✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦
There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.
Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.
A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.
He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.
Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.
You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.
“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.
You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
“Sit up.”
Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
“I told you to sit up-“
“I heard you.”
“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”
“No. I work under Nat.”
“Who works for me-“
“Does she?”
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.
Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
“Yeah?”
Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.
“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.
“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.
“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”
“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.
“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”
“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
“What the fuck is your problem.”
Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
“I know that-“
“Didn’t seem like it.”
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”
Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”
“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”
“That’s rude-“
“Oh, suck my dick.”
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.
“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”
You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”
Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
“If someone got the jump on you-“
“No one gets the jump on me.”
“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“
“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
“I didn’t say that-“
“Then what were you going to say-“’
“That you need to be careful-“
“And why do you care-“
“I don’t-“
“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You- You fucking-“
“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“Nothing important-“
“It looked important.”
Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.
“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.
“Tony, what’s going on-“
“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”
“Well, I know it’s your fault-“
“Because everything is my fault-“
“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”
“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“
“I’m not in trouble-“
“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“
“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”
You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”
“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”
A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
“You should sit down, buddy.”
Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”
“Don’t stand there like a creep.”
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”
Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”
You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”
Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.
From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.
“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”
Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”
“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”
Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
“So what, do you need us to do another release-“
“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“
“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“
“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”
“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“
“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes. I do. And you do too.”
You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”
“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”
Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“
“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
“They- What?!”
“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.
He never does.
“Did you know about this?” You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“
“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”
“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”
Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”
“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“
“Just- Not now-“
“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”
Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“
“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-
No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.
You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?
He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.
“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“
“We really don’t-“
“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
“Let go-“
“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”
“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“
“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”
“Aw. I’m a woman-“
“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
“I’m a problem?”
Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll live.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”
“You’re impossible-“
“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“
“Yes. You do.”
“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“
“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“
“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“
“Steve-“
“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“
“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But Steve…
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
“Since the second I saw you.”
“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”
His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“
“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
“Okay?”
You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
“Shut up, I could still stop this-“
“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“
“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
“You would’ve killed me.”
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.
“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t been thinking small.
“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
“You- You’re such an ass-“
“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And he’s still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
“You’re- Uh-“
“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“
“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
“You like that, doll?”
“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”
“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“
“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“
“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
He’s looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
“Steve- Ooh-“
“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”
And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“
You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.
You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”
You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”
“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”
You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”
You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.
“You gotta hold on.”
“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.
“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“
“I’m holding on tight.”
“Hold on tighter.”
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.
“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.
“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“
“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“
“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.
“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”
“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.
The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.
It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
“Is that me?”
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
“Stay.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
“You like that, huh?”
“Shut up-“
“No, you liked that-“
“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“
“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”
“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“
“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”
“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.
“I love you.”
He said it again. “Wh- Why?”
“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”
“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“
“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“
“It’s not.”
“But-“
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“
“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”
You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.
“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“
“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.
“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.
“Yes?”
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
“You getting on, or not?”
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.
“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.
You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”
“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“
“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
“St- Steve-“
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“
“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“
Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“
It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.
There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
“You gonna talk to me?”
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
“I didn’t hurt you-“
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
“Honey, it’s everywhere.”
You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.
“Okay. Five minutes.”
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.
“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“
You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
“I love you,” you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦
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it is i and i have come for help omce again. scrolling thru tumblr when i ran across this bucky barnes x reader fic where bucky placed a toy insidde reader before going to a gala. in the fic bucky explains that reader can tap the inside of wrist if she needs him to slow down. green is if shes okay. And he can stop whenever she asks. plss help me find it 🥹 the app crashed befire i could like or reblog it 😭
bucky getting to tag along for his first "girls night" (for whatever reason, maybe his plans with steve fell thru so reader invited hime) but that is where he gets introduced to margs and chips and cheso! he ends up having the absolute time of his life at that table
When Steve cancels, it’s over something deeply tragic and incredibly important.
“A documentary marathon,” Bucky mutters, staring at his phone like it personally betrayed him. “Six hours of World War II footage. Says he ‘needs context.’”
You snort from the bathroom doorway, already dressed and halfway into your heels. “You lived it. That’s context.”
“He says it’s different when it’s remastered.”
You grin. “Well. Since your date ditched you… you could come with me.”
He looks up slowly. Suspicious. “Where?”
“Girls’ night.”
His brows lift. “I don’t think I’m legally allowed.”
“You are if you behave.”
There’s a beat where he pretends to consider it, then shrugs on his jacket. “Fine. But if someone braids my hair, I’m blaming you.”
---
The restaurant is loud in that comforting, end-of-week way—music humming low, laughter spilling over tables, the smell of fried tortillas and lime hanging in the air. Your friends are already there, packed into a corner booth under a neon sign that flickers pink and gold.
When they see you—and more specifically, the tall, broad-shouldered super soldier behind you—they collectively freeze.
“Is that—”
“Is he—”
“Did you bring a man?”
You hold up your hands. “His plans fell through. He’s harmless.”
Bucky, traitor that he is, smiles politely. “Evening, ladies.”
They stare at him like you’ve shown up with a rare, endangered species.
Then Mia scoots over dramatically. “Well. If he’s here, he’s ordering drinks.”
That’s how it starts.
---
The first margarita arrives in a glass so wide it looks like a small swimming pool. Salt crusts the rim. Lime wedge perched like a little hat.
Bucky eyes it carefully. “It’s green.”
“It’s lime,” you laugh.
He takes a tentative sip.
There’s a pause.
His eyes widen.
He takes another sip. Slower this time. Then another, deeper. He licks the salt from his thumb experimentally, then takes a deliberate, satisfied gulp.
“…Why has no one told me about this?”
You blink. “You’ve had alcohol before.”
“Not like this.” He looks personally offended. “This is festive.”
Your friends burst into laughter.
“That’s a classic marg,” Mia says. “Wait until he tries spicy.”
“No,” you warn immediately.
“Yes,” Bucky says at the same time.
---
The chips and queso hit the table in a steaming bowl that smells like heaven.
Bucky leans back as the server sets it down. “What is that.”
“Cheese,” you say simply.
He squints. “That’s not how cheese behaves.”
You scoop up a chip and dunk it generously. The queso stretches in thick golden ribbons. You hold it up. “Open.”
He rolls his eyes but leans forward anyway.
The second the chip crunches between his teeth, something changes.
His shoulders drop.
His metal hand goes still.
He chews.
Then he closes his eyes.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Your entire friend group loses it.
“You okay over there?” someone teases.
He points at the bowl like he’s discovered fire. “This is illegal. This has to be.”
“It’s queso,” you say through your laughter.
“No,” he insists, scooping his own chip now, piling it high. “This is joy.”
He double-dips. No shame. Zero hesitation.
Julia gasps. “We’re keeping him.”
---
By margarita number two—spicy, because of course he insisted—Bucky is flushed at the cheeks and leaning forward on his elbows, fully invested in whatever chaotic story your friend Jenna is telling about her coworker’s disastrous Tinder date.
“And he said what?” Bucky demands, appalled.
“He asked if she could ‘rate his vibe.’”
Bucky looks genuinely wounded. “Men are embarrassing.”
You snort. “You’re a man.”
“Not that kind.”
He grabs another chip. Dunks it aggressively. The queso bowl is half-empty and he’s absolutely responsible.
At some point, your friends stop treating him like an intruder and start treating him like one of the girls.
He listens.
He nods.
He offers extremely intense advice.
“If he makes you feel small, he’s not worth your time,” he tells Mia, completely serious. “You deserve someone who makes you feel bigger.”
There’s a collective awww around the table.
You stare at him, soft around the edges.
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—just leaning into the conversation, metal hand resting casually beside the bowl of queso like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
---
By the time the third round arrives—because apparently he’s competitive about keeping up—Bucky has discovered guacamole.
“Okay,” he says, holding up a chip loaded with guac and queso like it’s a scientific breakthrough. “Hear me out. Combination.”
“Careful,” you warn. “That’s powerful.”
He takes a bite.
Goes completely silent.
Then: “Marry me.”
The table erupts.
“You’re already dating her!” someone yells.
“I mean again,” he says, dazed.
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. His knee is pressed against yours under the table, warm and steady. Every once in a while he glances at you like he can’t believe you invited him into this—into the loudness and the comfort and the messy, overlapping chatter.
At one point he leans close, voice low near your ear. “You do this every week?”
“Most weeks.”
“And you didn’t tell me about queso.”
“You’ve been alive for over a hundred years.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
---
When the bill comes, he insists on covering it.
“It’s my initiation,” he says solemnly, sliding his card down. “Also I ate most of the cheese.”
“That’s true,” Julia nods. “You did.”
Outside, the air is cool and soft. Your friends hug you goodbye—hug him too, actually—and tell him he’s invited back anytime.
He looks weirdly proud about it.
As you walk to the car, his hand finds yours automatically.
“That,” he says thoughtfully, “was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.”
“Better than the documentary marathon?”
He scoffs. “Please. That had grainy footage and no melted cheese.”
You laugh, squeezing his fingers.
He stops you gently before you reach the door, pulling you in so your back hits the side of the car. Not urgent. Just close.
“I liked seeing you like that,” he says quietly. “With your friends. You’re… different.”
“Different good?” you ask.
“Different happy.”
There’s something tender in his expression. Open.
“I’m glad you brought me,” he adds. “I don’t get a lot of… normal.”
You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You fit right in.”
He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re officially one of the girls.”
He laughs at that, bending down to kiss you—slow and lingering, faintly tasting of lime and salt and just a hint of jalapeño.
When he pulls back, he glances toward the restaurant.
“…Do you think they’d notice if we went back in and got another queso to go?”
You stare at him.
Then you burst out laughing.
“Absolute time of your life, huh?”
He nods solemnly. “I would lay down my life for that bowl.”
Okay but hear me out Mob!Stucky x PopStar!Reader 🤭 (I’m thinking Taylor Swift level of Fame because you have to have a powerful woman to match two powerful men) I can see her fans EATING their relationship up because it’s like she’s living a realistic dark romance book and the fans love the fact those two are willing to kill for her and burn an entire state to the ground over her
oh my, yes!!!
-------
They say you’re untouchable.
That word gets thrown around a lot when people talk about you—on talk shows, in comment sections, whispered backstage like a prayer or a warning. Untouchable because you sell out stadiums in minutes. Untouchable because your name alone can move markets, flood timelines, crash ticketing sites. Untouchable because the world loves you so loudly it borders on obsession.
They’re wrong, of course.
You’re very touchable.
Steve Rogers learns that first.
You meet him at a charity gala in Manhattan, the kind with crystal chandeliers and men who smile like sharks. You’re draped in silk, diamond earrings catching the light every time you laugh, surrounded by publicists and security and people who want something from you.
Steve doesn’t want anything.
That’s what catches your attention.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed but clearly uncomfortable in a room where everyone is pretending. He watches everything with calm blue eyes, not in awe, not hungry—just assessing. Like he’s counting exits. Like he’s making sure nothing bad happens on his watch.
You catch him staring once. He looks away immediately, polite, almost shy.
You smile at him anyway.
James Barnes is harder to miss.
Where Steve is restraint, Bucky is indulgence. He leans against a marble column like he owns the building, dark hair brushed back, expensive suit tailored to a body built for violence. His gaze slides over the room and then locks onto you with unapologetic interest.
He doesn’t look away.
He smirks.
You feel it like a hook in your ribs.
Later, when introductions are made, you learn their names. You learn they’re donors. You learn they’re private investors. You learn just enough to know there’s money, old and dangerous money, wrapped around them like a second skin.
What you don’t learn is that they already know everything about you.
Your favorite wine. The diner you sneak to at 2 a.m. when you don’t want to be recognized. The security flaws in your penthouse. The stalker your team paid off quietly last year. The producer who tried to corner you and mysteriously vanished from the industry two weeks later.
They’ve been watching for a while.
Not in a creepy way, Steve insists later. Protective. Strategic.
Bucky doesn’t bother justifying it.
“You’re a walking target,” he says one night, months into whatever this is, fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh as you sit between them in Steve’s townhouse. “And we don’t like sharing.”
Your fans lose their minds when the relationship becomes public.
It starts with grainy photos—Bucky’s hand on the small of your back outside a restaurant, Steve opening a car door for you with old-fashioned reverence. Then clearer shots. Then a paparazzi video of you laughing as Bucky murmurs something in your ear, Steve’s arm around your shoulders like a shield.
The internet explodes.
IS THIS A DARK ROMANCE??
SHE WON. SHE ACTUALLY WON.
THEY WOULD KILL FOR HER AND YOU KNOW IT.
They’re not wrong.
Your fandom eats it up. The edits. The theories. The slow-motion clips set to your own songs. Comment sections filled with half-jokes about you being protected by the mafia now, about anyone who wrongs you needing to watch their back.
You never confirm anything.
You just smile. Just keep writing music that sounds sharper. Meaner. More powerful.
Behind closed doors, it’s quieter. Intimate in a way the world never sees.
Steve kisses you like you’re something precious, hands steady, reverent, as if loving you is an act of devotion. He checks your locks every night. Walks you to every door. Memorizes your schedule better than your assistant does.
Bucky loves you like fire.
Possessive hands. Hungry kisses. A temper that flares hot and fast when anyone disrespects you. He loves that you’re powerful, that you don’t shrink, that you look men dead in the eye and dare them to underestimate you.
He also loves that you come home to them.
The first time someone threatens you openly, it’s at an awards show.
A man grabs your wrist as you’re leaving the stage, says something ugly about what you “owe” people who made you famous. Security moves in seconds—but Steve is already there, hand closing around the man’s collar, voice low and lethal.
Bucky doesn’t touch him.
That’s worse.
The man disappears from public life within a week. No charges. No headlines. Just… gone.
Your fans notice.
They always notice.
DID ANYONE ELSE REALIZE THAT GUY VANISHED??
TELL ME AGAIN HOW HER BOYFRIENDS AREN’T MOB BOSSES.
AS THEY SHOULD.
You confront them that night.
Steve is honest. He always is.
“We won’t apologize for keeping you safe,” he says gently, cupping your face. “But we won’t do anything you don’t want.”
Bucky watches you closely, jaw tight. “Say the word, doll. We’ll stop.”
You think about the years of being afraid. Of swallowing disrespect. Of smiling through threats and manipulation because you were told it was the price of fame.
You lean in and kiss them both.
“Just don’t let it touch my work,” you say softly. “The rest… I trust you.”
That trust is everything.
They don’t cage you. They don’t dim you. They stand behind you while you burn brighter than ever. They sit in the shadows at your shows, eyes scanning crowds while you command eighty thousand people with a microphone and a heartbeat.
And if someone crosses a line?
States don’t burn.
But careers do. Bank accounts vanish. Power shifts quietly, efficiently, without ever touching your hands.
Your next album breaks records.
Critics call it fearless. Fans call it unhinged. You call it honest.
There’s a lyric everyone fixates on:
If you hurt me, they’ll come for you
Not with noise, but with silence
And you’ll never know who pulled the strings.
Steve hears it from the kitchen and smiles softly.
Bucky laughs, low and dangerous, and pulls you into his lap.
The world thinks you’re living a fantasy.
A dark romance.
A pop princess protected by monsters who adore her.
summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra. While you struggle to stay alive and hold your sanity, Bucky begins to lose himself to a darkness and gives into the soldier because he doesn’t know how to breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can.
pairing: bucky x reader
word count: ~100,000
warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, torture, minor character death, vague/brief suicidal ideation, smut (marked with *), slow burn/longing/mutual pining
Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: After you take up baking as a hobby, Bucky becomes your unofficial taste tester–and slowly begins to realize that all your sweet treats are making him gain weight at an alarming rate.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Hints of Angst, Fluff, Discussions about weight, Beefy Bucky is part of the Thunderbolts/New Avengers at this point (and thus has the vibranium arm, just trying to give context), Bucky is a little embarrassed of his body/the weight gain, Bodily Descriptions (and judgment), Friends to Lovers, Yearning Bucky (sad yearning Bucky to be exact lol), Porn with some plot :), Size difference (reader is smaller than Bucky)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up 🤷♀️), Oral Sex (female receiving), Size Kink (kind of), Kitchen Island Sex (so sex in a public space, but no one is around?), Breast/Nipple Play, Slight Dirty Talk, Soft!Bucky, Slight Overstimulation (?), Slight Hyperspermia (?)
Author’s Note: Jesus Christ this took me a while to make. I’m sorry it took so long. I was focusing on other fics, and I’ve been especially scatterbrained for the past couple of weeks with school, work, and all the other jazzy life stuff. I’m hoping I can finally get back into the groove now that the chaos is settling down! Enjoy <3
Word Count: 21,849
“Is there too much powdered sugar on those?” You asked, your voice light with a hint of uncertainty as you watched Bucky chew thoughtfully on one of your latest creations. The Cherry Almond Snowdrops had come together perfectly, their recipe was straightforward enough for a quick afternoon bake after a long morning of debriefs, yet they were intricate in the balance of flavours you had been eager to perfect.
His short beard, threaded with hints of silver amid the dark strands, caught stray flecks of the fine powder you had rolled the warm cookies in, creating a snowy veil that softened the sharp angles of his jaw. Even the sleek, glistening black plates of his vibranium arm bore a light dusting of icing sugar where his fingers held the little dessert.
“There can never be enough powdered sugar,” He replied between chews, his voice rumbling softly as he let his eyes drift shut, savouring the interplay of textures and tastes exploding across his tongue–the crisp snap of toasted almonds giving way to the subtle tart burst of dried cherries, all woven together with the warm depth of the homemade vanilla extract you had been preparing over the last couple of months which lingered perfectly with the generous, melt-in -your-mouth layer of sugar clinging to every crevice of the bite-sized orbs. They had seemed diminutive in the bowl, but pinched between his broad thumb and forefinger, they looked even smaller against the scale of his hand, the vibranium digits digging into the semi-softness of the cookie, leaving faint imprints on the edge of it.
He had been perched on the stool at the kitchen island the entire time, his massive frame filling the space with an effortless presence–broad shoulder straining the seams of his black t-shirt, his long, dark brown hair falling flat, just enough to frame his face, brushing the collar as he leaned forward in complete admiration, transfixed by the ease of you being in your element–or at least one of your elements.
Watching you navigate the kitchen had become his little ritual, his steel-blue eyes tracing your movements through clouds of flour that settled on your apron and dusted your cheeks. Sometimes you would glance over at him and see how focused he was on you, and you could’ve sworn it was like he was on a mission and you were the mark, because his gaze never left you.
He had peppered you with questions, feigning intent to replicate the recipe someday, though truthfully it was just so that he could hear your voice–your patient breakdowns of learned techniques, and the small anecdotes you gave him about your life that you tied into the explanations of certain desserts you were making.
Bucky could listen to you go on and on about anything, even the things he wasn’t particularly interested in, because he always found himself spellbound by your words, by the passion that settled beneath them, especially when you were enthusiastic about the topic. It calmed him, but it also made him even more interested in you–and that was becoming something that he could barely control.
A soft huff of laughter escaped you at the sight of his lips and chin that were coated like he had shoved his face into a fresh pile of snow, and you shook you head gently when his eyes reopened, meeting yours with a puzzled glint, a subtle innocence flickering in his eyes as if he was wondering what had sparked your sudden amusement.
You leaned forward over the cool granite of the island, drawing nearer until the air between you thickened with the close proximity. Immediately he caught the familiar waft of your rosemary and lavender condition, a scent that always lingered in his mind long after you had left a room–one that he had even sought out in your bathroom during your absences, just so he could inhale it deeply into his lungs to chase the comfort it brought him.
Your presence carried an aura of perpetual freshness, as if you had just emerged from a bath that was infused with expensive oils and ripe citrus fruits that were fresh off a vine. It was an aroma that was so compelling that it Pavlov dogged his senses to attune directly to you, so much so that he was able to trail the scent in crowded spaces or during high-stakes operations without fail.
Now that you were so close though, it felt like the world was spinning around him in a blurred haze, and all his eyes could focus on was the playful little look in your eyes, which had him on edge because not knowing what your next move would be was always something that made his hairs stand up.
His heart faltered then, delivering a sharp, erratic thump that pumped in his chest like a misfired piston, the pressure intensifying with your nearness–like someone had dropped a cement brick onto him. It was an insistent ache that he had grown accustomed to, but it never failed to completely unsettle him.
The first time this happened he thought he was having a heart attack–like his enhanced super soldier body was finally catching up to his actual age and was going to give out on him–but when the worrying ache eased when you smiled at him and left his space, he realized you were the cause of it. Over time, he learned he would have to come to terms with the fact that he would feel like he was on the brink of dying when you were near him, and managed the pain as much as he could without displaying it on his face, or pursing the relief he evidently craved.
His palm grew sweaty instantly, and he couldn’t help but clench at the fabric of his sweatpants in a bid for control, wetting the material with the dampness–which was thankfully out of your line of sight due to the lip of the kitchen island shielding the view of his thighs.
“You got some sugar on your face…” You pointed out, as you extended your hand in front of you slowly, like you were aware if you moved too fast he might flinch out of reflex, “I’ll get it…” You added, swiping your fingers along the surprisingly soft hairs of his beard, dusting him off like the old relic he was. You knew how he felt when it came to touching, so you took it slow, using your observant eye to target the white patches that mingled in with the salt-and-pepper bristles on his cheeks, feeling his jaw clenching with each point of contact you made.
Deep within him, Bucky battled the urge to press into your warmth, to capture your fingertips with a kiss or a lick to taste the lingering sweetness from them, sparing you a trip to the sink. Though he could practically picture the surprise that would appear on your face, or the recoil of discomfort or unease at such an unbidden advance, and he fought himself to push the idea down into the depths of his mind.
The lines of your friendship had always been blurred within the controlled environment the two of you were in–the fleeting grazes during tense missions, a reassuring hand on a shoulder, or the occasional drift into sleep against one another on long flights or movie nights. These moments always toed the line on the unspoken boundaries between the two of you without fanfare, rooted in the easy trust the two of you had built, ostensibly devoid of deeper intent, at least from your end–or so he assumed.
Once, in a moment of pure confusion and vulnerability, he had confided in Sam about the ambiguity–questioning whether he was ignoring signs that you were giving him or misinterpreting them completely–only to receive a blunt assessment of the situation: that the two of you were emotionally constipated teammates with unresolved sexual tension that would never be satisfied because neither of you would make the poignant move. After that, Bucky had sealed away the possibilities of any further discussions, choosing to be content–or resigned–on surviving with these fragments of almost’s, consuming them with the same fervour he had when it came to your baked goods.
Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw a fraction longer than necessary, like you meant to do the soft exploration but masked it beneath the action of cleaning him off, before pulling your touch back entirely. Bucky’s throat constricted, his Adam’s apple shifting visibly as he absorbed the withdrawal, a flush creeping upward from his neck to tint his cheeks in a light pink hue. He adjusted on the stool beneath him, dipping his chin to conceal the warmth blooming across his features, but the motion drew his eyes downward to the black t-shirt straining against his torso, the fabric taut over a newfound softness that hadn’t existed there a few months prior.
The added weight had puzzled him, especially given his rigorous training regimen–he had even escalated his workouts, pushing until his muscles screamed in protest and were sore for hours after, which wasn’t his normal routine. Yet the timeline aligned unmistakably with your newfound baking passion: an influx of cookies, layered cakes, fruit-filled pies, a variety of brownies he didn’t even know existed, and other pastries that were all shared generously. The pounds had accumulated, softening the edges of his broad, formidable frame–his shoulders, thighs, and abs specifically had filled out, not to the point of the definition disappearing, but enough for it to look different. Clothes that once fit comfortably now hugged too closely; his tactical gear chafed, leaving indented lines across his midsection and thighs; his workout clothes became a labour to put on; even his everyday shirts required a preliminary tug to loosen them slightly.
His super soldier metabolism, that was supposedly a shield against such indulgences, had proven fallible, and evidently the bi-weekly treats resisted his efforts to burn them away. The change left him self-conscious, reluctant to acknowledge it aloud, though he suspected you–and the rest of the team–had observed it too.
A part of him yearned to broached the subject, to gauge your thoughts, to discover if you found the transformation appealing or otherwise. But such vulnerabilities loomed large–the risk of judgment, of confirming any distaste, threatening to put him on the brink of possible unravelling even further.
Your eyes followed his downward glance, settling on the gentle swell pressing against his shirt, the subtle curve that looked soft and slightly plush–something that you thought to press just to feel the give. Since your paths had crossed during your joining of the Thunderbolts, he had grown more substantial, but far from detracting, the fullness amplified his presence, and there was a grounding solidity to him that stirred a deep urge within you to explore. You sensed his unease though–the quiet embarrassment shadowing his posture, weighing his shoulders and gaze down–and you longed to pull him out of it in any way you could.
“Are you alright?” You asked, head canting slightly as you studied the play of emotions across his features–the furrowed brow, the faint tension in his full lips as he pursed them. He lifted his gaze, nodding with a forced casualness, a tentative smile breaking through the sugar-dusted remnants on his mouth.
“Yeah, just…These are really good, you outdid yourself. Might have to reshuffle my top five list.” He replied, making an excuse to attempt to steer the attention away from the fact you had caught him staring at himself. The praise had ignited a spark of warmth in your chest, followed along with genuine curiosity at the mentioning of this mysterious little list. You drew yourself closer across the island, feeling the uneven lip of the granite digging into your stomach, the coolness of it seeping through the fabric of your apron and t-shirt.
“You’ve got a top five?” You teased, your eyes sparkling as he selected another snowdrop from the plate in front of him, giving it a light tap to shed the excess powder, biting the inside of his cheek, almost in a bashful way to cover up the heat that continued to build beneath his skin.
“Of course I do,” He affirmed, popping the treat into his mouth and crunching through it in measured bites, “How else would I request repeats of a recipe if I can’t recall the names?” He added, as a little puff of sugar left his mouth. Your brows arched in playful challenge, fixed on the purposeful way he savoured each chew–like he was trying to taste every morsel all over again.
“Well, now that you’ve piqued my interest…You have to tell me what the lineup is.” He raised his hand to brush as his lips, clearing away the crumbs while masking the remnants of his chew, clearing his throat softly.
“Sorry, that’s classified information. And it’s always changing anyways, it wouldn’t be of much use if you’re planning on baking me an apology sweet or something.” You sighed, leaning your chin on your hand, squinting at him.
“After all the tasting you’ve done for me I think I at least deserve a hint…Come on, Buck.” You coaxed him with a velvet-edged lilt threading through your voice, a small smirk curving your lips in a slow, knowing tilt that caught the warm overhead lights of the kitchen and made your eyes crinkle slightly.
The nickname–Buck–slipped from you like something intimate and treasured, carrying a sweetness so potent it coiled low in his gut, twisting the already fluttering tension there into something deeper, and unavoidable. When his gaze finally lifted to meet the open expectancy in yours, a quiet surrender washed through him, the kind only you ever managed to pry from the guarded recesses of his chest.
He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth, the faint sting steadying him while he finished swallowing the last tender fragments of cookie before letting the breath ease from his lungs in a measured rush.
“Fine…Number one is your triple chocolate brownies, but it has to have the flaky salt on top or else it’s just a regular old brownie to me.” He explained, his eyes fixing on the prideful smile blooming across your face, lighting every feature, causing you to beam like a ray of sun peeking through sheer curtains, sending an answering spark through his ribs.
——————
That night, in the dim hush of his quarters, Bucky stood in the middle of his room wrestling with the stubborn waistband of his training pants.
“Come on…Get on god damn it…” He muttered, the words scraping out of his throat with the frustration that had been building within himself for weeks. The black fabric refused to glide over the thickened swell of his thighs, clinging instead to the new density there–the muscle still present but now layered beneath a plush give. He hauled harder, the broad span of his shoulders rolling forward, trying to put as much strength as he could into the pull, holding his breath in hopes that it would do something to aid him. Then suddenly, a faint tearing sound sliced through the quiet–the delicate threads along the seam surrendering and giving out with a whisper-light rip that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but rang sharp in his head due to his enhanced hearing.
“Fuck sake.” He said, the curse falling heavy and defeated as he shoved the pants down, letting them drop in a wrecked heap at his feet. He kicked them aside, the motion sending a ripple through the muscle of his calves, and stood there in nothing but his black boxer briefs, as the cool air of the room brushed over skin that suddenly felt too exposed–drawing up a layer of goosebumps along the wide expanse.
The mattress behind him creaked in protest when he dropped onto its edge, the springs compressing under the broader spread of his weight, the sound echoing like an accusation in the empty space. His hands clasped together out of habit, the vibranium cool against his warm flesh, the contrast grounding him even as his mind spiralled with a thousand thoughts a minute.
He could skip his training session entirely, claim fatigue or unfinished paperwork, but the lie would sit wrong in his throat–especially when most of the team had witnessed him completing everything the night before. Borrowing gear was out of the question; the thought of explaining the need for a larger size to anyone made heat crawl up the back of his neck and sent a shiver of discomfort through him. Buying new pants meant an explanation, and it would just be another errand that would draw eyes.
No, the safest route was to push everything to tomorrow, he would take the grocery list and go on his own to buy everything, then make a quick stop at the nearest sporting goods store and purchase a few new pairs of training pants. He would double the intensity of his workout, and hope the extra session would be the start in burning away at least some of the evidence of your relentless baking blessings. That would be the plan, and it was the only one that could possibly work to save himself the embarrassment.
He pressed his palms to his knees, feeling the way the flesh there yielded just slightly under his grip, and exhaled through his nose, standing up from the mattress only to hear the impending squeaks in response to the relief of his weight moving off it. Inevitably, his gaze drifted to the full-length mirror on his sliding closet door.
The reflection offered no mercy under the low amber glow of his bedside lamp, its single bulb casting elongated shadows that traced every altered contour of his frame that drew his eyes to all the flaws that could’ve possibly been on display.
His stomach truly had softened markedly, the once-defined ridges of his abs were now blurred beneath a gentle, rounded fullness that shifted subtly with each inhale, the skin there carrying a warmth and give that no amount of extra reps in the gym had managed to erase. His chest sat broader and heavier, the pectorals expanded into a solid yet pliant mass that seemed to have slightly lowered to almost touch his belly, while his arm had gained a noticeable thickness, the bicep and forearm rounding out in a way that changed how the light played across their surface. He looked uneven–especially because of the vibranium arm that wasn’t compensating for the weight gain–and that just added another thing for him to worry about.
His thighs pressed insistently against the stretched black fabric of his boxer briefs, the material pulled tight over the increased volume, creating faint indentations where the elastic attempted to compensate for the added thickness of his upper legs. His shoulders were a whole other issues as well, the deltoids were pronounced but no longer sharply carved, their surfaces hinting at a plush layer that transformed the entire architecture of his upper body into the monstrosity that was his new normal.
He kept his hands locked at his sides, fingers curled into loose fists, because the very idea of lifting them to test any of his body for muscle sent a cold ripple of aversion through him. The mere thought of his fingertips sinking even slightly into that new softness–that softness that replaced the rigid power he had relied on for decades–twisted something deep in his chest, a pain that was similar to how he felt around you only mixed with the quiet dread of self-consciousness and judgment. The mirror had already catalogued the evidence too thoroughly, and staring any longer would only feed the embarrassment that was already heating the back of his neck and flushing his chest.
With a quick exhale–that moved everything out of place even more–he wrenched his gaze away, turning towards his closet and yanking the sliding door open. The rack inside held the growing collection of looser garments he had been favouring recently–the ones that draped rather than clung, that concealed rather than revealed. He snatched a fresh pair of charcoal sweatpants from the shelf, the fabric heavier than he remembered needed, and stepped into them. The waistband settled lower on his hips than it once had, the drawstrings pulled tight and knotted twice for good measure before he tucked the excess ends inside. Next came another plain black t-shirt, the cotton sliding over his head and settling across his chest and back with a soft hush. He ran both hands through his hair to flatten the static the fabric had raised, the dark strands falling back into place around his face, carrying the light scent of his minty shampoo that tickled his nose and made it twitch–sometimes he wished he could use what you did, just so he could walk around with your scent instead of his own, maybe it would bring him a little more comfort rather than keeping him in this limbo state of self-consciousness.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that had settled deep in his muscles, feeling his gaze drift sideways, almost unwillingly, toward the shadowed interior of the closet. Tucked against the pale inner wall, half-hidden behind a stack of hoodies, was the single newspaper clipping he had allowed himself to keep–a glossy editorial spread from the gala Valentina had forced the team to attend months ago. The photo captured you mid-laugh under the haze of lighting from the chandelier above, your head tilted back in unguarded delight despite the complaints you had muttered all evening about the ache in your heels from your shoes and the endless small talk that you were enduring. Your dress had caught the flash in soft folds of deep crimson, and the joy in your eyes–bright, and completely unfiltered–seemed to reach straight off the page and into the ache that lived permanently behind his ribs at this point.
He lingered there longer than he meant to, seeing the edges of the paper were slightly curled from the countless times his thumb had traced the curve of your cheek in secret. The sight dulled the relentless thrum of embarrassment into the familiar, quieter pain he had grown almost fond of, and a faint, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he allowed himself one more heartbeat of indulgence before the feeling turned ridiculous.
With a quiet exhale, he eased the sliding door shut, the smooth glide of metal on metal sealing away the secret like a confession he wasn’t ready to voice aloud, and the room fell back into its muted hush soon after. He kept his eyes deliberately averted from the mirror, refusing to let his reflection pull him under again, and crossed the length of his bedroom quickly. The door clicked open with a soft snick, and he slipped into the hallway, pulling it closed behind him quietly, as his ears tuned into the low voices and the clattering of utensils that echoed from the kitchen, which dragged him forward even while his stomach twisted with the practiced lie he was about to deliver.
He schooled his features into an expression of mild fatigue, the faint crease between his brows deepening just enough to look convincing, and began to drag his socked feet along the polished floor, as he approached the open archway of the kitchen. The space opened up before him in a wash of warm overhead lighting that glinted off stainless steel counters and the hard granite island at its centre. The air carried the sharp metallic tang of raw meat that was still sealed in its vacuum pack, undercut by the herbal notes of whatever fresh spices that were laid across the open space. Only two figures occupied the room: John, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his broad back facing Bucky, and Bob, who was leaning against the opposite counter with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, with a perpetual uncertainty in his posture that made him look vastly smaller than he actually was.
It was their allotted night to make dinner–a schedule that everyone agreed to abide by–and they were never in agreement. Typically they would settle on something–anything–that would speed up the process of working together, but tonight it seemed like they were running into some problems.
“If we make th-the entire pack of steaks, everyone is going to be full and nobody is going to eat the sides…” Bob stated, the words tumbling out of him as he gestured toward the club pack of meat resting on the island, the plastic shimmering under the lights like something freshly hunted. John rolled his eyes dismissively, twisting the faucet handle of the sink with a decisive flick of his wrist, scattering water droplets along the steel countertop.
“Who cares about the sides? We can still make them, and people will eat what they want.” John shot back, reaching for the soap dispenser and pumping a generous stream into his palm before working it into a lather, “And they are going to go out of date if we don’t cook them, so we might as well grill all of them or trash it now, because nobody else is going to make them when it’s their night to cook.” The words landed with the same confident finality John brought to every decision, his shoulders squared as if the debate itself was something he intended to dominate.
Bob shifted his weight, his gaze flicking between the steaks and John, and just as he was about to open his mouth to push back, his eyes caught on Bucky’s silhouette in the archway. Relief flashed rheacross his features, subtle but unmistakable in its unearthing, as though an unexpected ally had stepped into the fray to even out the argument.
“Bucky, he-help me out here. Isn’t fourteen steaks for seven people a little much?” The question came out fast, as Bob straightened slightly as he turned to draw him into the conversation. John glanced over his shoulder, surprise flashing briefly across his face before he masked it, shutting off the water with a quick twist, and snatching a handful of paper towels from the roll and drying his hands with brisk efficient swipes. Turning fully, he planted his hip against the counter.
“Bucky, how about you tell Bob that we are feeding a compound of people who are constantly on missions and working out, and are hungry little gremlins when they don’t eat an actual hearty meal.” He challenged, his blue eyes narrowing in mock accusation towards Bob, who now looked as though he was silently willing Bucky to tip the scales in his favour.
Somehow, being dragged into this mundane kitchen skirmish felt like the smallest burden he had carried all evening, even though he had always despised wading into these trivial team squabbles that flared up every once in a while. Yet tonight the distraction was completely accepted. He stepped fully into the kitchen.
“You could just freeze some of them instead of making the whole pack. Fourteen steaks is a lot, even for us,” Bucky said, watching the shift in Bob’s posture as the younger man’s shoulders lifted with sudden victory, and a smile broke across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes while he glanced triumphantly toward John.
“Seems like I’ve got the majority, Johnny Bo-Boy,” He quipped, turning on his heel to cross to the towering stainless steel refrigerator. The door swung open with a heavy pneumatic hush, releasing a rush of chilled air that carried the faint, crisp scent of leftover produce. Bob leaned in, his frame silhouetted against the interior light as he rummaged through the cool depths, the plastic bags rustling and glass jars clinking with his search.
“…Won’t have the majority if I knock you out,” John muttered under his breath, snatching up the heavy pack of steaks from the island, the vacuum-sealed plastic crinkling under his grip as he tore into it with quick tugs. The cling film peeled away in one fluid motion, twisting into a tight, glistening ball between his fingers before he lobbed it across the room into the open trash bin with a soft thud. His hands, still faintly damp from the sink, left faint streaks on the counter as he moved back toward the island, pulling out the dedicated meat-prep cutting board from its slot beneath the surface, putting the thick plastic slab onto the granite with a solid thunk. He grabbed one of the large marbled pieces of meat, its surface gleaming with the streaks of fat, and slapped it down onto the board with a resounding, wet plop.
Then his gaze flicked back to Bucky, his eyes narrowing as they traced the evident discomfort etched across his features–the faint downturn at the corners of his mouth, the exaggerated way he curled in on himself, slumping his shoulders, the tension in his jaw–finally noticing the state he was in.
“You look like shit by the way…What’s up with you?” John asked, as he reached for the salt grinder, his movements never slowing while he seasoned the steak with practiced twists of his wrist. Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the frame of the archway, the solid surface pressing into the widened span of his shoulders as he sough some semblance of support.
“Just not feeling good I guess, I’ll probably be skipping dinner…” The lie slipped out with calculated nonchalance, though the words tasted heavier on his tongue, laced with the underlying truth of his reluctance to sit through a meal that would only add more to his troubles. It was evident that John’s concern only grew from Bucky’s reply, almost like he was scrutinizing it.
“Really? What’re you feeling?” He pressed, his tone shifting from casual ribbing to something closer to quiet assessment as he set the grinder aside and reached for the knife drawer.
Bob closed the refrigerator door with his shoulder, the heavy panel sealing shut with a muffled click that released one last fleeting puff of chilled air. His arms were now laden with a colourful bounty–vibrant orange carrots still dusted with soil, deep green broccoli florets clustered like miniature trees, slender zucchini, a pack of earthy brown mushrooms, and crisp green beans tied loosely with twine. The vegetables shifted in his grasp as he moved, their fresh, green scents cutting through the richer aroma of raw meat that began to truly overtake the space. He deposited the pile onto the far end of the counter with a series of soft thuds, his hands quickly arranging them into a neat, organized mound before any of them rolled or fell off the surface.
Bucky hesitated for the briefest moment, his mind scrambling to weave together a believable excuse from the fragments of half-remembered ailments.
“Little nauseous, kind of clammy…Think I might be getting a cold or something,” He explained, keeping his voice steady even as John squinted at him from across the island, the chef’s knife that he was now holding creating streaks of refracted light all along the ceiling.
“Bob, go touch his forehead, check if he has a fever,” John instructed without missing a beat, his attention divided between Bucky and the steak as he began to slice into the meat with steady drags. Bob straightened, looking up from his collection of vegetables like he had been called on in class and didn’t know what to say, before clearing his throat and crossing the short distance to where Bucky stood. He wiped his palm on the hem of his sweater, ridding it of the sheen of sweat that was constantly laying on his skin, extending it hesitantly soon after. His fingers, still slightly cool from the refrigerator, pressed gently against Bucky’s forehead–displaying the contrast against the warmer, drier skin there. The touch was brief, clinical in a way, but there was an unexpected gentleness that made Bucky hold still.
“No fever,” Bob announced, pulling his hand back and offering a small, uncertain shrug glancing at John then returning his gaze to Bucky. There was a quiet awareness in the look, as if he had glimpsed the undercurrent of thoughts swirling behind the super soldiers carefully neutral mask–the self-doubt, the frustration with his body–but he chose to be silent about it, respecting the boundary between teammates in a way that spoke volumes with out saying a word. It was a small mercy.
Bob turned away then, returning to the far end of the granite island, where the pile of vegetables waited in their vibrant disarray, sorting them mindlessly, as John’s voice cut through the quiet clatter, resuming his digging for information.
“Seems like we have a liar in our midst…Do you mind telling us what’s really going on, or do you want to continue to fake an illness like a child to get out of dinner time with your team?” The words landed with a casual edge, but Bucky felt them settle heavy against his chest, pressing into the broadened plan with an unwelcome familiarity. He bit down on the soft flesh inside his cheek, the pressure just firm enough to leave faint, temporary indents of his teeth without drawing blood–a small grounding habit that steadied the discomfort he was experiencing.
The camaraderie he shared with John had always been a jagged thing, forged in the heat of missions and their frequent clashes, yet threaded through all of that was an underlying trust that neither of them ever fully acknowledged. It was messy–unpredictable really–but it was real enough that in this moment, Bucky decided that it would be easier to seek some advice from him.
“…I’ve been gaining a lot of weight and I just don’t feel like adding to my calorie intake for the day.” Bucky explained quietly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. John raised his eyebrows and drew his attention back down to the steak on the cutting board, the blade resuming its clean slices through the fat along the rim of it.
“Ever thought that it’s because you’ve been eating all of Y/N’s desserts?” He asked quietly, his voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than mockery.
“I don’t eat that much!” The protest bursting out louder than Bucky intended, feeling a defensive heat rising beneath his collar, spreading over his flesh–if Bob were to touch him now, he would’ve felt the hear. John exhaled a short, rough laugh through his nose, not pausing his prep work.
“Bucky…I caught you with a plate full of her chocolate chip cookies the other night. You were mindlessly eating them–could’ve sworn you were a human vacuum with the way you were inhaling the things. With no milk, by the way, which is absolutely psychotic behaviour, no offence.” He lifted his gaze then, stopping his trimming, “No amount of working out or cutting can burn your entire body mass of desserts off…Unless you show some self-control.” HIs attention drifted downward, appraising the way Bucky’s arms folded tighter across his chest, then down to the slight belly that was protruding, “But it’s evident you can’t. Because Y/N is probably putting something in those treats to make you addicted to them.”
The last sentence landed lighter, more teasing, and it pulled a little huff of laughter from Bob, who had been quietly placing the vegetables into a bowl to wash, deciding to stay out of the conversation entirely until this very point. The sound was small, but it broke the tension just enough to keep the moment from tipping into an argument–thankfully for everyone.
Bucky opened his mouth–ready to fire back, to insist it wasn’t like that, that he could stop whenever he wanted–but the words never made it past his throat, because his ears tuned into the sound of quick footsteps echoing from the hallway beyond the kitchen, bouncing off the floors and bare walls in a quick, slightly uneven rhythm.
He drew in a short breath, and the scent in the air hit him like a physical force–the rosemary and lavender conditioner, and the clean sweat that you exuded. His stomach plummet straight through the floor, a heavy sickening drop that sent nausea rolling through his gut and up the back of his throat, and the room seemed to tilt for a single disorienting second, like he was going to pass out–and honestly, he would’ve preferred that at the moment.
You stepped into the kitchen breathing rapidly, chest rising and falling in visible pulls beneath the compression of your sports bra. A fine, even sheen of perspiration coated your skin, catching the warm overheat light and turning it liquid gold along the column of your throat, the delicate hollow beneath your jaw, the curve of your chest, and the soft swell of cleavage pressed together by the tight fabric. Your workout gear clung in damp patches across your shoulders and lower back, your thin cover-up darkened in places where sweat had soaked through during what must've been an intense session.
The faded blue towel draped loosely around your neck carried darker streaks where you had dragged it across your forehead, and a few wisps of hair clung to your temples, matting and drying flat. Despite the exertion, a smile curved your lips as you worked to steady your breath, the expression easy and open in that way that always managed to fill whatever space you entered–brightening it up as if you were the sun and the other people around you were just little planets.
“Who’s addicted to what?” You asked, catching only the tail end of the exchange as you crossed the room toward the refrigerator, seeking hydration for your spent form. You offered Bob a quick, friendly pat against his upper back as you passed; his rigid posture easing almost instantly under the brief contact, shoulders dropping a fraction as though the simple touch granted him a momentary reprieve from the thickening tension that had been building.
Bucky’s pulse slammed through his entire body, a relentless drumbeat that shook his bones and pulsed visibly beneath the skin at his throat and wrists. He was certain the other enhanced people in the room could hear it–each frantic throb loud enough to drown out the sounds around him. Panic crashed over him in a visceral wave, immediate and all consuming, feeling a white-hot heat surging upward from his chest until it burned behind his ears, like lava had been poured into his flesh. Everything suddenly felt heavier, and he became well aware of how much his shirt was clinging to his body, making his nose twitch with the discomfort.
Evidently you had heard something. Not everything–thank God–but enough to slip into the conversation in the simple way you always did, entering with a curiosity that was effortless and refused to let any thread hang loose. Enough to make the air in the kitchen feel suddenly thinner, like the oxygen was slowly being sucked out and replaced with toxic fumes that made Bucky’s throat itch.
His eyes flicked to John in the same instant John looked back at him. The standoff stretched between them across the granite island, wordlessly communicating in a way. Bucky knew his expression was easily read–the blown pupils, the faint tremor of fear pulling at the corner of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shake of his head. It was a silent, desperate plea to not say anything, to shut up and just lie.
Something passed behind John’s eyes–consideration, perhaps the briefest flash of mercy–before it hardened into a certainty that almost made Bucky scream just to distract the conversation. John had never been the type to let someone off the hook when the opportunity for blunt honesty presented himself, and he wasn’t going to change suddenly now.
“Bucky’s addicted to your desserts and he says he’s getting fat because of them.” He said with the same easy, conversational tone he might have used to comment on the weather forecast or the score of last night’s game, like the words that he had said carried no weight at all to him, and it nearly caused everything to topple forth.
Bucky felt the impact of the confession land somewhere deep in his body, like he had been stabbed, and there was a sudden, hollow compression that made his heart seize mid-beat, as if the organ had forgotten its next contraction–or how it worked in general. The embarrassment that followed was a heavy pressure that built outward from that exact sore spot, spreading through his ribs and up into his throat until the muscles there locked tight. His airway narrowed, each inhale turning shallow and effortful.
Tears gathered unbidden at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging and pooling, blurring the polished floor tiles that he had tilted his gaze down to look at. He had no idea why the reaction had come on so fiercely–only that every suppressed thought from the mirror, every tug of ill-fitting fabric, every quiet moment of self-judgment he had buried beneath himself, was rising now in a single, unstoppable surge.
The years of rigid control over his body–the one that he had kept in top notch shape until now–had been quietly eroded and now the exposure of it here, in front of you, broke something deep inside him that he had not realized was already strained to its limit.
You paused at the open refrigerator door, your hand curled around the handle as the cool air brushing over your damp skin coaxed faint goosebumps along your body. Your eyebrows lifted in quiet surprise, and you turned your head first toward John, taking in the unchanged set of his shoulders as he returned to his task in front of him, before shifting your gaze to Bucky. He had dropped his chin, his dark hair falling forward to curtain his face, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes–but especially yours in those moments. He looked like someone had punched him in the stomach, and he had caved in on himself to tend to the blow, shrinking himself in a room where he was now the centre of attention.
You watched the faint tremor in his vibranium fingers, digging deeper into his bicep, seeing the way his jaw clenched beneath his beard, the muscle jumping slightly, and somehow, you felt an ache of understanding settling low in your own chest.
It was difficult to reconcile the man you saw with the one he was clearly seeing in the mirror. Yet the embarrassment radiating from him was unmistakable, it was the kind that came from having a private vulnerability dragged into the open without warning. No one wanted to be laid bare like that, least of all in front of teammates.
You couldn’t read the exact shade of his thoughts without seeing his eyes, but you knew him too well–better than you sometimes knew yourself after all the shared fights and quiet debriefs and baking sessions. If he would not look up, you would simply have to give him a reason to lift his head.
The words formed easily, honest in a way that left no room for misinterpretation, because hiding your own feelings on the matter would only leave him more isolated, and you wanted to stray from that as far as possible–while also joining him in the spotlight to take the pressure off his spiralling mind.
“I think he looks really good with it…And if my desserts are doing that to him,” You started, motioning toward Bucky with a small tilt of your head, “Then I might have to keep baking so he can maintain it.” You added with a smirk, reaching into the refrigerator to grab one of the chilled bottles of water, before letting the door close.
Bucky’s head lifted slowly at the sound of your words, the motion almost hesitant, as though the simple reassurance had caught him off guard and he needed a moment to register that it had been directed at him. The flush that had already begun creeping up the column of his throat now spread fully across his cheeks, a deep crimson that exploded beneath his skin and the short, silver-threaded hairs of his beard that made the colour stand out in stark contrast. His eyes that were still glistening from the unshed tears, widened with open surprise, his pupils dilating even further that revealed something far more deeper than shock–something enamoured, unguarded, something that he had no immediate way to conceal.
Sure, the self-consciousness didn’t disappear entirely, but your words had struck a vital point inside him, sending a sudden jolt through the heavy pressure that had overtaken him in the moments before. It shocked the stalled rhythm of his heart back into motion, like he had taken a defibrillator to the chest and everything had reset itself, pumping with a force that left him momentarily unsteady on his feet.
His mouth parted, lips forming the beginning of a response that never arrived, as he drew in a slow breath instead, catching the air in his throat while every practiced deflection he might have offered, simply dissolved on his tongue. For a long second he stood there, completely disarmed, while the usual guarded reserve in his expression snapped leaving him looking almost stunned, like the warmth of your approval had changed the very chemistry in his being and rewrote it slowly–like an antivirus of sorts.
You offered him a small, reassuring smile, meant to steady him before the moment could slip away and return to discomfort again, then you turned your gaze towards John, shifting focus as you caught the way his eyebrows had risen in clear surprise at what you had said.
“It seems like you’re trying to put doubt in his mind because you’re jealous that he gets first dibs on all the things I bake.” You stated lightly with enough edge to redirect everything to him. The intention was clear: pull the spotlight further away from Bucky so he could gather himself and breathe while he reset himself.
John’s face twisted immediately into defensive protest, his shoulders squaring.
“Woah, woah. Don’t blame this on me, he’s the one that brought it up…And also, none of us ever get to try any of your desserts cause he hides them all!” He shot back, pointing the tip of the knife towards Bucky to emphasize his statement, though the gestured lacked any real heat. You let out a soft scoff, the sound slipping into a laugh that cut through the lingering tension, lightening the atmosphere by degrees as it echoed off the walls.
“Well, I’ll be sure to make extra batches so you can try them then…There’s no need to give someone a bad body complex because you didn’t get a cookie.” You teased, twisting open the chilled bottle of water, before flicking the plastic cap at John’s head, which connected with a small, satisfying thud. You smirked at the way his eye twitched in response, the brief flicker of irritation crossing his features before he could suppress it, his hand rising to instinctively rub the spot, like it had hurt him.
“Better watch your steak tonight, I might poison you for that.” He commented dryly, resuming his work on the meat, though the corner of his mouth peaked up with the faintest hint of amusement.
“I’ll know who did it, so you would have to sleep with one eye open, Johnny Boy.” You replied smoothly before taking a long sip of water, feeling the cool liquid slipping down the warmth of your throat. Across the island, Bob fought to contain a smile as he lifted the bowl of vegetables he had sorted and moved towards the sink, twisting it on to run them beneath the steady stream of water.
“You’re lucky I’m preparing food right now, because if I wasn’t you’d have trouble on your hands.” John murmured under his breath. You raised a hand in front of you in mock surrender, your palm open and fingers splayed, the gesture light and theatrical as a small grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.
“Oh boy, I’m so thankful you’re making dinner and can’t stumble around the kitchen trying to fight me.” You commented, the words laced with playful sarcasm as you pushed away from the refrigerator, crossing the kitchen in quick succession. The path led you straight toward the archway where Bucky stood, “Maybe train with me tomorrow and I’ll take you up on the offer of laying your ass out on the mat.” You added, lifting the bottle back to your lips for another slow sip, your gaze flicking sideways to catch Bucky’s.
He was watching you fully now, attentive to every small motion–the tilt of your head, the subtle flex of your throat as you drank, and the little comforting stare you gave him. Pulling the bottle away from your damp lips with a small sigh, you focused on him only.
“You alright if I leave you with him? Or do you want to come hang around in my room until dinner’s done?” You asked, your voice dropping into something quieter, more private, as your eyes searched his face for any remaining signs of embarrassment on it. You caught the visible effort it took for him to swallow, the anxious lump in his throat working beneath the skin, the faint bob of his Adam’s apple displaying the internal battle playing out behind his guarded expression.
“I’ll…I’ll be okay here, don’t worry about me.” He replied far more steadier than he felt, though the reluctance that stood behind it was unmistakable. The decision sat on his tongue even as he spoke it, regret already beginning to coil low in his gut at the missed chance to follow you, to steal a few quiet minutes in the familiar comfort of your quarters where he could be surrounded in your soothing scent without any interruptions.
You gave him a small, understanding smile, the kind that reached the corners of your eyes and softened the post-workout exhaustion that started to overtake your features. Your hand rose to rest briefly on the softened curve of his shoulder, fingers pressing into he give of muscle and the plush layer beneath the black cotton of his shirt.
“Alright, see you at dinner.” You said, brushing past him deliberately as you moved into the hallway, feeling his eyes following you as he remained rooted in place.
——————
A few days later, the compound had emptied out in a rare, almost eerie sort of evacuation. Missions had pulled the rest of the team from the Watchtower in every direction–Valentina’s orders left no room for downtime among the New Avengers–and for once, you and Bucky had been left behind, benched for the cycle because it was your turn for a much-needed break.
You were grateful for the scheduled reprieve; the field had been relentless lately, every extraction and high-stakes takedown layered a fresh soreness into your shoulders and an even deeper mental ache that no amount of post-mission debriefs could shake. The quiet halls felt like a gift, one that you didn’t question too closely for fear it would vanish suddenly, so you just enjoyed and tried to make the most of it.
That morning you had found Bucky in the gym, running through a solo circuit on the heavy punching bag, each impact following with a metallic rattle of the chain as it swung back and forth. The sound consistent sound had drawn you down the hallway, and you leaned in the doorway without announcing yourself, arms crossed loosely over your chest as you watched quietly. He hadn’t noticed you at first, lost to the rhythm of strike and recovery, but you saw the way he had faltered for half a second when your small shadow fell across the mat.
The shift was subtle–barely a hitch in the roll of his shoulders–but it was there, and you caught it. You hadn’t said much, just that the urge to be in the kitchen was calling, that you were going to try a new recipe, and could use a second opinion. His opinion, of course. He had wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, chest heaving from the exertion, and gave you a small nod, telling you that he was just going to finish up and take a shower before joining you.
Neither of you had acknowledged the conversation that had occurred in the kitchen a few nights prior with John, and it was evident. The tension had lingered thick enough that simply standing in his presence made everything feel awkward and lit up with everything that had seemed to be left unsaid. Bucky had been tempted–more than once–to bring up that night just to test whether you had really meant what you said about liking his body this way, or if you had only offered the reassurance to keep him from spiralling further. But the fear of your answer had kept the words locked behind his teeth, because it was easier–and safer–to stay inside the fragile confines of the fantasy that you liked him exactly as he was now, weight and all.
Once he had cleaned off the exertion of his training, he took up his usual spot at the granite island, still damp from the shower. He hadn’t bothered to dry his hair properly or even towel off completely; he didn’t want to keep you waiting. The maroon t-shirt he wore clung in dark, uneven patches where water had soaked through, the fabric doing more drying than the towel ever had. You noticed it immediately–the way the cotton molded to the broadened curve of his chest and the soft give along his sides–and while you could feel your mouth grow drier than the Sahara you didn’t comment on it.
Every time he shifted, the hem rode up just enough to reveal a thin strip of skin at his waist, slightly tanned and plump, exposed by the low rise of the sweatpants he had bought only the day before. The fabric sat lower on his hips than anything he used to own, the drawstring pulled tight but still loose enough to hint at the swell of his lower belly. His hair dripped steadily, leaving distorted wet marks across the shoulders of his shirt, though the rising heat of the kitchen had already begun to dry the strands.
You moved around him, pulling ingredients from the pantry one at a time–almond flour in a wide glass jar with the surface carrying a fine, dusty sheen; a block of unsalted butter that you had put out the night before to soften; dark cocoa powder that released a hazy cloud of brown when you set the tin down; a fresh pack of powdered sugar; and a carton of milk that you snatched up from the refrigerator. You arranged everything on the counter in the precise order you would need it, the routine steadying you as much as it steadied him. The small, familiar motions giving you both something to focus on besides the unresolved tension.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it pressed against your ribs all the same, suffocating the gentleness of your usual interactions, making them odd and uncomfortable in a way. You were tempted to find something–anything–that would spark conversation or at least pull him into the process rather than letting him sit there, stewing in whatever thoughts darkened behind his eyes.
You could feel his gaze tracking your hands: the way your fingers curled around the measuring cup, the way they carefully levelled the flour against the rim, the brief pause when you licked a stray smear of cocoa from the pad of your thumb and hummed in quiet approval at the bitter, chocolate depth of it, everything was just slowly pulling him in.
His breathing had slowed with the entire process, the rise and fall of his chest welcoming an easy rhythm that displayed calmness, as though the simple domesticity soothed the nerves he tried so hard to hide. He knew, at some point, the elephant in the room would surface, and that it would have to be acknowledged, and he was just bracing for impact.
Before his thoughts could truly fall into the depths of what ifs though, you set a small stainless-steel bowl in front of him, the metal ringing against the granite with a clear, resonant note that cut through the silence.
“Want to help with the glaze?” You asked, trying to rope him into helping you rather than just being a bystander this time, like it would break up the monotony of your usual impromptu baking tutorials. He looked up at you almost like he was nervous to mess up, and you caught it immediately, the slight hesitation in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed, the little widening of his eyes.
“It’s easy, you’ll just have to whisk in a little milk with the powdered sugar until it’s pourable, nothing fancy,” You reassured, patting the thin bag which took the indentations of your hand perfectly, the plastic crinkling softly under your palm. His lashes fluttered, contemplating, and then he nodded.
“Alright.” He replied, reaching for the bag without hesitation, his fingers brushing yours for just a fraction of a second, which made the hairs on your arms stand up at attention, like a wave of static passed through that minimal contact. The brief warmth of his skin lingered on yours, sending an unexpected current of heat straight down your spine, and throughout your body, feeling a numbness settling low in your gut. He dragged the bag towards him, lifting it and tearing the corner open with his teeth, which made your stomach turn even more, just at the simplicity of the action, and the ease at how he did it. You had to tear your eyes off him, grabbing the whisk and milk, placing it beside the bowl as he poured a generous mound into it, the powdered sugar cascading in a fine, airy drift that caught the overhead light and turned momentarily iridescent.
“That’s good enough I think.” You said, which made him stop shaking the bag, folding the flimsy plastic in on itself so it was sealed, putting it back down onto the granite surface that was now dusted with a thin film of white. He was tempted to swipe at it, but remained stiff, waiting for your next instructions, almost like he had slipped back into his old programming where he was hanging in anticipation for the next task that would be given to him, and you noticed it–the rigid line in his posture, the way his vibranium fingers flexed against the edge of the island like he was steadying himself.
“Now, just slowly pour in a little bit of milk, and whisk, then keep adding until it becomes a semi-thin consistency.” His brows raised.
“Semi-thin?” He questioned, and you smirked, the expression drawing up slight crinkles around your mouth as the crease formed between his brows, with a familiar furrow of concentration he wore whenever he was approaching something new, even something as harmless as making a glaze.
“Yeah, it should still have a little bit of thickness but it should be…” You paused for a moment, trying to find words to describe the consistency to him so he would be able to refer to that image when he was preparing it, but you gave up, “Y’know what, just ask me after you pour the second splash of milk in and I’ll check for you,” You explained with a small laugh. He nodded, grabbing the carton and unfolding the lip of the cardboard.
You tried to busy yourself with the rest of the preparations, taking out two mini tart pans and placing them onto the island, before going over to the fridge to grab the dough you had made the night prior. You could hear him slowly start whisking, the sound of metal on metal overtaking the silence. There was a little bit of hesitation in his movements at first–the whisk catching slightly against the side of the bowl making a grazing ring the echoed–but once he found a rhythm it seemed like he eased, the motion becoming smoother, more confident.
When you turned back around you could see he was focused on the task and not on you, holding the bowl with his vibranium hand to steady it so it didn’t accidentally slide along the island, the black plates of his arm gleaming beneath the warm lights, catching stray streaks of powder that clung to the metallic surface like tiny crystals–accentuating the gold seams that traced through the build.
You placed the sough beside the tart pans, unwrapping it while still glancing over at him every few seconds, watching as he reached for the milk carton again and poured another splash into the bowl, hissing at the mistake he thought he made, the sound barely audible but enough to draw your attention to the flush creeping up his neck and spreading across his cheeks.
“If it becomes too thin we can always add more powdered sugar, so don’t worry about making it perfectly on the first try,” You commented, which drew his gaze to yours, the blush only deepening at the fact you had caught him. You fought the urge to smile at the embarrassment, and chose to return you eyes back to the dough, moving the plastic wrap to the side before pressing your warm palms into it to knead, feeling the cool, supples mass caving in under the steady pressure of your hands, releasing a faint, buttery scent.
He began to whisk again, now glancing over at you and the way you pushed down onto the dough, seeing the way it flattened and bent to your will, the tendons in your forearms shifting with each movement you made. You looked so focused that he almost forgot that he had his own task to do, and quickly he pulled his eyes off of you to look down at his slightly gloopy creation that began to take on the lines of the whisk, the mixture smoothing out into a glossy ribbon that clung to the wires.
“I think I may need…A little bit more milk?” He said, almost hesitantly, like it was a question more than a suggestion. You looked over at him and got onto your tiptoes to glance into the bowl, seeing the consistency, and the way the glaze pooled and folded back on itself with a slow, viscous drag.
“Yeah, just a splash and you should be good.” You confirmed, shaping the dough even further until it was flat, before lifting and fanning it over the tart pan. It draped smoothly, conforming to the ridges of the aluminum, taking the indentations of where each individual tart would be made. You heard another splash followed by whisking, as you began pressing the dough into the molds so they could take shape, going one by one and giving them all the same attention so they were perfect, your thumbs working along the edges to seal the pastry neatly against the metal.
“I think it’s done,” He announced, the words carrying a quiet note of pride that pulled your focus fully to him now. A small smile crept up on your lips as you moved away from the tart pan and made your way over to him, coming to stand beside his broadened stature. You were close enough that the heat radiating from his body had seeped into your own skin, and for a split second you felt your throat tighten at the phantom contact–tempted to get even closer to him–but you kept your composure, peering into the bowl.
The glaze had reached that elusive balance you were seeking–thick enough to coat the tops of the tarts with a controlled pour, yet loose enough to flow in an elegant, glossy stream that would set with a subtle sheen once it cooled. A single droplet of the mixture clung stubbornly to the whisk, trembling at the wire’s tip before it surrendered and fell back into the bowl with a soft plop.
“Perfect,” You murmured, the word slipping out as you gave him a gentle nudge to his arm, your knuckles pressing briefly into the artificial curve of his bicep beneath the maroon cotton. The contact was purposeful, an excuse to break the touch barrier because you wanted to try and silently communicate that you wanted to feel him–to be closer to him, or convey that you were dropping a hint a few nights ago, one that he evidently didn’t take.
You could see him swallow, the motion visible along the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple shifting beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. With the proximity, it was as if he were drowning in your rosemary and lavender scent, layered along with the the cocoa powder that clung to you. It filled his lungs, invaded every inch of him, creating an indulgent cloud that made his breath catch and his pulse spike. He looked like he would pass out from it along, the way his lashes fluttered and his broad shoulders tensed under the weight of your nearness.
His shimmering eyes flicked to the side to meet yours, holding them for a moment longer than necessary, and you could see the shift behind his gaze–something unguarded, like you had somehow eased the tension from the other night just from the simple press of your hand. Even seated on the stool, he casted a slight shadow over you, forcing you to tilt your head up slightly to challenge his stare, your eyes tracing the details of his face: the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his full lips parted on a exhale, the silver threads in his beard that seemed to be robust compared to when you would see him from across a debrief table or kitchen island, and the was his nose seemed to scrunch slightly, like he was smelling the air between you.
His lashes fluttered when he realized you were taking him in, studying him like you wanted to become an expert in the subject of his body, of his tells. He had to push down the automatic thought that you were judging and cataloguing him, and instead, he took the chance to mirror your actions, letting this gaze roam over you in return. Up close there were so many things he had never been able to account for before–the subtle flare of your nostrils as you breathed him in, the way your eyes softened at the edges when they lingered on his mouth, a mix of desire and lust spinning behind your irises, and the faint movement of your lips where you dragged your top teeth along the inside of your lower one in quiet concentration. But it wasn’t just these small things that hijacked his senses…
He could hear the gallop of your heart in the depths of your body, the steady rush of blood through your veins, the warmth that rolled off your skin to mingle with his–even though the two of you weren’t touching completely. He could see the sudden prickling of goosebumps along your arms despite the thin nylon shorts and loose t-shirt you wore that covered the bottoms–which made it look like you were wearing nothing beneath it. Your breathing had accelerated slightly, and while it would be subtle to anyone else, it was unmistakable to him.
There was a split second where you leaned towards him again, this time into the open space he left unguarded at his torso, your arm pressing against the plush warmth of his side before you shifted back and reached for one of the drawers beneath the island, sliding it open with a smooth glide. The drawer’s contents rattled faintly–spoons, measuring tools, the occasional clink of metal against the plastic holder–as you retrieved a clean spoon. Bucky’s eyes tracked every motion, the way your body stretched with the reach, and the faint sheen of sweat that was catching the light along the column of your throat.
You returned to your position beside him, dipping the concave edge of the spoon into the glaze, swirling it once to gather a generous amount before lifting it free. The mixture coated the metal in a smooth, glossy layer, pulling it out of the bowl slowly, watching it drip.
“Here–taste it…Tell me if maybe I should put some vanilla in it or something,” You said, holding the spoon out to him, close enough that the sweet, sugary scent cut through the rosemary-and-lavender haze surrounding you both. His eyes dropped to the spoon for a moment, then lifted back to yours, his blue irises darkening slightly with something deeper than hesitation–something that was coiling around his body and drawing him in like a trap, as if you were a siren of sorts.
Yet he leaned forward anyways–wanting to be dragged into whatever you were offering to him–parting his lips as he took the offered taste, enveloping the spoon with his mouth in one unhurried motion, like he was Eve taking a bite of the forbidden apple. His lashes fluttered closed at the intensely sugary burst across his tongue, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked the glaze clean from the silver before pulling back, ruminating on the flavour with a low sound escaping him–a deep, satisfied sigh that vibrated through his chest and shook the space between you.
You nearly dropped the utensil right then and there, feeling the dormant warmth in your body reigniting and twisting tighter than ever before, coiling low and searing everything inside you like a raging flame on a war path of destruction. Your mind slipped unbidden into far less innocent thoughts in those moments–what that same mouth could do if you offered yourself to him instead of the spoon, how his seemingly soft lips and tongue might feel tracing along your flesh, how his teeth would nip and bite over your most sensitive areas. The images flashed hot, tightening everything within you until you shifted and squeezed your thighs together–like it would somehow dissolve the scenarios that were running through your mind, and you found that it at least helped you refocus.
“I don’t think it needs anything…It’s good the way it is,” He informed quietly, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingertips, removing the residual glaze there, licking them clean with a swipe of his tongue. Your throat constricted at the sigh, so much so that you needed to cough out the phantom lump forming there, the sudden tightness forcing the sound from your lips as you leaned your stomach against the cool edge of the granite island for a moment. The stone pressed firm into your midsection through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, grounding you while you set the spoon down with a clink against the counter, the metal ringing once before settling into silence.
The quiet pressed back in around you both like an incoming tide that you refused to let pull you under. Progress had been building and you were not about to let it slip backward into the careful distance the two of you had maintained over the past few days.
Bucky felt the same pull, perhaps even more acutely, considering that his enhanced senses were being assaulted by you in ways you couldn’t fully grasp. He caught every subtle shift in your scent, the way it deepened and sweetened beneath the rosemary and lavender when your thighs pressed together, and the faint acceleration in your pulse that was now thrumming under your skin. It was as if you were vibrating–shooting off signals to him without even uttering a word–and slowly he pieced together that the sweetness he was picking up on suddenly was something natural, and that it was coming from the exact place he wanted to be buried in at that moment. Everything seemed to come to a head in those fleeting seconds, and it all pointed to one thing–you were turned on by his horribly executed tasting of the glaze…And you were totally unaware that he knew.
You had only ever understood fragments of how the serum altered someone who took it–heightened hearing, sharper sight, the way the body would process the world like it could see the atoms that created it–but you had never considered how you could flood those senses, how your nearness could drag him into your bodily systems without even trying, and how it short-circuited the careful control he clung to.
It was easy to underestimate the full scope of it, to miss how every inhale drew you deeper to his lungs and how the warmth of his body only grew now that he was fully aware of what was going on inside of you, and unless you had proper knowledge of it, the one up he had on you in those moments seemed like a slight advantage.
But he found himself at a loss for words. Every option of what to say felt clumsy or wrong, or too small for the feelings he was trying to convey, and he didn’t want to risk shattering the moment entirely, or pulling you out of the state that you were in.
So he did the only thing that felt bearable enough to execute.
He shifted on the stool, making the movement subtle enough that it could be passed for an adjustment, before widening the spread of his thighs until his knee bumped against the soft swell of your hip, holding it there to make sure you knew this was an intentional move. He felt the way you stiffened at first, your gaze dropping to where he was pressed against you, the nylon of your shorts doing little to dull the heat of him that was seeping through the fabric. Then your eyes lifted, meeting his through the fan of your lashes. There was something searching in your expression, something that had finally come to the conclusion that you were done circling around the edge of the truth, and you took the plunge not even thinking about the risks anymore.
“Bucky…About the other night…” You started, your voice soft and strained, the words catching as if all the moisture had fled your mouth the instant you began to speak. You cleared your throat, willing the tremor out, before you continued, “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked the way your body looks.”
The words wrapped around him like an unexpected warmth that sank straight into his bones, turning his limbs heavy, making his entirety border on complete numbness. It spread through him in a slow, staggering wave, starting low in his belly and working its way upward, unspooling beneath his ribs, and exploding through him like mini fireworks. He was stunned by relief, by want, by the mere fact you had said it again when there was no audience to redirect your attention toward. But he still felt exposed–stripped bare in the best and most terrifying way–and even though he wanted to say something, when his mouth parted, no words came.
His thoughts had thinned out to almost nothing, the careful structure of them collapsing beneath an invisible force that you wielded, and it was as if his brain had turned into jello, shaking in the confines of his skull. You could see the way his jaw tensed, the muscle feathering beneath the salt-and-pepper scruff that shadowed his skin, as if he were internally berating himself for the silence that had swallowed up his response, and you decided right then that there was no sense in hovering at the outskirts of the truth any longer.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, the quiet rush of air steadying the fresh slate of nerves that now sparked along your spine. Turning fully toward him, you reached for the curved edge of the stool nestled between his parted knees. His thighs twitched visibly beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants at the nearness, the material leaving nothing to the imagination when it came to the thickened muscle there. With a gentle pull, you rotated the seat, swivelling his massive frame to face you, and before he could withdraw into himself or find some excuse to angle away, you stepped forward into the cradle of space he had created.
The movement erased what little distance remained, and your legs were now framed by the solid, warm press of his, the stark contrast in size impossible to ignore–his powerful thighs dwarfing yours tenfold. The air between your bodies grew heavier, almost like you were breathing in fog, and there was no longer any room for the careful pretence of friendship or mere teammates sharing a casual moment, because this was something rawer and far more intimate.
Bucky’s hands dropped to grip the edges of the stool on either side of his legs, knuckles whitening as his vibranium fingers flex. The segmented plates shifted with a faint, mechanical whirr, adjusting so he didn’t break the seat from how tightly he was gripping it.
Despite the closeness, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze, fixating his eyes to your shirt and the way your chest rose and fell beneath it, his dark lashes casting shadows over his flushed cheeks. You bit the inside of your lip, and moved your face closer to his.
“Bucky…Did you hear what I just said?” You asked gently, keeping your voice low and patient even though you didn’t entirely feel like that. He closed his eyes, tilting his head downward so that strands of his damp, dark hair fell forward to curtain the sides of his face. A single, barely perceptible nod follows.
“Yes, I heard you,” He whispered, the words nearly dissolving into the quiet hum of the kitchen. You felt your mouth pull into a faint frown at the vulnerability in his voice, and the way his broad shoulders seemed to curve inward, almost like he was cowering because he was scared of you possibly retreating if he said anything other than that.
Before conscious thought could stop you, you lifted both your hands to cup the heated skin of his cheeks, your palms pressing against the coarse texture of his beard. Your thumbs slid beneath the line of his jaw, cradling it for a few seconds, tracing the strong outline there, feeling your skin burning at the prickling sensation it gave you.
The contact seemed to freeze him in place, and his breath hitched with a visible catch in his chest. He could’ve shattered under the tenderness of your touch–wept in pure bliss because the warmth of your fingers felt so good against his skin–but no sound left him. It felt like he had been placed on ice all over again, and there was a paralysis that kept him locked in place–restrained beneath your soft hands.
Then he felt you gently coax his face upward, your thumbs guiding him by the line of his jaw with careful, insistent pressure. When his eyes lifted to yours at last, he surrendered to the motion willingly, because there was no escaping this now–he was in far too deep, and whatever you offered to him, he would allow himself to drown in it.
A small smile curved your lips as you registered the raw longing warring behind the blue depths of his irises. Your fingers twitched against the heated skin of his cheeks, cataloguing the frantic bound of his pulse thundering beneath your thumbs, and everything within him seemed to vibrate with barely contained tension; you could feel the faint tremors running through the broad frame caged around you, yet you refused to acknowledge it aloud.
You were finally this close, close enough that the short, warm puffs of his breath brushed your face with every exhale, and the heat clung to your skin, carrying the light scent of his minty toothpaste. It made the urge to close the last few inches of space almost unbearable, but you held your ground, determined to draw out whatever raced through his mind and left him so visibly unravelled.
Because you had just laid bare something that should’ve brought clarity between you, and instead he was absorbing it like you had dropped a nuclear bomb in the narrow space separating your bodies.
“Tell me what you’re thinking…” You murmured, dragging your thumbs along his beard once more in slow soothing strokes, physically willing the words from him. His bottom lip slipped between his teeth for a moment, scraping lightly across the flesh until it emerged reddened, damp, and slightly swollen. Then he shook his head, the movement small but heavy with everything he was trying to contain from you.
“I’m thinking that I don’t want you to say these things if you’re just trying to make me feel better,” He admitted, forcing his eyes to remain locked on yours. He searched your expression as though what he had said would pierce any mask you were trying to wear, but all he found in the depths of your gaze was a quick flash of hurt, and it landed like someone had punched him in his chest. He ruined the moment, he knew he ruined the moment right when he opened his mouth, and there was a fraction of a second where he opened his mouth, but then you shifted again.
Slowly, one of your hands slid from his jaw, your warm fingertips tracing the taut column of his throat, feeling him swallow before you felt the damp fabric of his maroon shirt. Your touch was featherlight at first–so delicate that he could scarcely register it–until your palm came to rest over the broad slope of his pectoral, right above the heavy beat of his heart. He could feel the way you pressed gently into the flesh there, like you were testing the softness, rubbing a slow circle along the fabric before spreading your fingers wide across the expanded muscle beneath.
The rhythm of his heart picked up beneath your palm, pounding wildly against your touch as if it wanted to break free from his body entirely. You could’ve sworn his skin grew hotter through the damp fabric of his shirt, radiating outward in waves that seeped straight into your own bloodstream and made your temperature spike in response. It felt as though you were touching bare flesh rather than cotton, and the barrier between you was suddenly meaningless.
“I didn’t say it because I wanted to make you feel better,” You started, shifting closer until your lips hovered mere inches from his. The sheer size of him made you feel smaller than ever in the cradle of his thighs, and you felt those thick muscles tense and flex against your hips, caging you in even further, “I said what I said because it’s true, and because I like you and all that you’ve become.”
The confession slipped between his lips, stealing every last trace of air from Bucky’s lungs. For one suspended moment his chest simply stopped moving, the words wrapping around his throat and squeezing until every thought in his mind dissipated.
He had imagined this exact scenario in the quiet hours of the night–had rehearsed every possible response, every careful confession, every way he might hold himself together so he wouldn’t lose control–but now his brain had gone blank, words reducing to ash. All that remained was the reality in front of him–you staring up into his eyes in complete and utter anticipation and relief, like you had finally gotten everything off your chest.
You leaned in closer, the tip of your nose brushing his with a gentle nudge, before you took the chance you had been wanting for months and pressed your lips to his. They were stiff at first, surprised by your bold actions, but they were so soft beneath the short, silver-threaded beard–plush and smooth, as if he had taken meticulous care of them in secret, in hopes that this would happen.
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose, the sound low and ragged, caught off guard by the heat and pressure of your mouth. His hands released their white-knuckled grip on the edges of the stool with a faint metallic click of plates shifting, and his entire body relaxed into the contact at once, lips softening and parting to follow your lead as the kiss settled into a slow, intimate rhythm. You opened your mouth against his, drawing his plush bottom lip between yours and sucking gently, coaxing a broken sound from deep in his chest.
The hand still cupping his cheek slid away to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until the softened expanse of his chest pressed flush to yours, feeling your heart beats in the point of contact.
A small, helpless whimper escaped him when he realized you weren’t wearing a bra beneath the thin t-shirt–your nipples tight and sensitive, hardening instantly against the solid warmth of him, making his mind race. His arms came up slowly to circle your waist, his warm palm settling at the small of your back while the cool plates of his vibranium hand spanned the middle of your spine. His thumb traced the line of your shoulder blade through the fabric, the contrast of temperatures sending fresh shivers racing over your skin, making you to shake against him.
His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the faint trace of cocoa powder that clung to you from earlier, and the deep groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated through the your bodies, sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. The both of you adjusted into this new found connection, hands sliding slowly to take in every inch of each other, grabbing and squeezing and breathing heavily into one another’s mouths when you parted to tilt your heads to deepen the kiss even further.
The two of you could’ve stayed like that for hours and neither of you would’ve had a care in the world, all you wanted to do was lose yourself in each other and sink into the burning need that had ignited between the two of you. It was as if you couldn’t get enough of the feeling of him, and it was evident by the way you continued to pull him closer, trying to mold your bodies together even further than they already were. You chin was burning from his beard dragging against your flesh with each movement of his mouth, but you couldn’t care less–he could sand down your skin until it was raw and you’d ask for more over and over again, because all you wanted was him, in any way, in any form.
He moaned against your lips, his fingers tightening and squeezing the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, before his vibranium hand slipped away entirely from the spot it hadn’t moved from. A small whimper escaped your throat at the loss of contact, and you pulled back just enough to speak and look up at him with shimmering eyes.
“What are you doing?” You whispered against his mouth, feeling the rapid puffs of his breath warming the saliva-slicked skin of your lips.
“Making room,” He replied, nodding toward the bowl of glaze on the island. You glanced over at it, as he maneuvered the two of you so your back was pressed against the granite, feeling the coolness of it biting through your shirt, tempering the heat that he had brought to you so easily. He stood, pushing the stool away with his foot, then crowding you in completely, towering over you while his eyes stayed locked on yours. The bowl slid across the countertop with a low scrape, pushed safely out of the way, and his hands were on you again–large palms gripping your hips as he leaned down to kiss you once more, keeping it slow and almost hesitant, as though he were fighting the urge to let the lust completely consume him.
There was something feral uncoiling inside of him that wanted to rip your clothes off right then and there because he just couldn’t wait any longer to see you naked. But he wanted to savour this moment, wanted to take his time to learn every little thing about you that he hadn’t known already–the sensitive areas of your flesh that made you squeal, the parts of you that he was never able to see because he would cast his eyes away whenever he got the chance to, and the sacred apex of your thighs that he longed to be between, to taste, to caress, to enjoy.
Your arms wrapped around his neck as you rose onto your tiptoes, compensating for the height difference so he didn’t have to bend so far. He let out a rough, breathy moan at the new closeness, his hands sliding down to the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly and setting you on the granite island. The cool stone met your skin through your shorts, drawing a gasp from you. He pulled back from the kiss, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip, concern flooding him for a fleeting moment.
“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, tilting his head up slightly now that you were at a higher vantage point, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or hesitation–or god forbid regret. You nodded at him.
“Yeah…Yeah I’m fine,” You started, bringing your hands up to rest on his shoulders, giving the plush muscle there a gentle squeeze, “Was just surprised by the cold counter, that’s all,” You added, before leaning forward and kissing him again, stealing the next breath from his lungs as you widened your thighs and hooked your legs around his hips, pulling him flush between them until you felt the unmistakable line of his erection pressing against your core through the layers that were still separating you.
The two of you let out a joint moan at the physical confirmation of how worked up the both of you were just from kissing one another, and your thighs tightened around him even further. The damp heat of you soaked straight through your shorts, the slick patch blooming unmistakably against the front of his sweatpants, and Bucky felt every bit of it–every faint pulse that your core made when it clenched around nothing, and the shift of your hips as you attempted to get closer.
He let the scent of you fill his lungs again–the heady, sweet musk rising from between your legs, and the sheer form of your very chemistry changing and molding to display your arousal to him even further. It flooded his senses, tightening the coil that was building low in his gut until his hips rolled forward on their own, grinding slowly against you, chasing the friction that made your breath hitch.
His hands slid up the outsides of your thighs, his broad palms mapping every inch of soft skin before slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. The callouses on his flesh fingers rasped gently against the fabric of your shorts, before he finally gripped your hips and pulled you towards the edge of the granite island so the two of you were aligned perfectly. Your own hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over it to trace the solid warmth of his back, then sliding lower to dig into the muscles flanking his spine, pulling the material taut. The give of him under your touch made you press your chest harder into his, craving the plush weight of his pectorals against your breasts.
He opened his mouth again, tongue sliding deep in a slow, claiming stroke that tasted of salt and pure need, like he couldn’t help devouring every trace of you. You felt the low rumble of his groan vibrate through his ribs and into yours as your hands tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to hike it up, seeking the feeling of his bare skin against yours. He tensed instantly, his breathing accelerating as he pulled back just far enough to breath the kiss. His eyes locked onto yours, his pupils blowing wide until the beautiful blue hue was almost completely absent.
“Why’d you stop?” You asked, confusion flickering across your face, intermingling with the worry that threaded through your question like you were realizing that you possibly crossed some invisible line that you didn’t know the existence of until that very moment.
“I…I don’t want to take my shirt off…” He whispered against your lips, his voice cracking from the dryness in his through, hands squeezing your hips gently. He could see the way yours eyes softened in realization that he was absolutely terrified to let you see him bare like that–without anything to hide behind–and soon enough your hands eased from his shirt, sliding up his back, tracing the outlines of the muscles there until they reached the sides of his neck, framing it perfectly in your hands.
His pulse was bounding against your fingertips again–from nerves or from the feral hunger that coursed through his veins, you couldn’t say for sure–and you bit the inside of your lower lip, right on the sore spot where his teeth had grazed, feeling the slight sting and relishing in it, hoping he would give you more soon.
He kept his eyes glued to your expression shifting, seeing the way you were weighing the options of what to say next in your mind. Yes, you wanted to see him–wanted to take in the very thing you had been admiring for so long–but you didn’t want him to sacrifice his comfort so you could be satisfied. The time would come when he would be okay with it, and you needed to accept that and for now touching him would just have to do.
Your thumbs traced the line of his jaw, scraping along the scruff there, and you could feel him tilt his chin down toward the touch, chasing it, even though you weren’t going to let go unless he asked.
“If you want to keep it on that’s okay…” You replied, leaning in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his mouth that was so soft he barely registered it before it was gone, “We’ll have lots of time to explore that when you’re ready.” You added, watching the moment when relief flooded his face, softening the sharp lines of tension that had carved themselves into his brow and around his mouth–at both the comfort you offered, and the insinuation that this truly wasn’t going to be a one and done thing between the two of you, that this was just the beginning of what was to come. His mind was racing, thinking about a future with you by his side, thinking about the fact you evidently wanted that–or so he was assuming–and it only made him want you even more.
His lashes fluttered, and he leaned forward, turning his head to the side to bury his face into your neck. His nose pressed into the soft crevice exposed by the loose collar of your shirt, feeling the steady beat of your pulse quickening beneath your warm skin. He breathed you in deep, letting you fill his lungs again, wanting to be saturated in you. A low sigh escaped him, his hot breath clinging to your throat, his beard scraping lightly against the sensitive curve there as he nuzzled into you further.
“Thank you for being so understanding with me…I know it’s not the most ideal thing to ask for and–“
“Buck. It’s okay, you don’t have to thank me…I want you to enjoy this as much as I will.” You interrupted, sliding your arms around his neck to hold him closer, the smooth skin of your forearms brushing the hairs at his nape. You felt him tilt his head as he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss right under your ear, his tongue darting out briefly to taste the faint sheen of sweat that began to come to the surface of your skin from the heat of your bodies. He blew softly across the damp spot, cooling the heated skin and sending a shiver racing down your spine.
“Nobody has ever really taken my comfort into account when it comes to this stuff…So I want you to know how much I appreciate that.” He explained, his voice a rough murmur against your throat, the words rippling out over your skin as his hands slid away from your hips, going off to explore the rest of the surface area of your body.
The tips of his fingers dragged along your sides, tracing where your waist met your hips before sliding beneath the hem of your shirt completely to settle against the small of your back. He sought the bare skin there deliberately, palms pressing into the warmth and softness he had only ever imagined in stolen glances and restless nights, feeling the heat of you seeping straight into his calloused flesh and cool vibranium alike. The contrast sharpened every sensations–the segmented plates of his left hand tracing slow, precise circles along the delicate dip of your spine, each metallic ridge gliding with a faint, whispering shift, while his right splayed wide, bringing you closer.
The dual temperatures pulled a full-body shiver from you, goosebumps rising in a visible ripple across your arms and the exposed curve of your throat as you arched yourself more into him.
“You’re going to have to get used to that then, cause I want you to feel good too,” You replied, threading your fingers into the soft, damp strands of his hair at the back of his head. It clung to your hand, cool at the roots yet warmed by the rising heat of your bodies, and you tugged lightly, grounding yourself in the thick texture as you felt his breath stutter against your neck.
He hummed low in his throat at your words, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours like a deep, resonant chord struck just for you. He pulled back just enough to find your mouth again, responding in the only way he knew how–by pouring every ounce of his newly granted relief into the slide of his lips and the gentle sweep of his tongue. His plush lower lip caught between yours as you gave a short, hungry suck, before you melted fully into the kiss. His erection throbbed harder against the apex of your thighs, the thick, heavy length straining at the front of his sweatpants, begging for relief, for something, as his hips pressed against yours to give a fraction of pressure to it.
His hands roamed higher under your shirt, mapping the smooth plane of your torso, thumbs following the soft give of your ribcage as it expanded with each quickened breath. He reached just beneath the swell of your breasts, brushing the pads of his thumbs along the plush, sensitive skin there in slow, teasing strokes that made your skin pucker instantly. Then he shifted, letting those same thumbs drag over the hardened peaks of your nipples, circling them with firm, unhurried intent before taking the sensitive flesh between his fingers to gently pinch and roll.
You let out a whimper from your throat–one that he swallowed greedily, the sound feeding into his mouth as he continued his ministrations. You gave his hair a light tug, taking in a deep breath and letting it out through your nose, arching yourself into his touch, and urging him to continue as the warmth beneath your skin grew even further, spreading like liquid fire through your veins.
You could feel his lips tilting into a small, satisfied smile against yours, the subtle curve of pride at how attuned he was to every hitch in your breath, every tremble of your body as he catalogued each reaction and listened to it like it was the only mission that mattered. His hands shifted to cup your breasts fully massaging them slowly, holding their weight and kneading it, feeling your hips rolling forward against him.
He broke the kiss with a ragged exhale, trailing his mouth downward in a heated path along your jaw, his beard scraping deliciously against your skin before settling at the side of your throat, right beside the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.
I want to taste you,” He murmured, nipping at the fleshy lobe with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.
“Please…” You breathed, the single syllable slipping out on a shaky exhale as his hands dragged from your breasts, sliding down the front of your torso until his fingers hooked into the stretchy waistband of your shorts and the delicate lace trim of your panties beneath.
Slowly he moved back, pulling the material down as you shimmied on the granite island, helping him ease the layers off without needed to leave the cool surface entirely. He brought them down your thighs until they reached your knees, letting the fabric drop to the ground where he pushed it aside with his foot, the motion sending a faint rustle across the floor.
Then he knelt down in front of you, the broad span of his body settling between your legs as his hands slid up your calves, caressing the bare skin there. His eyes trailed the smooth length with open hunger, gently guiding them farther apart before lifting them to rest over his shoulders, the weight of your thighs pressing into the thickened muscles there as he locked you in place for him.
He could feel his mouth water at the sight of you bared completely to him now, your glistening core swollen and slick right in front of his face, the delicate folds already parted and shining under the warm overhead lights of the kitchen. The image beckoned him closer, every detail pulling him in–the way your entrance fluttered visibly with anticipation, the glossy sheen of arousal that had smeared on your inner thighs, the swell of your clit begging for attention.
He felt intoxicated by it, or at least what he remembered intoxication felt like from decades ago, as the heady scent of your arousal flooded his senses so strongly the he could practically taste it on his tongue already, sweet and musky and entirely you. A shaky breath left him, his chest rising and falling heavily as he turned his head to press a lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, dragging his teeth against the thin, sensitive skin there, leaving a faint mark that bloomed there beneath his lips.
His hands reached up toward your hips then, gripping the soft flesh carefully as he pulled you right to the very edge of the island, keeping you steady with the solid weight of his frame so you wouldn’t slip off it. Your hands pressed flat against the granite on either side of you, the cool stone biting into your palms as you held yourself up, leaning forward just enough to look down at him to witness every second of his exploration.
You could see his eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss as he kissed and licked a slow path along the insides of your thighs, taking his time to savour the velvet softness of your skin and the faint twitches in the muscle whenever his beard scraped along it, leaving tingling, heated trails that made your breath hitch with every pass.
Your breathing came faster now, shallow and uneven, as he finally reached where you needed him the most–his hot exhale ghosting over your core, teasing the sensitive skin before he pressed a firm, open-mouthed kiss directly against your pubic bone, the warmth of his lips branding you there. Then his tongue finally met you, dragging the flat of it in one ling, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, gathering every drop of your arousal along the way.
The moan that tore from your throat echoed throughout the quiet kitchen, as you leaned your weight back into your palms on the granite, your head tilting up toward the ceiling while the pleasure slammed through you. His mouth sealed fully over your core, tongue working with starving precision–circling your clit in slow, firm passes that layered sensation on top of sensation, refusing to rush, just building the ache deeper with every flick.
His hands rested heavy on the tops of your thighs, spreading them wider for him as he pressed his face deeper between them, his beard rasping against your sensitive folds with each movement, adding that delicious edge of friction that made your hips jerk involuntarily against his mouth. He grunted, the vibration rumbling straight through your center as his tongue dipped lower, pushing inside your clenching heat to taste you straight from the source, slow and thorough like he was memorizing every pulse and flutter, absorbing your sweetness.
“Oh fuck, Bucky…” You whined, the words breaking on a gasp as you forced your head back down to look at him. His eyes were already staring up at you through his dark lashes, gleaming in the warm overhead light with a lust-filled haze that you had pulled out of him. You were perfect like this–spread open and trembling just from his mouth–and being on his knees in front of you only confirmed what he already knew: he would do anything to stay right here forever, buried between your thighs with your taste coating him.
When his tongue left your pulsing core for a moment, you let out a broken whimper at the loss, only for it to cut off as he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked gently. The sudden pressure made you flinch toward him again, hips grinding forward and smearing your arousal across his cheeks and beard in a glossy sheen. He reached up with his vibranium hand, pressing the cool metal flat against your lower belly, feeling every flutter and clench of your muscles beneath the soft give there, syncing himself to the rhythm of your body like he needed to confirm exactly how good he was making you feel.
He continued to suck, flicking his tongue along the sensitive bundle of nerves in tight, relentless circles before releasing it just long enough for you to catch a breath–only to repeat the same cycle all over again, pulling the coil in your belly tighter with every pass. You took one hand off the granite counter, lacing your fingers through his damp hair, giving the strands a gentle pull as you ground your core against his face again, chasing the friction. He pulled off for a moment, breathing hard, his lips and chin glistening with you, as a small, satisfied smile curved his mouth while he looked up at you.
“Can I finger you?” He asked breathlessly, wanting your approval before he took it upon himself to do anything.
“God, please.” You replied, the words tumbling out on a desperate edge as he returned his mouth to you once again, his tongue resuming its steady work on your clit. His free hand slid off your thigh to join the effort, the tips of his fingers teasing your entrance first–gliding through the slickness, pressing the calloused pads against the soft ring of muscle in slow circles until finally sinking two thick fingers inside with ease. The stretch filled you instantly, the thickness of his digits gliding deep and spreading you open as your walls clenched hot and welcoming around them, reaching spots that your own fingers couldn’t. You hissed at the way he curled them upward right away, seeking that rigid, textured spot he knew would unravel you completely, stroking it with firm pressure that made your vision blur at the edges.
You didn’t know what demanded your attention more–the way his mouth felt as it flicked and sucked at your clit with such experienced, relentless motions, or the feeling of his fingers stretching you open and working that one perfect place inside you that turned every though to TV static. It was an overwhelming assault on your senses, the dual rhythm of wet heat and precise pressure pushing you higher, and you longed for it to never end, already imagining having him like this for hours someday–just so you could feel this blissful, consuming pleasure over and over again until you couldn’t remember anything else.
But before your thoughts could scatter too far, he began to thrust his fingers, curling them along that line of tissue with every stroke, drawing out moan after moan from you.
“Jesus, Bucky, right there! Right there, oh fuck,” You babbled, he words spilling out of you without filter or thought as your body slowly turned to liquid under the way he was lavishing every inch of you. The pressure build fast and merciless, a coiling tea that tightened low in your belly until your thighs trembled violently on either side of his head, your hips rolling helplessly against his face in desperate rhythm with the dual assault. You felt yourself leaning back harder on your one hand, while the other buried deeper into his hair, gripping tight as a glare of white overtook your vision and your body jutted out towards him.
Your orgasm crashed over you in earth shattering waves–like everything around you was going to collapse and cave in–your walls clenching hard around his fingers, as your slick coated his hand and chin while he worked you through every pulsing shudder, refusing to pull away because he couldn’t get enough of the taste flooding his tongue.
He could feel your legs shaking against his shoulders, your ankles pressing into his shoulder blades to pull him even closer, while his lips gently massaged your clit, waiting for the tension in your thighs to ease before he even entertained the idea of releasing the swollen bundle he had captured. You squirmed against him, letting out a breathy moan, tugging at his hair again as oversensitivity sparked along every nerve, shaking like you were going to have another orgasm if he continued to do all of this to you.
“Bucky…Bucky! Too much,” You whined, completely overwhelmed and overstimulated, voice cracking on the plea. He hummed, slowly letting go of your clit, pressing a small kiss against it like it had bestowed a blessing upon him, before lifting his head to look up at you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his beard and lips glistening with your release.
“So-Sorry…Got carried away,” He whispered, his voice rough as he watched you catch your breath, a little laugh escaping your lips despite the way your body was still trembling around him.
“Don’t apologize, that was fucking amazing, it’s just a little sensitive now,” You replied, the words warm and reassuring even while your chest was heaving–like he had put your body through a marathon and you were just trying to recover. He eased his fingers out of you with careful slowness, the wet sound of it filling the kitchen before he brought the glistening digits up to his mouth, cleaning them off with a slow drag of his tongue and letting out a soft, satisfied moan at the sweetness and warmth you had left on them.
“You just taste so good, couldn’t get enough of it,” He commented, voice low and reverent as he adjusted your legs so they slid off his shoulders, the cool air of the kitchen brushing over your slick skin for the first time in what felt like hours. He rose to his feet again, stumbling slightly from the numbness that shot down his calves the moment he stood. You smirked at him, reaching out to bring your hands around his torso, bringing him close again until he was pressed against you.
“Hmm, maybe I should get a sample,” You murmured, leaning forward to kiss his arousal-slicked lips, tasting yourself on him–sweet, musky, and just faintly salty from the sweat that had settled on his upper lip. You opened your mouth to him, letting his tongue slide against your so you could taste even more of the arousal he had lapped up, the both of you letting out low moans at the mingling flavours.
Your hand slid down from his torso, dragging along the front of his sweatpants until you felt a damp spot soaking the fabric where he his precum had leaked through, causing you to smile against his mouth as he grunted. You palmed his erection, squeezing it gently through the material, feeling it pulse hot beneath your touch, before releasing it and sliding your fingers up to untie the loops at the waistband.
You pulled away from the kiss just enough to breathe against his lips.
“I need you…” You said, nudging your nose against his, hearing him swallow loudly.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his hands coming to rest heavy on your hips as he searched your face.
“I’ve never been more sure in my entire life.” You stated, the certainty clear in your voice.
“Okay.” He whispered, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants, moving your hand out of the way for him to take over. You moved back, looking as he worked the fabric down his hips, pulling his boxers along with it until his cock sprang free from its confines–it was thick and veined, heavy between his legs, the crown of it was flushed a deep red and it was glistening with precum that was still leaking at the tip, leaving small droplets on the floor below. The sight made your jaw slacken in disbelief at the sheer size, at the thought of it stretching you open far past anything you had taken before, but you couldn’t let those worries flood you, not right now, not when you were so close to finally feeling him. Slowly you hooked your legs around him again, pulling him closer, which earned a soft laugh from him.
“Eager?” He teased, the word warming your mouth as his hands settled on your thighs.
“Aren’t you?” You shot back, smirking as you felt him twitch against your core.
“More than you would ever know, Y/N…” He breathed, reaching down to wrap his hand around the base of himself, stroking along the thick length once before guiding the blunt head through your wetness, smearing it along him to coat his shaft fully so it would allow him to ease in. He slid himself down to your entrance, looking back up at you to make sure you were ready and still okay with this. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in, he knew it was enough permission to proceed.
Slowly, he pushed into you, letting the crown sink into the warm, tight heat that enveloped him instantly. The both of you let out shaky breaths as he leaned his forehead against yours, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion before pressing in just a little more.
He was so gentle, sinking in as slow as possible so he didn’t risk hurting you, letting you feel every inch of the stretch as your walls accommodated his thickness, fluttering and clenching around him in sync with your heartbeat. You were taking him so well, shifting slightly to make him come closer, holding his sides and squeezing whenever you felt him throb inside of you. It didn’t feel real. But you knew having him like this would always feel like a dream, no matter how many times you would do this afterwards.
When his hips finally met yours and his tip nestled against the soft cushion of your cervix, the two of you took a moment to breathe, sharing each other’s oxygen like it was the only thing keeping you alive. You could feel his stomach pressing into yours, rising and falling with every breath, and you rubbed at his sides with open appreciation.
“Fuck…Bucky you feel so good,” You whispered, pulsing around him as your body adjusted to the overwhelming fullness.
“You do too.” He said, peppering slow, wet kisses along your jaw, his voice thick with awe, “Way better than I ever imagined…”
“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” You asked, a teasing tone lacing your voice as you purposely clenched around him again, hearing him hiss.
“I don’t think I want to disclose that, but let’s just say you’ve been on my mind for a while,” He admitted, tilting his head to press a small kiss to your lips, “Is that okay?”
“Way more than okay,” You reassured, rubbing his sides with slow circles, feeling the give of muscle beneath your palms, “Now please…I need you to start moving before I cum just from this, and get overstimulated again,” You added, the words half-laugh, half-plea.
“I’ll do whatever you say, Sweetheart,” He replied, wrapping his arms around your waist, drawing you closer to him again. He shifted his hips back ever so slightly, the thick length of him dragging along your inner walls so slowly that you could feel the veins pulsing within it, before thrusting into you with a controlled roll that seated him to the hilt once more. His eyes stayed locked on your face the entire time, searching for the faintest flicker of discomfort in the flutter of your lashes or the hitch of your breath that might indicate pain, but all he found was pure want gleaming back at him–your pupils blown wide, and lips parted on a silent gasp. And that was all the permission he needed to continue.
He pulled out further this time, the heavy drag of his cock leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat before he sank back inside, the wet heat of your core clenching greedily around every veined inch. Your walls fluttered and squeezed in rhythm with the slow build of his pace, pulling him deeper as if your body refused to let even a fraction of him escape. His lips met yours between ragged breaths, the kisses brief, giving you a taste of your arousal with each one, as it began to get replaced by the saltiness of your sweat.
Each roll of his hips ground his pubic bone against your swollen clit with perfect, unrelenting pressure, the friction sending sparks up your spine while he filled you completely, stretching you open around his girth until the ache blurred into something exquisite and overwhelming.
You tilted your head back, baring the vulnerable column of your throat to him, and he leaned down without hesitation, his mouth latching onto the damp skin there. His beard scraped lightly as he sucked gentle marks into the flesh, his tongue tracing wet paths that cooled instantly in the kitchen air, leaving faint trails that made your pulse jump beneath his lips. Your hands slid up the broad expanse of his back, digging your nails into the taut muscle, anchoring yourself as he angled his hips upward, feeling the crown of his cock dragging against that textured ridge inside you, coaxing a broken whine from your throat.
“Bucky…” You gasped, the sound raw and needy as his arms tightened around your waist, holding you steady.
“Feel good?” He asked, voice low and rough, threaded with the strain of holding himself back. You drew in a breath as he thrusted into you harder now, the impact of his hips meeting yours sending a wet slap through the kitchen.
“Oh fuck…So good. Please…Please keep going, just like that.” You begged, your nails raking down the length of his back through the fabric, catching on the hem and pulling it taut. He hissed at the bite of it, the sensation cutting through the cotton like a hot brand even if it couldn’t mark his skin directly.
He settled into a powerful rhythm, his hips snapping forward to meet yours with each deep thrust, the slick sounds of your bodies joining growing louder, wetter–your arousal coating his thick shaft and smearing across the tops of his thighs where they pressed against you. The faint give of his softened belly brushed against your abdomen with every forward drive, a press that only made you arch harder into him, craving that solid warmth.
He brought his lips up to claim your mouth again, swallowing every gasp and moan as your walls began to pulse around his cock in erratic squeezes, tightening and releasing like your heartbeat was right inside your core. Your hips squirmed against him, shaking in his hold, getting closer and closer to another orgasm. He bit down gently on your lower lip, sucking the swollen flesh into his mouth before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue, then pulled back just enough to glance down at where you were joined, seeing the sight of his cock disappearing into your slick heat, glistening with your arousal.
“God, you’re taking me so well,” The praise fell from him in a gravelly murmur, and you moaned at the words because your mind had gone hazy, and every coherent though dissolved under the relentless drag of him against that perfect little spot inside you. He kept his hips angled just right, the thick base of him grinding against your clit with each thrust while the head kissed deep against your cervix, filling you so completely that it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside out.
“I…I’m gonna cum again.” You warned, your heart hammering so hard in your chest that it felt like it might break through, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core until your vision was blurring white again.
“I know, baby…Let it go…I’ve got you,” He whispered against your ear, his thrusts growing faster and harder, the snap of his hips driving him deeper as he guided you even closer, one large hand splaying across your lower back to keep you anchored while the other gripped the edge of the island for leverage. Your eyes stung with unshed tears from the overwhelming intensity–the dual drag of his cock inside you and the constant friction against your clit pushing you right to the edge. His hot breath fanned across your neck between open-mouthed kisses pressed to every inch of skin he could reach, his beard rasping against you as your nails clawed at him. Your walls clenched hard around him in rhythmic pulses, and the second orgasm crashed through you, ripping a shattered cry from your throat as you came apart around his cock.
He grunted at the sudden, vice-like tightness, the rhythmic squeeze of you milking him as he kept his pace steady, fucking you through every shuddering contraction without faltering. His mouth moved over your jaw, your throat, the crevice of your neck–kissing, licking, and sucking–while your nails dug harder into his beck. The wet heat of your release slicked further down his thighs, and still he didn’t stop, drawing out every last tremor until your body went boneless in his arms.
“Can…Can I cum inside you?” He asked, feeling the muscles of his abdomen clenching as he held himself back, hips stuttering with the effort so he didn’t finish before you gave him a clear answer, every inch of him trembling with the need to let go.
“Fuck! Yes, Bucky, please…” You cried out, craving whatever he was going to give you, and within seconds, his rhythm faltered, and with one final, powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt, he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan. The first thick pulse of his release flooded you instantly, as rope after rope of cum painted your walls and filled every available space until the sheer volume of it overwhelmed you.
His cock twitched hard with each spurt, his hips jerking in shallow, instinctive thrusts that pushed his release even deeper, as though some primal part of him refused to let a single drop escape. But there was too much–his body shuddering against your as the excess began to leak out around where you were joined, warm trails sliding down your thighs and dripping onto the flood beneath you. The sensation of being so thoroughly filled, stretched, and claimed left your head spinning in a euphoric haze, your legs trembling uncontrollably as aftershock rippled through you.
He was panting hard against you, his broad frame shaking, every muscle drawing taut as the final spurt wrong him dry. With one last, slow push of his hips he buried himself as deep as he could go and whined low in his throat, as the tension finally ebbed from his body in a long exhale.
The two of you stayed locked together for several long moments, the only movement being the slow, shared rise and fall of your chests as you both fought to steady your breathing. His arms remained banded around your waist, holding you flush against him, refusing to let you go. You pressed a small, unhurried kiss along the line of his jaw, tasting the faint salt of his skin beneath the scratch of his beard, while he answered with the same gentle press of lips to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth–each one slow and reverent, as if the contact alone could quiet the frantic thud of your hearts. The kitchen was filled now with the musk of sex that clung to the both of you, and everything had seemed to have been forgotten, sole focusing on this connection rather than the things that were going on around you.
Finally he raised his head, tilting back just enough to look at you, his mouth parted, and lips swollen from the kisses you had stolen from each other, his blue eyes dark and unfocused beneath the damp strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“Jesus Christ…That…That was…”
“Amazing…” You finished for him, the word slipping out on a soft exhale as your fingers traced idle patters over his shoulders, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. He nodded once, the motion small and almost dazed, before leaning forward to capture your lips in a brief, tender kiss that lingered just long enough for you to taste him. When he pulled back, his breath ghosted warm over your cheek.
“So amazing.” He confirmed, letting out a deep sigh as he pressed another kiss to the flushed curve of your cheekbone, his beard scraping lightly in a way that sent a final shiver up your spine, “Are you okay?” He asked, concern threading through the gravel of his voice even as his arms tightened around your lower back. You let out a quiet laugh, the sound breathy and unguarded, still half-lost in the hazy aftershocks that made your thighs tremble where they bracketed his hips.
“Yeah, I’m fine Bucky…Are you okay?” He nodded again, slower this time, and pulled you even close, burning his face briefly against the side of your neck, inhaling deep like he could lose himself in you again.
“Can’t believe we waited this long to be honest with each other,” He whispered against your skin, and you smirked, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose along the damp strands of his hair, feeling the way his pulse thrummed steady when you rested your hands on the side of his neck.
“Well…You never really told me how you felt about me, we just kind of kissed and…This happened.” You pointed out, teasing him as you felt the subtle heat of his cheeks flush warmer against your throat. His ears were burning at the comment, but he didn’t pull away, instead he huffed a quiet breath that stuck to your skin before lifting his head again.
“If this didn’t tell you how I feel then I may need to take up sign making so I can make you one.” You giggled softly at that, and he pressed another slow kiss to your lips, this one deeper than the last, his tongue brushing lightly against yours like a quiet promise. When he drew back just enough to speak again, his forehead rested gently against yours, letting your breaths mingle in the narrow space between you.
“But to make things even, and so I don’t leave you hanging in anticipation…I like you too.” He breathed, before kissing you once more, like he wanted to taste the words that were settling in your mind, realizing the pure happiness that vignetted the moment–like new beginnings were on the horizon.
disclaimer: many of my fics are intended for mature audiences (18+) and deal with dark or intense themes, so please read the warnings and proceed with care!
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✧ indicate fan favorites!
"without obsession, life is nothing."
— john waters
bucky barnes ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
˗ˏˋ short reads ˎˊ˗
✧ margin of error → you skip the med bay after a mission that left you bleeding to keep bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.
✧ promise without ceremony → bucky gave up on marriage a long time ago. but one day, when he pulls a bullet from your leg, he accidentally proposes.
+ secret deleted scene!
✧ tactical comfort → when your period hits early during a mission, you try to power through it. but, bucky notices everything, and he refuses to let you suffer in silence.
+ secret deleted scene!
golden hour → bucky asks you to move in after coming home from a mission.
somatic memories → bucky wakes from a nightmare about you and finds the apartment empty, convinced the worst has already happened.
half-light → 18+ you end up using your safeword with bucky for the first time.
night shift → you’re a nurse living below bucky, and when he shows up bleeding in the middle of the night, you’re the only person he trusts to stitch him back together.
shelter → bucky comes home late from a storm with groceries, a guilt complex, and a kitten in his jacket.
dress rehearsal → 18+ minutes before a gala, bucky finds you spiraling in front of the mirror and decides there are better ways to remind you you’re worth every second of the spotlight.
interim measures → (thunderbolts/bucky x reader) after officially moving into tower, the team is still figuring out how to coexist. game night helps!
pressure points → bucky never misses a tell and hiding an unexpected injury during a mission debrief forces both of you to confront what the two of you are really doing.
something worth holding → you bring bucky flowers for his birthday, and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.
under the snowfall → snowed in at a safe house, you start a snowball fight with bucky, sam, and joaquin, and chaos quickly follows.
five times he almost did → five times bucky didn’t say "i love you", and one time he did.
˗ˏˋ long reads ˎˊ˗
✧ hold fast → a mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake. the ice doesn’t hold, and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.
✧ comms interference → the team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music. what they don’t know is that you’re bucky’s secret wife.
✧ blood upon the snow → you’re bleeding out alone in the snow and your brain does the only mercy it has left: runs every version of bucky barnes you’ve ever known in hopes that the real one makes it in time.
✧ proof of return → you die and come back every time. But when a mission pushes your limits and you don’t return right away, Bucky’s worst fear threatens to finally be true.
✧ a place to land → after a night out goes violently wrong, you call bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. he shows up anyway, until you finally start to believe you’re safe.
high water → you’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own.
sound check → bucky’s never been one for live music or crowded bars, but the first time he hears you sing, he’s ruined for anything else.
into the void → inside the void, nothing is real, but the trauma is. as memory turns to ruin, bucky is found by the only person who ever made him believe he could survive what was done to him.
what stays → after disappearing for days, you didn’t expect bucky to show up at your door again, let alone help you through the spiral without judgment.
fault lines → after getting laid off from your job, you're doing everything you can to keep it together. bucky refuses to let you go through the unraveling alone.
the shape of a life → you didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask bucky for help. he wants a future you’re not sure you believe in.
no way but through → a snowstorm swallows the world whole, leaving you and bucky stranded in the middle of nowhere during a mission with no way out.
a love letter to stone → you were bucky’s fiancée in the 40s, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. when he finally comes home, you’re already gone.
salt in the blood → you live in a fishing town far from the mess of global conflicts, until a stranger with a metal arm shows up at your dock asking for a boat.
˗ˏˋ double features ˎˊ˗
✧ aftershock | new avengers!bucky x pregnant!reader
you find out you’re pregnant days before a mission and decide not to tell bucky. but when everything goes wrong in the field, he’s left putting together the pieces until you wake up.
part 1 | part 2 | secret deleted scene!
˗ˏˋ series ˎˊ˗
a seat at the table | congressman!bucky x journalist!reader (ON HIATUS)
journalism was supposed to be about the truth. politics was supposed to be about power. when bucky barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story. leads into thunderbolts*
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
✧ point of impact | civil war!avengers/bucky x transported!reader
in your world, the avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. when a lab experiment goes wrong, you wake up mid-civil war with no way out and no script to follow.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
bob reynolds ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
˗ˏˋ short reads ˎˊ˗
the quiet that follows → (thunderbolts/bob x reader) you can dampen emotions, and you do it to keep the team steady. they try to show up in their own clumsy ways, bob just does it the quietest.
better than before → you’re head over heels for your boss, congressman bucky barnes, but when you move to assist the new avengers, you meet bob.
steve rogers ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
˗ˏˋ long reads ˎˊ˗
a place to burn → you and steve were lovers until the accords split the team. now three years after the snap, a failed mission forces you back into his orbit, where five years of silence finally demands an answer.
hello, im again asking for all your help in finding a bucky barnes fanfic 🤣 basically reader got terribly injured in a mission w Yelena and she was actually pregant and she’s been hiding it and hasn’t told anyone. She ends up in a coma. Bucky is upset like reealllyyy upset, mad, furious, etc. It’s a 2 part story i believe and its a looong fic. The reader makes it out alive. Her and Bucky have a daughter and they end up living in a cottage was it? Just somewhere peaceful and safe. It feautures the Thunderbolts too.
Thinking about Bucky, who grew up in the forties, a time where most women were reserved and quiet, not because they wanted, but because they had too.
So when he falls head over heels for a twenty first century girl he truly feels like he's on a rollercoaster.
Bucky who almost chokes on his drink at the bar when you make a dirty joke on your first date.
Bucky trying not to laugh while he drives you back home and overhears the phone call with your friend as she gives a very graphic description of how she slept with some dude.
Bucky obeying on automatic with a half astonished look on his face when you tell him to take off his clothes.
Bucky who feels almost ashamed of how turned on he is by the fact that the neighbors can hear how you're moaning for him.
Bucky biting back a smile, placing soft kisses on your head as you lay on top of him, naked and sleepy, all while you ramble on the phone with your friend about how all men are idiots after she had a bad date.
Bucky who feels his chest explode when you keep flirting and teasing anytime, anywhere, even though you're already dating.
Bucky's jaw dropping when he sees how amazingly beautiful and seductive you look in your short dresses for the club.
Bucky questioning how he got so lucky as you giggle and blush, going on and on about how hot he is when you drunkenly forget he is already your boyfriend.
Summary: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes has returned from the front lines, recovered from a career-ending injury. When he arrives home, he finds that his childhood friend is very much not a child anymore, and has been selected the diamond of the season. How can he hope to court you as a broken man, and with the eyes of the entire ton watching your every move?
A/N: Bridgerton season 4 is almost nigh, and what better way to celebrate than with a good, old fashioned yearning Regency fanfic? Reply or message to be added to the taglist!
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Bucky had held disdain for the presentation ceremony as a boy. It was all fuss and frills and everything that you and he had regarded with derision. But standing in the great hall as a grown man, he felt the thrum of anticipation, even nerves, take hold of his heart. Any moment now, the doors would open, the Lord Chamberlain would read the list of names, and one of them would be yours.
With a flourish of music and the creak of the ancient mahogany doors, the circus began.
And a circus it was. Dozens of girls decked head to toe in finery and feathers, tripping over themselves to fawn at the feet of the queen. There were several simpering young women eager to please, as well as a few conniving huntresses disguised as doe in the meadow, poised to strike at the first man clueless enough to pay attention to them.
Then your name was called. The doors opened, and Bucky's breath was stolen from his lungs.
A vision in white and glittering jewels, you floated gracefully through the hall with your mother carrying your train. All your nerves from this morning were carefully tucked away out of sight, your face a mask of serenity and deference to the Queen. But anyone who looked close enough would detect a glint in your eye, a fire that could not be extinguished with any amount of lace or brocade.
You were exquisite.
When you arrived at the feet of the Queen, you curtsied, bowed your head, and it seemed that the entire room leaned forward by a centimeter, breath held in anticipation.
For the first time all afternoon, the Queen leaned forward as well.
“Darling girl, this is your debut, is it not? Your very first season?” the Queen asked smoothly, the very picture of calm, cool, and collected.
You looked up, shocked to be spoken to, before managing a reply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Queen stood and approached you. “I knew it. I never forget a face, especially not one as lovely as yours.”
Your cheeks flushed as you rose to meet her. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Her Majesty leaned in, her expression almost conspiratorial. “Tell me, my dear, and do be honest: how are you finding the ceremony?”
“Honestly? It seems to be rather a lot of fuss,” you blurted, clearly having answered before considering the consequences of your words.
The air was sucked out of the room. Your mother cleared her throat behind you. Your hand flew to your lips as you realized your error. Bucky barely managed to stifle a laugh in the crowd.
The Queen looked taken aback for a moment, and then she let out a delighted chuckle. “Well, I did ask for honesty. How refreshing.”
You laughed nervously in response, unsure where you stood at the moment.
Drawing up to her full, imposing height, Queen Charlotte looked down at you with a smirk. “What an intriguing season it shall be, with such an intriguing diamond as yourself at the center of it all.”
The whole room erupted in a gasp. Every eye in the room fell on you as you curtsied again, thanked the Queen, and joined the rest of the debutantes.
Bucky’s stomach lurched. Whispers filled the hall, even as the next young woman was announced. There was no mistaking what this meant.
Every bachelor in the ton would likely set their sights on you. You would have your choice of suitors. Undoubtedly, you would receive at least one proposal before the end of the season, and you would probably be married before the start of the next one.
As your friend, he should be happy for you. Instead, Bucky felt as though he was going to be sick.
With your train looped over your arm, you muscled through the crowd ahead of your mother. Several social climbers begged your attention as you passed – mothers looking for a suitable match for their sons, eligible bachelors hoping to make an impression before the rest. You gave each a polite smile and kept moving.
You never wanted any of this. You were of half a mind to waltz right up to the Queen and ask her to reconsider. But it was too late. The damage had been done.
All you wanted in the world was to debrief the whole affair with your best friend, to ask him his advice on how to handle all this overwhelming attention. But he was nowhere to be found in the hustle and bustle following the ceremony.
At long last, you spotted his shoulders by the door, and you all but shoved through the crowd to get to him. You caught his elbow and your mouth opened to greet him, but your voice died in your throat when he stiffly turned to face you.
Where you expected to see delight or pride at your achievement, his expression was a mask of detachment. “Miss Stark," he greeted you, his voice tight with restraint.
You frowned at the use of the honorific. “Oh, must you start with that business as well?”
“You must bear it. You are a woman of society now.”
His demeanor was so odd, so unlike him. “Bucky–” you started, determined to make him explain himself.
“You must call me Sergeant Barnes now,” he corrected you firmly, glancing about to see who might have heard. “People will talk if you are… too familiar.”
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Too familiar? With my best friend and closest confidante?” You reached for his hand, and he pulled back like you had the plague.
“You are the diamond of the season. Everything you do will be under scrutiny now,” he quietly warned you. As if on cue, a handful of guests around you trained their eyes on the two of you. Bucky sensed it, too. It was enough that he’d endured nearly constant stares and whispers since his return. He did not wish to suck you down with him by mere association. “Including our current conversation. Excuse me.”
You began to protest, but he had already turned away from you again, disappearing into the crowd. A handful of times you’d spoken to him since he’d returned, and it felt as if you saw the back of him more often than you did his face.
Didn’t he know that you needed him now more than ever?
Just then, your mother caught up to you, talking of the carriage ride home and tomorrow evening’s ball, and you were tasked with ignoring the twisting sensation in your chest.
There wasn’t enough champagne in the world to make this God-forsaken ball tolerable.
It felt as if a thousand boring people wanted your attention. Your corset was laced criminally tight. Worst of all, Bucky was there, but not by your side. Not even looking in your direction.
He was engaged in conversation with the Romanoff sisters. The eldest, Natasha, was giggling at something he’d said. Bucky deftly snatched a glass of champagne from a nearby table and handed it off to her with a charming smile.
Across the ballroom, you fumed, blood boiling in your veins. He scorned your company, after all the years you’d spent dutifully at his side, so that he could flirt. With Miss Romanoff, of all people. It was as if he was trying to provoke you.
Throwing back the last of your own glass of champagne, you abandoned the flute on a nearby windowsill and straightened your spine to look more approachable.
It didn’t take long for a fish to catch the bait.
“Miss Stark. The diamond of the season.” A tall, well-dressed stranger offered his hand in greeting, which you accepted with a plastered-on smile. “It is an indescribable pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
You detected an accent in his speech – Eastern European, velvety smooth, disarming. But his eyes held absolutely nothing of interest for you. Still, he was a distraction from the object of your ire across the room.
You offered him a small curtsy. “How can I possibly regard you as an acquaintance if I do not know your name, sir?”
“Forgive my eagerness,” he purred, raising your hand to his mouth, a brush of his lips against the satin of your glove. “Helmut Zemo, Baron of Sokovia.”
Something changed in the air - a kind of sharpening, almost a chill. Your eyes drifted for a split second over the Baron’s shoulder. In the distance, Bucky's eyes were burning holes into the Baron’s back, until they shifted to burn into yours.
You snapped your gaze back to the Baron, simultaneously gratified to have caught Bucky's attention, and a little thrilled at the way he’d looked at you. But there was no time to examine that, because there was a pause in the conversation that you were meant to fill.
“Sokovia?” you asked, feigning interest and fluttering your lashes just enough to be beguiling. “You are very far from home.”
The Baron nodded. “Indeed. I prefer spring in England. It is far more… diverting than the rainy skies of my country. Of course, it holds charm in other respects.” As the band began to play the opening notes of their next song, the Baron offered you his arm. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me for the next dance?”
The idea of a dance with him did not particularly compel you. But if Bucky’s expression before was any indication, it would make him absolutely furious. So you smiled your most dazzling smile and threaded your arm into his. “If you like.”
As you and the Baron took to the floor, Bucky watched from the sidelines with his right hand clenched into a fist. The Baron was a desirable match for you, of course. Title, wealth, status, a place in the Queen’s company - there was much you could glean from a connection with him.
So why did he feel like punching something?
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Another season is upon us! Another diamond selected for the Queen’s prized set! Miss Stark is a most interesting jewel - perhaps more of a diamond in the rough, considering her willful, headstrong nature. In any event, she is sure to provide much entertainment as the ton watches her navigate the marriage mart for the first time.
Several notables have already darkened Miss Stark's doorstep, but none so captivating, so exotic as Baron Helmut Zemo of Sokovia. Rumor has it that the young baron is in search of a wife to bring some color and excitement to his somewhat dreary home country. I can think of no other bride who would fit the bill better than Miss Stark, lively as she is.
While she lacks the protection of her late father, Lord Anthony Stark, any bachelor prepared to make a bid for Miss Stark's hand will have to contend with the watchful eye of Sergeant James Barnes, her long-standing friend, neighbor, and protector. Recently returned from rehabilitation to take up his own late father’s mantle, he is sure to take much interest in the young woman’s affairs. My dearest Reader, I do not envy the man who must brave the countenance of Sergeant Barnes — the man’s stare could wither a stone!
As it stands, all eyes are on Miss Stark. Will she choose the glamorous life of a baroness, or will she hold out for something a bit… closer to home?
– Lady Whistledown
Bucky dropped the latest Whistledown on his desk and scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd imagined he’d be featured upon his return, but not in this context. He'd almost rather they talked about the arm, or his previous hostile relationship with his father – anything other than you.
It was all getting out of hand.
His feelings were getting more and more difficult to ignore. It was natural for him to be somewhat territorial when it came to you, considering your friendship, but it didn’t end there. There were other feelings, feelings he could not afford to entertain. Thoughts he couldn’t afford to think – your mouth, the fire in your eyes, your body beneath your dress. The stubborn expression you wore when you didn’t get your way. The particular smile that you saved for only him.
Bucky ran a frustrated hand through his hair. If only he could have realized the depth of his feelings sooner, before he’d left to fight, back when he’d been whole. The idea that he could court you was hopeless now, ridiculous, laughable. The diamond and the broken toy soldier, the half-finished man. Hopeless.
The doors of his study were flung open, and you charged in with a disgruntled footman on your tail, panting as he announced your entrance.
You set your hands on your hips, looking extremely put-out. “You have been avoiding me.”
Bucky gave an exasperated sigh, waived the footman away, and picked up his pen and ink to tend to his datebook. It was already current, but it would give him an excuse not to meet your eyes. “I have had business to attend to, Miss Stark," he replied dismissively.
“You know I detest when you call me that,” you snapped, stomping over to his desk.
“It would not be proper to call you by any other name,” he shot back. “Not everyone can fly in the face of the rules as you do and fear no repercussions.”
Your face fell, immediately hurt. Bucky knew that he was being too harsh, but he didn’t know how else to maintain any kind of distance with you.
“You are being very cold. It makes me… ill at ease.” Twisting at the finger of your glove, you knit your brows together, your lower lip downturned in a pout. “I don’t understand why you’re acting this way.”
Bucky could not endure this – he felt his resolve crumbling underneath the tremble in your voice. He pushed away from his desk to stand, turning to leave. “Indeed. There is much that you do not understand.”
Surging forward, you stood steadfast in his path, blocking his exit. “Then help me to understand. Why are we at odds? Why have you changed towards me?” You stepped closer, looking up at him with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Have I done something to offend you?”
Bucky heart leapt into his throat. He couldn’t possibly begin to tell you what troubled him so, but how could he allow you to think that you were at fault? And you were standing so close, closer than was proper for two adults of the opposite sex, but he couldn’t bring himself to step away.
He gently laid his hand on your upper arm, fingers brushing the exposed skin where your sleeve ended. “Dove, I–”
“Sergeant Barnes," the footman called. Bucky hadn’t even heard him reenter. He stepped back from you with a sharp inhale, withdrawing his hand like he’d been burned.
“Forgive the intrusion,” the footman apologized with a small bow. “Mister Wilson is here to see you.”
“I will receive him in the parlor, thank you.” Bucky dismissed him with a wave and straightened his waistcoat with his right hand before stalking towards the door. “You should go home. No doubt you have a line of suitors out the door that you must attend to. A baron among them, I hear.”
Picking up on the bitterness in his voice, you trailed after him. “You do not need to be jealous, Bucky. You know I will always make time for you, no matter how many suitors are on my doorstep.”
Bucky's ears grew warm with humiliation, and he whirled back to face you. “You think that I am jealous? On the contrary, I couldn't be happier for you. If you’ll excuse me.”
Before he could make a fool of himself any further, Bucky walked with purpose from the room, leaving you to stew in your confusion and displeasure.
It wasn’t unusual for Bucky to stir in the night. The discomfort of his shoulder would sometimes flare, or a nightmare might rip him from slumber’s comforting embrace. What was unusual was the fact that when he stretched and settled back against the sheets, his fingertips brushed something warm, soft, distantly familiar.
You were in his bed.
Of course, it was only unusual now, with both of you grown and changed. Before he’d left, you’d often climbed the trellis outside and snuck into his room, shared his bed until dawn came. The two of you would whisper secrets, crack stupid jokes, and talk about the great things you’d accomplish once you left the oppressive grip of the ton to travel the world together.
Half-asleep as he was, Bucky did not have the will or presence of mind to push you away when you shifted closer and sighed. You were so warm, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed this, how much he needed this until your head was tucked into the crook of his neck. It hadn't felt like being home, not really – not until you were close to him.
He brushed his nose against the crown of your head, breathing in the sweet smell of your hair. The sweet nectar of the jasmine on the trellis clinging to you, the way it always did, but tangled with the smell of that maddening perfume you’d started wearing in his absence. You moved even closer, and your nightgown hid nothing of the way your body had changed since he’d been gone. With you pressed against him this way, with your warm breath against his neck, there was no hiding it when Bucky's body began to respond.
He was about to pull away in embarrassment when your hand fisted in his nightshirt to keep him close, your nose brushing against his jaw.
“Bucky,” you murmured, your voice heavy with want in a way he’d never heard before. Bucky's heart began to race in his chest.
In a flash, you were climbing on top of him, before reason or sense could take hold of either of you. Your fingers fumbled at his drawers to free him, and before Bucky could think better of it, he was sinking into the warmth of you. He choked out a gasp at the sensation, so tight and wet and hot, and when you started to move on top of him—
With another gasp, Bucky startled from sleep, his whole body slick with sweat. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, the emptiness, the absence of you.
It had been only a dream.
Bucky collapsed back against his pillows and groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. If it had been getting out of hand before, it was fully out of hand now. He was having wet dreams like a schoolboy. Worst of all, he was still humiliatingly, achingly hard.
He tried — really, truly tried — to think of anything else that might settle his body and calm his need. But it had been so real, and it had been so long since anyone had touched him, even in his dreams.
His hand wandered down and wrapped around himself. He would take care of it so that he could sleep peacefully, and that was all. He resolved firmly not to think of the dream, or of you. He would not think of anything but the sensation of his own hand.
But the mind was weak, just as weak as the flesh. When he began to stroke himself, how could he not think of the feeling of your body against him? The brush of your breasts against his chest, your legs tangled with his? The way your hair, wild and unbound, had cascaded over your shoulders? How could he not think of the sound you’d made when he was buried inside of you, conjured by his subconscious mind but sounding as real as if it had fallen directly from your lips? Your cunt squeezing around him, so impossibly tight, just as it would have been if you really were there—
Bucky came within a few short minutes, and he came hard, generously, shamefully. He pulled off his nightshirt to sop up the mess he’d made with trembling hands, rolled onto his stomach, and tried to forget what he had done.
Sleep wouldn’t come now, of course. Shame burned too hot in his mind to allow him to rest. Shame, and the image of you that haunted him as fiercely and persistently as the spirits found in your well-loved novels.
summary: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.
warnings: third person & second person (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; swearing; original characters; ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); mention of pregnancy; ovulation; fluff; smut; slight daddy & mommy kink; use of slut once; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of sex in public?).
word count: 5k
a/n: I just... I blame those pictures. unfortunately I have important stuff to do next week + stranger things 5 comes out, so I had to "rush" this and post it now. it’s almost 2am where I live so I promise I’ll come back for any typos, my eyes are burning right now lol
hope you’ll enjoy it 🌼
ps: I know nothing about ceos and investment companies, I based everything on my own researches and good ol' wattpad fanfics I've read in the past. so I apologize if there is any mistake.
The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue melting off his features and shoulders tensing up automatically. Monica literally throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.
Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world has already personally disappointed him the moment he opened his eyes. His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne– Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour– is not too strong, but it's a reminder of his authority that lingers in the air. Ever his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce. The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to not touch his watch. Ever again. Scott almost fainted when he noticed that the CFO, Mr. Wilson, was rather amused as he pressed his lips together so tightly to avoid bursting out laughing.
Needless to say Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.
Mr. Barnes walks with clipped, purposeful steps, black coat perfectly pressed and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees. He doesn’t need to. His blue eyes are always hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office at the very end of the open space.
He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.
The CEO doesn’t talk much in general— not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with pride in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple ‘fix this.’ could ruin an entire afternoon. A ‘this is unacceptable.’, a week.
The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.
He doesn’t need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. If someone tries to impress him, he ignores it. If someone tries to joke, he blinks slowly, as if they’ve just offended his entire bloodline.
Even if the nickname ‘demanding asshole’ has spread around the office with alarming speed, Mr. Barnes puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.
Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like a final sentence. An order to not be disturbed.
He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.
And this is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with her smug smile and high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.
Wanda makes sure to show her everything: from the multiple desks lined up on the wood flooring, to the big glass-walled meeting room. The two stop momentarily in the grey break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works.
A dull knock on the open door pauses their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.
“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.”
“I– yes sir, I’m so sorry. I’ll bring it to your office right now–” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous ranting.
“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when the red-head remembers the girl beside her.
“Um s–sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.
“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.
“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.”
Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”
Wanda blinks once, then twice, still processing her excitement. “A… Fan?”
“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And a very handsome one, at that.”
“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head twists toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl of frustration.
“What?”
It’s impossible, she knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.
“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The red-head nods, quite amused by the fact that this freshly-graduated girl has the hots for her terse boss. She almost regrets telling her he is married, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.
Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda, everything ends, even marriages.”
The analyst simply smirks knowingly, walking to the door. “Hm, good luck with that.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”
The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway.
“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he dares to complain, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from his competitor.” The moment she hears Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.
He steps inside without noticing her at first, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand— it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, then his left foot starts tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.
Madison takes a second to adjust her hair, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”
He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.
She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”
Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. So she swallows, continuing.
“They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, but in that moment his wife’s words echo clearly through his mind.
“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”
With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s incredulous eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone reluctantly performing a mandatory task.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. “I need to tell my wife to bake cookies next time, but she already baked me a pie two days ago.”
Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife to bake him cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then try to find a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.
Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “Oh! What kind of pie?”
His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”
Her eyes lit up. “I can make it for you! Next time I—”
“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”
Is he pouting? “I finished the whole thing in two days.”
Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes set the cookie down on the counter.
“I need to text her,” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “tell her to make another one for tonight.”
And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.
It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”
Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.
The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also prove she ‘knows her deal’ too to Mr. Barnes, by outlining a section of the submission.
Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire's proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.
“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex wife–”
“Ask me about my lunch.” Darcy balks at Madison, tilting her head.
“Excuse me?”
“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Darcy stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears. That’s when she rolls her eyes to the sky, exhaling loudly. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it.
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.
“Louder.”
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” This time she yells, attracting the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.
Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? I grow them in my garden!”
Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch– no, she was not eavesdropping, she was simply passing by his office. At some point he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb.
Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patient, to grow fucking vegetables. Therefore she just went grocery shopping, but no one actually noticed the difference.
“My wife has a beautiful garden.” Madison’s face falls.
“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly encourages him.
“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on— I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like fucking bees around a flower. Even Darcy!
“Look at the color! Isn’t she amazing?” Some murmur amongst them with a smile, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.
“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And— oh! Here she is mulching. I took this one, she didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as the corners of his mouth softly lift up. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”
And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. “My wife grows five varieties of basil.”
Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. Mr. Barnes's head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.
“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”
That’s when real life finally dawns on Madison.
“Shit.” She whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of twelve people about things she only read on her university books until now.
Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes seem to make their way up her esophagus as sweat coats her back. Her hands are shaking by the time she gets to the analyst by the huge screen. That's when Mr. Barnes decides to approach them, while the others take their previous seats at the table.
“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance–”
Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”
“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment. “Such a brilliant woman.”
Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection, the intern decides to take a new approach. It’s a Friday when she stays back at the office on purpose, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays since the company is closed on the weekends and he doesn’t want to be bothered. This time, she stakes everything on showing her commitment to the job.
Silence hangs heavy in the building as soon as the team leaves, so it’s easy to catch the sound of rustling papers and the creaking of his chair around nine, meaning he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands close to her desk, deliberately pretending to check she has everything in her bag. When he finally opens the door, she gives an over-the-top sigh, raising her eyes as she puts on her best surprised expression.
“Oh! Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” Bucky stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “Had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so passionate and happy about being here, you surely get that?”
He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”
Her eyes bulge out. “I–” She gapes at him for a second. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, almost shrieking.
“Oh.” He utters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I don't actually get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.
James Buchanan Barnes– one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries– longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife!? And run a fucking bakery?
“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”
Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted three hours of her night doing nothing here only to hear her crush sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.
The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too lost grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head slightly at the sight, Madison immediately catches it from her peripheral vision. And that’s when she sees an opportunity.
Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!
Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.
“Can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his stern expression.
“My wife.”
Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”
“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks completely red— and not only because of the cold. Her mouth opens a few times, not really knowing what to say or do in front of a man eyeing her with so much vitriol. Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.
“I—”
“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.”
“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.
“FUCK!”
Wanda is engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder, when a loud thump on her right makes both women jolt.
It's Madison and she is... A mess.
Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she didn’t even try to brush it. Her makeup consists of some smudged gloss, a rough contrast to the full face she displayed every single morning since she sets foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt– probably coffee.
They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here.
“Honey, are you okay?” The redhead tentatively asks.
“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk.
“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. “Damn.” The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. “Second!”
Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.
“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your fucking boss?”
“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his fucking assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Damn. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward. “From a fucking café on the other side of New York! It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that fucking wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She says in a whiny voice, mocking said wife's voice. Or at least, what she thinks her voice sounds like.
“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company!” At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and hitting the slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze. “He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of fucking vegetables in their phone!?”
“For God’s sake, is she even real!?”
As if by magic, the ding of the elevator pauses everything. The doors open, revealing a woman she’s never seen before tentatively taking a step forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern; the sleeves are sheer, long, and flowy, giving off a romantic, almost ethereal feel. The skirt flares out with a gentle, flowy silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.
The entire floor gapes, always taken aback by her random visits. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shut close.
“Sweetheart.”
Your eyes immediately finds Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room.
“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a bright smile when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms.
“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs.
“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”
“Wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping nobody catches your words except your husband.
“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.”
Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe and he starts coughing under your pleased gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their glacial boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl.
“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still they can't stop watching as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his eyes not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.
“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.
The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”
“My pretty little slut, coming to daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as they keep you nice and still on his desk.
It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month.
Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about you being by his side during those hard nights spent in his office amongst mountains of documents– he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time.
And you supported him through it all, his pretty doll.
So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your voice hot against his ear as you breathed out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.
Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a few thrusts, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.
From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing.
“Fuck, daddy you’re so big.” You whine, keeping a tight grip on his shirt.
He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips once. “Fuck, say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.”
“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your tits, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples– sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him until the movie ends.
“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad– bet it's as sweet as your pussy.”
“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper that echoes loudly in the room.
“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. “Look at you, so pretty while I fuck my baby in your belly.”
Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.”
“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way he looks at you with so much affection, his big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases.
“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his girth disappears inside you. The sudden shift of focus on the squelching sounds of you two coming together makes your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of suddenly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip with thrill.
“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I take care of my wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous mommy.”
That damn name makes your whole body shudder and your pussy clench; the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up.
“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, it's... too big…” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.
“I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good mommy.”
He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the side of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.
“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your damp skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”
“Yes yes yes daddy please–”
Bucky’s low grunts and moans fill the otherwise silent office. He’s pumping into you so good your eyes roll back and your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.
“You’re so tight. Shit, you’re coming baby, aren’t you?” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk daddy’s cock?”
Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps.
“Daddy…” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “I'm– coming!” Your back arches as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. Bucky quickly brings his fingers down, stroking your throbbing clit until your hips buckle up in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere– the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your exhausted body quivering for more.
“Fuck– Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, giving you one last cruel thrust before spilling his warm, hot seed deep inside you. “Shit— that’s it… Take it all, beautiful.”
Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling hands stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs lazily stroking small circles into your skin as Bucky himself tries to regain his breath. Yet you can feel the smugness dripping off his voice.
“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, hm?”
You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.
Bucky chuckles, proud of himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His arms move around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids slowly shutting close as the tip of his nose nuzzles the skin of your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream.
“So fucking good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between kisses.
“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up a little when hearing those three magic words.
“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years spent together, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.
His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his uncontrollable tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension out of your limbs as you tighten your hold around his torso.
“I have a hunch we did, my love.”
She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life.
But Natasha was not at her desk by Mr. Barnes’ office. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely desert, she noticed with a frown.
And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.
It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular.
With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”
Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, and Wanda barely catches her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator.
Anyways, im OBSESSED with how love struck bucky is like hes too focused on y/n to even notice anybody else and i find it too loveable i just adore fics that portray bucky as a truly whipped man😌
