aria

[barnesandashes]

─── I'M A BROOKLYN BABY !

ABOUT ME ⊹ ࣪ ˖ aria. 18. she/her. minors dni! the biggest tfatws bucky enthusiast ever. very slow updates, pls bear with me ily. REQUESTS ⊹ ࣪ ˖ open request guidelines MASTERLIST ⊹ ࣪ ˖ aria’s collection of works OTHER ⊹ ࣪ ˖ my asks are always open! i also have a taglist, feel free to shoot a dm, ask, or comment on any of my posts to be added!

[houseofhyde]

.✦ ── hyde hits five-k .ᐟ

so, i hit 5k followers. this is genuinely crazy to me. the house is overcrowded and i have claustrophobia, please get out (jk, please don’t leave me).

i usually prefer to just make a silly post for these kind of things but i wanted to give a proper thank you! i know i might sound like a broken record for how often i say this but... it really means a lot to me that people spend time reading my fics. the past few months have brought me so much joy, i’m so glad i watched thunderbolts and let my bucky obsession take over again. i love you all so much, thank you for allowing me to infiltrate your dashboard <3

i’d love to do a drabble celebration but, unfortunately, i’m already swamped with wips and assignments :( so, i would like to instead take a moment to highlight (some of!!!) the amazing writers in the bucky-sphere. there’s every chance you already know everyone on this list, but if i can help even 1 person find their new favourite writer, i’ll feel like i’ve succeeded.

disclaimer! please read the warnings on these fics, i am not responsible for what you choose to consume. proceed with caution and do not harass the writer. if you see a fic tagged with this font, it features taboo/dark topics.

ignore how cringe and lame i sound in this, i was trying my hardest to not just repeat myself over and over while praising these writers. this list is in alphabetical order!

🥤— @54nboo | masterlist

erin… my favourite cryptid south of the equator. who else could write a fic about getting your shit rocked by bucky while super bass plays in the background, and still manage to make it goonable material? funny, witty, and with the ability to write some of the raunchiest yet heart wrenching fics, erin is an amazing writer. the fact they love bob is just the cherry on top 👅 ★ — double agent

🥤— @barnesandashes | masterlist

everyone salute me for being brave and getting over my shyness (aka mentioning mutuals i’ve never properly interacted with before) anyway! aria is an amazing writer, she’ll post some toe-curling smut only to hit you with a headcanon all about bucky yearning and suddenly you’re melting for other reasons. to this day, i am still haunted (in the best way) by congressman!barnes saying, “like i don’t smell your arousal every single time we’re in that office together.” ★ — need a ride?

🥤— @barnesonly | masterlist

if you’re a bucky fic consumer and you don’t already know sophie, what the hell have you been reading? it’s lowkey illegal to lust after bucky barnes and not know her! i feel like i’m going to be saying this about everyone on this list but her writing is out of this world, as are her plots and her graphics. holy crap, her graphics! prettiest blog award goes to barnesonly (and anyone else i decide to give it to). ps. write more of sentry and my life is yours. ★ — god complex

🥤— @blowingbarnes | masterlist

bbl is my literal twin, did you guys know that? yeah... we were separated at birth and reunited by bucky and goon. the absolute queen of series, no one does yearning quite like bbl. seriously, how do you make my heart and my pussy throb with the same sentence? viscount barnes you will always be famous. hotd!bucky, the day you drop is the day i die (from excitement). ★ — vital signs

🥤— @bckysdoll | masterlist

i’m not exaggerating when i say that i love every single fic zey has posted. there is something so yummy about the way she writes bucky, i wish i could inject her rendition of him into my veins. the recent housewife kink fic that she posted... yeah... i have to do a lap around the room any time i think about it. i need that man carnally, you don’t understand. ★ — size difference

🥤— @bckyslover | masterlist

when i was a little kid, bambi was one of my favourite movies... and now bambi is one of my favourite fic writers... call that life cumming full circle or however that expression goes. from lighter, fluffier fics, to darker, panty-dropping smut, bambi’s masterlist likely has a fic tailored to whatever you’re in the mood for. i think about older neighbour!bucky too much for it to be considered healthy... i need that man up my bootyhole, stat! ★ — older help

🥤— @buckyfmd | masterlist

so, fun fact! i keep reading poor drea’s url as bucky fuck my dick because i’m dumb like that. anyway, onto more important matters, like drea’s jaw-dropping writing. no man has ever made me feel half as turned on as the smut i’ve encountered in her fics, me and my pussy owe her many thank yous. also, her blog is just so satisfying to look at. the pink hue scratches an itch in my brain. i’m cheating a little with this fic rec (since it’s technically a wip) but i need the world to know i’m on my knees and impatiently waiting for beyond my years to drop. i’m also mourning the loss of another fic that was supposed to be linked here... he’ll always be present in my heart. ★ — beyond my years

🥤— @buckytakethewheel | masterlist

i adore marta’s writing, in any and all the shapes it comes in (smut, angst, fluff, etc.) i feel the same way about her fic distraction as taylor swift feels about that damn restaurant: help... i’m still there... i reread it and wait for that idiot to not walk out on the reader, only to get pissed off all over again when he inevitably does. i seriously need to have a proper deep dive into her masterlist, because every fic i read of hers is top-tier. ★ —a lesson in heroism

🥤— @chateaubarnes | masterlist

if bbl is my twin, aluri is my cosmic soulmate. my other half. we are two sides of the same coin, if the coin was built on second-guessing and an old kpop obsession that brings us nothing but shame (okay it doesn’t bring us that much shame). i’ve sillied, now i must serious... i feel so proud of the fact i’ve gotten to watch aluri go from being a reader to also being a writer in the bucky community. her fics are nothing short of brilliant, not to mention she’s a blessing when it comes to sharing tips for making dividers/moodboards. after reading the merger, i can no longer look at the word inevitable the same way. that word does not belong to thanos, it belongs to aluri and she is using it to make me horny 🥀 ★ — sin eater

🥤— @cursedheartsclub | masterlist

in writing this fic-rec, i’ve made the discovery that there are so many fics by liv that i’ve yet to read... and, while i’m lowkey disappointed in myself, i feel like a kid in a candy store staring at her masterlist, trying to decide which treat i want to read first. because trust i will be reading them all, that is just the kind of writer liv is: you want to soak up every word that’s been written by her. and, the best part is, she writes for so many more characters apart from bucky! really, we should all be on our knees right now thanking her for sharing her fics with us. ★ — the secretary clause

🥤— @danysdaughter | masterlist

i really don’t think i need to explain or introduce lizzy; if you’re a bucky fic reader, you already know who this legend is. quite frankly, i need her to sit down and teach a masterclass on how to craft the most spine-tingling and heart-aching fics, time after time. it’s truly a talent to not only write like lizzy does, but to do so both consistently, and with new and inventive plots each time. i will never tire of seeing danysdaughter appear on my dashboard, every single fic is better than the last. ★ — forever mine

🥤— @earthsmightiestbenders | masterlist

claire... the icon that you are, diva... it’s actually devastating that there’s only 2 fics on claire’s masterlist but hey, all the best gems are considered rare! and, trust me, her fics are gems. her smut has me ripping my hair out (context: i love my hair. this is a big deal to me) but, more importantly, the charming loser (i say, with so much affection in my voice) that is football!bucky has me in a chokehold, and i’m begging him to squeeze tighter. if one hot super soldier isn’t enough, don’t worry, because she also blessed us with a stucky fic. she is fr doing the lord’s horny work every time she hits post. ★ — the popsicle incident

🥤— @firingstars | mcu + dcu

yari is the princess of the land, and i am but her humble executioner. everything about her is top-tier, you people don’t even know! writing? 10/10. aesthetics? 10/10. humour? 10/10. personality? 10/10. i quite literally owe her my life aka my place in bwa. her masterlist is a treasure chest of outstanding fics, the fact we all get to read them for free is a miracle, don’t take it for granted! read her fics! right now! or she’ll order me to execute you... ★ — hold on (even if it’s fake)

🥤— @flockoff-featherface | mcu + dc + dmc + got

my sweet roe. my roeman empire. her fics have this charming quality to them where it feels like the narrator is taking you by the hand and guiding you along for a journey... of course, sometimes that journey is getting bent in half and stuffed full of [redacted], and by the end you’re clutching your pearls and wondering how you’ll ever recover from reading something so filthy (spoiler: you will recover, until the next time the demon of goon possesses her and blesses you with a new fic). smut aside, she has some of the most literary interesting plots, from a frankenstein inspired jason todd fic to my beloved dnd bucky. don’t even get me started on her robb stark series... just, don’t... ★ — dungeons, dragons and desire

🥤— @heldbybarnes | fluff + smut

contrary to the rumours, kennedy is not bald. she is, however, threatening to scalp me every time she hits post. which fortunately is often, because i don’t know what the bucky fic community would do without her. she really has a fic for every idea ever. nevermind rule 34 of the internet, rule 35 is if you can think of a plot, kennedy has written it. and she knocks it out of the park every. single. time. do you understand how difficult that is? i write one fic and suddenly need to go on a sabbatical. god bless kennedy, please never ever go bald! ★ — the mirrorball effect

🥤— @honeysucklewatr | masterlist

nic... 🚬 nic. i need a cigarette whenever i think too long about bucky not only letting vampire!reader drink from him, but begging her to do it too? oh. oh. anything and everything nic posts immediately gets filed into my tbr. i don’t need to read the synopsis, because i’m going to love it either way. every time i get a mention notification for nic’s taglist, my brain plays that tiktok audio, another one, thank you! but with utter delight. god bless the fact nic also writes jason todd fics, you guys have no idea the kind of win that is for me. ★ — the blood we’ve spilt

🥤— @iamthatonefangirl | masterlist

there is a reason why bri is that one fangirl, the rest of us really can’t even dream of being on her level, i need her to teach a masterclass on filthy smut (she’s going to hate me for saying that). no but for real, she has had an impact on my psyche and i have not been the same since i first read her rendition of the winter soldier. he’s so hot, i need him carnally. i already wanted john walker before, but something about the way she writes him makes me want him even more. if you are doubting anything i’ve said about her writing, just know this: i literally started watching the boys just so i could read her soldier boy smut (a character that doesn’t even appear until season 3). anyway, please support and give love to my cousin bri. long live uncle bucky! scotland forever! 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 ★ — dirty little secret

🥤— @its-in-the-woods | masterlist

i’ve said it before and i’ll gladly say it again: krys writes the best dark fics. they’re truly such a talented writer, i get excited every time i see they’ve posted a new fic. i don’t know what it is or how they do it, but krys manages to portray such twisted characters in a way that has you rooting for them, you want them to succeed at their crimes. dark fics aren’t their only forte though, the rest of their fics are amazing too. ★ — i am with them

🥤— @juniebjonesin | masterlist

if you haven’t already checked out june’s fics, you’re missing out. her writing has literally made me gasp out loud, it’s ridiculous. and, while her smut is amazing (for all my fellow goon freaks out there), the real highlight amongst her fics is her on-going series, solitary love. i’ve only managed to read the first chapter so far but, oh my god, it’s tugged at my heart strings. june really is proof that the bucky fics community stays winning, we should all feel so lucky to have her be part of it. ★ — solitary love

🥤— @mcrdvcks | sw + mcu + dc + misc. + it's-tober!

if being an amazing writer was a crime, abby would be in solitary confinement at this point. she has the ability to portray bucky in a way that feels so true to his character, whether it be in a raunchy scene or a fic designed to tear your heart apart. her bucky fics are just the tip of the talent iceberg, however. maybe it’s just the massive nerd in me but it’s genuinely a blessing that she writes for the big three aka marvel, dc, and star wars. in case it’s not obvious enough, her works are outstanding, do yourself a favour and read them! ★ — love on the brain

🥤— @metal-armed-muse | masterlist

picture me, helpless and horny, gnawing on the bars of my enclosure, begging to be released. yeah. that’s how kie’s writing makes me feel. like, i actually think i could chew through cement after reading her work — smut, fluff, or angst. not even her metal armed muse could pry me away from reading her fics. babydoll... i’ve not even had the chance to read babydoll yet, but i already know it’s amazing. ★ — media darling

🥤— @opheliabbarnes | masterlist

to you, ophelia is the queen of nerdy!bucky; to me, ophelia is the creator of the hare. we are not the same. whatever fic of phee's you choose to read, she has the ability to capture intricate, complex emotions and infuse it into a simple sentence. with smut so hot it’ll make you squirm (and, sometimes, learn a thing or two about fish) and prose that could easily pass as poetry, her fics are always a delight to read. it’s hardly surprising that her writing is so good, though... she’s a the secret history fan, amazing writing is to be expected. ★ — the better choice

🥤— @pinksplace | masterlist

hey, so, did you guys know em invented the colour pink? yeah, we all owe her a massive thank you. and not just because she blessed us with one of the prettiest colours, but also because she is doing this community a service by sharing her writing. holy shit, i cannot stress enough how sexy, flirty, and funny her writing is, her pinktober series is truly elite. and don’t even get started on her graphics... outstanding... amazing. ★ — tell me i’m your national anthem

🥤— @rosesaints | mcu + jjk + miguel o'hara + dcu

mara is hands-down a legend in this community. i’m struggling to even start praising her because how could i possibly capture in simple words how amazing her fics are? heartfelt, humorous, and so well-written it’s almost offensive that it was posted for free on tumblr.com, there is not a single fic by mara that is not sure to have you obsessed and invested within the first paragraph. i bow down the saint that is rosesaints. hopefully life loosens up on her soon and gives her the chance to rest. ★ — mystery of love

🥤— @sheriff-bodecker | masterlist

i think i owe emmi a thank you for single-handedly making me feral about lee bodecker again, in the big year of 2025. matter of fact, i think we all owe emmi a thank you. i’m an absolute sucker for any sub!bucky but there’s something so particularly yummy about emmi’s depiction of him. the smut is spine-tingling, the aesthetics are bright and happiness-inducing, and her masterlist is just one massive indulgence in variety. long live tboy bucky! ★ — about a boy

🥤— @superbassbuck | masterlist

the lion may not concern itself with anything, but i concern myself with the lion. pauline is one of the best writers on this godforsaken app (though this applies to everyone on this list… you’re all so good 🫩🫶🏻). it’s such a privilege to watch the ideas she shares in bwa come to life. one minute she’s silly, and then boom! jaw-dropping smut. don’t even get me started on her numerous dilf!bucky series. while her writing skills are otherworldly, what’s equally impressive is the speed and consistency at which she puts out hit after hit. teach me your ways, oh mighty lion. anyway, don’t you dare read her url as superb ass buck, or me and 9,999 miniature 2011 era nicki minajs will find you and we will hurt you. ★ — licensed for lust

🥤— @tw1sters | masterlist

i recently found sam’s work… and i’m mad at myself that it took me so long read her fics. her smut was hot enough to somehow breakthrough the invisible fog of my depression and turn me on, while her angst manages to not just tug at the strings but turn my heart into her own personal puppet. genuinely one of those writers you see has posted and you instantly feel excited to see what masterpiece they’ve cooked up this time. ★ — consolation

🥤— @umbreoni | masterlist

our lord and saviour of aesthetically pleasing themes, june has literally done irreparable damage to my psyche (i say this with so much love). okay yes i know this is technically a bucky fic rec – despite how many non-bucky fics i’ve already mentioned – but please let me be insane about natasha romanoff for a second. bc. omfg. she’s always been hot and mother to me... but ever since june blessed the world with girlcock!nat, she has been mommy. i need that woman so badly, y’all don’t understand. i can’t think about her for too long bc i need to take a lap. i need to touch grass. i need a cigarette. ★ — the winter soldier fucking you in a headlock

🥤— @unificsation | bucky + clark + logan

gosh. my sweet uni. my literal universe. where to start. there’s so much put into her writing that touches my soul, i don’t think she understands how wholly obsessed with her fics i am. i’m forever grateful uni made the first move and dmed me... not to expose myself as a loser, but she was my first moot/friend in the bucky community. can i? was my introduction to her writing and holy shit, she just keeps getting better and better. from nipple-hardening prose to filth written so emotionally that the tears start flowing from your eyes and not your thighs, uni is a master at both. if amazingly written fics are not enough, her ability to cook up some of the most eye-catching graphics will surely catch your attention. ★ — operation: v-card

🥤— @wildflowersandvibranium | bucky + clark

last but far from least, clem and her writing are the perfect palate cleanser to round-off this fic-rec with. no one does dad!bucky and tooth-rotting fluff quite like clem, but tread carefully: her angst will make your heart break in two... but you’ll learn to forgive and forget, because the beautiful writing makes it all worth it. ★ — the oddity of falling

honourable mentions! while i would love to add a personal note for everyone, this fic-rec already features 30 writers. however, if you’re familiar with the previously mentioned blogs, here are some more amazing writers in the bucky community: @amoremarveloustime @barnes-babydoll @colettebarnes @dolcesaints @gemmawritess @herejustforbuckybarnes @kqtholins @mandoalorian @miraclediviner @navybrat817 @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @slutdier @stanmarvelous @salty-tang @sunday-bug @vividxpages @vunblr @wint3rbarnes @witchywithwhiskey + so many more that i would love to mention but tumblr hates me and wants me dead (there's a 50 mentions per post limit </3)

i owe a big thanks to a lot (if not all) of these amazing writers for inspiring and motivating me to keep writing deranged smut and mid fics. i don’t want to be sappy on main but i’ve been writing fics since before wattpad ruined itself with ads, and i can honestly say this is the most welcomed and loved i have ever felt in a fandom. i love you all, so much.

ps. please keep reading my silly fics, otherwise this whole post makes me look like a clown.

[barnesandashes]

HIII HELLO AS IF MANCHILD DID NOT CHANGE MY POINT OF VIEW IN LIFE FOR THE BETTER AND AWAKENED SOMETHING IN ME YOU’RE TOO SWEET HYDE ILY 😭😭😭 IM CRYING thank you so much for putting me along with these TALENTED WRITERS (much like the op themselves!!) 🤍🤍🤍 CONGRATULATIONS ON 5K my love and i can’t fathom how you deserve much much more!!

[barnesandashes]

tears run down (my thighs) | oneshot

pairing: bucky barnes x female!reader summary: is getting wet a valid response when your boyfriend knows how to treat you right? or, bucky barnes being the poster child for gentlemanliness in the 21st century, that it's a turn on with how much he loves you. warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. reader is female. swearing, dirty talk, dirty-minded reader, bucky and y/n having a challenge on who's hornier, thoughts of public sex, everybody wanna get laid, mentions of past relationships, sam and joaquin mention! no use of y/n. not proofread! wc: 1.9k a/n: just listened to sabrina's new album and i am definitely inspired! this is also an update that i'm still alive. so do any of you wanna be in my taglist….

The heat, the light, or his hands? 

You weren’t really sure what was the cause for the steam trailing down your stomach threatening to tingle down your lower body. As if heaven could not get any colder, hell’s fever was grabbing you by the waist as you fell down under the gates of utter temptation, for the guy opening the door to some five-star restaurant. 

Which Bucky fucking Barnes booked god knows when, where, and how– the one that you mindlessly mentioned on some aftercare evening, saying how much you wanted to eat there. It was so sweet, so sugary–  all things that could get you diabetes. But adoration was not the right word to describe what you felt right now. No, that specific word started with an h and ended with orny.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Bucky muttered under his breath when he realized that you were spacing out, as if you were on planet neptune while he tanned in the sun. The soldier wore all black, you weren’t surprised nor disappointed– he looked devastatingly hot in black, the kind of hot where you’d be begging him to eat you out in the nearest bathroom available the minute his muscles flex and the plates of his vibranium arm whir. 

Meanwhile, you wore midnight blue, coincidentally one of your boyfriend’s favorite hues and coincidentally the same dress he haphazardly slipped you off in one of your heated makeout sessions. A touch of makeup that enhanced your features from beautiful to even more beautiful, but Bucky loved you either way— whatever you wore and if you had makeup on.

Bucky smelled great too, he always did. You took a whiff of his scent when he pulled you out of the backseat to give you a flirtatious hug, which was holding your waist by his metal hands and burying his head in your neck, leaving a lingering kiss. All the while looking up at you after with feigned innocence marked in his face. He looked the most insatiable to your eyes under the moon of this fine evening, and judging by the way his grip did not let go of your hands, you assumed he felt the same. 

“I’m good, baby.” Yeah, you were good. You felt great. Everything was fine.

He looked at you with suspicion laced in his eyes, but he did not pry any more, at least for now.

“If you’re feeling stuffy here, we could get out, y’know?” He replied effortlessly, like it was no problem to give up the reservation he booked probably weeks in advance, as if you did not catch him late at night figuring out the website of the establishment. All his hard work would go down the drain the minute you would say yeah, let’s get the hell out. But he did not bat an eye– no hesitation because he knew better to put what you felt first above anything else.

And fuck, was that so hot.

“I love it here! Plus, it was so nice of you to reserve.” You gave him a reassuring smile. Your eyes paced around the restaurant, with a warm ceiling light under each table, just far enough from each other to ensure there were no eavesdropping happening. The bar was three tables behind Bucky, jazz melody filled the air of the room in a sultry atmosphere. As the two of you waited for the food he picked out as a surprise.

“I knew you were busy with work, so… I hope you didn't mind that I booked it.” He gave back a grin, but it was filled with nervousness– deep set worry that you wouldn’t like his initiation. But he swore he had listened intently to Sam’s advice, and some of Joaquin’s weirder suggestions, something about making a t-shirt that had text ‘I LOVE MY GF’ with your face on it. 

He just said he’d reconsider. He also made use of your laptop when he slept in your apartment while you showered. Fifty tips on how to actually take women on a date! Post-Blip Edition (PS, asking if she got dusted is not a good conversation starter!)

“Well, thank you for initiating and I love you for it.” You gave him a chuckle as your hand reached out to intertwine with his, resting on the table as you crossed your legs and leaned back in your seat.

You didn’t mind at all. 

wyd rn? where u wanna eat? pick a cheap resto. im bored ;) wanna fuck after this? pull up. r u free tonite?

Those were the usual texts you’d get when the guy suddenly had divine powers and managed to remember your existence at night, after his shift at some other person’s tongue. It was so tiring to make decisions on dates again and again. Albeit shitty and fucked up, being treated badly was the new norm for relationships in the 21st relationship— or was it just your choices?

Either way, being treated like a goddess by the man who equally looked like a roman god sculptured by Michelangelo or whomever almost made you tear up. Whose eyes were always on you, never wandering because his hands would do that job on your body whenever you wanted to. Those failed hookups and situationships had nothing on the man in front of you, eyes dangerously locked in yours and lips turned into a small smirk as his head was slightly tilted in a teasing manner.

You were so fucking horny right now because he was doing all the things you ever wished for in a guy. And it wasn’t even fun anymore that he knew that. Maybe, a little.

You bit your lip as you titled your head. He took a quick sip of the red wine in front of him as he licked his, eyes never leaving yours. 

Suddenly, everyone was hyperaware of each other’s mouth. 

And you felt a certain patch of wetness in the middle of your thighs, start to ruin your underwear. You were fucked. The food hadn’t even come yet, but you were ready to be the sacrifice and be devoured by Bucky.

“I know what you’re doing, babe.” You whispered, didn’t need to be loud enough because he could hear it from a distance away. He leaned in closer to the table.

“What am I doing, babe?” His eyes furrowed in confusion, that had mischief as subtext.

“Oh my god, stop whatever you’re doing, Barnes.”

“Are we on a last name basis now?”

“Yes, if you don’t stop.”

“Stop exactly what, sweetie?” He rubbed his fingers on the inside of your palm, to which your legs wobbled in return. It was embarrassing, that he had you trapped under his gaze like you were under a microscope. On the brighter side, your embarrassment was being flushed away by arousal, he knew what he was doing— he also knew you loved it.

“T—That! You, whatever. I’m out of fucking words.” You rolled your eyes. You were not going to fall under one of Bucky’s effortless ragebaits anymore after you (regretfully) taught him that word. But this wasn’t just usual teasing, it was a test to whoever was going to drop the magic words first.

“I haven’t even started yet.” He laughed breathlessly, adoring how your lips puckered in annoyance, preferring it should on his instead.

You stayed silent, gulping the drink in front of you, trying to avoid his gaze like you’d die, god forbid it should happen— although you probably would.

“Don’t try to act like you’re the only one being tortured. I love that dress on you.” He added, slowly looking at your curves up and down, relishing the way no other men had the privilege to fawn over you like he did. You managed to hold back a smile at the compliment he snuck in, because a day did not pass by that he won’t compliment you with a shower of beautiful, pretty, and other synonyms for it.

That’s what you loved about Bucky. 

Because even though you were thinking of different ways to fight him because of his endless teasing— he knew his boundaries, gave you what you needed, and treated you so well you weren’t sure if you were deserving of this goodness. 

“So, you should see how hard I am right now, just for transparency.”

You also loved the fact that he was not afraid to show you how much you turned him on. You squirmed under your seat as he winked playfully, you didn’t need to look, he wouldn’t lie about things like that— painfully honest at how he also wanted to do the things swirling around in your head right now. If not, more— only if you wanted to, of course.

“Shut up! People could hear us, Bucky!” Your eyes widened as a warning, that if he did not shut the fuck up right this instant, people might be in for a show should you lose the willpower to not pounce on him.

“People wasted too much of their money here to care about other tables.” He responded as a matter of fact. You peered your gaze at them, at each table who were also in a conversation, sighing as a relief that if you could not hear them, then they probably could not also hear you.

Hopefully.

“What are we gonna do about this, huh?” 

“Nothing. We will wait for our food.” You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to avoid the need for Bucky’s fingers to be inside you right now, or his tongue, maybe his dick— whatever. You were starting to look at everything but his face, his hands, or peer under the table to look at his crotch and confirm the fact that he was, indeed, hard.

“Are you sure, baby? I’ll do whatever it is that you’re imagining right now.”

Your brain short circuited. 

Which scenario? The one where he ate you out on this table? Or fucking you from behind in one of the bathroom stalls? Maybe even riding him on his motorcycle seat. 

You were so wet at the thought of him that it flew you with a one-way ticket to insanity. Had you known it felt this majestic being treated good by a responsible man like Bucky, you would have time-traveled back to the 1940s and hunted him down right away. You were sure anything this man could do was a turn on, whether it was assembling furniture from IKEA or his tongue traveling down from the valley of your breasts to your pulsing clit.

As opposed to his sweet nature of remembering the little things you loved, like this restaurant, or the places you’d like to visit in your free time with him. He always had flowers on dates, and if that was not enough, he would help you set it up on a vase in your room. Bucky was the epitome of being a gentleman, and how he’d remain this tender and caring after all these decades— you did not know how, but you were thankful you had the privilege of being the center of attention.

Oh god, that did not help. You closed your eyes and shook your head.

How his hands were ridiculously big against your hips when he was under you, or how Bucky looked feverishly handsome when his head was in between your thighs, stubble wet with your slick, never stopping lapping up your juices until you were screaming his name.

He looked at you like he was remembering all of that too. Horny was an understatement when you could feel the tears running down your thighs.

You clicked your tongue in defeat.

“Let’s get the hell out.”

barnesandashes, 2025 ©

[barnesandashes]

thank you for 3k notes!!!!!!!! 🤍🤍🤍

[unificsation]

hold the line ☎︎₊˚ dial three to be a vip

series masterlist

congressman!bucky barnes x phone sex operator!reader, 9.3k (which is more than the previous two combined? sorry...)

he called on a whim and ended up thawing desires long lost. you thought it was just another routine, until your body showed you otherwise. lines tangle, cross, and blur—and not just on the phone. or: congressman james buchanan barnes finds a curious business card.

🍒 SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, secret identities, power dynamics, phone sex, masturbation, sex work, workplace romance, questionable depictions of american politics (sorry)

📌 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair and is able-bodied

🍷 CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: oral sex, fingering, piv (unprotected), office sex, creampie, 1 (one) mention of a camera but it's not critical, praise kink, nicknames ("baby", "sweetheart", "honey"), alpine is in this!!!

💋 AUTHOR'S NOTE: how did this explode in word count? have i lost the plot? does this suck??? maybe, but anyway i worked really hard to make this an ending that's definitive and satisfying 👀 if you catch my drift.

i'm not american but have enjoyed content made by flatbush cats for a while now (their youtube is so cute). please consider donating to their cause!

i hope you enjoyed this brainworm that wouldn't leave me. thank you for following along! insert the hang-up tone here ;)

There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see. With him here, all six feet of him, you finally understand what that phrase means.

He’s built like an architectural world wonder, demanding passersby to stop and stare. Take a picture if they dare.

A face chiseled so finely it might make Michelangelo envy. Pixels on screen could never compute the composition of his features, strong jawlines in contrast to a delicate cupid’s bow. His arms are as steady as steel beams (does that count as a simile when one of them is literally made of vibranium?), metal fist clenched around a leather briefcase. The latter looks like it’s taking the former hostage instead of the other way around.

Then there’s everything else, because the sheer existence of him is quietly scorching your earth.

The salt-and-pepper stubble framing his face, hair that calls for fingers to card through them. Among the fragrant roast of coffee, he smells faintly spicy. Herbal. A warmth you can drink down, a scent that invites thoughts you shouldn’t think of—like that nose dipping in between your legs…

Blue eyes snap onto yours, almost shining thanks to the navy suit.

He caught you staring. You right yourself into a semblance of professionalism.

“I realize we haven’t met in person before,” you recover with a smile, offer him a handshake and your name—just in case he forgot about the person who writes his speeches. “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir.”

That last part slipped out like a secret, a decent salutation disgraced with imaginary sins. But there’s no such thing as bad thoughts, because actions speak louder than words… except you have no right to claim that defense, having pretended your fingers were his.

“Likewise,” is his clipped response. He doesn’t say anything else.

People say desperation stinks. If restraint has one, you’re basically doused in it, like a European with three spritzes of perfume—just less pleasant and more pitiful.

So you bite your tongue. From now on, each word you speak might expose the unspoken, and you’d rather die than entertain the possibility of him finding out. The auxiliary brakes are on. You spiral, you lose; and the here-and-now is the worst time and place to have a mental meltdown.

He’s here. Literally pick any other time to embarrass yourself. Please?

But the quiet resonates heavily above buzzing frothers. The payment terminal beeps while the barista asks if someone would like whipped cream like it’s not 8.50am.

You cave, trying to break the silence with a question he hasn’t answered.

“Was the flight alright?”

“It was fine,” he replies almost immediately. No further elaboration.

You should’ve known. This congressman has never been one for talking, whether it’s small or big—a real anomaly among his species. His favorite thing to comment on your drafts is to cut it short, expected airtime be damned.

What you also should’ve known is what to say next, because now you’re awkwardly stood next to each other. Him in line. You on the side, scrambling for something to say, but it’s too early to process the fact that your hot boss—the one you touched yourself to—is so close you could touch him instead. If you dared.

Someone with a soundboard would find this pocket of silence perfect for crickets.

Pushing is not an option, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s grumpy from having to cross state lines so early. Or from no coffee. Or having to attend a meeting in eight minutes with no coffee.

You have no idea of knowing that none of your theories come close to the real reason for his silence.

In truth, James Buchanan Barnes is shaking under the skin of his self-control.

There was protocol in the army. A certain way to do things: how to make the bed, log the bullets, wipe the gun, pitch the tent—although he’s trying his best not to right now. There was protocol even in HYDRA. That discipline was instilled in his bones, even when it wasn’t really him. His body remembers. Scarily enough, he does, too.

As scary as the fact that there is no protocol for this situation.

No policy for when the melody and face that thawed frozen desires turned out to belong to the same person. No handbook titled You Fantasized About Fucking Your Subordinate: Now What? to read through. No one to penalize him for misconduct but himself. The four-digit dollars he’s spent on Brooklyn—you—fuck, he’s going insane—does not qualify as a fine.

Not when he’d gladly pay double the amount just for you to talk to him again.

Except you were talking to him, at least before he turned to stone. Like if he stood still enough, he’d cease to exist.

Fight, flight, or freeze. Who can blame the man kept alive in a seventy-year cryo for choosing the most familiar option?

In a twisted turn of events, his fantasies of you turned out to be justified. The guilt of filling the blanks of Brooklyn’s voice with your face should be gone, but a bigger problem stands in its place.

Your mere existence is a temptation. He’ll have to fight it until Congress is in session again, and back to D.C. he goes. Or, until he breaks his molars from gritting his teeth too much. Whichever comes first.

The battle’s already started, and he’s far from prepared.

The barista calls out your name and order. You fetch it and return dutifully to his side—Christ, the thoughts that flashed through him just then… The last time he gave you orders, you obeyed so beautifully.

Put them in for me. Two of ‘em.

Beg, sweetheart. Use that mouth.

“Mr. Barnes?”

You saying his name drags his soul back to his body. He blinks, registering the way you look at him with mild concern.

“Yes?”

“I asked what you were going to get.”

“A double shot,” he replies. Thank god his lungs remember how to breathe. “What did you get?”

“A piccolo.”

The follow-up question slips, despite himself.

“Who orders a piccolo?”

You respond with a playful pout, and damn it all to hell, the only thing he can think about is what flavor your lip gloss is when he sucks it off of your face—

“Sensitive people, Mr. Barnes. Sensitive people like me order piccolos.”

There it is, the dip in your timbre, the wavelengths matching a specific time you teased him. At this point he knows you by hearing, not just by heart, the same way he knows you are sensitive… if you moaning in the phone just a few days ago is anything to go by.

There’s a replay of that cadence in dreams, before he wakes up with his brain humming the tune: please, J, want your fingers.

That same rhythm is now clothed in a different phrase, innocent enough to stir his chest. He’s a linguist filling up a dictionary with things he hasn’t heard you say before. The staccato in piccolo. The smooth ‘r’ in his last name, unaware of who you’re really talking to, the kinds of things you’ve said to him.

You don’t even know it’s him.

Or do you?

Now that the thought has needled itself into his psyche, he’s slowly being poisoned by it.

J seemed an anonymous enough alias at the time, but now that you’re here, now that he’s talking to you, he wonders if you can tell. Will you recognize his voice even as they wrap around different words, like he does yours?

You’re the placid picture of professionalism. There’s no indication that you’ve caught on. Not that he wants you to. It’ll be bad if you notice.

So why does it disappoint him a little that you don’t?

He walks away before he can think. Before he answers that question with the thing in his chest and not his head.

“Mr. Barnes?” you call out, confused. “Weren’t you going to order?”

“See you in the office.” He doesn’t look back.

The serum already means he doesn’t need a cup. That, and he’s starting to understand you’re a much stronger stimulant than caffeine.

He did end up seeing you in the office, but not if he could help it.

It was difficult, because his hungry eyes were so painfully aware of you, for one. It also made him feel like a grade-A pain in the ass. Especially since you walked in the meeting room five minutes late, slightly flushed from power walking, an extra cup of coffee in hand.

A double shot espresso. For him.

You went back in line and got his order. For him.

The space between his ribs tightened at that. So did his pants. He was silently grateful for the two-hour sit-down meeting—a first.

And speaking of gratitude, he only offered you a quick “thanks” for the coffee you went out of your way to get, not even meeting your eyes.

Looked straight at the front of the room at a PowerPoint slide. Pretended to not notice the downturn of your lips at his dismissal. Tried to ignore the slight slump in your shoulders he recognizes as defeat. All of them practically impossible when his entire body was screaming for yours, but he powered through.

He didn’t know he could, not when he knew what you smelled like.

Not when you were right there across the conference room, yet everywhere all at once: in his bed with your legs parted while he feasts on you, on top of him with your mouth by his ear. By his side as you’re sound asleep.

Then he was brought back to the present when you spoke. Something along the lines of an upcoming union roundtable.

Except the fantasies didn’t leave and he thought about a different kind of table—one he promised to bend you over.

The movie directed itself: you splayed on the oak bureau, crumpled papers on the ground, your skirt and underwear pooling at your ankles uselessly while he pounds so hard into you the desk scraped parquet floors. Above the slaps of flesh is the echo of sweet begging—yours, floating through a deserted office late at night. Out in the open. No one else to hear.

How does a person run from their own thoughts? They haunt him in broad daylight, trap him in a place filled with people.

He can’t. So he hides from you instead.

The final escape happens at the end of the day. Tomorrow is the scheduled ribbon-cutting at Flatbush, the one you’ll attend, which means there is going to be no way for him to not talk to you without appearing like he can’t stand your guts—when all he possesses is an unhealthy desire to rearrange it.

Briefcase in hand, he slips out of his office a little later than the rest of the modern bullpen, offering you a quick ‘good night’ before disappearing into the elevator, as if he has somewhere else to be. In reality, he’s going home to that brownstone apartment and resist the urge to touch himself to the thought of the body he’s avoided the entire day—the one that houses the soundtrack of his dreams.

You watch him leave in a rush, one of the rare glimpses you’ve caught of your congressman today. You don’t even have the time to say ‘good night’ back.

He’s gone.

And somehow that makes your mind spin.

Good night?

A strange feeling in your gut—delayed response to what he said, like a barrier between you and reality.

It’s those words: a common parting and your name. Two things you hear almost everyday. So why is there a chill down your spine? Does it have to do with how obviously he was avoiding you in the office, exiting conversations when you entered, averting eyes when they met? Or is it because his voice is in the air you breathe?

His voice—

A thought shoots out like a nervous pain, one that you’ve tried to numb since that last phone call. The eighth one.

J could stand for James.

Paranoia begins to bubble. The empty office doesn’t help, worsening the echo chamber of your thoughts.

Has it been him all along? What if it is? Does he know it’s you? There’s no way—if he has, he’d have you fired on the spot. But what if he finds out it’s you? Oh, that’s worse, because Congressman Barnes is nothing if not astute.

Your mind draws a picture of his disappointment without your consent. You’re almost more scared of letting him down than being dismissed from your post.

Okay, that’s why you’re scared. You’re scared because he’s your boss and you care deeply about his opinion—blame your parents for starving you from validation. Not because you’ve pictured him on top of you, not because he made you come undone through the phone like it was nothing. And definitely not because you’ve thought of more.

Underneath the tremors, there’s somehow a quiet reckoning. If your boss is really J, a part of you won’t be surprised.

But if J really is your boss, then you can at least blame him for calling you first.

Thing is, you blame people for mistakes. The thought of this being one makes your sternum hurt.

You pack your things. Everything between clocking out and climbing into bed is a blur.

There’s only more unrest to be found above your pillow. You fall asleep rewinding memories of J’s whispers. The city drones on beyond your bedroom window.

Brooklyn’s nights are never really peaceful, anyway.

Around the bend between the Methodist church and the pizza parlor with excellent pastrami, there’s an animal shelter. The signage up front that says Flatbush Animal Shelter and Veterinary Clinic is white acrylic, pristine compared to the vintage look of the rest of the neighborhood. In a few minutes, the lights inside will turn on, and strays will find in it a new home—before hopefully they gain a more permanent one.

About forty people are gathered in its parking lot. Half press, half locals, all here to see the cutting of the ribbon—or the man standing in front of it.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes held a white kitten five minutes ago, and the cameras flashed enthusiastically. You can see the images all over the internet already: him looking gently at the spot of snow in his metal hand while it looks back at him, eyes squinted in feline affection. In passing, you told him that if he doesn’t adopt the little furball, you will.

It’s a beautiful blue morning, uncluttered by typical newyorkian skyscrapers that greedily claw at the sky. The air is crisp, and so are your blazer and skirt. A light breeze blows, cool like the blue in his eyes while he says a few words.

Your words. The ones he felt comfortable enough to make his.

“People say you only get one shot to do things,” he starts, addressing the crowd, “and that was what I believed, too. Tried to get life right the first time.”

There’s a pause. Twenty feet away, in the crowd, you wonder what he thinks about in this quiet moment. The train, or the things that came after?

“But in reality, none of us can. Get it right the first time, that is. Unless you’re the type to strike it lucky. Not everyone is. Myself included.”

He continues.

“Second chances are what got me to where I am. What let me start over. I’m sure most of us here can think of a time when we, or a loved one, refuse to let our past chain our future. It’s forging a new path after time behind bars. Recovering from addiction. Dealing with grief. These things aren’t easy, and often you can’t do it alone. You need family. A friend.”

You know the words he’s going to say, but somehow you’re still hanging on to them.

“But people aren’t the only ones who deserve second chances. Animals do, too, and they often don’t get the support they need.”

There’s a poignant silence in the crowd.

“And I know not every animal in there is as sweet as Alpine. Some of them might be suspicious. Nervous. Scared. They might be a handful—an inconvenience.”

He smiles ruefully. That isn’t part of the script. For a moment you think he’s not talking about animals anymore.

“But sometimes… in helping others start anew, we get to do that, too. And I’d like to think that’s what happens when you care, no matter how difficult it gets.”

A microsecond of blue in your line of sight. A moment where his eyes meets yours among the crowd, lingering just enough before he addresses the people lined up at the front: volunteers, veterinarians, donors.

“Congratulations to the community who made this shelter possible, and thank you for giving the animals—and people—of Flatbush the chance to start over.”

The parking lot resounds with claps and cheers before the actual ribbon-cutting begins. You watch him through awkward smiles at the camera and traded handshakes, the dance of politics that he somehow made endearing by looking like he isn’t enjoying this at all.

And maybe he isn’t, but you watch him pet Alpine the white kitten again, and your heartbeat hitches.

The car ride back to the bustling part of Brooklyn is more grueling for Bucky compared to the public appearance earlier. That fact is made true solely for the fact that you’re next to him in the backseat, all prim and proper in a nice structured jacket and a pencil skirt that makes his hands jealous of the way it gets to wrap around your curves.

Then there’s your perfume. The way your hair frames your face. Your fingers thrumming on your lap.

It’s torturous, getting to know every part of you outside of your voice—as if you haven’t devastated him with that alone. Just by existing, you’ve dismantled the barricades of the years, of everything that’s come to pass. Now he’s the only person in this car who knows the mess made by thawing desires.

Because that’s what you are: not a distraction. A want. Urgent as a child with a sweet, forbidden as man with a particular fruit.

God, he’s doomed.

“You’re good,” he says, cutting the white noise of wheels on tarmac. The ride’s been quiet so far—the last thing you expect him to do after facing press and public is speak to you.

“What?” you ask, blinking as you look up from your phone.

Blue eyes trace your face. You feel like a mission brief the way they’re trained on you. Something to be decoded.

“The speech. You’re good.”

Brows knit ever so slightly as you respond. “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

“I mean it,” he replies. “You write like you know me.”

You tense. His words lands like lead, heavy at the double-meaning your mind ascribed to them. His eyes never leave yours, and it makes you think he’s baiting you, except you’re forever left on the fence of uncertainty when it comes to where he stands. Cards close to chest, chips on the table, never certain about how you’re going to play.

Either he’s not part of this game of deception, or he has the winning hand. You don’t know which to believe.

The bluff you offer is a smile and a casual reply, light and easy—like you’re not wishing you have another woman’s voice. Like you don’t regret sending those name cards to Washington.

Like you’re not torn between wanting or hating the idea of him knowing you made each other come undone.

“I do know you—it’s my job, remember? They make you read things when you first join. Policies, stances, the words you like to use, the anecdotes you prefer in your addresses…”

“Right.”

His tone acquiesces, but his eyes don’t. There’s an intensity that pins you, almost as real as a hand on your shoulder. A bid to call your bluff.

But the stakes are raised and you have everything to lose. Your job. His respect. Him. The thought invites cold on your fingers and feet.

Then the car slows to a stop—you’re back at the district office.

“We’re here, sir.” That’s the driver, pretending not to hear your conversation.

This is the perfect chance to forfeit this round, so fold your cards and abandon them at the table by getting out of the car first.

“Good job on the speech. You delivered it well,” you say, not looking back at him.

And just like that, you’re the one avoiding him.

The game morphs into a kind of hide-and-seek, much easier to play with 2,000 square feet and his permanently closed office door. He thankfully doesn’t chase. You last the entire rest of the work day almost forgetting what transpired—lost in a flurry of emails, meetings, and first draft deadlines. For the first time since he arrived yesterday, you feel less anxious. More composed, nerves dulled by the motions of the day.

The congressman probably doesn’t know anything. He just has a staring problem (a known fact that’s included in your onboarding packet), and you’re just too much in your head. Scared because what you’re doing is not only extremely inappropriate for a damn member of congressional staff, but also unlawful—the moonlighting part, not the phone sex part.

By mid-afternoon, the nagging feeling fades.

Next thing you know, someone rushes to the elevator lobby with a peppy “have a good weekend!”

One blink and you realize you’re the last person left in the office.

Sighing, you stretch your arms up overhead, fending off the day’s soreness in your shoulders. You were in such deep focus, you didn’t even notice everyone leave, including him. A feat that deserves a treat. Maybe you’ll pick up that tub of ice cream on the way home.

A familiar baritone floats from a familiar doorway, calling your name.

You quickly right yourself. Congressman Barnes watches. He hasn’t left—standing there, hand on the doorknob to his private office, waiting. No suit jacket, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled. Standard attire past the most difficult time of the day.

“A word, please?”

It’s confusing, the warmth that floods your face, the bitterness in your mouth. You’re at your desk, but your consciousness pulls itself back to when your body last felt this weight. When his blue eyes were last on you.

In the car, with that three-way tug-of-war between knowing, not knowing, and pretending not to know.

You’re spiraling again. But unlike earlier, there’s nowhere to run.

“Of course.”

You walk towards his office. He lets you enter a room bathed in the last dregs of sunset. The door clicks closed behind you as you try not to wring your hands.

Brooklyn looks good from here. You distract yourself by counting the number of buildings beyond the window—near impossible, but less intimidating than confronting the man standing behind you and what he could possibly need a word for.

He doesn’t tell you to sit. You turn to face him.

“What’s this about?” For all your experience speaking, it’s a miracle that your sentence comes out even.

The blue in Bucky’s eyes look different in the warm pinks and oranges streaming in from outside. Now they look like they’re housing a storm.

He unleashes it with words.

“I’ll be frank. I think you should quit.”

“What?”

A wave of nausea washes over you. When he doesn’t immediately answer, your eyes dart across his face to look for one. All you find is turbulence that turns your stomach inside out: the clench of his jaw could be anger or the restraint of it, the stoicism in the rest of him a sign of dismissal or a deep sense of disappointment.

Because looking at him only adds to your list of questions, one escapes.

“What do you mean, I should quit? You just told me I was good at—”

“I’m not talking about this job.”

That’s when the second wave hits—not just nausea, but everything else that you’ve experienced, all at once.

Dread magnified, agitation escalated. Your blood runs cold, and maybe that’s the last thing that keeps you together. You’re icy when you respond, a final attempt of sanity, or at least what you have of it:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?” his shoes click clearly against the hardwood floors, but you barely hear it above the static in your mind. Three steps later, he’s in front of you.

“I think you do. We both do, sweetheart.”

That nickname, sweet and scathing in the way you’ve heard it in your sleep.

The fake smile you muster is weak. You mask it with a shake of your head.

“Sir, I’m afraid I—”

“Don’t pretend anymore. Not when I can’t.”

Suddenly there’s no distance. You’re staring up at him while he peers down past your poorly constructed mask. All it takes is for you to really look at him, for once—no turning away in denial or dampened desire—and it breaks. Not loudly, but quietly: the same way the world broke in half.

People turned to dust back then. Him included. Now it’s your conviction’s turn to crumble.

Because there’s always been whispers in the back of your mind since you first saw him in that coffee shop. You acted blind, pleaded asylum, thinking they made complications when really, he’s the missing puzzle piece. The blend of his face and what you thought was someone else’s voice isn’t frightening because it was wrong.

It’s frightening because you were right this entire time.

“You… you’re J,” the breath you say that with shakes.

The realization—no, the acceptance lands like finding a bruise after it’s healed. The softness of it rattles your ribcage nonetheless.

His voice the antithesis of yours: steady but hoarse, the sound of someone who’s sinned and paid penance only to do it again. He drinks in your expression. Weighs reality against the possibility he’s played in his mind a million times over.

“Brooklyn.”

Words slip. Your feet nearly do the same, weak with the truth.

“How long have you…?”

“Yesterday. At the coffee shop. Heard you and I knew.”

Your lips part slightly. Nothing comes out.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, quiet. It’s incision under a blanket. You swallow, throat too dry to speak. The answer you find is a summary of a complicated truth.

“To pay for things.”

“Things like?”

“Debt. Bills.”

You pause. Consider how you got here.

“Life.”

But he smooths those thoughts over with the back of his fingers on the side of your face, trailing an electric line down from cheekbone to chin. You nearly jolt—from surprise that this is happening more than anything else, and the overwhelming want that settles after. It gives way to a heat under your skin that climbs so fast, you think you might require medical attention.

Instead, you get his. The disease and the cure in one touch.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s breath shudders at the feel of you. It tells him you’re real, no longer a plaguing vision just this side of heaven. He’s heard you without telephone static, seen your curves outside of a screen, caught a whiff of your perfume and cataloged it in his head.

Now that he’s touched you, too, one final sense in the five he owns is overcome with greed:

It wants to know what you taste like.

Warm hand cups the hinge of your jaw, tipping your head up to look at him properly. Eyes drink in the flush dusting your cheeks. The thirst grows.

Your lips part when metal fingers snake up your waist, holding you closer to him, blurring the lines of your relationship. Congressman and citizen, employer and employee, sinner and sinner.

But he doesn’t moves. He watches. Waits.

Until he feels your fingers dare to rest on vibranium forearm. Then the flutter of your eyelids, and the slight part of your lips.

Quiet signals. Permission.

So really, you shouldn’t shiver so much when he swipes his thumb on your bottom lip, coaxing them to part more. In getting what you want, you realize you’ve underestimated just how much you want it.

“That first call,” he whispers, “you faked it, didn’t you?”

The floor nearly caves under you.

“I—”

He cuts you off with a tortured smile. Here he is, standing in a prison of his own making, caging the one who locked him up and set him free at the same time.

“Must’ve been just another damn call for you. Got no idea how you ruined my life with it.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then I’ll make you.”

Lips crash into yours, and it feels like the beginning of a resolution. No room for opposition, just motion.

He kisses like he doesn’t need air, indulging the way a starved man would. It’s hungry, messy, the kind that sweeps you off your feet—so you grip his forearm and the front of his shirt just to stay grounded. That pulls a grunt out of him, then he tilts his head to the other side, only to drown in you again.

“Can’t fucking sleep because of you,” he mouths in between, “got me dreaming about you when I do.”

You moan like the admission burns. His hand traces urgent paths, each one confirming daydreams and night visions: sliding down the slope of your waist, brushing your hip, groping the flesh of your ass in an eager palm. The metal one keeps you close by the back of your head, stern in all the ways that make your knees buckle.

“This pretty face, this fucking body—”

Even when he parts, he doesn’t. Mouth slides to nip and lick at your ear before making a home below your jawline. He gives no quarter in claiming you for himself, especially with the noises he drags out of you. Bares his teeth against throat. Molds honesty out of a voice so accustomed to serving honeyed lies on a silver platter.

The thought occurs to you with him on your neck, hand squeezing your chest: in this moment, you’re the most truthful you’ve been in years.

So maybe it’s that liberation that moves your fingers through his perfect hair, guiding his face to yours.

He kisses you again. You taste his words.

“Gonna show you just how much I’ve thought of this.”

“James—”

That wracks a shiver down his spine, raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He moans into you. The sensation reminds him longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, but instead of a loss of control, you trigger the need for him to take it—to make pleasure, yours and his, his mission.

A man shouldn’t be so tempted by his own name.

The path he takes to corner you into his desk is straight, but space-time is curved, because you don’t register what’s happening until your heels knock against wood, too preoccupied by the way he’s got your blouse off your body and on the floor. A hand sweeps over the surface without care. Papers scatter on the floor, noisy and undoubtedly crumpled. The bureau is cool under your palms.

He crowds you. There’s no room to second-guess what important brief might be lost in the fray, because you feel the hard line of him grinding against your core.

You whimper. He stares.

“Feel that, sweetheart? That’s all for you. Your fault.”

Something flashes in your eyes then, and you launch at him. Blame the accusation for the way you drag his head down to yours, lips locking, bodies turning so that he’s the one with his back against the table.

If it’s your fault, you’ll gladly fix it.

He curses while you kneel, lets you unbuckle his belt and helps you after. But he tips your chin up before you can touch him, making you watch as his other hand takes his cock out right in front of your face.

He lets it hit the side of your cheek, tip damp with precum.

“So good for me, on your knees without me asking. You want this?”

“Yes,” you nod, eyes darting between his face and what you’re supposed to put in your mouth—he’s big. The sight dispels whatever hazy hallucinations you’ve had of him, replacing them with something real.

Something with veins you can trace like rivers.

“Good girl. Open.”

You obey like he’s law. Not to avoid punishment, but to gain reward. The scent and taste of him assault you, although all he’s done is tease the tip past your plump lips.

“Lick it. Slowly, baby.”

Your tongue does so without thought, finding a new master in his command. His exhales give way into something ragged. A hand kindly combs through your hair while you savor him, slow like he said—but in doing so, you discover that you’re the less patient one.

So your lips close in on him, humming, eager to please. Fingers touch the rest of his length to further his downfall. They tease before wrapping around the girth, just letting him feel the warmth of your palm. And he does.

Head thrown back. Your name is gritted through teeth.

“C’mon, sweetheart, put that pretty mouth to good use.”

And you do.

You do your best, because the best is what you want him to remember you by.

The slick sounds that echo are more sinful that some of the words you’ve traded with each other. His cock is slick with precum and your saliva, but you don’t let him see the glisten often, bobbing him in and out of your mouth. Your congressman rewards you with murmurs of praise that go straight to the space between your legs, clutching at your head like you’re deliverance.

It’s not long before his hand takes over your pace. You moan, feeling him guide you by your hair.

Then his cock brushes the back of your throat and you gag. He twitches in your mouth.

“Takin’ me so well,” that Brooklyn drawl starts to show, “like you’re made f’me.”

Black pupils swallow blue irises as he takes in the sight below: you, lipstick smeared at one corner of your slick mouth, taking his cock down your throat. Your eyes are stare back at him.

It’s at this moment he decides patience is an overrated virtue.

You moan when he forces you off, only to haul you up on your feet and sit you on the table. Hands paw at your skirt. It pools at your ankles. He spreads the thighs he just exposed, making room for him between your legs. You clutch at his shoulders when his big hands envelope your chest, dragging bra cups down.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he rasps. His mouth feels empty all of a sudden.

So he captures a nipple in it, make you arch your back towards him. Hips rut into each other while he plays with you like it’s payback, hand pinching the other hardened peak before he switches. Sucks. Laves until both are reddened with attention, until he feels rather than sees the damp spot in your underwear.

Lips detach with a pop, but he’s still hungry.

“Need to taste you.”

Then it’s him kneeling on the floor. He takes you into his open mouth, underwear still on. You mewl. He growls.

Even from above the fabric, you taste like a win after a long campaign.

He keeps you there, just like that. Pins you on the desk while his tongue teases the seam of your pussy from over your soaked panties. Flicks at your clit like you’re not trembling above him.

“James, p-please—”

He grins, looking up. So that’s what you look like when you beg.

If mercy finally lets him have a proper taste, then that’s what he’ll give you. Your underwear joins the skirt around your ankles.

Then he mouths your pussy like he’s always wanted to. Feverish. Dripping. Loud.

“So goddamn wet,” he moans into you, the syllables muffled, the sounds that come after so wet, you’re red at your ears. His tongue is mean in its movements; it dips into your hole in pretense, only to trace up your folds to flick your clit once. Stern. You gasp.

“Look so pretty. Taste so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me do this…”

You can. Why can’t you, when you’ve thought of this, too? Actions speak louder than words, so you card your fingers through his hair while he thumbs at your clit, whimper when his other hand busies itself with your nipple.

His tongue begins to learn you in ways it shouldn’t, the result of desires manifest. But even with the excessive amount of times he’s imagined having you in this position, nothing could have prepared him for this: the entirety of you, soaked and oh-so-sensitive, babbling a litany of ‘oh my god’s. He memorizes your flavor for a later dream.

Except, if he continues to get what he wants, there’ll be no dreaming left. Just doing.

Moans climb. He recognizes the pattern, but it’s much more delicious in person.

The sound of you cumming, that is.

There it is, that little catch in your breath before you stammer his name. This time, he’s not pumping his cocky dry at the sound of it. A finger busies itself, curling inside of you. He huffs at how tight you are. You let out a keen noise, begging, pleading. His mouth assaults your clit. Kisses, then sucks while the finger thrusts in and out of you.

Something in his heart melts at the long, drawn-out whine. It makes his cock twitch up against his stomach.

You soak his face, legs twitching by the sides of his head, and he thanks the red threads for bringing him here.

Your eyelids are heavy from the haze, vision and limbs still scrambling to collect themselves, but you see it. Feel it. Him, standing up to tower above you, sky-blue eyes over the landscape of your body as he guides your back down onto the table. The support doesn’t help you calm down—especially not with the way his finger is still teasing your folds, up and down, keeping you pliant.

But then he puts it in his mouth. Dessert, as if he didn’t eat enough. You feel wetness drip down to your ass and let out a shaky exhale.

The silence of the room is charged. The sun’s disappearing, letting night paint the edges of the sky indigo. Three words cut through the burgeoning dark.

“Still want this?”

You blame your response on the orgasm he just gave you, but your greed is your own.

“Please, James,” you whisper, looking up at him with lost eyes, “need you to show me how I can’t disobey you.”

“Do you now?”

The tone he takes is unamused, but you know better. His cock betrays restlessness, already teasing your entrance, alternating between that and stroking your clit with the tip. Your blood sings. Either you’re still coming down from your high, or you’re already so wound up, you can’t tell.

You nod your yes, anyway. Circle your fingers around his wrist to bring his warm hand to your mouth. Kiss his fingertips. A pledge of allegiance not to country, but to the cataclysm that is you and him meeting in this way.

He sighs in disbelief. Your mouth is dangerous in both the way it kisses his hand and the words that comes out of it.

But it’s his civic duty to respond to your mandate.

“You’re going to answer my questions truthfully.”

His voice is low, and his other hand—the metal one you’re not kissing—dips toward the same direction, playing with your chest. You nod, tongue teasing his finger. He pulls away, gripping the sides of your face to make you look straight at him.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Say ‘yes sir’ if you understand.”

our heart jumps, as if you haven’t thought of this before. Granted, this is no longer imagination, more a cross-examination. You’re a naked witness, dirtying your boss’s nice desk with your slick—but he put you there, so who’s to blame?

“Yes, sir,” you muster.

“How many times did you fake it in our calls?”

Blinking, you look up at him. Surprised and confused at the same time.

“You’re a smart girl. Count.”

You swallow, unsure if it’s dread or excitement in your stomach.

“…Five.”

He presses the blunt tip of his cock against your hole. You moan, and it’s gone.

A hand moves to your throat. The metal one.

“Do you touch yourself to other callers? Do they make you cum?”

You shake your head, eyes narrowing in fear. Not because he might hurt you, but at how much the thought of it makes you wet.

“Use your words, honey, you’re so good at that, yeah?”

“N-No, just J. Just you,” you breathe, holding his wrist to keep him there, not to remove him. “Can’t cum if it isn’t you.”

Something about that must have affected him. He freezes above you.

Huge hands shift to wrap around your waist, locking your body, lining up his cock with your pussy.

“And now you’re going to let me fuck you. Say ‘yes sir’.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles. Your heart floods with warmth at the thought of having pleased him. So does the greedy thing between your thighs.

Until he speaks again.

“Five times. Gonna make you cum five times, for the fake ones you gave me. Say ‘yes sir’.”

You stop breathing, eyes wide. It takes everything, but you say it anyway.

“…Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Look at me when I take you.”

And then he pushes into you, sinking down slow until he’s all the way to the hilt, each inch of him making you sob. He fills you up, and the line that he blurred is no longer on hold, it’s being erased.

No more dial tones or speech comments, no more guessing games. Just two bodies that are wired to each other, brought together by voices like true norths.

“Y’know, I thought I was the worst type of human, thinking about the sweet girl that works for me while Brooklyn made me sleepless,” he pants, positioning your legs to bracket his waist. You link ankles behind his back, heels digging into fabric.

“She’s beautiful, smart, writes like she knows me. Felt like a creep, tainting her in my mind like that.”

“James—”

“But now that I know you’re the same fucking person…”

He pulls out. It’s so excruciating that your hips chase him, but his hands keep you still.

Then he shoots you that lopsided smirk that looks like a violation of code, and you know you’re in trouble.

“…I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

You scream as he rolls back into you, all the way down, so much faster than before you swear you can feel him in your lungs. He grunts at the grip of your gummy walls, cunt greedily taking all of him, and laughs before leaning down. Breath puffs heat on your neck. You feel feverish all over.

For a split second you think of the security camera at the corner of the ceiling. The congressman himself, shirt crumpled, slacks low. A woman, bare save for the sweat on her skin and a bunched-up bra, lying on his desk.

A PR nightmare shouldn’t feel so good.

He pulls out and thrusts in. It shakes your body on his desk, all thought dissolving into the murmured noise that slips out of you. Vague, lost—a reflection of your mind.

“There she is, soundin’ all pretty for me.”

He thrusts again, head dropping next to yours.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he makes you come undone, because it doesn’t take long and you find yourself clenching, gasping at the violent knot forming in your lower belly. It’s insistent. Tugs at you like a leash, almost like it’s been there since the first time he called.

The drag of his cock is cruel, languid on the out and merciless on the in, but it’s his words that tightens your grip on his body and loosens it from reality.

“People fucking themselves when you talk to them… they don’t know you’re thinking about me.”

His hand holds your face, making you look straight at him.

“Won’t let anyone else hear you cum. Just for me. Mine. Right, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes, sir!”

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” your breath is labored but the words are easy, “I’m yours, James—”

The sound of his name hitches high into a scream when he slams into a deliberate spot. Manicured nails claws into his clothed back, sweat misting underneath. The little crescent moons don’t hurt, but he groans anyway. A testimony of how, as much as he finds it so easy to pick you apart you, the reverse applies.

“James, please,” you murmur, eyes meeting his on the verge of ruin.

He lets you.

“Go on, then, give it to me. Cum on my cock.”

A few more thrusts and you do. Walls clamp down on him while you sob, spasming and twitching, head thrashing—all of the things he never gets to see in phone calls.

It’s a type of exhilaration that grips him like night does the sky outside, an obsession mirroring the one he has for your voice. He doesn’t stop thrusting, starts learning instead: each tremor of your limbs, the gush of your cunt, the look on your face—fuck, that nearly does him in.

“That’s one,” he coos when he finally slows down, kissing your fluttering eyelids, then your cheek, then your lips. You taste remnants of yourself when you breathe. His tone betrays affection. Addiction.

Fireworks are still going off in every nerve ending, but he’s already flipping you. A stern arm wraps like a band around your torso, the other pressed next to one of yours on the table, fingers slotting in between. Your heels clack noisily against wooden floors as you find your bearings. Both hands on the desk, bent over, legs spread. Even ecstasy-addled, you recognize this as a promise being fulfilled.

Gonna bend you over my desk. You can take it, can’t you? Be a good girl? Arch your back nice and high for me?

You throb, suddenly feeling empty.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says against your shoulder. “Beautiful. So fucking gorgeous.”

He sinks in again and your calves nearly give out.

“A-ah—”

The hot breath next to your ear makes you shiver. He kisses you there as if it’s consolation for making your legs shake while tip-toeing to meet him for that perfect angle. You sigh at the loss of the heat of his chest on your back. He pulls away, but it’s only momentary: he just wants to admire that arch of you, fingers trailing up in a way that almost tickles.

He’s kind enough to lean back down, enveloping you with his body as he pounds, hips slapping against your ass. But blame the duality of man, because he’s also cruel enough to keep you locked out of the heaven only he can give, whispering damning things against your ear as he does. Slows down when you’re close to that precipice (“ssshh, don’t cry, that’ll make me a worse man”) before speeding up again, the injustice of him sending you further down the spiral of insanity (“good girl, take it, take all of me”).

The sounds in the room are making it worse: wet slaps of his cock into your poor cunt, the quiet shifts of the desk until its legs are scraping savagely against expensive herringbone floor. You’ll say the faint marks on the floor is his fault, how he intends to bring about your second orgasm. He’ll say it’s yours for being so tight.

Either way, the both of you crest over like that—your knuckles white at the sides of the table, his chest against your back.

“Fuck—!” he shouts your name, muffled on the crown of your head.

You cum, and so does he, hot ropes painting your walls white while you slump onto the table, dirtying it with sweat and drool.

He jerks his hips into yours like it’s possible to be even deeper. It’s dizzying. There’s so much of him.

Then kisses are being littered on the canvas of your back, and he pulls out, groaning at the sight. Thick driblets of his cum and yours trickle out your hole, slow as they drip down to your inner thigh. You feel its heat.

“Two. Look at you. So full of me.”

He murmurs praises into your hair, pressing the words with his lips onto skin. You catch your breath, letting him hypnotize you in the haze.

The line disappears. Borders melted. Now you’re just two exposed nerves, tangled after the tempest, united under an oath of intimacy that supersedes secrecy.

You understand now, the liberty of having nothing to hide.

A few deep breaths and more than a few tissues later, your anxious thoughts take over.

You just had sex with your boss. Your boss, who turns out to be your number one caller, the one who reignited the passion in you. Who’s to say you won’t backslide into becoming nothing to one another?

He’ll ask you to keep it hush. You’ll do as he says. Anything more will jeopardize both your careers.

Funny how, after you tasted honesty, the prospect of lying feels painful. Chilling, even.

Which makes it all the more stunning when he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders and kisses your temple. You look at him while he holds you. Savor the brush of his fingers on your face.

“Let me take you home.”

The car ride is quiet. With his warm hand on your thigh, there’s no need for words.

Home turns out to be his brownstone apartment, where the lighting is warm, and the bathroom tiles are cool. You know because he presses you up against them. You let him, lips against his even as he traps your hips between his and a hard place, the steam making it look like a dirty dream. That’s where he gives you your third: common fallacies of a man trying clean you up, only to make a mess out of you.

Afterwards, he’s gentle in a way that contradicts his metal arm: drying your hair, dressing you in an oversized shirt, telling you how good you’ve been for him.

But there’s still the fourth and the fifth. They happen in bed.

To his credit, he’s more tender—maybe it’s how he can see you’re losing consciousness, a live wire charged and shorted over and over again, or maybe he’s influenced by plush mattress and soft sheets.

He makes you cum twice, holds you close both times.

Once with you on his lap, steady hands guiding the grind of you on top of him while blue eyes watch your body move, tired and pliant but still wanting. He ends up bouncing you on top of him. Delights in the way your mouth falls open in silent screams, voice hoarse—yet you still cry out at his urging, being the good girl you are. The sound tastes like salvation when he kisses it off of you.

He delivers the final one with you laid down on the bed, legs pressed against your chest. You marvel at the sight of him, shirtless, muscles coiled inward towards your body underneath his like sunflowers pointing at the sun. He holds one of your legs up while he thrusts, body enveloping yours, the pace punishing in its leisure.

First comes the familiar coil, then the whispered promises.

“Gonna take care of you. Make you feel good.”

“Feel me right here? You like it deep, don’t you?”

“C’mon, cum for me, honey. Wanna fill you up again.”

That’s five, total—not even including the first one he gave you on his tongue. A vote of confidence on how Congressman Barnes delivers.

Everything else that come after is featherlight. So is the sensation in your shoulders.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t pretend nothing happened. He makes you coffee in the morning: a piccolo. The two of you share a breakfast omelette on one plate, as well as the knowledge of each other’s morning voice. Husky. Raw. Proof of not only sleep, but what you did before that.

You tell him things in whispers.

The zeroes left in your student loan, the decisions you made to even think of clearing them, how he stopped being just another a caller after that time with the fire alarm. How he made you laugh. How he made you touch yourself again.

He strokes your hair while he listens. For once, the worries pass.

After that collision course, the home he took you back to expands into a universe of its own. Not just places—his, yours, the dinner dates he whisks you to after work—but also time. The months of back-and-forth between D.C. and Brooklyn, through which he somehow sticks around.

Sometimes it’s as subtle as a “did you eat?” text that tugs at your heartstrings. Other times it’s a committed trip over the long weekend: just the two of you and a hotel room he won’t let you step out of.

His profile demands secrecy, which is fun for a while. The sneaking around makes you feel younger. He thinks the thrill makes you all the more irresistible.

Until somebody posts a photo on Twitter: the two of you in an upscale restaurant with a three-month reservation backlog, holding hands above the table.

Bucky thanks the powers that be for your back facing the camera. Let the tabloids and forums focus on him and the love-struck look on his face.

Nobody on the team says anything. Not even Sheryl, even though the two of you know that nothing slips past his communications director with ten years of D.C. experience. It signals a non-concern, a personal matter so insignificant in his politics, he doesn’t hear about it beyond digital whispers.

As far as fires go, this is a tealight candle.

The two of you talk about it anyway. About the steadiness that already exists before the conversation. It’s not perfect—neither of you are, not with the way he wants nothing more than to have you hanging on his arm at all times, except he’s a person with a past, and you could be a target.

You cradle his face in your hands when you tell him nothing is guaranteed.

When you crash into each other that night, it’s with love. You show it with body and words. So does he.

The very next day, he kisses you good morning in front of the entire team. The bullpen continues as usual, like you’ve presented them with headlines from last week’s paper. Turns out the two of you were quite obvious even before the paparazzi photo.

callmebrooklyn.vip is no longer a valid URL.

You’ve stopped taking calls since that first night—count on a politician to ruin income sources, you like to joke. He always smiles in response. Kisses you like he’s happy to be allowed just this one monopoly.

Pretends he doesn’t already have a Christmas present lined up for you.

Presents, as it stands: your student loans are quietly cleared, and the shelter at Flatbush just informed him that Alpine the kitten is back on the adoption roster.

taglist pt. 1: @flockoff-featherface @barnesandashes @buckyfmd @opheliabbarnes @dollaems @overwintering-soldier @metal-armed-muse @hello1276 @nikifiedd @coquitokisses @vicky066 @sheriff-bodecker @superbassbuck @houseofhyde @buckysslut @vee061 @emxxiy @alex-cheraya @yvesjgk @barnesonly @wandabillywrites @sashabarnes22 @prettylittleviolets @dimlylittorch @sweetestharley @eridanidreams @itsjustemilygrace @nerddd13 @blowingbarnes @its-in-the-woods @addie81readss @nymph0puppp @bckyslover @fluorjscent @rhythmnobleus @badbitchsincebirth05 @rinaarlert @aliantendre @peachessprincess @heartz4buckyy @kissesforbucky @l1m3ly @ruckystarnes @slutforsr @allthatisbuck1917 @amoremarveloustime @winterdecember18 @kodzuminx @allen-444 @gh0stst4r

[barnesandashes]

OH MY GOD UNI POSTED IM SO HAPPY i love this whole series so much i was giggling to myself at the first two! such a unique yet well pulled off plot. i think the word i would describe this series all in all is SULTRY BECAUSE I LOVE READER SM AND THE TENSION W CONGRESSMAN BARNES IM GOING CRAZY!!!! 😭😭🩷

[umbreoni-deactivated20260114]

── UMBREONI’S KINKTOBER CALENDAR .ᐟ

hi darlings <3 this is my official calendar and masterlist for this year's kinktober! i want to thank everyone who submitted requests, i tried to incorporate the kinks that were asked as well as the kinks on the official calendar for the year, so my apologies if the kink you request isn't done! i'm more than open to write the kinks & characters in a blurb/fic separate to kinktober.

each day after posting, this post will be edited and i'll add the kinktober post of each day to this masterlist, so keep track of it to follow my kinktober posts!

i also want to thank you all for supporting me in my writing journey so far. never would i have thought that i'd reach eight hundred followers and so quick. it really does mean the world to me.

october 1st .ᐟ natasha romanoff — creampie.

october 2nd .ᐟ free day.

october 3rd .ᐟ bob reynolds — feminization.

october 4th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — mutual masterbation.

october 5th .ᐟ bucky barnes — hands.

october 6th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — thigh riding.

october 7th .ᐟ natalie scatorccio — public sex.

october 8th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — punishment.

october 9th .ᐟ bob reynolds — cockwarming.

october 10th .ᐟ free day.

october 11th .ᐟ free day.

october 12th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — phone sex.

october 13th .ᐟ yelena belova — hate sex.

october 14th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — camera.

october 15th .ᐟ bucky barnes — choking / size kink.

october 16th .ᐟ CHALLENGERS FIC XCHANGE: tashi duncan — orgasm denial

october 17th .ᐟ free day.

october 18th .ᐟ natasha romanoff — dirty talk.

october 19th .ᐟ marie moreau — knife play.

october 20th .ᐟ free day.

october 21st .ᐟ bucky barnes — facefucking.

october 22nd .ᐟ cate dunlap — dacryphilia.

october 23rd .ᐟ clark kent — overstimulation.

october 24th .ᐟ BWA COLLAB SPECIAL: bucky barnes — vampire

october 25th .ᐟ bucky barnes — ab riding.

october 26th .ᐟ bob reynolds — thigh fucking.

october 27th .ᐟ clark kent — clones

october 28th .ᐟ cate dunlap — orgasm control.

october 29th .ᐟ victoria neuman — praise / blood.

october 30th .ᐟ free day.

HALLOWEEN DAY .ᐟ bob reynolds & the void — double penetration.

( taglist ) @ohyouluckysaint @patrickzweigsdefender @dudewithnoeyes @vampters @dznps @irysque @cinnamoncunt @cinnamongmm @nelyaal @plaidcowboy @dunlapism @challengers4ev @justkeepingitpeachy @weepingwolfdaze @emergencycontact @namgification @sophiek222 @voidsuites @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @bullseyebullseye @jordiemeow @gibsongirrl @inbred-eater @opheliabbarnes @leleynsversion @rexythebitch @jdnymos @charlesxavierswife @iamthatonefangirl @houseofhyde @flockoff-featherface @oraclic @54nboo @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @widowvivi @demiebarnes @kqtholins @metal-armed-muse @its-in-the-woods @huggingkoalas @lovelyy-moonlight @nikkitabarnes @amoremarveloustime @herejustforbuckybarnes @fucky-barnes82 @devililithh @kiatjuddae @sunday-bug ( to join )

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ © UMBREONI. do not copy or steal my work.

[barnesandashes]

oh june u don’t know how… how ready i am…

[barnesonly]

BARNESONLY’S KINKTOBER! ⏾⋆˙⟡

it’s that magical time of year where the leaves are crunchy, the lattes are pumpkiny, and apparently my brain thinks bucky barnes deserves to be put through different kinds of filth. welcome to my kinktober—aka four excuses to thirst publicly over a fictional man. I wasn’t really supposed to participate… but I have just reached 4k followers so this is my little thank you to this wonderful community! dividers used in this post are made by a talented @cursed-carmine

disclaimer! my posts are 18+ and contain explicit content, MDNI. Please read at your own risk, don’t ignore the warnings, and If you feel uncomfortable just stop reading. You have been warned.

✧˖°. first week ˊ˗

ᯓ★ ghosted ⇢ bucky barnes x reader prompts: uniform / sexting / giggly sex summary: who says Halloween night has to feel lonely? your super soldier boyfriend might be “on a mission,” but that doesn’t mean you can’t haunt his inbox… just make sure not to ghost him, he gets impatient very easily. release date: October 1st, my part in bwatober!

✧˖°. second week ˊ˗

ᯓ★ guns and roses ⇢ bucky barnes x reader prompts: free use / gunplay / anal sex summary: you should’ve known better than to bet against a century-old assassin at the shooting range. but your ego said “no way i’ll lose” and now here you are…paying up in a way bucky couldn’t be more happy about. release date: October 10th

✧˖°. third week ˊ˗

ᯓ★ lust for life ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader prompts: public sex / overstimulation / size kink summary: you knew working for a congressman would involve long hours, fancy events, and lots of stress. what you didn’t know? that you’d end up tucked away at the gala, trying and failing to stay quiet while your boss fucks the shit out of you. release date: October 20th

✧˖°. fourth week ˊ˗

ᯓ★ once upon a dream ⇢ demon!bucky barnes x angel!reader prompts: dubcon / corruption / knifeplay summary: angels aren’t supposed to stray so far away from the paradise. and bucky isn’t supposed to touch something holy. but rules have never stopped demons before. release date: October 31st

PSSSST… for even more filth go check out bwatober! ~yours truly, sophie xx

[barnesandashes]

oh my goddddddd 😭😭😭 im seated i cant wait to be fed

[sebssoulmate]

bucky and motorcycles🫶🏼

[GIF creds in order: AITR00PER2, PalePaleFire, enzoa1309 on pinterest]

[barnesandashes]

#needthat #NEEDTHAT

[buckyfmd-deactivated20260404]

˚୨୧⋆.˚ your name, verbatim.

wrote this thing instead of sleeping. blame (dedicated to) @colettebarnes + @kqtholins <3 also @devililithh thanks for helping me goon GEEEWD tonight hehehe

bucky always thought that he despised being called anything but ‘bucky’, the chime of his real name bringing back memories that he’d fought so long to forget— or at least, tried to.

that was until he met you, the random question you’d blurted out, ‘no, but— like, what’s your actual name?’

and when he told you his actual name, a light bulb switched on in your brain, your eyes filled with glee as if you’d been starstruck. and maybe, just maybe, you were. the thrill of finding out what cored deep beneath the thick skin and layers of ‘bucky’.

“oh my gosh!” you squealed, a smile spread fondly on your cheeks, “can i call you ‘james’?”

“no.” he affirmed, no tone beneath it all.

you pouted, unsatisfied with the lack of enthusiasm within bucky’s person, his eyes glued to the daily paper as you takes a prolonged sip of pure black coffee. typical.

“alright,” you huffed. “‘jamie’ it is, then!”

bucky’s focus snapped completely onto you, darkened eyes meeting the doe of the innocence in yours.

now, this is where the line hazed between certain timelines of events because, quite frankly, you don’t really remember how you ended up on the couch, bent over yelena’s favourite throw pillow, face squished into the velvety fabric as a vibranium hand gripped tight on the back of your neck.

“what’s my name, sweet girl?” bucky cooed, groaning as the clench of your walls around his cock pushed him closer to the edge of his climax.

your face jerked under the touch of his hand, cheek mushed against the cushion as drool accumulated onto the fabric, a wet patch forming where your lips touched the surface.

the ring of white around the base of his shaft indicated that this wasn’t the first time, the amount of combined orgasms unknown and lost, buried deep inside your head, his thrusts too intoxicating for you to even care. he continued to rut into your sweet pussy— his words, not yours— pace increasing as he continued to chase the longing feel for his own finish.

“‘s too much buck—”

you took a sharp inhale, a yelp almost, of the surrounding air as a hand came into contact with the fat of your asscheek, the harsh slap delivered with intent and full force.

“wrong. what is my name?” bucky reiterated, grip tightening on your hips as he pulled you closer with his thick length, driving into your cunt like a piston with each coaxing thrust.

“j—jamie,” you whimpered, voice cracking as you vibrated with each flick of his hips. “ple—ease jamie, need it… need it now.”

“tell me what you need, baby.” bucky smiled, lust fogging over the blues of his eyes, “words, big girl. use ‘em.”

you gagged a moan, breath hitching as he thrusted in rapidly, your wetness making it easy for him to ram his cock into your entrance, though your grip was still tight and enticing, never letting him leave.

“need you, again…” you whined, lip biting at the immense pleasure that quickened the arrival of your orgasm.

“could’ve—hah— just said that,” he embedded, hips stuttering and pace increasing as he fucks into your pussy, glistening and winking with pure need, “earlier, sweet girl…”

his sight was fixated on the view in between your thighs, the way your walls kept inviting his cock back in looked too tempting— too ravenous and certainly way too greedy.

his hips drove forward, pace becoming unsteady as he neared his orgasm, the thick white spurts coating your insides, “there ‘ya go…”

your back arched into him, knees rocking forward to fulfill the movement bucky was no longer doing. your back clung onto his chest, bodies glueing together with sweat as he slumped his weight on the dip of the couch.

“you oughtta start calling me ‘jamie’ more often, yeah?”

[barnesandashes]

GUYS WHAT THE HELL

[barnesandashes]

aria's masterlist

disclaimer: some of my works may have nsfw (18+) themes, they are labeled with a '★', minors do not interact! know more about me and my request guidelines!

ONESHOTS

need a ride? ★ | congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader summary: months long tension start to unravel between bucky barnes and his assistant when he offers you a ride home in the back of his motorcycle.

get jealous ★ | bucky barnes x reader summary: bucky barnes swears on his life that he is not a jealous man.

tears run down (my thighs) ★ | bucky barnes x reader summary: is getting wet a valid response when your boyfriend knows how to treat you right? or, bucky barnes being the poster child for gentlemanliness in the 21st century, that it's a turn on with how much he loves you.

stay tuned for more!

DRABBLES

bucky is a yearner munch bucky

stay tuned for more!

© barnesandashes

[barnesandashes]

ok i promise i’ll add smth new to this soon… very soon…

[sheriff-bodecker]

to it’s reckoning

⭑.ᐟ "Oh, we're not done yet."

pairing: steve kemp x f!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, ass writing, steve kemp, fingering, that smile like ':}', teasing, steve being an ass. - (wc: 340)

a/n: day 24 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge hosted by @societyfolklore and @soelstress !! i watched Fresh yesterday........ steve............. waoooo 0.o

taglist: @buckyfmd @widowvivi @demiebarnes @metal-armed-muse @barnesandashes @kiatjuddae @umbreoni @opheliabbarnes @miraclediviner @blowingbarnes

event masterlist

the couch dipped underneath your weight, thrashing your body around as best as you could — already wrung out, used and tired from Steve's fingers at the dining table, he decided to move things to the living room.

Lights on low, warm and frightfully inviting, cosy in the way you only really see in magazines, too perfect, too thought out.

Steve's hands found your wrists, pinning them by your head forcefully, tight and unyielding, a grin etched on his face as he watched you lazily try to slip free. Your legs were practically dead, deemed useless at how they trembled, spread out by his own.

his eyes never left your own, shaking his head in disbelief, taking his bottom lip between his teeth as he watched you. "God," breathy and gruff, a twinkle in his eyes, "you're something else… i hope you know that." his hands trailed down your body, shoulders, breasts, waist, to hips — giving each a grope before going onto the next.

"Steve please," you swallow thickly. "you-you said 'just dinner.'"

he chuckled darkly, fingers toying around your cunt and thighs. "I did didn't I?" his touch stayed teasing, watching as you pulsated at his fingers, at how badly you wanted him — as much as your body was screaming for release. he stayed sat on his haunches, playing, a hum on his lips. "well, we certainly had dinner, didn't we sweetheart?" he nodded at his own words, coaxing a nod from you, grinning as you complied.

"and what comes after dinner?" your voice was nowhere to be heard, Steve only seemed to pull breathy whines from your throat as he worked around your heat, unbearably. "c'mon, baby girl, you know this one."

"d-dessert"

"atta girl, dessert." he tilted his head, smile never seeming to falter, your squirms and gasps driving him on and on. "did you seriously think this was just going t'be dinner, baby? Oh, we're not done yet," his fingers finally dipped into your heat, curving perfectly, precision haunting. "how could i ever be done with you?"

© 2025 sheriff-bodecker

[barnesandashes]

OH MY FUCKING GOD I JUST WENT ON MY KNEES EMMI WHAT THE HELL… i swear i don’t read that much steve kemp fics but after this i might.. i might reconsider..

[barnesandashes]

“just be good for me, sweetheart.” bucky whispered, hot breath fanning at your neck as his lips ghost its way to your collarbone. “you can do that for me, right?” for a brief moment, he looked up at you—he couldn’t even wait to remove the articles of clothing adorning him, let alone have the patience to take you to the bedroom. he could only do so much as remove the sheer nightwear you wore.

he was tired, with the way his body wasn’t the perfect soldier demeanor it usually is. his back slouched, vibranium fingers tickling their way between your thighs as his tongue reached the insides of your mouth, sucking on it.

you could only do so much as squirm, you weren’t going to complain when he opened the door to your shared apartment—picked you up to let you sit on the dining table. if you knew he was this hungry, you could’ve prepared actual food. you doubt he’d eat it instead of you.

“baby,” your breathless moan resonated around the room when he curled his fingers inside your wet cunt, hitting bucky harder than any of the punches he’d received. “need more.” his hand of flesh held the back of your neck as he placed kisses down your neck to the valley of your breasts, biting the right nipple while his fingers pumped in out.

“fuck.” he let out a whine. “you’re so pretty like this. so fucking beautiful, my angel.”

maybe the dining table bucky would always complain about being too short wasn’t too bad, because that would mean he’d get to kneel on the floor with his head between your thighs, looking up at you while you try to cover the noises coming up of your mouth as he takes your fingers to rub your clit—all the while he sucked on your pussy like a man starved for life.

like you were his lifeline.

“bucky, i’m coming—“ your own words were cut off by your own moans, screams of pleasure, pulling down on his hair a little bit tighter when his hands pushed your ass behind to let him suck deeper on wet folds, his fingers reaching your g-spot. everything felt so good in his care.

“taste so good, sweetie.” he doesn’t even stop when you cum because who was he to waste a single drop?

“are you gonna let me eat this all night?”

it seemed that you didn’t need to cook food if that delicacy he longed for was always you.

[miraclediviner]

“Are you gonna let me eat this all night?” What if I literally phased through the table. MY MUNCH DOCTOR I NEED MY MUNCH!!!!! THIS IS TOOOOO GOOOOOOOOD never stop writing my life is yours fr.

[barnesandashes]

I MEAN MUNCH BUCKY IS A NECESSITY RIGHT TEEHEE THANK U MECCA <3

[kqtholins]

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 | bucky barnes x f!reader 𝜗𝜚

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: two storms colliding, finding calm in each other’s wreckage.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k

𝐚/𝐧: hii! everyone say “thank you thea’s ex!” bc this was also inspired by my last relationship minus the ending lmao, obvs. the reader’s thoughts were my thoughts and some of the moments were loosely transformed to fit the fiction but they did happen irl 🧍‍♀️ since i’m in an angsty mood, i decided that today is for suffering!! the song i’m leaving you with today is THE song, meaning, this is what i was listening to when my life was this fanfic :< as always, feedback is appreciated and enjoy!! :)) + pics credit: pinterest

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ﾒ૦

The compound is loud with life, but in your corner of it, there is only silence.

It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but heavy — the sort that lingers like smoke after a fire, clinging to walls, slipping under doors, crawling into your lungs until you choke on it. Once, his voice filled this space. Once, his laughter — soft, unsteady, still learning what it meant to belong — echoed in your ears, a sound you treasured more than anything else.

Now, it’s gone.

Now, it’s only silence, and you are drowning in it.

Bucky sits across the room, shoulders curved inward, a storm you cannot read anymore. His metal fingers tap against his thigh in that rhythm he falls into when his mind wanders — when he’s someplace else, with someone else, maybe. He doesn’t notice your eyes on him. He doesn’t notice much these days.

The shift wasn’t sudden. That’s what makes it so cruel. If it had been sharp — an overnight change, a cut so clean you could trace its edges — you might have known how to fight it. But this was slow. A gradual slipping, like sand pouring through your hands. At first it was just a missed kiss, an absent touch, a shorter reply. You told yourself it was nothing. Missions weighed on him. Nightmares kept him up. You understood.

But understanding only goes so far before it rots into fear.

Now, every empty space between you feels like proof. Proof that you are losing him. Proof that love is not enough. Proof that maybe, maybe, he has found something brighter, something softer, someone easier to love.

Your chest tightens, but your face is as still as ever. You’ve built your mask too well to let it crack here. They all know you as the cold one — the sharp one, the one who doesn’t flinch or bend. It was only him who ever saw past that, only him who coaxed warmth out of you with a steady hand and patient eyes. You gave him what you never gave anyone else: unguarded affection, a heart stripped of armor.

And now you are paying the price.

He shifts in his seat. His gaze flickers toward you, just for a second, and something in you dares to hope — but his eyes skitter away just as fast, landing on the floor, the window, anywhere but you.

You swallow hard. Once, he would have crossed the room by now. Sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh pressed against yours. His hand — flesh or metal, it never mattered — would have found your knee, your fingers, your waist. Once, he couldn’t stand being so far away.

Now, the gulf between you yawns wider, and you don’t know how to bridge it without tearing yourself apart.

The silence grows unbearable. You rise, pretending you need water, pretending you aren’t fleeing from the ache that pulses between you. Your footsteps echo in the hall, and with every step, your chest cracks a little more.

It isn’t just distance. It’s decay.

At night, you lie in bed beside him — or rather, beside the body of him. He faces away now, shoulders tense, breaths too steady. When you shift closer, there is no response. His warmth used to anchor you; now it only burns. You stay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s lying awake too, wondering if someone else’s name is on his mind when yours used to be.

And God, how it hurts.

The pain is quiet but consuming, a fire with no flames. You feel it in your bones, in the hollow behind your ribs, in the places he once filled with tenderness. You ache not just because you might lose him, but because you let yourself need him. You, who never needed anyone, who always held the world at arm’s length.

It was him who broke you open, and it is him who now makes you wish you had stayed closed.

But you will not cry. You will not beg. You will not let the ruin show.

So you sharpen your edges again. Your words turn cooler, your eyes harder. Around the team, you slip back into the armor you wore before him, and they do not notice — because why would they? To them, this is who you always were.

Only he notices. And maybe, in some twisted way, you want him to.

Because if he sees the coldness in you return, maybe he’ll understand the weight of what he’s breaking. Maybe he’ll feel the sting of it too.

But when his eyes flick toward you again, all you find in them is distance. All you find is silence.

And silence, you think, is the cruelest form of goodbye.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The training hall smells faintly of sweat and steel. You’ve been here longer than you should, letting the rhythmic strike of fists against the bag drown out the noise in your head. It’s easier to bruise your knuckles than to think. Easier to let your body ache than to admit the hollow gnawing at your chest.

Each punch is a question you can’t answer.

What changed?

When did he stop reaching for you?

Who is she?

The bag sways under the force, chains groaning overhead. You imagine for a moment it’s his fault you’re striking — not his body, but the ghost of his love, the absence of his warmth. You hit harder. You hit until your breath comes ragged, until sweat slicks your spine, until the ache in your arms is sharp enough to eclipse the one in your heart.

It doesn’t work.

Because when you stop, chest heaving, you hear it.

His laugh.

Low, rough, caught between shyness and something softer. A sound that used to belong to you.

Your heart stills. Slowly, you turn.

He’s across the hall, leaning against the wall near the weapons rack, head bent toward Natasha. She’s smiling at him, something private and conspiratorial in her expression. His eyes are on her — intent, listening, mouth curved in the faintest smile you haven’t seen in weeks.

The sound of your pulse drowns out everything else.

You know it’s innocent. Rationally, you know. Natasha has been his friend, his ally, long before you. But the way he stands — close, shoulders not tense the way they are around you now — shreds through your chest. He looks lighter with her. He looks alive in a way he hasn’t with you for months.

And that’s enough.

The proof you never wanted, laid out like a knife on the table.

The glow inside you dims, flickering into cold ash. You press your lips together, force your breathing steady, and walk past them without a word. You don’t give them the satisfaction of your glance. You’re steel again — cold, sharp, untouchable.

But your stomach twists, your throat burns, and you think you might shatter from the inside out.

He notices. Of course he notices.

Later, in the kitchen, his eyes follow you like shadows. You reach for a glass, his hand stills halfway to the cupboard. When you pass him, the distance between your bodies feels like miles.

“Hey,” he says, voice careful, like he’s testing the weight of the word.

You don’t look at him. “Hey.”

He waits. He always waits, as though if he’s quiet long enough, you’ll unfold yourself for him again. But you’ve folded shut. Locked the pieces in place. He doesn’t deserve to see the soft parts anymore.

“You okay?” he asks finally.

The question cuts. Once, it was your favorite thing — the way he asked, like he could feel every fracture in you before you felt it yourself. Now, it feels like mockery. A hollow gesture from someone who doesn’t care enough to stay.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice smooth, unyielding.

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the way his jaw tightens. But he doesn’t press, and that is worse.

If he loved you still, he would fight for the truth. He would demand to know. He would drag the words out of you because that’s what he used to do — refuse to let you disappear into your armor.

Now he lets you go.

And God, it feels like abandonment.

The days bleed together after that.

He hovers at the edges of your vision, but never crosses the distance. You retreat further into yourself, sharper with your words, colder with your eyes. The glow he once coaxed from you is gone, smothered by suspicion and grief.

You see it hurt him. You see the way his face twists when you brush past him without lingering, the way his hand twitches but never reaches for yours. And still, he says nothing.

Maybe he feels guilty. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

At night, the silence between you is unbearable. The bed feels like an ocean, and you’re stranded on opposite shores. You hear him shift in the dark, restless, but he never turns toward you. You never turn toward him.

Sometimes, you imagine what it would feel like to press your forehead to his, to demand the truth, to lay your heart bare even if it means it breaks. But then you remember the way he laughed with Natasha, the way his shoulders softened in her presence, and the words curdle on your tongue.

You won’t beg. You won’t cling. You won’t make yourself small for someone who no longer wants you.

So you let the silence stretch, even as it tears you apart.

It happens again in the common room. You walk in, and there he is, leaning closer to Sam this time, whispering something you can’t hear. He glances up, catches your eye, and you swear he looks guilty.

Your chest hollows out. The knife twists deeper.

You sit at the farthest chair, crossing your arms, pretending to listen to Wanda as she talks about a new book. But you can feel his gaze. Heavy, searching, desperate.

When you finally glance his way, his lips part — as if he’s about to say something, as if he’s about to close the distance — but you turn back to Wanda before he can.

His face crumples. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a flicker of pain, and it almost breaks you.

Almost.

But you remember how it felt, watching him laugh with her. You remember the silence that’s replaced his love. And you know: if you let yourself soften now, you’ll unravel completely.

So you stay cold.

You stay sharp.

You stay silent.

And Bucky — poor, oblivious Bucky — misreads every moment, every word unsaid. He thinks you’re slipping away because you’ve stopped loving him. He thinks he’s the one losing you.

Neither of you realize you are both drowning in the same ocean, too far apart to see the other’s hands reaching through the waves.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The compound is quiet tonight. The kind of quiet that settles heavy, like the world is holding its breath. Everyone else has gone to their rooms, doors shut, voices muted. You’re alone in yours, though “alone” feels too simple a word for what this is.

This is exile.

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at nothing, hands clenched so tight in your lap that your nails carve crescents into your skin. The lights are off, moonlight slants through the blinds, painting the room in fractured silver. It feels like the right light for what you are — fractured, dim, barely holding together.

The silence between you and him has followed you here, but here it is louder. It presses against the walls, pools in the corners, seeps into your lungs until every breath tastes like ash.

You remember what this room used to feel like.

It was warmth. It was his voice breaking the quiet, his laughter muffled against your neck, his hands — careful, reverent, steady — mapping out every line of you like he needed to memorize it. The bed smelled like his shampoo, his sweat, the faint sharpness of gun oil that never fully left his skin. The sheets were tangled around limbs and laughter, the air charged with affection so raw it made you dizzy.

You were reckless with him. Unguarded. You let yourself be soft, affectionate, tender in ways that terrified you, because he made it safe. He made love safe.

Now the bed is empty. Cold. The sheets are neat, because there’s no point in tangling them when you lie awake with your body turned stiff, pretending not to notice the distance between you. The air smells of nothing. Not him, not you.

You clench your fists tighter.

You should have known better. You should never have given so much. You are not someone who survives being open. You are someone who wears armor, who turns tenderness into steel, who faces the world with a sharp edge and never lets anyone close enough to cut.

And yet—

You loved him.

You loved him so openly it felt like standing naked in a storm. You loved him until it remade you, until your teammates noticed a glow in your eyes they had never seen before. They teased you for smiling too much, for softening, for letting yourself look at him like he was everything you swore you didn’t need.

And he was.

That’s the worst part. He was everything. He was the first person you trusted enough to put down the walls, to let your hands linger, to kiss without hesitation, to whisper I love you without fear of what it would cost.

And now you’re paying for it.

Because love was never meant to last for you. Because you should have known that one day, his hands would stop reaching, his eyes would stop searching, his smile would belong to someone else.

You press your hands against your eyes until stars bloom in the darkness. Anything to keep the tears from falling. You will not cry. Not for him, not for this.

If he’s already gone, then so be it. You will not beg for scraps of affection. You will not cling to someone who has already chosen another.

So you make a vow. A quiet one, whispered into the dark like a curse.

You will not let him see you break.

You will not give him the satisfaction of your hurt.

You will not bleed where he can see.

You will be what you were before him: cold, sharp, untouchable.

The glow he once coaxed from you is gone, replaced by ice. The softness he carved into your heart is buried under stone. You will become again the version of yourself that needs no one, that trusts no one, that does not ache for someone’s hand in the dark.

It hurts. God, it hurts so much you think it might kill you. But the pain is easier to bear when you turn it inward, when you let it calcify into armor instead of spilling raw into the open.

You push back from the bed, stand, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

You hardly recognize the woman staring back.

Her eyes are hollowed out, glow extinguished, shadows sinking deep into the places where love once lived. Her mouth is set in a sharp line, no trace of softness left. Her shoulders are straight, rigid with resolve, as if she can hold herself together by sheer force of will.

She looks untouchable. She looks cold. She looks like you did before him.

But the difference is there, buried in the eyes: sorrow, raw and quiet, laced through every shadow. A sadness no armor can hide completely.

You hold her gaze until your jaw aches from the tension, until your hands stop trembling. And then you turn away.

You lie down in the cold bed, pull the covers up, and face the wall.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That this is easier. That he cannot hurt you if you refuse to be soft for him anymore.

But in the silence, with the moonlight painting cracks across the wall, the truth claws its way out of you.

You loved him. You still do.

And that is the cruelest wound of all.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The morning feels brittle. The kind of morning that looks normal from the outside — sunlight pouring in, coffee brewing, footsteps echoing faintly through the halls — but underneath, everything is fractured.

You sit at the table, nursing a mug that’s long gone cold. You don’t drink it. You don’t even taste it anymore. You just hold it, hands wrapped around ceramic as though it could tether you to something solid.

Bucky enters the kitchen. You don’t need to look to know it’s him — you know the rhythm of his steps, the quiet weight of his presence. Once, that presence wrapped around you like a comfort. Now, it presses down like a storm cloud.

“Morning,” he says softly.

You don’t look up. “Morning.”

The word tastes like ashes.

There’s a pause, then the scrape of a chair. He sits across from you, hands curling on the table. You see him in your periphery, chest rising with a breath that sounds heavier than it should.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks.

You blink. “About what?”

The calmness in your tone is practiced, sharp-edged. A blade disguised as silk.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You finally look at him, eyes cold, voice smooth. “You’ll have to be specific, Bucky.”

The way his name leaves your mouth — clipped, precise, stripped of softness — makes something flicker in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

“You’ve been pulling away,” he says finally. The words come out like they’ve been scraped raw from his throat. “I can feel it. You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me. You barely talk to me unless you have to. I don’t know what I did, but—” His voice cracks. “—but you can’t just shut me out like this.”

The irony stings so deep you almost laugh. You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me.

God, if only he knew.

You let silence linger for a beat too long before replying, voice low, bitter. “Funny. I could say the same about you.”

He flinches. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” Your tone sharpens. “You’ve been distant for weeks, Bucky. You barely look at me. You find excuses not to be near me. I’m not stupid.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “So what, you just decided I don’t love you anymore?”

Your laugh is hollow, humorless. “You think love looks like this? Like silence and half-hearted smiles and conversations that die before they begin?”

He leans forward, voice strained. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

The words hit like a gunshot. For a moment, you can’t breathe.

Your chest aches so violently you want to scream, but instead you force your voice to stay steady. “Don’t turn this on me.”

He drags a hand down his face, frustration radiating off him. “I’m not turning it on you, sweetheart—”

“Don’t.” The word cuts sharp. “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes widen, wounded. “Why the hell not?”

“Because you don’t mean it anymore!” The words rip out of you before you can stop them. They echo in the kitchen, raw and jagged. “You say it, but you don’t look at me like you used to. You don’t touch me like you used to. You don’t love me like you used to.”

Silence. The kind that feels like a wound, open and bleeding.

His voice drops to a whisper, broken. “You really think I don’t love you?”

Your throat burns. You want to say no. You want to say you believe him. But the image of him leaning toward Natasha, smiling in that quiet, private way, flashes through your mind like a blade.

So you bite down on the words and say instead, “Who is she?”

He freezes. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Your voice is steady, even as your heart splinters with every syllable. “Natasha? Someone else? Who is she, Bucky? The one who gets your smiles now. The one who gets the pieces of you that used to be mine.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands, shock and fury twisting across his face. “Are you kidding me? You think I’d—?”

“You think I don’t see it?” you cut in, rising too, fire burning in your veins. “The way you look at her. The way you laugh with her. The way you—” Your breath shakes. “—the way you’ve stopped being with me.”

His hands are trembling, flesh and metal alike. His voice is ragged when he speaks. “I thought you were the one pulling away. I thought you were done with me.” His throat works, jaw clenching. “You think I’d cheat on you? After everything? After how hard I fought to believe I deserved this — deserved you?”

Your chest caves, but you don’t let it show. You cross your arms, nails biting into your skin. “What else am I supposed to think, Bucky?”

His eyes are wet, his voice breaking. “You’re supposed to trust me.”

The words hang between you, heavy and cruel.

You look at him, really look — at the devastation carved into his face, the way his eyes shine with pain, the way his body shakes with the effort of holding himself together. And for a fleeting second, you almost believe him.

But then the silence presses in again, memories of his distance gnawing at you, the ache of your bed growing colder each night.

You can’t do this. Not now.

So you turn, biting down hard on the sob threatening to claw its way free. “I can’t do this right now.”

Your voice is flat, final.

And before he can answer, before you can see the way his face crumples at your retreat, you walk away.

The sound of his breath breaking behind you follows you down the hall.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The compound is a graveyard of silence.

It’s deep into the night, the kind of hour when even the ghosts of the place seem to rest, when the halls are empty and the lights are dimmed to shadows. You should be asleep, but sleep hasn’t come easily in weeks. Tonight it doesn’t come at all. You’ve been pacing, restless, your chest too tight, your head too loud.

You end up on the rooftop. The air is crisp, the city glittering in the distance, alive in ways you can’t bring yourself to be. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at it, breathing slowly, trying to quiet the storm inside.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him. His presence thrums against your skin like it always has, even now, even when you wish it didn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” he says softly.

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on the skyline, body rigid, hoping silence will be enough to keep him away.

But the footsteps approach anyway. He stops a few feet from you, like he knows you’ll retreat if he comes closer.

“Sweetheart—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, correcting. “Y/N.”

Your throat tightens. The sound of your name on his lips feels like a bruise.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says finally. His voice is rough, frayed at the edges. “I can’t keep guessing what I did wrong, why you’re shutting me out. I’m going crazy trying to figure it out.”

You swallow, hard. The words taste like glass in your mouth. “You’re not the only one.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Then talk to me. Please. Just—just tell me what I did.”

The ache in your chest swells, sharp and unbearable. You turn to face him, and the sight nearly destroys you.

His eyes are tired, ringed with sleepless shadows. His mouth is drawn tight, his shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for a blow. And underneath it all, he looks devastated — wrecked in a way that mirrors the ruin in your own chest.

But your suspicion still clings to you, sharp and merciless. “You want me to say it out loud?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Fine. I think you’re cheating on me.”

The words hang in the cold night air, ugly and raw, a confession of your deepest wound.

Bucky goes still. So still he could be carved from stone. His eyes widen, disbelief flashing across his face before it curdles into pain.

“You… what?” His voice cracks.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your stomach twists. “I see the way you look at her. I hear you laugh with her. You don’t touch me anymore, you don’t talk to me anymore, and—” Your breath hitches. “—and you don’t love me anymore. So yeah. I thought there must be someone else.”

For a heartbeat, the world is nothing but the sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven. Then he laughs — not with humor, but with something broken.

“You really think I’d do that to you?” he says, voice low, shaking. “After everything? After the nights you held me through the nightmares, after the way you made me believe I could be more than what they turned me into—you think I’d just throw you away like that?”

His words slice through you, but the wound is already open, already bleeding. “What else was I supposed to think, Bucky? You pulled away first. You stopped reaching for me. You made me feel like I wasn’t enough anymore.”

His hands twitch at his sides, metal glinting in the faint light. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. “I pulled away because I thought you were done with me.”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

He steps closer, just one shaky step, eyes burning into yours. “You started getting cold. You stopped smiling at me. You stopped touching me first. Every time I looked at you, you were already looking away. I thought…” His voice falters, drops to a whisper. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

The words slam into you with the force of a tidal wave.

Your knees feel weak, your chest caving as the truth unravels before you. All the coldness, all the silence, all the distance — it was both of you, reflecting each other’s fear. Two mirrors facing one another, multiplying the same wound until it filled the room, the bed, the very air you breathed.

Your eyes sting, but you bite back the tears. “God, Bucky…”

He shakes his head, voice breaking. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you know how hard it was to even believe I deserved you in the first place? And then to think you didn’t want me anymore—” He chokes on the words, chest heaving. “It gutted me. It fucking gutted me.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. For once, you don’t try to still them. “I thought I was protecting myself. I thought if I pulled back first, it wouldn’t hurt so much when you left me for her.”

He stares at you, eyes wide, wet with tears. “Natasha? You think it’s Natasha?”

You can’t speak. You just nod, shame clawing at your throat.

And then, impossibly, he lets out a short, disbelieving laugh — broken but soft. “She’s been helping me pick out something for you. A ring.”

The world tilts.

Your breath stops, your body sways, your heart claws against your ribs as though trying to escape. “A… ring?”

He nods, tears spilling now, unchecked. “I wanted it to be perfect. I didn’t want to mess it up. I was nervous, I pulled back because I thought if I pushed too hard, you’d realize you didn’t actually want forever with me. And Nat—she’s the only one I trusted enough to help me figure it out.”

The rooftop spins around you.

Every sharp edge you built, every wall, every piece of armor shatters under the weight of it. You press a hand to your mouth, a sob tearing its way out despite your resolve.

Bucky’s face crumples at the sound. In an instant, he’s there, reaching for you — hesitant, terrified, but desperate.

You don’t stop him. You collapse into him, fists clutching at his shirt, tears soaking the fabric. The dam has broken, and all the pain, all the fear, all the love you tried to bury pours out of you like a flood.

“I thought you didn’t love me,” you choke, voice shaking.

His arms tighten around you, strong and trembling. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Never. You’re it for me. You’ve always been it.”

The words destroy you, rebuild you, burn through you with a fire you can’t contain. You press your forehead to his chest, sobbing quietly, and he holds you like he’ll never let go.

For a long time, that’s all there is. The sound of your broken breaths, the tremor of his heartbeat under your ear, the raw, unspoken vow between you.

When you finally pull back, your face is wet, his shirt damp. He cups your face with trembling hands — one warm flesh, one cool metal — and forces you to meet his gaze.

“No more walls,” he whispers, eyes burning into yours. “No more silence. If you’re hurting, you tell me. If you’re scared, you tell me. Don’t shut me out, not ever again.”

You nod, breath shaking. “Only if you promise the same.”

“I promise.” His voice cracks, but the conviction in it is unshakable. “I promise, baby.”

The word doesn’t hurt this time. It heals.

You close your eyes as his forehead presses to yours, the city lights blurring into nothing behind you.

Two broken people, standing on the edge of ruin, finally realizing the ruin was only shadows. The house of love still stood, scarred but unshaken, waiting for you both to step back inside.

And you do. Together.

𓂃 ࣪˖ thea’s taglist: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @bckyslover @herejustforbuckybarnes @widowvivi @umbreoni @devililithh @metal-armed-muse @opheliabbarnes @demiebarnes @barnesandashes @mrgrungusthefrog @colettebarnes @amoremarveloustime

divider by: @cafekitsune

[barnesandashes]

welll i was taking a quiz when i saw the mention but fuck this quiz amirite

[buckyfmd-deactivated20260404]

*KINK OR TREAT ! ✧˖°.

summary ; five days in october which include five different kink-or-treaters showing up at your door yelling, “kink or treat!”* *also known buckyfmd’s kinktober 2025 !! five different versions of james buchanan barnes right at your doorstep. minors do not interact. this is an 18+ event. please be wary as some tropes may be taboo. if you see anything that makes you uncomfortable or you simply do not like it, please click off, stay safe, and i’ll see you in the next one<3. just because i write it, does not mean i support it in any way shape or form. i, drea, am not responsible for your media consumption. please tread carefully. notes ; baby’s first kinktober…. boyfriend im nervous…. a special special thank you to @chateaubarnes for the title, i love you and im gonna give you a kiss. and a big shoutout to the bucky’s girls community, i love you all so much my heart hurts🥹🥹🥹 kinktober taglist is available! shoot me a comment or an ask and ill add you to it<3

⟡ ݁₊ . kink-or-treater one ──

splash zone ! — munch!bucky prompt: delayed orgasm ⋆.˚ coming: october first, first instalment of drea’s kinktober.

⟡ ݁₊ . kink-or-treater two ──

stepbro, i’m stuck ! — stepbrother!bucky prompt: stepsiblings, whatever this is tread carefully ⋆.˚ coming: october third, second instalment of drea’s kinktober.

⟡ ݁₊ . kink-or-treater three ──

gun show ! — stalker!congressman!barnes prompt: inappropriate use of guns… dubcon (someone detain me now) ⋆.˚ coming: october sixth, third instalment of drea’s kinktober.

⟡ ݁₊ . kink-or-treater four ──

she ! — neighbour!bucky prompt: public masturbation, dubcon tread carefully !!! ⋆.˚ coming: october ninth, fourth instalment of drea’s kinktober.

⟡ ݁₊ . kink-or-treater five ──

mortal souls ! — brother!bucky (…🧍‍♀️) prompt: siblings (please don’t cancel me), BE EXTRA CAUTIOUS WITH THIS ONE YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, this fic is a warning itself i want to die. DISCLAIMER: just because i wrote it doesn’t mean i support it. i disgust myself but we ball… we ball. ⋆.˚ coming: october fourteenth, fifth instalment of drea’s kinktober.

drea’s notes ; really ended this one with a bang…… if you guys come at me with pitchforks just know i’m into that………….

💌 @umbreoni @sheriff-bodecker @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @bckyslover @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @demiebarnes @miraclediviner @letterstodevil @kiatjuddae @devililithh @widowvivi @fucky-barnes82 @mrgrungusthefrog @colettebarnes @juniebjonesin @herejustforbuckybarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @fluorjscent @sebastians-love @wint3rbarnes @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis @justalittle47 @yes-ilovetowrite

[barnesandashes]

IM SEATED. THE PEOPLE ARE SCARED AND ASKING ME TO LEAVE BECAUSE IT’S NOT YET KINKTOBER BUT IM SIMPLY TOO SEATED.

[barnesandashes]

“just be good for me, sweetheart.” bucky whispered, hot breath fanning at your neck as his lips ghost its way to your collarbone. “you can do that for me, right?” for a brief moment, he looked up at you—he couldn’t even wait to remove the articles of clothing adorning him, let alone have the patience to take you to the bedroom. he could only do so much as remove the sheer nightwear you wore.

he was tired, with the way his body wasn’t the perfect soldier demeanor it usually is. his back slouched, vibranium fingers tickling their way between your thighs as his tongue reached the insides of your mouth, sucking on it.

you could only do so much as squirm, you weren’t going to complain when he opened the door to your shared apartment—picked you up to let you sit on the dining table. if you knew he was this hungry, you could’ve prepared actual food. you doubt he’d eat it instead of you.

“baby,” your breathless moan resonated around the room when he curled his fingers inside your wet cunt, hitting bucky harder than any of the punches he’d received. “need more.” his hand of flesh held the back of your neck as he placed kisses down your neck to the valley of your breasts, biting the right nipple while his fingers pumped in out.

“fuck.” he let out a whine. “you’re so pretty like this. so fucking beautiful, my angel.”

maybe the dining table bucky would always complain about being too short wasn’t too bad, because that would mean he’d get to kneel on the floor with his head between your thighs, looking up at you while you try to cover the noises coming up of your mouth as he takes your fingers to rub your clit—all the while he sucked on your pussy like a man starved for life.

like you were his lifeline.

“bucky, i’m coming—“ your own words were cut off by your own moans, screams of pleasure, pulling down on his hair a little bit tighter when his hands pushed your ass behind to let him suck deeper on wet folds, his fingers reaching your g-spot. everything felt so good in his care.

“taste so good, sweetie.” he doesn’t even stop when you cum because who was he to waste a single drop?

“are you gonna let me eat this all night?”

it seemed that you didn’t need to cook food if that delicacy he longed for was always you.

[buckyfmd-deactivated20260404]

also holy fuck this bitch(affectionate never call a woman a bitch😡😡😡) isn’t dying that easily!!!!!!!!

[barnesandashes]

special thank you to my girls whose server i spammed chat because i seriously thought i was gonna die tonight but no wait let me cook and write some smut before i go…

[barnesandashes]

“just be good for me, sweetheart.” bucky whispered, hot breath fanning at your neck as his lips ghost its way to your collarbone. “you can do that for me, right?” for a brief moment, he looked up at you—he couldn’t even wait to remove the articles of clothing adorning him, let alone have the patience to take you to the bedroom. he could only do so much as remove the sheer nightwear you wore.

he was tired, with the way his body wasn’t the perfect soldier demeanor it usually is. his back slouched, vibranium fingers tickling their way between your thighs as his tongue reached the insides of your mouth, sucking on it.

you could only do so much as squirm, you weren’t going to complain when he opened the door to your shared apartment—picked you up to let you sit on the dining table. if you knew he was this hungry, you could’ve prepared actual food. you doubt he’d eat it instead of you.

“baby,” your breathless moan resonated around the room when he curled his fingers inside your wet cunt, hitting bucky harder than any of the punches he’d received. “need more.” his hand of flesh held the back of your neck as he placed kisses down your neck to the valley of your breasts, biting the right nipple while his fingers pumped in out.

“fuck.” he let out a whine. “you’re so pretty like this. so fucking beautiful, my angel.”

maybe the dining table bucky would always complain about being too short wasn’t too bad, because that would mean he’d get to kneel on the floor with his head between your thighs, looking up at you while you try to cover the noises coming up of your mouth as he takes your fingers to rub your clit—all the while he sucked on your pussy like a man starved for life.

like you were his lifeline.

“bucky, i’m coming—“ your own words were cut off by your own moans, screams of pleasure, pulling down on his hair a little bit tighter when his hands pushed your ass behind to let him suck deeper on wet folds, his fingers reaching your g-spot. everything felt so good in his care.

“taste so good, sweetie.” he doesn’t even stop when you cum because who was he to waste a single drop?

“are you gonna let me eat this all night?”

it seemed that you didn’t need to cook food if that delicacy he longed for was always you.

[barnesandashes]

hi aria my gorgeous wife my bby hi hi hello ily just wanted to say how much i appreciate you BARONG BUCKY 4 LIFE okay MWAH I LOVE YOU

this is me crawling out of the deepest depths of hiatus to say ily to my drea baby who is definitely more gorgeous than me MWA bucky batumbakal jr for life 🩷

[barnesandashes]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ hi! i haven’t been in here for a while.

this is me letting u guys know that i will be taking a hiatus for a while because i have to focus on my studies— and work on a bucky series i have been wanting to write for a while now!

i’m still in the process of writing the timeline because this piece will be very close to home (and kinda long). i’m so so excited to share it with bucky community <3

i know my three fics won't be able to suffice, so i have a list of amazing writers below that i would like to recommend because they are crazy talented!

⊹ ࣪ ˖

my recs of amazing bucky writers! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

@artficlly - the literal goat, the reason why i even have this blog in the first place, so i could read all her works! @houseofhyde - check out her manchild series! i have not been the same ever since i read those and made me believe in god (sabrina carpenter) @barnesonly - i devoted a whole week of my life just to read her illegal series, and i can definitely say that’s it’s worth it! i’m not the biggest fan of mafia bucky but it really ignited something feral in me like what!! @mcrdvcks - i think i have read all her taylor swift titled bucky fics because real recognizes real 🙂‍↕️ + i love electric touch and sparks fly sm, my comfort fics! @opheliabbarnes - CEO of college bucky, need i say more? her fics are the reason why i don’t have any college crushes rn because i’m still very delusional on hoping that my roommate bucky will walk in the door right now! @buckyfmd - dbf bucky propaganda is growing on me and it’s drea’s fault! also, the first filo bucky stan i have ever encountered so i am very happy with the fact that i am not alone!! @superbassbuck - idk which one of her fics to recommend because i’m pretty sure i have read all of them bc they are just too good!! i recommend u guys doing the same 😌

see ya’ll in a bit, let me just fuck up my accounting courses first!