced it with the original, pulled from a gallery in Rome.

And then the world started changing around you.

The other admirers you had vanished. Gifts started dwindling from everyone else. You didn’t know where they went, and you were too scared to ask. The banker, the actor, the smarmy rich boy with a champagne smile, the countess who offered you a villa in Sicily — all gone. One left town. One was caught in a scandal. One had a car accident. One ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw and no memory of how it happened.

Bucky never brought them up.

And though part of you resented that you couldn’t toy with your audience anymore — couldn’t keep them orbiting you like moths — another part of you… loved it. You loved his singular obsession on you, loved the tunnel vision he got when he looked at you.

Still, when the curtain fell and the stage lights went out, you packed your things and went home to your father and told him everything. 

—

You’d just finished your set tonight, when a waitress leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Barnes is waiting for you in his booth.”

You knew which one she meant.

The private one, high above the main floor. Bucky rarely let anyone join him there — just his tight-lipped entourage. But tonight, as you approached, he barely glanced up before giving a command, “Leave us.”

His men didn’t argue.

You slipped into the booth as they filtered out, leaning in just enough to tease. “Fancy seat for a man who claims he doesn’t chase,” you teased, lips curled into a sweet smile. 

Bucky didn’t smile — but there was something in the way his eyes flicked up that made you feel seen. “I don’t chase,” he insisted. “I watch. Different thing entirely.”

You leaned back, kicking one heel off lazily. “Mmm. Well, while you’ve been watching, I’ve noticed I’ve lost a few admirers lately.” You pouted, dragging the tip of your finger around the rim of his half-drunk glass. “One used to bring me opera tickets. Another had a private jet. I was building a little collection. And now they’re all…” — you fluttered your fingers — “poof.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

“Tell me, Bucky.” You leaned closer, teasing. “Did you kill them?” 

He didn’t answer at first. He just hummed, then he reached for his bourbon. He sipped, and finally — infuriatingly — shrugged. “Define kill.”

“Jesus,” you shook your head.

“Or maybe I just gave them… a little nudge.” He tilted his head, looking at you from beneath his lashes.

You batted your lashes. “So you just threaten them until they cry into their daddy’s wallets?”

“Not exactly,” he said smoothly, twirling the glass between his fingers. “Some people hear a whisper and imagine thunder. I can’t help what they’re afraid of.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, “what does that even mean?”

He just leaned back and gave you a maddeningly unreadable smile. “Some things just… work themselves out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m consistent,” he corrected.

Before you could come up with a snarky comeback, he reached down beside him and produced a slim black box, tied with a red silk ribbon. “Here.”

“What now?” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “The deed to the building?”

“Not yet.” He paused, as if seriously considering it. “Open it.”

Inside was a set of lingerie — deep burgundy silk and delicate black lace, soft as you imagined clouds to be, the kind of thing meant to be seen. It was stitched with your initials on the inside band — not his, like many other men would — and for a moment, you were stunned silent.

This just feels so… intimate.

“Bucky…” you said, quieter now, fingers skimming the lace. “This is… beautiful.”

“All yours,” he smiled. 

You leaned in to kiss his cheek and in the movement, your skirt hitched just enough for the hem to slip high along your thigh.

Just high enough to reveal the faint purple of a bruise.

His eyes dropped, and his body tensed immediately. “What happened?”

You cursed under your breath before feigning innocence. “Oh, that?” You tugged your skirt down quickly. “I’m just clumsy. Slipped on some stairs backstage. You know how I am.”

He said nothing, just stared. His fist clenched slightly.

You kept smiling — too wide to be genuine. “Don’t look at me like that, Bucky. I’m not porcelain.”

“I know,” he said simply, but he didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

Still, he didn’t press. Didn’t raise his voice or question again. Instead, he knocked twice on the side of the booth. A waiter appeared as if summoned.

“Bring me the Cristal,” he said. “The '56 with a bucket of ice.”

Minutes later, a gloved waiter returned with the most expensive bottle of champagne the club had — nestled in crushed ice and frosted glass. Bucky took it without a word and dismissed the server with a glance.

Then, he wrapped the bottle in a linen napkin and gently pressed it to your thigh.

The chill made you hiss through your teeth. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky lulled. “Sit still. This’ll help.”

His touch was careful and never inappropriate. Not once did his fingers stray. Not once did his eyes flick up your clothing. He didn’t try to peel your skirt higher, didn’t crowd your space, didn’t make a single move you didn’t allow.

Still, he sat with you in that shadowed booth, icing your bruise with four-figure champagne, his own glass untouched beside him. For a second, you wondered if he’d burn cities if you asked. Or even if you didn’t.

“Good girl," he murmured under his breath. 

Fuck.

You couldn’t look at him. 

“You didn’t have to…” you muttered, maybe a little embarrassed.

“I wanted to,” he insisted, eyes still on the bruise. 

After a good fifteen minutes, the bruising became more mild and less angry. 

And… you didn't really feel it anymore.

It did help.

He carefully poured two glasses and held on out to you.

You just shook your head, smiling faintly. “Not tonight.” After all, your father probably wanted you home sober.

He nodded, setting it down and turned back to you.

“Need anything else iced?” he asked with dry amusement.

“Depends.” You laughed softly. “You got enough champagne for the rest of my body?”

“I could buy the vineyard,” he said, all too serious. “If that’s what it takes.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding a little too fast.

After that, he didn’t touch you beyond the bottle. He didn’t even lay a hand on your waist, your thigh, your cheek — even though you knew he wanted to. 

—

It was a week later when Bucky Barnes was in his usual place. Not a single night had passed without a gift sent backstage.

But tonight…

Tonight you stepped onto the stage wearing black sheer fabric across your skin, your heels clicking like gunshots. The lights hit you in all the right places, illuminating a shiny something new on your left hand.

Bucky saw it immediately.

A diamond ring.

It was not subtle. Worse yet, it was not his.

The music hadn’t even started yet, and Bucky Barnes was frozen with rage.

You had an engagement ring on your finger. A big one.

His jaw ticked once.

Twice.

You didn’t look his way. Not once. Not even when you adjusted the mic and let your lips linger near it like a kiss. 

Still, he could tell you were wearing the lingerie he gave you — he could see the faint black lace strap peeking out from the deep plunge of your dress. 

But all he could think about was the ring. A fucking ring on your finger.

His fingers curled into fists on the table.

He could barely hear the band start behind you. He couldn’t even taste the drink in front of him. He couldn’t  breathe past the blood pounding in his temples.

You were smiling, singing— your voice as honeyed and sultry as ever — but to him, it was venom. Every time you raised your hand, the diamond caught the light, winking like the devil.

Was this a joke?

A punishment?

He couldn’t even look away. He couldn't think about anything except the fact that someone — some other man — had dared to put that ring on your finger while his lingerie lay against your skin. 

And you… you knew exactly what you were doing.

You sauntered across the stage, hips swaying in rhythm, that ring gleaming like a brand. Bucky could see the faint indentation of the garter belt strap against your hip under the cling of your dress. His teeth clenched so tight, he could feel the ache in his gums.

He wanted to tear the ring off your hand and replace it with diamonds of his own.

It didn’t belong there.

You didn’t belong to someone else.

—

After your set, after the velvet curtain fell and the stage lights dimmed, sweat started pooling down your neck. 

You knew before you even reached your dressing room that he was waiting.

You stepped inside, and there he was.

Bucky Barnes was waiting in the light, suit perfectly pressed, rage rippling beneath his skin like a dog barely leashed. 

He was seething.

His eyes dropped immediately to your left hand— to the glittering ring.

He hated it. He knew the stone was too big for your liking— you liked it small and dainty. That was when you saw the muscles in his forearm twitch.

“Who’s that from, huh?” He asked. 

You let the question hang for a second too long, deliberately pulling the pins from your hair, letting them fall around your shoulders. You walked slowly toward your vanity, knowing he was watching every sway of your hips like a predator tracking prey.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled, fake and honey-sweet.

“Oh, just a fella my daddy wants me to marry,” you said with a lightness that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You reached up to toy with the ring, twisting it idly on your finger. “He’s rich. Handsome, but mean.” You turned. “Not nice, like you.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, stepping forward into a pool of light. “I’m not fucking nice.”

You shivered.

There it was—his truth. He was not nice, but protective. Dangerously, obsessively attentive.

He stalked toward you slowly, like he was trying not to break glass. You could practically feel the tension pouring off of him.

“You wore my lingerie onstage tonight,” he murmured, looking at the strap peeking out.

You bit your lip. “Did I?”

“You wanted me to see it.”

“Maybe.”

You were playing, but he wasn’t. His expression darkened, his eyes dropping again to the ring.

“You don’t love him,” he said. It was a question.

You turned back to the mirror, reaching for the lipstick he gave you. “Who says I don’t?”

He took another step forward. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Because you still wear everything I send you,” he said, looking at the pile of paper on the side. “You read my letters. You haven’t missed a single one.”

You didn’t argue—he was right.

“So tell me…” he continued, “Why the fuck are you wearing another man’s ring?”

You tried to joke again— tried to deflect. “Maybe I like the attention. You boys get all riled up.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. His voice was a growl, “You like me riled up, sweetheart?”

You turned your head, lips inches from his. “I like knowing you’re watching. I like that you’d burn the world if I asked.”

He still didn’t touch you.

But his eyes burned into you, holding himself back like a beast on a leash, and somehow… that made it worse.

“You think I’d still want you with his ring on your hand?” he asked, voice harsh. “You think I’d share you with someone who doesn’t even know what perfume you wear?”

You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry, your knees… shaky.

You turned fully to face him, eyes searching. “Bucky—please.”

Your hand reached up, cradling his cheek gently. 

He breathed out through his nose, like he was trying to smother wildfire in his mind. Still, his hands stayed at his sides. His control was infuriating, and it only made you want him more.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Not unless you take that fucking ring off.”

You stared at him.

And then, with trembling fingers, you slipped the engagement ring from your finger and dropped it onto the vanity with a small, deliberate clink.

“Good girl,” he murmured, dark satisfaction curling into his smile.

His hands reached for you then— fingertips brushing your waist like he was learning you note by note. You felt his breath at your throat before his lips even touched your skin, and when they finally did—

Oh.

He kissed you like he’d waited centuries. His hands cupped your jaw, your back, your hips. The kiss deepened, and your knees buckled, his arms catching you before you fell.

“You don’t want to marry him,” he growled against your mouth.

“No,” you breathed. “I don’t.”

“Say it again.”

“I don’t want him. I want you.”

That was the only permission he needed.

He lifted you up onto the vanity and whispered all the filthy, possessive things he’d been holding back for weeks.

His hands were on either side of your face, holding you. Your thighs parted naturally, your heels slipping against the stool as he stepped between them. His tongue slid against yours and your fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer, closer, until your hips tilted against his and you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.

Your lipstick smeared, your breath came out in whimpers, and still—he never once lost control.

You gasped into his mouth when his hand curled around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your earlobes. 

“Fuck,” you whispered against his lips, “I can’t—can’t think.”

He gave a dangerous chuckle and pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils were blown, his control hanging by a thread.

“Stop thinking, darling,” he whispered against your skin. 

You surged up to kiss him again, and this time it was messy, desperate—your  body pressing into his, your hands sliding beneath his jacket to feel more of him. He let you, just for a moment. 

Then he pulled back fists clenched tight.

“Enough,” he rasped, eyes blazing.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

His fingers slid to your hips, gripping firmly— as he pulled you forward to the very edge of the vanity. His lips brushed your cheek, down to your ear.

You tried to chase his mouth again but he gently pushed you back with a hand on your thigh, shaking his head.

“I’m not fucking you here,” he growled. “You’re not some backstage fantasy,” he said. With a smooth motion, he helped you down off the vanity, keeping you steady when your legs wobbled. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” you echoed.

“My home,” he clarified, brushing your tangled hair back. “Where you can scream if you want.”

You shivered.

He reached for your coat, draped it over your shoulders, and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me ruin you comfortably.”

—

Bucky's penthouse was exactly what you’d imagined— dark wood, steel, and bulletproof glass. It sat above the city, high enough that the chaos below couldn’t touch him. 

From what you heard, no one ever got this far. No one ever made it inside.

Except you.

No one else was here.

No guards. No staff. No distant footsteps. This was a space no one entered unless they were meant to stay.

He brought you in without a word, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you across marble floors. 

He didn’t offer you a drink or make small talk.

Bucky walked you into his bedroom like he was leading you to a confessional. As if he was finally going to sin the way he’d always wanted with you.

When he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded, heart already in your throat. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all he needed.

He stepped into you and kissed you again. His jacket hit the floor first. Then your coat, your shoes, his tie. The tension between you was molten, almost unbearable. 

He touched you like he’d memorised every curve without ever laying a hand on you.

He laid you down on your bed. His hands skimmed beneath the hem of your dress, and then higher, higher, until—

Fuck. 

His hand was on your hip, and his thumb had just brushed the edge of ink into your skin.

Bucky froze completely.

Then he pulled back and knelt in front of the bed.

You watched the moment realization hit.

His eyes locked on the tattoo on your right hipbone, just beneath the strap of the lace underwear he had bought you. Black ink— a skull with tentacles. 

The mark of a rival, of Alexander Pierce’s syndicate.

“What the fuck…” he rasped, heart caught between betrayal and disbelief. “That’s Pierce’s crest.”

You looked down lazily, like you’d forgotten it was even there, then let out a dry, amused sound.

“Oh,” you said, mock-sweet. “That old thing?”

He looked like he’d been shot.

He stood slowly, hands dropping from your skin. 

Your heart twisted.

“Daddy says hello,” you scoffed, propping yourself on your forearms now.

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t even know your name anymore.

“You…” he breathed, shaking his head. “You’re his daughter?”

You tilted your head in shame, but didn’t deny it. 

His fists clenched at his sides.

Pierce. Fucking Pierce. He knew the man had an apprentice he adopted as his own daughter. He had heard whispers of an heir’s engagement. 

He didn’t realise it would be… you. 

“You’re engaged to Brock Rumlow,” he realised, saying the name through gritted teeth, as if the name burned his tongue. 

“In name only,” you said quickly.

“The son of a bitch torched my cache on 52nd!” he nearly shouted

You bit your lip, hating that you were making excuses. “He didn’t do it personally. Just ordered it.”

“Oh, great,” Bucky snapped, his hands flying up. “Then it’s totally fine.”

You could see it behind his eyes—see the brutal, bloody instincts pulling him in two different directions. 

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if you had the intel.”

“But I didn’t,” he snapped. “Because you kept me distracted.”

You tilted your head, unbothered by his fury, by the way he looked like he might put a bullet in the wall just to bleed off the rage.

He ought to step away and find a less maddening obsession. He ought to send you back to your father in a body bag. Fuck, he had killed people for less. 

But he was in too deep now. 

“Why?” he growled. “You get off on making me want you?”

You sat up now, brushing your fingers down his bare chest. Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“How was I supposed to know,” you said, defensive now. “That I was going to fall in love with the man I’m spying on?”

You loved him?

You—this woman who outsmarted him, danced around him, haunted him—you loved him?

He should’ve grabbed the nearest gun. Should’ve asked you what intel you’d passed on. Should’ve demanded to know how many of his secrets you’d whispered into your father’s ear.

But instead… he smiled.

Just a little. Just for a second.

“You love me,” he said, almost to himself.

“Bucky…” You reached down and hiked your skirt higher, the fabric slipping over your thighs until the black lace revealed more skin marked by bruises. Some were fading, but there. 

One above your hipbone, as if someone had gripped your waist in place, and another over your tummy. 

Bucky's stomach dropped.

Your voice was almost a whisper. “My fiancé,” you said bitterly. “He touches me when I ask him not to. You… always ask.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. He looked at the bruises like they were mortal sins.

“I’ll kill him,” he said to himself, quiet as the grave.

He already suspected it, but he didn’t want to believe it. He just found it so difficult to even think that someone touched you without love. That someone put their hands on your body and didn’t worship it.

Fuck, he hated how much he cared. 

You were supposed to be a spy. A trap. But here you were, with tears clinging to your lashes and bruises blooming like violets and you hadn’t asked him for revenge.

You asked him to understand.

“He’s mean,” you whispered again, “but you… you’d never hurt me.”

You expected him to yell.

You didn’t expect the way he suddenly closed the space between you, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

It was not rough, not bruising. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst and finding water for the first time. 

His hands were everywhere, palms sliding over your ribs, your back, your arms, anchoring you to the bed.

“You love me?” he whispered against your lips, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, breathless and shaking. “I tried not to”

He hoisted you up, pushing you back on the bed until your back hit the headboard. You reached for him, pulling him down with you. His body was all tension, all hunger, but his eyes were tender.

He hovered above you, lips tracing down your neck, your collarbone. You arched into him, gasping his name like a prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me now, sweetheart, or I’m not letting go of you ever again.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then take it off,” he ordered, voice wrecked.

You pulled the dress up and over your head, revealing the bruises, the lace, the curve of your body. He hissed when he saw the full extent of the marks, dragging his fingers along your skin.

“I should’ve known,” he cursed to himself. “I should’ve fucking known.”

He kissed your stomach, slowly dragging your soaked lingerie down your hips, his mouth trailing behind the path of the lace. He reached your hipbone and paused. His lips ghosted over the tattoo. He kissed your thigh, just beside the bruises, and you sobbed.

He kissed every inch of your skin like he was rewriting the damage Rumlow had done. 

Then… he took his time.

He worshipped you.

He dragged your pleasure out until you were sobbing into his neck, clawing at his back, begging him to stop teasing and just take you—until finally, finally, he did.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve been dreaming of you. Every fucking night, princess.”

Tears slid from your eyes. You were overwhelmed by the stretch, the need, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted—not used, not claimed, but desired.

It wasn’t about power, not anymore. It was about need and connection and love so stupidly strong it felt like it could tear the sky apart.

Your fingers clawed into his back, your legs tight around his hips as he fucked ou. He watched every change in your expression. Every gasp, every whimper. He kissed you through every little tremble in your voice.

He grunted your name like a mantra, his hand gripping your throat—not hard, just there—a reminder who your loyalties should lie with.

And you took all of it, screaming his name breaking again and again beneath his hands, his mouth, his body.

And when you came beneath him, he followed you into the abyss.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even move. He held you there, forehead to yours, both of you still shaking.

You were quiet, lips still swollen from his kisses, heart threatening to burst through your ribs.

You touched his face. “You should hate me.”

“I did,” he said, kissing your cheek. “For about five seconds.”

You could only laugh.

Then he pulled back, just enough to see your face, to make sure you heard him.

“I don’t care who your fucking father is,” he said. “I don’t care what deal he made with the Rumlows. No one gets to treat you like a pawn. No one gets to hurt you, okay?”

You nodded, smiling through your tears.

“Okay.”

—

A year later… 

Bucky Barnes finally got his wish.

He got you.

Not just on your knees, not just in his bed, not just in pretty two-pieces — no. 

He got all of you. 

That dark though he had when he first saw you? He got it. 

He got you his cabin surrounded by evergreens, miles from the rest of the world.

Six months ago, Bucky helped fake your death — a fiery car wreck on a rainy night outside of the city. The funeral was closed-casket. Rumlow didn’t even show up. Alexander Pierce wore black and whispered to his men that someone would pay. But no one ever found a body.

And now here you were.

Hidden.

The cabin was tucked into the woods, an hour from anything that mattered, and only 30 minutes from the small town that knew you both as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes — newcomers who only paid in cash and loved black coffee and kept mostly to themselves. 

Bucky bought the land under a different name, of course. It’s untraceable, just to make sure Pierce would never use you as his pawn ever again. To make sure Rumlow would never place a hand on you. 

You spent your time planting vegetables in the garden and singing with the birds every morning. He chopped wood shirtless just to get a reaction out of you.

He married you shortly after your fake death, a private ceremony with only two of his closest men as witnesses. So now, he spent most of his days playing house with you — which is absurd if you think too hard about it.

The infamous James Buchanan Barnes — mob royalty — wiping down countertops and building you a porch swing just because you mentioned it off-handed one day.

He could still snap a man’s neck with one hand. Still has a gun in every drawer. Still keeps a go-bag under the floorboards.

But now, he reads next to you in bed.

He sleeps with his arms around your waist and his nose in your hair.

He does the dishes.

You kept your diamonds — tucked away the ottoman he managed to transport discreetly— but you haven’t worn them in months. You used to live off silk and lace, but now you live in oversized sweaters and cotton panties, lounging across Bucky’s lap with a book while he traces lazy circles on your thigh as he rubbed herbal ointments on the bruises that never quite disappeared.

You still get gifts, of course, because he can’t help himself.

But they’re different now.

He gave you boots for the cold, handmade pottery from a local artist, and a woven scarf in your favorite shade of green. Things that say I see you instead of I own you.

Every once in a while, when he’d go to the city for one of his business trips, he’d still buy you Cartier just for the hell of it. 

In return, you wore his shirts, made him breakfast, smushed his cheek against yours after he shaved. You teased him about the way he always kissed your ring when he thought you weren’t looking.

Today, you were slicing peaches by the sink, the hem of Bucky’s shirt you stole this morning brushing your thighs every time you moved. The cabin windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like pine and rain. His favourite soup simmered on the stove, and the radio played sleepy jazz in the background.

It was the kind of evening you never thought you’d live to have.

And Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, reading a book he’d never admit was romance. 

You glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring.

“Y’know,” you said playfully, flicking a bit of cinnamon onto the peaches, “you’ve been spending less and less time in the city lately.”

He made a low groan in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You licked the cinnamon off your finger, knowing it would drive him crazy. “Almost like your… business is running itself.”

He chuckled — the kind of laugh that always made your toes curl.

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “Just saying, someone’s gotta keep your empire from burning down. And you’ve been out here pretending you’re a farmer.”

Bucky rose from the chair. “Well, now I’m thinking…” He walked and stopped in front of you, crowding into your space, sliding his hands beneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. His thumbs brushed lazy circles just above your hips. “…I might just retire.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Retire?”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, then the corner of your lips.

“Let Steve and Sam run the show,” he said. “They’re ready. Besides—” he leaned in, whispering now, lips brushing your ear— “I’ve got more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, and only one woman I give a damn about sharing it with.”

You melted into him instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, cheek pressed to his warm chest as you swayed to the gentle sound of Nina Simone’s Sinnerman.

“And who might that be, Mr. Barnes?”

He held you tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You, Mrs. Barnes,” he said simply. “Only ever you.”

You listened to the steady thump of his heart and only heard calmness.

“Retirement does sound lovely,” you whispered, letting your hands drift down his back, your fingertips tracing the scars there. “No more blood or deals. Just you, me, and these peaches.”

“And a cat,” he said into your hair.

You looked up, eyes wide. “Are we getting a cat?”

He grinned. “You want a cat?”

“I always want a cat.”

“Then we’re getting a cat,” he said like it was a goddamn decree.

You kissed him, soft and messy, the cutting board and the peaches and the stove completely forgotten.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes a little glassy.

“I’d still kill for you, though,” he added casually. “Just so we’re clear.”

You laughed, sniffling. “You say that so sweetly.”

“Just facts, baby,” he said. “Anyone ever tries to hurt you again—” he kissed your neck, “—I’ll paint the whole fucking forest red.”

“I know.”

See, the obsession never left. 

It lingered, peeking out in the way his eyes tracked your every move, in how he still slept with a knife within reach, in how he looked at you like he wanted to crawl under your skin and live there. 

It should’ve scared you, but goddamn you, a sick, twisted part of you loved that somewhere deep in this domestic life, he was still willing to ruin the world for you.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

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

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

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069

[t0rturedp03t]

is there a marvel side of tumblr

[leopar6eyes]

sergeant barnes feels so right

credit: sincefilms

[jakegyllenbaalz]

this movie is making me insane

[pedrohub]

PEDRO PASCAL characters as Barbie Ken posters

[soulgazingwithbucky]

protect, ch. 1 (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You've spent your whole life protecting your younger brother, until an invitation from Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes turns everything on its head.

Warnings: mentions of parent death, swearing, mentions of food, mentions of blood

Word count: 5k

A/N: this is another short series y'all, probably only gonna be two or three parts! also realized this could also work as a mom!reader fic too...if anyone would be interested i would be more than happy to post a different version. divider credits to @lesbiacebian!!!

Masterlist: {one} | {two}

You used to find it difficult to grasp that you were the painfully mortal older sister of an enhanced individual.

Even when your mother stomped off school grounds with you two in tow, having received word that your five-year-old brother displayed an impossible amount of strength against an older bully.

Even when your tween brother returned early from his first hunting trip, his best friend’s dad barely able to sputter praise at his near-professional level of expertise.

Even when he was accused of sneaking into the teacher’s lounge to get test answers, only to find out he had overheard the answer key…from three rooms over.

For better or for worse, it finally clicked when your nineteen-year-old brother proudly arrived home, one hand on his hip, the other shoving a recruitment letter from Captain America and the Winter Soldier in your face.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what this was. Steve Rogers passed his shield to Sam Wilson. Clint Barton was seen running around New York with a young archer. And you can’t forget when you turned on the TV to see the Hulk’s cousin, her emerald skin glowing from the bright camera flashes.

You’d be damned if your brother became some brooding stranger’s ticket to retirement.

But Tomas would be damned if you stopped him from working alongside his heroes. He was absolutely starstruck, having looked up to the captain’s predecessor his whole life. He would consume stories about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, wondering who would be his right hand man in life.

So, you planned to do what anyone would in your shoes: go up to these buff-ass, tough-as-nails men who've seen war and tell them there was no way they would even get to touch a hair on your brother’s head. After all, it was now your job to keep him safe, lest you be eternally haunted by your mother’s ghost for forsaking her youngest child.

So when Tomas leaves for his daily martial arts practice, you march your ass on over to these alleged “mighty heroes” to give them a piece of your mind.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”

Sam Wilson has no choice but to be completely honest with you. He sits across from you, arms across his chest, shifting in his seat. His partner, Bucky Barnes, sits silently beside him. This entire time, the only change in his expression has been the slight squint of his eyes as he assesses you.

“I said no.” You cross your arms over your own chest, tilting your head and raising your eyebrows.

You say it with so much confidence that the captain almost hesitates to continue questioning you. But he presses on, anyway, asking, “To…?”

“You both seem perfectly capable of fighting evil on your own,” you say, making a show of raking your eyes over the both of them. You tap your fingers along your bicep, tongue poking the inside of your cheek. “Not sure why you need children to do your dirty work for you.”

Bucky has already decided that you irritate him. His patience is running thin, and your grating voice and superior attitude is only serving to make it worse. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out at this point, but the older hero chides, “Sorry–who are you?”

Though his display of hostility is less outright than yours, you easily pick up on the insulting tone and judging stare. You give him your name, inflecting as much scorn into your tone as possible. They recognize Tomas’s shared surname right away, and you don’t miss the knowing glance they exchange.

“Listen, I understand your concern–,” Sam begins, but you quickly raise a hand to stop him. His eyebrows furrow at your abrupt response.

“Don’t get too excited to lecture me, Captain,” you inform him with a scowl. “I’m not one of those senators you have to bend over backwards for.”

Bucky grits his teeth, reading your ploy to get under their skin like a book. Sam Wilson’s first notable moment as Captain America was him standing up to politicians. Who bends over for whom, again?

The hero formerly known as Falcon has had his fair share of difficult conversations. In fact, he’s impressed at your stubborn determination, but he knows better than to tell you that. He can feel his partner seething beside him, and Sam speaks up before Bucky gets a chance.

“He won’t be out on assignments with us for a long, long time. We’re just hoping to give him guidance, given his abilities,” Sam continues his attempt to explain their perspective.

You scoff. “He has enough guidance, thank you.”

It’s true. You pushed your grief aside to keep your brother’s life stable. You dropped out of university to work full-time, determined to continue your mother’s goal of cultivating his skills. Martial arts training, gymnastics teams, and language tutors were not cheap. Even if you didn’t fully agree with your mom’s vision of developing Tomas’s talents, you’d be damned if you let all of her efforts go to waste. In your own way, it was the only way your grief could manifest: continuing your mom’s version of parenthood, even if all you wanted to do was hide him away from the horrors of the world.

“Guidance from the right people, though?” Bucky says. You’re ready to snap at the perceived jab at your guardianship, but Sam’s hesitant expression makes you think Bucky’s question has a different motive.

Your smart-mouthed reply melts away, replaced with, “What does that mean?”

“Bucky–”

“No, you know what, she should know, Sam.”

“Know what?” you demand.

The heroes hear the vitriol, but they don’t see it. Your arms have dropped and you’re now leaned forward, eyebrows raising rather than scowling. Sam’s eyes flit between the both of you, trying to make the most informed decision in the next five seconds. Finally, he sighs with the slightest shake of his head.

“Trust us, we had no plans to bring Tomas into any of this,” Sam begins carefully, evenly. “But we received word that he was on a lot of radars.”

“Radars,” you huff. You’re not sure what’s worse: that you don’t know what he’s talking about, or that you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“Your brother’s skill set is valuable,” Sam continues. He leans forward, resting his clasped hands on the table. “In the right hands, he could help a lotta people. And in the wrong hands, he could hurt even more.”

Lips pressed into a hard line, you say, “And which are you?”

Bucky’s response earns an astonished look from both you and his partner.

“Come find out.”

And so you find yourself at a training facility, your posture as stiff as the bench you’re sitting on as Tomas warms up on the punching bag. Beside him, Bucky absentmindedly throws punches at a speed bag, the object swiveling into a blur as its assailant mutters to Sam under his breath.

“Hot in here, no?” Tomas says, cutting off the heroes’ conversation. Sam furrows his eyebrows at the comment, but shakes his head in response.

“Oh right, it’s just the steam coming off my sister’s head,” he says, shooting you a cheeky grin.

You mockingly laugh before Sam tells him they should get started. You watch as the three make their way to the boxing ring, where they take your brother through a series of drills. Tomas is eager as ever to show his skills off to them, landing punches and kicks on Sam’s mitts with a huge smile. 

You stand abruptly when you think Bucky is aiming a punch at Tomas’s face.

“Hey! He’s just a kid!” you shout from the bench.

Tomas throws his hands up in response, but turns to show you his clearly unmarked face.

“I’m nineteen,” he tells his newfound coaches.

Bucky sighs at the way Tomas’s chest puffs slightly. “Elbows down, kid.”

Later, Bucky comes over to you–well, more like his duffel bag, which sits discarded on the floor beside you. He rifles through it, pulling out a new pair of hand wraps. He fiddles with the fabric, leaning against the water cooler. The awkward silence is pervasive as you both watch Sam run agility drills with your brother.

“He’s good,” Bucky says.

“I know,” you reply curtly, making a note to tell Tomas to stop hyperextending his elbow.

You both allow the silence to fall once again, amused by the way Sam rubs his temple when Tomas throws yet another unnecessary flip into a fight combination.

“You could be putting a bigger target on his back, doing all this,” you say.

“Could be,” he echoes. “But whoever’s coming for him won’t stop. Better to have backup.”

“Captain America is backup?”

Bucky cracks a smile, watching as Sam breaks and sets off on a lecture on why a back handspring doesn’t make a jab stronger.

“Something like that.”

And so you find yourself sitting next to Tomas, absorbing every one of Sam’s words. In front of you, an entire pile of Tomas’s…recruiters sit in a chaotic pile. Foreign government entities, underground crime organizations, maybe a fucking alien spaceship or something? You try to memorize every name, every detail, but they’re all blurring together. On top of that, you’re in a completely unfamiliar location. The meeting space could barely be considered an office, and you wonder how anyone could feel comfortable in the barren sterility.

When you shake yourself out of your thoughts, you’re surprised to find a glass of water waiting for you. You glance at Tomas, then at Sam, who are completely engrossed in their conversation. You look at Bucky, who meets your eye for a second before quickly turning his attention to Sam.

Swallowing a shaky breath, you bring the cup to your lips.

“So what do we do?” you finally say, eyes laser focused on the ripples in the water, thrumming your nervous fingers along the glass. You’re not even sure what they’ve been talking about. 

“We focus on what we can control,” Sam says firmly. “We can’t make them forget about your brother, or turn their attention to something else.”

Sam turns to your brother, aiming his next words at him.

“We can focus on making sure your mind and body are strong. Stick to our training sessions, and it’d be a good idea to set up some counseling, too. You can do it with me, if you want.”

Tomas scoffs at Sam’s earnest gaze.

“You guys, I’ve been training my whole life. I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t we be hunting them down, anyway? Making sure they can’t hurt other people?”

At this point, your voice should be breaching stadium crowd levels, chiding your younger brother for his foolish determination. Instead, you can’t focus on anything else but the panicked thoughts swimming in your brain. No matter how powerful your brother was, you never relinquished your self-appointed role as his protector. You would practically bark at anyone who even looked at him in the wrong way, even as he grew older, bigger, taller. No one was safe if you felt your kid brother was in danger–not the geometry teacher, not his first boss, and definitely not that sophomore that called him an orphan in front of you.

But how could you stop a powerful crime boss? A cruel dictator? An otherworldly being with abilities beyond your comprehension? They would kill you without a second thought, wiping your blood off of their boots before stepping over your body to get to Tomas. 

“You’re doing it,” you find yourself saying. At this point, you’re gripping the cup tightly with both hands, the tips of your fingers paling from the sheer force you’re exerting.

“What?!” Tomas cries, exasperated you’re not on his side.

“You’re doing it,” you repeat. “Chrissake, Tomas, these are heroes who have saved the world. You’d think they would know a thing or two.”

Tomas huffs at you, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest. It kills you, bringing you back to moments in childhood where he would be told no to a shiny toy, or moments in adolescence where you told him he couldn’t stay out late. How small those moments feel now.

Your brother looks around the table, realizing he’s outnumbered. He mumbles his reluctant agreement as Bucky silently takes the cup from your vice grip. Feeling returns to your fingers, radiating throughout your body as you feel the slightest bit of relief. You’ll accept it, for now–you know it won’t last.

And so you find yourself straightening your back, trying to elongate your posture to match the two men in front of you.

“Absolutely not!” you tell them.

“Sis–,” Tomas begins, and you snap your hand up to quiet him.

“You’re training with Bucky nearly every damn day, and Sam, you’ve got him at your stupid therapy sessions–which you weren’t even in favor of, Tomas, need I remind you–this is so unnecessary–”

You slam your fork onto your plate, appetite gone.

“They’re not stupid,” mutters Sam, glancing at Bucky, who gives him an assuring shake of his head.

“He’s never been on a plane before,” you continue. “He’s barely even left the state–”

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Sam insists. “I’ve never even seen Kamar-Taj before–”

“So what, my brother should feel so lucky?”

“I kinda do,” Tomas pipes up.

“Shut it,” you and Bucky pipe up. You shoot him a glare, and Bucky uses your theatrics as an opportunity to get a word in.

“He needs this,” he insists.

“And you know what’s best for him?” you spit, slamming your palms on the table and standing up.

“Apparently,” Bucky shoots back, lifting himself out of his seat. All your prior glowers have merely been practice for the look you give Bucky now. He seems completely unphased, meeting your eyes with an unnervingly calm stare. You’re ready to give him a piece of your mind, index finger pointed accusingly in his direction, but Tomas cuts in.

“I’m going,” he says. You laugh in disbelief, but he repeats himself in a tone you’ve never heard from him before.

“I’m going, sis,” he repeats sharply.

“And you don’t get to speak for me,” he continues, rising abruptly. “None of you do. None of you are my parents.

“And you never will be.”

Tomas’s final sentence hangs in the air. His face falters for a brief second, but he quickly regains his composure, stiffening up before stomping off to his room. You and the two heroes seem frozen until the door slams. Sam recovers first, shaking his head and glancing at the both of you with his eyebrows raised in sympathy, before heading in Tomas’s direction.

You and Bucky let the silence continue. It feels like the echo of Tomas’s slammed door is still bouncing within the walls of your mind. You step away from Bucky, turning your back to him.

“Hey–”

You flinch, though Bucky’s voice is barely a whisper. He reels at your fearful response.

“No. No,” you say, almost automatically, though you’re not sure exactly what you’re saying no to. Your hand is gripping the back of the couch, and Bucky thinks you’re about to inadvertently break off your own fingers. He wants to reach forward, peel your hand off, and shake some sense into you. Instead, he does the opposite, creating more distance between you and sinking back into the dining room chair.

“I was always in there,” he starts. He keeps his voice low. It sounds like gravel in your ears.

“I remember everything. I tried to stop. Every day for ninety years. I begged my body to listen, but it was like I was in the backseat. You know, even if your possessions burn up, even if the clothes off your back melt away, even if everyone you love leaves, you’ll always have you. But I didn’t even have me. It took nearly a century and almost killing my best friend to come back.”

He looks up at you, eyes searing with pain. 

“I look in the mirror, and I gotta be honest, sometimes I don’t know who it is staring back. So who was it that came back? And at what cost?”

He rips his gaze away from you, burning holes into his metal arm.

“I couldn’t stop my body. Because I didn’t have my mind.”

“Bucky–”

"Let him go to Kamar-Taj. Don’t take away that chance from him. The world doesn’t need another…me.”

You take a deep breath.

When Sam eventually coaxes Tomas out of his room, he’s surprised to hear lighthearted quips. Tomas looks sheepish, trying to shrink himself behind Sam.

You’re speaking to Bucky: “So I’m guessing this elusive Camatidge–”

“Kamar-Taj,” Bucky interrupts.

“–Kamar-Taj doesn’t have wifi? You can only communicate with some sort of spell?”

The relic looks to Sam, hoping to tap him in for the modern technology question.

“I actually hear their wifi is crazy fast,” Sam chuckles.

While Bucky and Sam step out to call Dr. Strange and confirm their attendance, you focus on tidying up the kitchen. Tomas joins you, rinsing grime off of the dishes so you can load them into the dishwasher.

“Mom will never be you,” he finally says. “In the same way that you’ll never be her. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He chuckles as he watches the water run down a plate. “You’re both insufferable in your own special ways.”

You shake your head, meeting his mirth with a laugh of your own.

“It’s true–imagine if I got mad at you for leaving the house without ironing your shirt,” you chuckle.

“Or imagine if Mom yelled at my lit teacher because I got a B instead of a B+,” he retorts.

“It’s not your fault he had a personal vendetta against the Oxford comma,” you say. “...She would be proud of us, wouldn’t she?”

He passes you a mug. He knows you better than he knows anyone, which means he fully understands that your choice to continue his training was for Mom, not for him or you. He sees the way you wince when his capoiera opponent lands a strike, how you’re instantly on your feet when he doesn’t land quite right off of the parallel bars. He’s grateful, knowing the alternative would be doing nothing at all, but he wonders how much you allow your mom’s perceived influence to affect your decisions.

“I think she would want us to be proud of ourselves, sis. That’s all she ever wanted.”

You stop to stare at your brother. Though the bar’s low, that is the wisest thing he has ever said. You take him in, his tall figure, his lean muscles, the nose that was always a dead giveaway that you two were related. For once, you don’t see the little kid in overalls with melted popsicle on his shirt. You don’t see a scraggly teen looking at you in disbelief as you hunch over a “How To Shave 101” YouTube video together. You see a powerful, strong man who has more ambition in his pinky finger than most people have in their whole bodies, who wants nothing more than to make the world a better place.

You and Tomas snap your heads towards the door, watching Captain America and the Winter Soldier re-enter your home.

“We’re all set,” Sam confirms. “Pack your bags, kid.”

You can feel Tomas’s excitement radiating beside you. He looks ready to take off before he realizes he has a sponge and bowl in his hands. You nod at him and he drops the items in the sink, running to his room and inadvertently splashing you with soapy water on the way.

Bucky takes his place, rinsing off the dish before handing it to you. Sam follows Tomas once more, realizing your brother probably doesn’t even know what to pack.

“You were wrong,” you say as he hands you the final piece of cutlery.

“Here we go,” he muses as he rinses off the sponge, completely unaware that your next words would take his breath away.

“The world could use a lot more of you.”

And so you find yourself biting the edge of your thumb, trying your best to focus on the book you had selected from your shelf without much thought. It was an ill attempt to escape from the reality that your brother was in a foreign country, in the hands of two people you had just met a couple of months prior.

“Stupid retreat,” you muttered, flipping the page as though you had any idea what you just read.

You pick up your phone for the umpteenth time in the past twenty-four hours Tomas has been gone. It’s like you’re stuck in time, picking up your phone with the same hope of a notification, then feeling bitter disappointment when it’s only your bare lock screen. A few minutes of fruitless distraction later, and you lift your phone again, restarting the cycle.

The stupid novel is doing a terrible job at distracting you, so you think of Sam and Bucky’s advice. They’ve said it an infinite amount of times at this point, but it can’t seem to get through your thick skull.

Tomas is an adult, not a child. You can’t keep him sheltered, protected for the rest of his life. You can’t keep him from all the evils of the world, even if he was just a normal kid. The best way to protect him is to equip him with those tools and skills instead of expecting him to rely on you.

It’s great advice. Wise words, definitely. Just a lot easier in theory than in execution.

“Fuck!” you hiss, your nervous nibbling finally drawing blood. You quickly rush to clean and dress your thumb in the bathroom. You freeze. Is that–?

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

You run like you’re in the Olympics, damn near throwing yourself over the back of the couch to grab your device before the call goes to voicemail.

“Tomas! How is it? Did you get there okay?”

“It’s…Bucky,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Bucky,” you say, massaging your temples. “No, no, thanks for calling. How was the trip?”

“Great. Couldn’t have gone smoother. I tried to wrangle the kid to make this call, but he’s stupefied by the people making sparkles with their fingers.”

You find yourself laughing. “No, okay, that’s good. I’m glad he’s having fun.” You press your lips together, wondering if you believe yourself. “But if my brother comes back through a portal, Barnes, I’m coming to you first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles. You express your gratitude at his call and give your salutations.

Though you’re met with silence once again, it doesn’t hang as heavy.

And so you find yourself staring at the door. You sure as hell weren’t expecting company. With all the magic and supernatural in the world, maybe someone psychically divined that you really wanted a bowl of soup delivered to your doorstep. The past few days without Tomas have left you sleepless, and reprieve in the form of a comfort meal would be all too perfect.

Gingerly, you approach the door. Despite your hopes, you also acknowledge that the presence on the other side of your door could be dangerous. Fortunately, the brand new Stark security system can tell you who awaits beyond the wooden frame.

From the camera, Bucky adjusts the backpack clinging to his shoulder, waving a gloved hand at your camera. He’s back a few days early…without Sam or Tomas.

You fling the door open, and Bucky raises a hand to quell you before you’ve even started. You’ve never been on the receiving end of that before.

“He’s okay. I had to come back early to handle something.”

You stare at his muscular frame in your doorway. “Is that something me?” you question with a tilt of your head.

He furrows his eyebrows at your statement, then realizes the implication of his words.

“Oh, no–,” he begins, then pauses. “Just a quick check-in. Figured you were probably anxious and, I don’t know, rearranging the furniture for the seventh time.” He peeks over your shoulder jokingly, but you move to block him. His attempt at a jab was actually the truth, and you didn’t need him to know the dining table made a new home along the opposite wall.

You scratch your neck. “Even if it’s your mug I have to see,” you tell him, “I could use the company.” You step aside, beckoning him in.

He hesitates, and your eyes widen. He was expecting to make sure you were okay before retreating to his home across town.

You stammer, “Oh–sorry–you probably have places–”

“No–”

“–hero stuff–”

“I was just–”

“–shouldn’t have assumed–”

“Move,” he damn near barks. “Mug’s here to stay.”

You sit in silence for most of the night, save for your questions about Tomas, sitting on opposite ends of the couch and watching a silly slapstick comedy film. Though you can count on one hand how many words you speak to each other, you can’t deny the feeling of relief that washes over you.

In the morning, you wake up to sunlight filtering in from your living room window. You’re wrapped in a throw blanket, and you can feel the impressions your couch has left on your face. You’re groggy, and kind of confused.

But damn if that wasn’t the best sleep you’ve gotten all week.

As you pick up your phone to type out a mesasge, you wonder if it would be so bad to see if he could join you again.

Heyyy

Stop. Erase that now.

Free tonight?

What are you, a frat boy? Be serious.

I really appreciated you stopping by last night. I was wondering–

Is that bile rising in your throat? You would rather be the frat boy. You stare at the blinking cursor before opting to press the telephone icon in the corner instead.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Hi.”

“I, um–”

“I was actually in the area. You hungry?”

Your teeth find your bottom lip.

“Starved.”

You and Bucky are hunched over the dining room table, picking at the array of food he has brought over. You’re not sure if he’s aware that he bought so much food that you can barely see the color of your dining table, but you don’t mind. You hum as you bring the cup of chicken noodle soup to your lips.

Eventually, you’re stuffed, and Bucky huffs in amusement.

“What?” you say, leaning back in the chair.

“You both do the same thing,” he comments, drawing a circle over his own face with his finger. “When you’re full.”

Your eyebrows flick upward in amusement before you absentmindedly start replacing the lids on the takeout containers. He tries to help, but you smack his hand away. Bucky scoffs, but relents, leaning back with his arms comfortably resting across his torso.

“So he’s doing okay?” you say.

This is probably the third time you’ve asked, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

“More than okay,” he says. “Fantastic.”

“That’s good. You all haven’t suffocated him like I have.”

He lets out a long exhale.

“You’re just trying to protect him.”

Your nervous fingers trace the edge of the table, having lidded every container on the table.

“So you don’t disagree.”

There it is. That squint again, like he’s coming to conclusions about you that will forever be a mystery.

“I hope…,” he starts off slowly, “wherever my sister is…she has someone like you. The big sibling I couldn’t be.”

Your eyes widen at the confession.

“Dining table looks awful over here, by the way.”

And so Bucky has made your couch a temporary home for a few days, at your timid request. He has no issue honoring it, more than happy to keep you company. He's through ruining people's lives, but he realizes his and Sam's presence has only seemed to make things more difficult for you. He has been anxious knowing you were anxious, and staying over helps him just as much as it helps you. Though it does cause concern for your little brother, who is surprised to throw the door open and see Bucky stationed at the stove.

If Sam feels the same shock, he is much better at hiding it. He simply throws his bag at his feet as he settles on the couch with a plop, complaining, “Kid fell asleep on me for both flights.”

“Both?” Bucky humors him, shuffling a spatula underneath an egg.

“That’s, like, twenty hours each, man. Couldn’t even watch Cars in peace.”

“Your shoulder is surprisingly comfy.” Tomas can’t miss a chance to get a quip in, though he’s busy scanning the apartment you share. He approaches the couch, grabbing the throw blanket that he’s sure used to be buried in the back of the linen closet. Sam glares at him, feeling the tug underneath his bum. “You’d think with all those lateral raises you do…”

“I’m glad you think so,” Sam says wryly.

Come to think of it, isn’t that the pillow from your room that’s now under Sam’s elbow? Tomas reaches for it–is that a strand of Bucky’s hair that he’s seeing? Sam shoots daggers at the man invading his personal space yet again.

“Tomas, can I help you?” the hero demands, turning around to deliver yet another glower to the younger man.

“Did I hear twenty hours?” you say, stepping out of your room. “Tomas, do we need to make a doctor’s appointment?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve never felt better in my life,” Tomas responds, eyeing Bucky. He looks real cozy, setting four plates of breakfast down on the dining table. “Thanks…Bucky.”

“Yeah, thanks…Bucky,” you echo slowly as Tomas's perplexed eyes turn to you.

Over breakfast, your barrage of questions about Kamar-Taj finally quells the possibilities floating around Tomas's mind. He tells you about Dr. Strange and Wong, the mindfulness training he engaged in, the sorcerer trainings he observed, what his room looked like, how Sam snuck out one night to find pizza, how irksome airport security is, Kamar-Taj’s extensive library, how Bucky wouldn’t help him get the girl in 14C’s number, the protection spell Dr. Strange cast on him…

You let him go on, even when everyone’s plate is clear of food and the feelings of oversatiation subside. When he concludes his recollection with a deep breath of air, you reach over to grab his hand.

“I’m glad you had fun,” you say.

And you mean it.

Masterlist: {one} | {two}

A/N: next chapter takes a sharp turn ngl lol. excited for you to read it, thanks for reading!!

[artzypaw]

Semi SS redraw but with my design of fire flower Peach 🥺🔥✨

(plus an alt version of just her normal dress bc I missed her)

[nickfowlerrr]

This picture has ruined me. Now I need a fic with Bucky as your professor banging you in the library during regular hours.

clear your mind

pairing: professor!bucky barnes x curvy!reader

words: 7.5k

warnings: 18+ ONLY. smut. public sex. cockwarming. student/teacher relations. possible age gap depending on how you read it (reader is at least 25 or older but it’s not really specified and bucky is late 30s or older but again, not specified. imagine whatever you like.) i added an alternate kind of darkish ending that is separated with a divider near the end (duh) but of course you can choose to not read it and stick to the original cute ending lol. if i’m missing anything you feel needs to be added, please let me know.

notes: disclaimer: i never technically went to college so i don’t really know what i’m writing about lmao but when i say this was instant inspo, i mean instant. i’ve been in such a funk since i lost chapter four of keeping secrets, but this really ignited something in me so i just went for it. it was originally gonna be a little smutty drabble but then i started writing and it just became a whole one shot - not that i’m complaining lol. this was so fun to write, thank you @sammyisfat for sending it in! 🖤 i hope you all enjoy it! as always, feedback and comments are welcome and appreciated. and thank you in advance for reading and reblogging!

You were sitting hunched over, eyes scanning the same sentence repeatedly, trying to force yourself to focus. You were reading the words but you weren’t really putting them together. You were too bored to make them make sense. Your brain was far off and you were sure you were about to burn out completely at this point.

Why you thought going back to school after so long was a good idea was beyond you. Was the degree really worth it? You’d gotten this far without one, hadn’t you?

As you were contemplating your life choices, and working on convincing yourself to just screw it and drop out, you’d failed to notice the presence of two of your professors passing by.

You had been alone at the far back of the library, closed in by the sturdy cases of books around you, for so long you’d nearly forgotten you were actually there. You had needed solitude, lest the chatter of other students in study groups or working on projects distract you further than your mind already did on its own. Your back was to the open aisle so as not to get distracted by anyone passing by, either. The zone you were occupying was normally a hot spot, but on a Wednesday afternoon, not so much. And for that you were grateful.

The knock on the bookcase next to you accompanied by your name being called, almost in question, startled you as you quickly corrected your posture and looked toward the noise, adjusting the glasses you were wearing as you did. You were greeted with two pairs of blue eyes looking back at you. Standing next to the bookcase, waiting for your response were two of the most lusted after professors on campus. And that wasn’t just you thinking so. The way students fawned over both Mr. Barber and Barnes was near juvenile. They were like kids gossiping about their crushes in elementary school. It was always funny to you seeing the line of people waiting to speak with Andy at the end of class every Wednesday and Friday, whether they had a genuine question to ask or not. You couldn’t say you didn’t get it, though. He had great hair, a soft smile, kind eyes.. He was gorgeous. It was clear why so many people had a thing for him. But you always found yourself a little more than preoccupied with thoughts of Mr. Barnes. Though they were both at least six foot tall and unfairly attractive, easy enough to spread your attention between both of them, as most of their students did, there was just something about James that had you in a hold since the first day you met him.

It was your first day on campus and you’d accidentally bumped into him with your green tea as you were leaving the small corner cafe after your first morning class. You apologized profusely, but he’d claimed it was his fault, that he wasn’t watching where he was going. He insisted on buying you a new drink as he removed his tea damp jacket. You didn’t fight him on it, walking back into the cafe as he held the door for you. You introduced yourselves as you waited for the drinks to be made and spoke a bit. It wasn’t a super long interaction, both of you having places you had to be, but you would have sworn there was something there. And the glimmer in his eye as he smiled and told you he’d see you around convinced you it wasn’t one sided. You were instantly smitten, hopeful you would see him again, that maybe it could lead to getting to know him better, lead to something more.

That was until you walked into your afternoon class the next day to find him standing at a podium, setting up his orientation slides. You had been hoping all day to run into him, but this was certainly not how you’d been imagining the circumstances. Of course he was your professor. You breathed a humorless laugh to yourself as you found a seat. You got your laptop out and looked back up at the same time he looked up from his, making direct eye contact with him. You saw the instant he recognized you and gave him a tight lipped smile that he returned before you diverted your gaze back down. His look of disappointment matched your own, but at the very least, it made you feel wanted.. The “professor x student” trope was never really your cup of tea, but as the weeks went by, the stolen glances and secret longing stares you exchanged were starting to change your mind. After one particular heated night of self pleasure, absentmindedly picturing him while you were reveling in your own touch, imagining it was his, you knew you were really gone for him. And heaven help you, the idea of it really happening was growing hotter and hotter the more you told yourself you couldn’t. Imagining showing up to his office hours one evening and just letting him have you any way he liked. Letting him take you apart on his desk, or sucking him off under his desk while he works. God, you’d daydreamed so many scenarios.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to act on any of it. You didn’t know how to. More importantly, you knew you shouldn’t. It wasn’t like you were some barely legal star eyed student he’d be taking advantage of, but still, you were his student. You weren’t sure how that dynamic might play out or the optics of it for either of you. Instead you willed yourself to stay focused on the work, to keep your thoughts set on passing the course and that was all.

Even when you would find yourself needing actual help from him or needing to ask him about an assignment, you would always talk yourself out of it. You didn’t want to let yourself be alone with him, you couldn’t be trusted. You were worried you’d make a fool of yourself the second you got the chance. So instead, you’d get help from a classmate if you could or you’d end up just winging it. It had been working that far.

The real problem started just last week. This most recent section was challenging to say the least. You had tried the study group offered on Monday nights, but you got absolutely nothing done.

Your last essay assignment had been returned to you on Friday with a note on it, asking you to come by his office hours before the next class. You had been putting it off all week, but knew you’d have to go by Thursday. You just weren’t expecting to see him around any earlier than that.

“Professors,” you greeted, slightly taken aback.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Mr. Barber apologized. “Thought you might’ve heard us walking up.”

“I was uh, lost in the text, I guess,” you replied, giving them an awkward smile.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s reading it,” he laughed.

“Do you mind if we join you?” he continued, motioning to the otherwise empty table you were sitting at the end of. It was big enough to seat at least 8 people easily and it’d, of course, be rude of you to try and keep it for yourself. But what would they need to be in the library for anyway? The question must have been written on your face as Mr. Barnes answered it for you.

“The heat isn’t working in our offices. We’re just grading some work.”

“Right, yeah, of course. Go for it.”

“Thank you,” Andy smiled.

They took seats at the other end of the table, surely trying to avoid distracting you. You appreciated the gesture, but it was futile. As they worked on grading papers, they were talking and laughing every so often and even if they hadn’t been, their presence alone was not at all aiding you in your attempt to focus on schoolwork.

You’d given up trying to finish the passage you’d been reading and instead pretended to start making notes in your laptop. In all actuality, you were really just googling alternative career paths and the question: “Do you really need a college degree to be successful?”.

Thirty minutes later, Andy’s phone went off and he began to gather his things, telling Mr. Barnes, who he called ‘Bucky’, that he had a lecture in 45 minutes but he’d see him later.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Andy pointed at you as he passed by.

“Bright and early,” you affirmed with a nod and a small smile.

“Have a good night,” he smiled back.

“You too,” you returned.

The second he was gone, you became fully aware that you were now alone with Professor Barnes, the situation you’d been trying to avoid for the past almost three months. Despite your efforts, your entire focus was being pulled to the man just down the table from you. He was still grading, in the middle of someone’s essay as you glanced over to him. You admired the quirk of his brow as he read and how his tongue jutted out to lick his lip as his eyes scanned the words on the page. You pulled your gaze away from him and back to your laptop, deciding to close it and put it away, begrudgingly returning to your textbook. Just one more hour. You had promised yourself 2 hours of studying today minimum, you were halfway there. You could do it.

Not ten minutes later you heard the flipping of paper and glanced over to see he’d just finished the paper he was on, writing the grade on top of the first page. You looked back to your text just as he slid the paper down the table to you. You furrowed your brows as you watched it slide into your book. You saw the “C-” he had given it circled in red ink and immediately recognized the title. Your lips parted and you clicked your tongue as you looked back up to meet his eye.

“Anyone else that would’ve been a D,” he told you, sounding slightly disappointed. “Your work is normally a lot better than what you’ve been turning in lately. That’s why I asked you to come by my office hours.”

“Yeah, I- uh. I don’t know, I’ve just been having a hard time with this section,” you explained. “And I wasn’t ignoring your note, I was planning to see you on Thursday.”

“Well, we’re both here now, right?” he said and you nodded.

“Good a time as any,” you shrugged.

He got up and moved his stuff down the table to take the seat next to you. You closed your textbook and straightened up in your chair. Nerves eating at you as he sat and turned to angle himself towards you.

“My main concern isn’t really about you understanding the materials, all the concepts are there in your work, it's just..lackluster. Sloppily written, a bit jumbled here and there. Nothing like what you had been turning in at the start of the semester,” he said. “Are you sure it’s the section you’re having a hard time with?”

You looked at him for a moment, not really knowing what to say.

“What else would I be having a hard time with?” you questioned quietly.

It was his turn to look at you for a moment as he thought about how to word his response. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it before he finally spoke.

“You’ve seemed more and more distracted during class lately. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he said sincerely, his blue eyes gleaming into yours. He was already close, but you suddenly found yourself mindlessly leaning closer to him. You took a breath as you sat back, licking your lips ever so lightly without realizing as you looked away.

“I’m okay,” you told him. “Sorry I’ve seemed distracted. Well, uhm, been distracted. I don’t know why I’ve been having such a hard time focusing on this,” you lied, “but I appreciate your concern. I’ll work on being more present. And putting more effort into my writing.”

He smiled softly and nodded before he turned back in his seat, returning to his pile of papers.

You bit your lip as you sat there. Of course you knew why you were so distracted, but you couldn’t just tell him it was because of him.

“You know there’s a study group you can sign up for,” he said as he was still looking down, reading the new paper in front of him, red pen in hand.

“Yeah, I know. I just, uh, work better in smaller groups,”

“Alone isn’t exactly a group,” he lightly smirked with a slight tilt of his head.

“I’ve never really had the best focus when it comes to studying, anything. I get off topic and then I get everyone else off topic and then we end up having spent the entire session debating something trivial, like who the best Batman is,” you said.

“Christian Bale,” he responded.

“Obviously,” you agreed with a smile. “But uhm, yeah. Less distractions the better, so I try to avoid big groups. Though I’ll admit, just trying to stay focused on my own is a feat in and of itself,” you laughed lightly.

“Sounds like you just need someone other than yourself to hold you accountable. Have you thought about one on ones? I offer tutoring sessions that no one seems to want to take me up on,” he laughed. “I have three one hour sessions all still open for tonight, actually.. Not that you need tutoring, but you could use the time to work on your assignments without distractions - and I'd be there, of course, if you need any help.”

You told yourself to say no. You really did..

“Well it couldn’t hurt, right?” you breathed, a small smile on your lips. Just then the clock chimed three, drawing both of your attention.

“I have a class in twenty, I have to get going. But I’ll be in my office from five to eight, you can come whenever. Like I said, no one else has signed up, so whenever you can make it. Hopefully the heat should be working by then.”

“Okay,” you agreed. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Please, James is more than fine,” he told you. “I’ll see you later.”

When he left, you packed up your things - letting yourself off the hook for your two hour promise. You were gonna be studying later now, anyway so it wasn’t like you just checking out for the day. Your apartment wasn’t too far from campus, so you drove home and decided you’d head back around 6.

You made yourself a late lunch/early dinner and then got your things together for when you’d leave. You figured you had time for a quick nap, so you laid down on the couch with the tv still playing in the background. After about 45 minutes, you woke up feeling more flustered than you had felt all week. You were starting to regret your quick agreement to his one on one offer, but you couldn’t just not show up now. You were getting yourself worked up over nothing, you were sure. Really what could you do that would be so bad? It’s not like you were planning on seducing the man. You’d probably just ask him to review the essay you’d been working on that would be turned in at the next class and ask for clarification on the requirements for the part of your midterm paper you’d been confused about for the past two weeks. You probably wouldn’t even stay the whole hour.

Checking the time, you decided to head back to campus. You’d get to his office a little after 5 and you’d be home by 6:30 at the latest. It’d be fine.

As you walked up to the sturdy oak door that led to his office, two cups of coffee in hand, your nerves started anew. You took a second before you knocked lightly. A few moments later, the door was pulled open as he greeted you, ushering you in.

“I got you a coffee,” you offered with a smile.

“That’s very much needed, thank you,” he smiled back, taking the drink you’d extended to him. “Please, have a seat.”

You took the only chair across from his desk as he sat.

“So, I was wondering if you’d be able to go over my essay for this week. See if it’s missing anything, or if it needs to be rewritten entirely,” you laughed nervously.

“Yeah, of course,”

“Great,” you breathed, “I just emailed you a copy.”

He pulled it open on his screen and you watched for a moment as he began reading before you pulled out your laptop to work more on your midterm. You couldn’t focus though. Not with him right across from you. The little noises he’d make as he read caught your attention repeatedly and when you’d glance up, you’d find yourself admiring the shape of his face, the quirk of his lips, the squinting of his eyes.

“The whole point of this is so that you have no distractions,” he said as he continued reading before turning to look at you. “Something distracting you?” he asked, his eyes finding your own with something akin to a playful glimmer shining in them.

You opened your mouth to speak but you just shook your head instead, taking a steadying breath.

“No,” you answered after a second. He looked at you hard.

“You sure about that?” he asked again.

“No,” you repeated softly.

“Well since you can’t seem to focus on what you’re working on, why don’t you come over here and we’ll go over this together.”

You stared at him, gawking before your body finally moved. You stood up and he did the same, pulling his chair back for you to sit in as you rounded the desk. He pushed you back in and then leaned down behind you so he was at the same height you were, looking at the screen.

You were stiff and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. He was so close. And he smelled so good. And he was so pretty. God, you didn’t know what to do. You really couldn’t focus, even as he read your words aloud and went over a line you’d blubbed.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked, standing to his full height as he spun the chair around, looking down at you. Your eyes immediately landed on his crotch before you quickly looked away, trying to not look so flustered.

“Sorry,” you eked out.

“It’s obvious you have something on your mind. You’re clearly distracted,” he said, finding your eye. “I think you just need to clear your head to find your focus.”

“Right, well, I don’t really know how to do that,” you breathed.

“Why don’t you let me try to help,” he returned softly as he leaned down and grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to meet his as he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours.

You were definitely not expecting this to happen, but you weren’t upset in the least. His lips were soft and he tasted like coffee. Your hand found his hair as you pulled him closer to you, the gentle kiss turning into something hungrier the longer it went on. He pulled away suddenly and pulled you out of his chair before taking his seat and pulling you down onto his lap just as quickly, his lips returning to yours the instant he had you on him. Your arm wound itself around his neck as your other cupped his jaw, keeping his face close to you as he held you close to him.

Slowly, his hand traveled under your sweater and along your waist, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. He easily slipped his tongue into your mouth, eliciting a moan from you as he did. You felt his erection growing as you sat on his lap, smiling into the kiss as you teasingly rubbed against him, earning a groan from him in response. He broke away from you for a moment as you both caught your breath, “Tell me if you want to stop,” was all he said before he maneuvered you with ease. He sat you on the edge of his desk while he took your boots off before he pulled your leggings down your thick thighs, his touch sending chills through you as he did.

He made quick work of his trousers, pulling them down before he took himself out of his briefs. He sat back down on his chair as he looked at you with lust filled eyes. “Stand up,” he told you. When you were standing before him, he pulled you close by your wide set hips before his fingers hooked the band of your thong, dragging it down until they were past your thighs and dropped to your ankles. “Step out of them, sweetheart.”

You did as he said before he pulled you closer and got you onto the chair, positioning you so you straddled his lap, barely hovering above his hard cock. You were breathing heavily as your hands grasped his shoulders and his hands held your fleshy hips. He looked up at you like he was waiting for your permission and so you nodded softly down at him. He gripped himself with one hand and moved the tip of his cock along your wet slit, you gasped in unison at the feeling. He took his time and just played with you a bit until you were moaning, whining above him. Your eyes squeezed shut as he circled your clit before he moved to finally align his cock up to your slick entrance. He pushed his tip just inside of you and groaned at the sensation, his hands returning to your hips as he gripped you tightly, holding you there despite you wanting desperately to take more of him.

“James,” you whined. He shook his head.

“Call me Bucky,” he instructed headily.

“Bucky,” you whined further, trying to lower yourself further onto his cock.

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” he laughed. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mhm,” you moaned as he took your lips in his again.

“You want more? Want more of my dick inside you?”

“Yes, yes, Bucky, please,” you mewled.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you,” he said, kissing you along your neck, “but then you’re gonna focus on your work, okay?”

“Okay,” you agreed without really hearing him. You just needed more, you needed all of him.

He pulled you down further onto his cock torturously slowly as you gasped and mewled until he was seated fully inside of you.

“Fuck,” he grunted, eyes shutting in pleasure at the feeling of your tight walls squeezing him, at the warmth of your cunt around him.

You tried to move, but were stopped again by his hands holding you in place. He tutted as he looked at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

“What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart? We just agreed you’re gonna focus on your work now,”

“Huh? Right, right now?” you huffed.

“Right now,” he told you firmly.

You pouted as you leaned against his chest, your face pressing into his neck, even just that movement sparking pleasure through you.

“No pouting,” he laughed against your temple. You turned your face up to him, pout still in place before you leaned up further to kiss him again. Slow and heated, he got lost in your kiss. He almost didn’t stop you when you started rocking your hips against him. Almost.

You whined again as he held you still. His strength was impressive, you had to admit.

“Stop. Moving,” he growled, sending a new wave of arousal through you. “You’re gonna sit right here on my cock while we go over your essay and if you do a good job listening to me and stay focused, I’ll give you what you really want after. Understand?”

“Yes, professor,” you said quietly.

“Good,” he smiled, caressing your cheek as he looked down at you.

It was thirty five minutes of pure torture. He read a loud your entire essay and had you make corrections as he went, the entire time you could feel his thick cock throbbing inside your dripping cunt, just begging for any kind of movement. Near the end of your essay corrections, his hand dropped from your hip until he found your clit, slowly beginning to rub it in tight circles. You mewled pathetically and your walls tightened around his dick still deep inside of you while his lips attacked your neck with gentle kisses and love bites.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” he praised. “You took this from a C to an A with just thirty minutes of actual focus. All you had to do was face your distractions head on, find the right motivation,” he smirked against your skin.

“So we’re done with the editing then, right?” you asked.

“Mhm,” he hummed against you.

“Great,” you breathed as he brought you closer with his every touch.

“Fuck, you’re squezzing me so tight,” he groaned.

“I’m gonna come,” you mewled, breathing heavier still as his left hand tightened on your hip and his fingers worked your bud faster, sending you head first into your orgasm, his name falling off your tongue as you cursed and panted through your high, collapsing onto his chest.

“Oh my god,” he whined with a small gasp, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, can I come inside you?” he asked. You nodded your answer as you were still trying to catch your breath. He grabbed your face and crashed his lips into yours, hot and needy, while you felt him tense suddenly as his cock pulsed inside you and he moaned deeply into your mouth as he let himself go, you could feel the warmth of his release against your walls.

The evidence of your orgasm was all over his lap, coating his dick as he pulled you off of him.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. You didn’t think it was possible, but you felt yourself heat up even more than you already had been. “Hand me a tissue,” he said pointing to the box he had on the corner of his desk.

He cleaned himself up quickly before he pulled his briefs and trousers back up. He had you again on the edge of his desk as he bent down to clean you up, too, admiring the way his cum was leaking out of you before he grabbed your leggings from the floor, handing them to you. He pocketed your thong before he stood back up to his full height, towering over you.

“That was nice,” he laughed softly as he leaned down closer to you, his right hand framing your face, tilting it up to meet his eye, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin of your cheek before he leaned in to place a chaste kiss on your lips.

You smiled in response. “Yeah, it was,” you agreed.

“I hope you don’t find this inappropriate, but I’ve wanted you since the day we met.”

“The feeling is more than mutual,” you assured him. “But uhm. Is this..,” you gestured between the two of you, “allowed?” you questioned as you hopped off his desk to pull your leggings on.

“Well, it’s certainly not encouraged, but there’s nothing in my contract that explicitly prohibits it. I made sure a few months ago,” he said, eyeing you with a shy smile as if he hadn’t just come inside you after making you cockwarm him for nearly 45 minutes. It made you laugh. “I would prefer to keep this between us for as long as we can, though,” he hedged.

“Yeah, I completely agree. Don’t need these kids gossiping about me, too.”

“They do love to talk, don’t they?” he grimaced, causing you to smile at him.

“I’m sure we can keep this under wraps,” you said as you pulled your boots back on. “And I’d like to sign up for next week's one on one sessions, too, if you're available.”

“I’ll be sure to block it out for you,” he grinned.

“Might as well make it a standing weekly appointment,” you suggested as you walked back over to him from where he was perched on his desk.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he responded as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer while you stared up at him, your arms wrapping around him in return. “Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Dinner?” you questioned, pulling back slightly. “That doesn’t sound very underwraps,” you teased.

“A private dinner. At a private residence. My residence,” he clarified with a smirk.

“I’m free,” you nodded as you backed away and went to the other side of the desk as he turned around to watch you.

“Great, I’ll message you the address.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” you said as you grabbed your bag and slipped your laptop back inside of it. “I should get going, but, thank you. For everything,” you simpered. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. My door’s always open. I’ll see you tomorrow,”

“Tomorrow it is,” you nodded in agreement as you walked to the door. But before you could open it, Bucky was behind you, turning you around to face him. His lips met yours in a soft, unrushed kiss before he pulled away slowly, opening the door for you.

“Have a good night,” you breathed.

“You, too,” he smiled.

Three weeks later you had a routine set in place. Nothing changed much in class, except you found yourself paying more close attention to the material now that you weren’t so hopelessly longing for your professor. Wednesday’s were your one on one sessions in Bucky’s office and Friday nights had been spent at his place. This last week, you’d even stayed the three day weekend with him. You knew you weren’t crazy when you had thought there was something real between the two of you when you had first met, but you didn’t expect to have clicked so well the way you had. Your chemistry was unbelievable and you got on so well together. Plus the sex was incredible.

Fucking in his office was so cliche, but that didn’t make it any less hot. In fact, it was really the only place you called him “Professor” these days. The title just made things that much sexier. It was Wednesday afternoon and you’d just gotten out of your last class for the day. You were going to head to Bucky’s office in a few hours, planning to go to your apartment to freshen up before picking up some food for you both on your way back.

You’d just finished changing into more…accessible clothes when your phone rang. It was a text from Bucky letting you know that the heat in his office wasn’t working again, so you’d have to meet in the library instead as they’d be working on the unit in his room. You frowned slightly, accepting that you’d changed for nothing, but at least the skirt was still comfortable. You texted back asking if you should still bring food and he promised he’d take you somewhere after instead. Apparently only two of his students in his 3:20 class showed up, so he dismissed them for the day. He was already on his way to the library, so you grabbed your things and headed back to campus.

You walked around the library looking for him with no luck before you decided to walk up to the second level, which was technically closed off for some construction work, in order to get a better view. You spotted him easily in the far back section of the lower level as you stood at the railing of the second floor. He was sipping on a cup of coffee and you smiled as you spied a cup of tea waiting for you next to his satchel on the table while he read over some work.

You walked back down to the first floor and made your way to him.

“Professor,” you greeted as you knocked on the bookcase blocking the table he was at from an easy view. He greeted you in return as he looked up from his work, a smile on his face. His eyes caught on the low v-neck of the top you were wearing, your cleavage on perfect display. His tongue jutted out along his lower lip as he admired the view. You cleared your throat as you looked at him with a raised brow.

He looked back up to your eyes, smiling charmingly as if he hadn’t just been caught leering at you so openly.

“I’m here to study, not be perved on,” you accused.

“You know you need to clear your mind to get your focus, first. And you know what helps clear your mind best,” he alluded.

“You know we’re in public, right?” you asked, voice hushed as you walked closer to the table.

“It’s a Wednesday, no one’s gonna come back here,” he said smoothly. “We’re hidden from sight.”

“Not true,” you denied. “I saw you from the second level,” you informed him.

“Was anyone up there?” he asked.

“No..”

“Didn’t think so,” he said smugly.

“There’s not right now. Anyone could come in at any time. It’s the middle of the day.”

“You’re right,” he aquesqued, hands up. “All work, no play today. I got you a tea,” he offered.

“Thank you,” you smiled as you took the seat across from him.

“Wow, why are you sitting so far?”

“Where do you want me to sit?” you laughed.

“Preferably, my lap,” he started, earning a humored scoff from you. “But right here would be good, too,” he said, gesturing to the seat next to him.

You got up and moved spots, getting comfortable before you pulled up your essay on your laptop.

“Still going through midterms?” you asked as you looked over to him making marks on the paper he was reading.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Have you gotten to mine yet?”

“Not yet,” he said absently.

You nodded as you took a sip of your tea. You looked back to your essay and found yourself trailing off. It was pretty much finished, just needed to be read through again for any edits you needed to make. It wasn’t enough to keep your attention. Too easy. You could do it later no problem.

Instead you took out your text for Andy’s class and started reading next week’s assignment. You didn’t have much else to do. Funnily enough, you’d been getting most of your work done earlier than normal so you’d have less to actually do on Wednesdays, instead spending your “study” time focusing on other things…

You weren’t paying attention to anything, lost in perverted thoughts of last week when Bucky had fucked you agaisnt the wall in his office, while twirling your pen as you stared down blankly at the words on the page, not reading them at all. Pulling you from your perversions, suddenly you felt Bucky’s hand smooth its way under your skirt and up your thigh. His hand was so warm and strong as he touched you, sending chills through you as he scooted his chair closer to yours. You didn’t stop him and absentmindedly spread your thighs for him as he inched his way closer and closer to your inner thighs before his fingers made their way between them, gently rubbing at your warm, barely clothed pussy.

You came back to earth as you remembered where you were and reached your hand under the table to hold his, stopping his movements.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, professor?” you breathed.

“Helping,” he responded. “What did I say about distractions, sweetheart?”

“Who says I’m distracted,” you whispered as you heard chatter coming from the other side of the bookcase before it passed as some students made their way to the front desk from the back office you weren’t too far off from.

“You have that far off look in your eyes,” he spoke quietly, “and I saw you squeezing your thighs together not ten seconds ago.” You exhaled a breath so softly you barely even heard yourself.

“Maybe we can end this session early and call it a day?” you asked, wanting to get out of the library and meet him back at your place, or hell, meet him at his car and let him take you apart in the faculty parking lot.

“No, I don’t think so. We both have some work left to do.”

“Bucky,” you whispered.

“No calling me Bucky outside my office while we’re on campus,” he reminded you. “You know better.”

You bit your lip before whispering sorry.

“You just need to face your distractions so you can get past them,” he said. “Let me help.”

You let go of his hand beneath the table and spread your thighs a little wider.

You almost stopped breathing completely when he slipped his fingers past your panties and gently pushed inside of you as one of the librarians passed by the aisle over. She peered behind the bookcase that was shielding you from the side to see who was at the tables and greeted both of you quietly before she returned to the aisle and reshelved some books. Bucky’s fingers didn’t stop for even a second as he returned her greeting and went back to grading.

The second you knew she was gone you panted a breath. “James,” you chastised as you sat in your seat still, making no attempt to actually stop him.

“More?” he questioned without looking up from his work, only speeding up his fingering, curling them inside of you. You bit down harshly on your lip to stop yourself from moaning out loud, your thighs tensing with the impending wave of pleasure you were teetering on before he slipped his fingers out of you, a school boy smirk playing on his lips.

You exhlaed heavily and shakily before looking over to him, shocked. He finally looked back at you, still smirking.

“I wanna try something. If you want me to stop, tell me,” he said as he removed his hand from your thigh and stood up abruptly. You could see the outline of his erection through his trousers and found yourself getting more aroused. You didn’t know what he wanted to do, but assumed it'd be something at least a little discret. Along the lines of putting you in his lap again, or even just having you get him off. So when he pulled you up and spun you around, pushing you down against the table, you were surprised to say the least. You heard him unzip his pants as he pulled himself free and then pulled your panties down your thighs. You couldn’t even think as he prodded you with his cock, and gasped loudly when he finally pushed into you. His hand was on your mouth in an instant as he leaned over your back, his mouth next to your ear as he spoke. “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he panted. “You don’t want anyone to see us back here, do you?”

Your gurgled moan was his response as he began fucking into you, keeping your chest firmly againt the sturdy table, one hand on your mouth and one holding your wrists behind your back. You were panting as quietly as you could as he slid in and out of you, getting deeper with each thrust. He took his hand away from your mouth after a moment and gripped your hip to keep you a little more steady, trying to keep your hips from slamming so hard into the wood. The salacious sounds of his pelvis slapping against your ass with his thrusts were only making you more slick as he moved his hand from your wrists to keep your skirt pushed up as he fucked you from behind.

It was taking all of your willpower to keep quiet, your mouth open in silent moans as you tried to keep yourself breathing. His thrusts were getting more powerful the longer he went. Each time you heard people passing by, your cunt gripped his cock even tighter at the thrill of the proximity, and Bucky didn’t miss it.

“Who knew you were so fucking kinky,” he panted into your ear. “You like getting fucked in public, huh? Like the idea of anyone walking by and seeing you get fucked out of your mind? Seeing you getting claimed by me,” he husked.

You mewled as quietly as you could and nodded your head in affirmation. “I like it,” you whispered pathetically.

“I know you do,” he laughed before fucking into you deeper, making sure you felt every inch of his thick cock gliding against your velvety walls, squeezing him tightly.

“Professor, please,” you pleaded quietly.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he grunted as he gripped your hip harder still, pulling your ass flush against him before he began rutting into you desperately. He leaned his weight onto you as he kept you pushed down, flush against the table. His hand left your skirt and found your clit, adding to the growing pressure building in your abdomen as he rubbed you, fucking you and stimulating all the most sensitive spots along your walls. Before you knew you were, you came completely undone, the familiar white hot pleasure induced euphoria spreading through you as you came around him, squeezing him like you never wanted him to leave you empty again. And truth be told, you didn’t. You’d never felt so fulfilled or satisfied in your life.

He could barely move as you came around him, but after a few more thrusts, he shot his load inside of you, cursing under his breath as he came, panting. After a moment, he pulled out gently and slid your panties back up for you, pushing your skirt down before he fixed himself. You were still reeling from the intensity of it all when you stood, a little wobbly, from the table.

Cute planned ending:

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you breathed, turning around to face Bucky. “We really just did that,” you said, still in shock at yourself while Bucky grinned proudly before looking around a bit, just making sure you were still alone. He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you close, leaning down to kiss you deeply, letting you go for a second before kissing you harder again.

“We did. And now,” he said, ushering you back to your seat, urging you to sit down, “you're gonna finish editing your paper while I grade a few more of these midterms, no distractions.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered as you looked up at him still standing while you were seated once again. “I’m the one sitting here with come leaking out of me,” you complained.

“Is it that distracting for you, sweetheart?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Yes,” you responded.

“No problem. I can help with that, too,” he smirked as he got down on his knees, crawling under the table to kneel at your feet as your eyes went wide while you watched him. He pulled you to the edge of the chair before he slipped your panties off completely. “That essay better be ready to turn in by the time I get back up, do you understand?” he warned. You could feel his breath against your folds as he got closer.

“Yes, professor,” you mewled pathetically as you spread your thighs even wider for him.

Alternative kind of darkish ending:

You felt eyes on you as you turned around, but it wasn’t Bucky. You looked up to the second floor and could have sworn you saw Andy passing by, worry flooding through you instantly. You weren’t sure, though. Maybe he was really just walking by and hadn’t seen anything. Maybe it was no one at all and you were just imagining things. You almost didn’t even want to say anything about it, just act like you hadn’t seen, or thought you saw, anyone at all.

Until Andy came knocking on the bookcase, from the opposite direction, startling you as you gasped and spun around, hands flying to make sure your skirt was smoothed down completely, unconscious backing toward where Bucky was. Andy looked between you both for a second before he spoke, a knowing, devilish smirk growing on his face as he looked at you in a way you’d never seen him look at anyone before. Lewdly, leering, lustful, even.

“What’s goin’ on down here?”

You looked back at Bucky, hoping to find some kind of reassurance or protection, but he was completely unphased at the presence of his friend.

“You enjoy the show?” he asked, unamused.

“I think I could put on better,” he shrugged, eyes still locked on you, even as Bucky pulled you into his side.

“What do you think, sweetheart? Wanna let him try?”

[buckysimp101]

Everything the Light Touches (18+) - Masterlist

Mafia!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: It started with two kids. Two stupidly in-love kids, forcefully separated with threats of violence and war. One destined to inherit part of the seedy underworld of Manhattan, one blissfully ignorant of their role in it. Their lives split ten years ago but now they’re back. Secrets will be uncovered, lies will be revealed, and empires will fall.

Story Warnings: Smut, Language, Violence, MINORS DNI. More specific warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.

Keep reading

[flordeamatista]

Mob AU! Bucky sweeps into your life like a whirlwind. And for a small town girl like you, this tornado of a romance is nothing short of awe inspiring. Money, cars—anything you want is yours, you have only but to name it. And so of course when Bucky asks if you’ll be his, his girl, and one day his wife, you say yes, and move right in.

😈

Lover of Passion

pairing: soft dark!Mob!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

concept: Bucky lusts after you, and you crave the chance to feel more of your own desire.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: soft dark reader and soft dark bucky, manipulation, twisted love, desire, lust, greed, main character death, soft poetic smut- nickname:trandafirul meu (my rose)

a/n: This is for @boxofbonesfic The Monkey's Paw 7k challenge! Congratulations, love. You are such a beautiful loving light on this Tumblr world.

lovely betas: Thank you for making sure this makes sense @s-tarksintern and @purpleshallot

Masterlist

A soft summer breeze softly ruffles the petals as the sky casts a shimmering ray on the flower. The red rose stretches its neck and slowly opens its eyes, and the calm sunlight just smiles at it. A compassionate gesture fills the garden with the aroma of flowers. 

The grey sky is visible from high above the ground. 

In the distance, the sun is rising, the colors are melting, and the clouds are hurriedly clearing to make way for the glowing disc.

You see how the rose spins and how each petal represents the layers of power of living in his world as his queen. Out of all the women in the world, he picks you. In his chaotic garden of danger, you are his rose.

Standing in your garden's wet grass, you are barefoot. You wish to cherish the moment. Closing your eyes you try to hear the dawn chorus of birds. Your ears are filled with sweetness. 

Your love for him makes you want to weave his veins with yours.

He has given you this sense of freedom and safety. Your Bucky.

You feel a burning desire for him since you first met him. That red desire, it embodies how much power he holds over you. It is the power of a man, a mafia god. 

Bucky is the man for you. He is the one who shaped you into the person you are now. The one who transformed you from a naive small-town girl to the virtuous possessor of everything, that you are today. 

To have your body free for his use and care for his feelings is all you need to do. At night, the intimacy of the shared room is accompanied by moans. Each and every moan that he makes in that room as he touches every inch of your body. 

It is in my heart that you are mine, but who is yours?

Bucky is a ruthless man in the world he lives in. 

At first, you appeared to be a crimson rose in that park's garden, ready to be worn down by his love. Bucky destroys, and he has no concept of love. Until you appeared as though you were a beam of sunshine. He saw how the red dress wrapped around all of your curves like a scarlet bow. His gaze was drawn to you as a frail, innocent girl, oblivious to the world around her.

His first day with you is still fresh on his mind. It was that night that he claimed every part of your body for himself.

In the azure night, his dark blue eyes were fixed on the road ahead, rushing through the town's charcoal night streets. 

Every decision he made was calculated, from the moment he met you to the moment you fell into his arms. You thought you had made a decision when in fact the decision was already made for you. He had to be loved. A decision he had made as desired. 

The exquisite touch will ruin you. The romantic innocence from which you once drank has been robbed. The dark blush of his lust led you to sin.  He loves you and desires to be with you.

There is passion and journey and the buried flesh of the unconscious, and the only victim is you.

He meticulously created this red love by hand. He created you in his love, with your sweet spirit and your beautiful smile. Your lips glimmer with lust, your voice soothes, and your touch subdue. 

It was difficult to resist the shiver of joy at his devouring gaze when you cast a couple of glances his way. His jaw clenched and his eyes were fixed in your direction.

A pair of hands that are both thick, callous, and tender at the same time. The trail that’s left behind was engulfed in flames. Leaving you completely burnt for him. As his fingertips caressed the inside of your thigh, he took and relished its tenderness.

That night was the first time Bucky made you his. And that night you learned a much familiar truth. One that brings you simmering comfort now.

The flower growing over your heart reaches out to him when you have nothing else on your mind but for him.

Each room of the mansion is covered in the jam color of roses. Every morning, he'll leave you a note telling you what to do. Live this lucid life thinking you had all the freedom in the world, but all freedom belongs to him. It was only to him that you gave. He came and took. You crave for something else than becoming a mob boss's wife.

“Take your clothes off for me, trandafirul meu.” 

As you go back, your devious smirk comes on your face, your lustrous eyes never leaving him as you comply with his instructions. You're used to being able to please Bucky. 

His expression is hungry and voracious as if he is going to swallow you. Embraced by something that is far greater than simple seductive passion.

A quiet, pleased moan escapes his lips as he reaches for his enormous bulge, tugging himself out of the dark black slacks seams. When he sees you undress, he strokes his cock slowly and appreciatively, sliding his bottom lip between his teeth.

Bucky isn't surprised when you take your time. Hands stroking slowly and seductively across your flesh. 

“How do you want me, tonight?”

You whisper a hot groan into his ear as you press him onto the bed, your lips seductively caressing his earlobe for a brief second before drawing back. You brush your lips over his before putting a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, your gaze fixated on his as the words he allows send shivers down your spine.

It nearly seems like love the way you glide your fingertips down his skin. When you offer yourself to him, your arms wrap around him like chains, clinging to his flesh like lovers do. How you trace lazy patterns on his flesh, how you unintentionally gravitate towards him.

And you, don't waste any time. 

You end the night with his cock in your pussy and the fragrance of you on him. And he sees bricks of blood - red hues in the atmosphere, as well as bouquets in the air. He sees love transferring him to a changing area.

He has so many unspoken wishes. When he touches you, the roots of your flower grow deeper into your heart; when you kiss him, his eyelids close.

As you caress his skin in such a gentle way, there seems to almost be an element of love in it for him. Almost.

Observing the roses from the vantage point of the raindrops, it looks as if the petals are being caressed. The roses cling to love; everyone yearns for it. You clung onto love. 

When you first fell in love, love had an entirely different meaning, but now power is all you want. Your true love.

You lay your forehead on his and breathe in his power as if it were more vital than oxygen. You give him a kiss. Partly because you can't waste an opportunity. Partly because you can't stop yourself, and partly because you believe Bucky deserves more kisses in his life. 

This red dress brought you a world, and Bucky was a dread soul when you both first met. 

You had planned the entire encounter in order to take over his life. He rots in your garden's spirit, becoming the fuel that allows the roses to thrive.

The petals fall from your hand into the soil. You step on a crimson splash, and the brown dirt eats it up. 

You remember when his face was a stoned lust red, his blue eyes were filled with drops of his favorite color, and his mouth was wet and open. It was the first time you fell in love with his greed. Not him.

Power's greed.

He created this universe with you, and you ruin him for the sake of your own lust. 

Gently, without compromising your position, you make him kneel before you. It never occurred to the gardeners that they needed a mob body in the garden to bring beauty to the roses.

I admire my world and the garden admires your love.

[cheriesteve-deactivated20230701]

───── 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐒. ─────

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— characters i write for.

chris evans + co. | chris evans, andy barber, ransom drysdale

marvel cinematic universe | steve rogers, bucky barnes, natasha romanoff, sam wilson, druig

criminal minds | spencer reid, emily prentiss, aaron hotchner

the walking dead | rick grimes, negan

misc. | harry styles, andrew garfield, henry cavill

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— what i will write/what you can request.

dark themes (dub-con and stalking), ddlg, smut, fluff, angst, poly relationships (mostly stucky), all au’s accepted,

please specify a certain kink you may want in a request because there may be some i am not comfortable with

song, tv shows, or movie concepts/requests are also acceptable

if you have a request from one of my series i am currently working on you are more than welcome to send it in! (endless love au is my only series i am working on for now)

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— what i won’t write.

underaged smut (in general i do not write for underaged characters/readers), pedophilia, incest, mental, physical, or sexual abuse

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— reminders before requesting.

you must be 18 years or older to send a request. by sending a requests whether it is smut or fluff you are acknowledging that you are of age. minors do not interact with my blog and do not send me requests.

please emphasize if you want me to write a oneshot, blurb, or headcanon. plus the name of who you want me to write for.

very important! || please keep in mind that my stories are latina!reader inserts. please do not send a request for it to be just a reader insert. i’m latina and it’s sad not seeing either enough or not the right representation so my stories will now and always be latina!readers.

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