Stranded, penniless, and with no way to get home, you call your boss to get you out of a pinch.
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x assistant!reader
Tags: fem!reader, fluff, mentions of a bad date, idiots in love, yearning, mutual pining, bucky is lowkey flirting but reader lowkey doesn’t notice, they're both whipped, a few petnames, reader is a hot mess and bucky's in love with her <3
Word count: 3.7k
You stare at the glaring 2% on your phone and silently wonder what horrible thing you possibly could've done for the universe to punish you so rigorously this evening. A wide-open pit rests comfortably in your gut, and it only yawns wider as the awfulness of your predicament starts to fully sink in. The rain lashes at you, sneaking past the cover of the awning you're standing under; you're quickly dampening, nibbling at your lip, knee bouncing jerkily on the sidewalk.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky's name in your contact list.
Every nerve in your body screams at you to not. Don't call him, figure out some other way, some other person, someone, anyone in D.C. but your literal fucking boss on his Friday night off—or any night, ever, for that matter. But you know there's not. Your options are limited, and you've crossed out every possible solution except for this one.
The screen darkens. You tap it, your teeth digging into your lip harder, Bucky's name burned into your retinas.
This is what you get for not keeping cash on you. For letting your stupid date pick you up—hell, for scouring tinder in the first place, for letting yourself fall so hopelessly deep you could do nothing but try to smother the horrid feeling with someone else, anyone, anyone else.
Desperation is a terrible thing.
Maybe, you think, already shuddering at the thought, you should just go back inside. Sit through the rest of dinner, at least get a few more bites in while the guy goes on with his sleazy remarks and self-absorbed talk. It can't be that bad, can it? He'll leer at you, say something snobbish to the waitress, go on rambling about how awfully tiring it is to work in finance—
No, you think firmly. No way. You'd rather—
2% jumps to 1.
You hit call.
The line rings once. Twice. You cringe, pressing your back against the misted wall of the restaurant.
If you get fired for this—
The third ring cuts off midway.
"Y/N?" Bucky's voice rumbles into your ear, low and warm, so quiet you have to turn the volume up against the lash of the rain. Your stomach drops a couple storeys.
"Mr. Barnes," you mumble, your eyes squeezing shut, "hi. I'm so sorry to bother you, I know it's late and you're probably busy—"
"What do you need?"
Okay. He doesn't sound mad, at least. Still wincing, you push on.
"I'm. Well, I'm—I'm kind of stranded." You falter, but then remember the one percent of your battery and ramble it all out—"My phone's gonna die and I don't have any cash on me and I'm out on this date—if you can even call it that—and this guy, he picked me up but he's a douche and I walked out and I—" You swallow down the burn of embarrassment, your voice lowering, "I don't know how I'm gonna get home. It's raining buckets—"
"Where are you?" Bucky cuts you off. Again.
"Um." You glance up at the name of the restaurant emblazoned on the awning. That earns you a healthy splash of rain, water misting into your eyes. "God, I can't pronounce that. It's in Dupont Circle—I'll send you the location, my phone's about to—"
"Do that and stay put."
"Thank you, thank you," you mutter, already pulling the phone away from your ear, scrambling to open up your and Bucky's text thread. It's embarrassingly high up, not the first thread but the second, just below the cursed text your date had sent you telling you to come down.
Quickly, you fumble for the location and send it to Bucky. You barely get to see his response, a clipped, Stay somewhere dry, before your phone screen flashes black.
You huff out a strangled laugh into the night. Stay somewhere dry. Right. That's about as impossible as regaining your dignity.
-
It's actually kind of funny, in a twisted, terrible way. The one time you try to put yourself out there, as far away as you can possibly get from one Congressman James Barnes' path, you get sucked right back into his orbit. Closer, probably, than you've ever been before.
The universe sure does have a skewed sense of humor.
You're already stewing with the embarrassment of it. You pace restlessly, arms crossed over your chest, pressing your damp clothes further into you as you try to walk off the jitters of inevitably meeting him. God, you can't even imagine what he must be thinking of you right now. Just a vapid, silly girl, putting yourself in situations you can't get out of.
You should've carried cash. Who the fuck even carries cash?
Who doesn't? Bucky had questioned, genuinely baffled.
Everyone, you'd told him. It's just such a hassle now, y'know? Just pay with your phone, or your watch, or whatever. Here, you want me to put your card in? It only takes a minute.
I'm still tryna get used to the physical cards, he said, a little sheepishly, but he didn't stop you. Keyed in his password right in front of you like it was nothing, like he trusted you to know it, didn't mind the thought at all.
He's a hundred and ten years old, you think dully to yourself. A phone means nothing to him.
Well. He can have the last laugh now, at least.
Time stretches horribly, but the watch on your arm only reads out thirteen minutes before Bucky's sleek car is pulling up in front of the restaurant, wipers furiously clearing the windshield of rain. Relief bleeds fast through your chest. You try your best not to bolt, but you rush out from under the awning as fast as you can, immediately getting showered in the time it takes you to round the car, fumble with the slick door handle, and haul yourself in.
Inside, the heat is cranked up, and your clothes slip noisily on Bucky's pristine leather.
"Hi—oh, god—shit, I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes—these are new, aren't they? Jesus—"
"It can handle a bit of water, Y/N." His voice is simultaneously dry and placating, gravel trimmed along its easy, softened edges. You cannot, for the life of you, meet his eyes. "Blood, too—the works. Paid extra for it. Sit back, will you? Put your seatbelt on."
You do so, wincing. The car only rolls forward when you clip your belt in place with a click, warm leather sticking to your shoulders, the water pressing out of your clothes and smearing onto the seat. Your very clingy, you quickly realize, very painted-on clothes.
Water dribbles down onto the upholstery. Your shoes soak the floor mat, a hot, persistent gust of air blowing over your ankles.
You swallow thickly, watching rain patter on the windshield.
Bucky doesn't utter another word beside you. Despite the quiet, you can feel every inch of his presence pressing in. It's not unusual for the both of you to sit in silence, far from it. But god, the proximity is getting to your head. Crowding your lungs. You can see him in the corner of your eye—just a shapeless blur, one hand on the wheel, entirely still but for any strictly necessary movements. The faintest hint of his cologne hangs in the close space, curling around you, settling delicate fingers on your throat.
You set your hands awkwardly on your knees.
"Thank you," you say quietly, only your voice breaks, fades out in places. You clear your throat, face burning. "Thanks for coming to pick me up. I—uh. I really appreciate it. Very sorry, by the way—"
"I don't want your apologies, doll." He says, glancing over at you. Your breath hitches, rather audibly in the silence. His eyes are remarkably, terribly soft. "I'm glad you called. It's obviously… unfortunate, but I'm glad you called."
"You weren't busy?"
"Nah," he mutters. Doesn't elaborate.
You lose his attention to the road. The lights cut through the car in equal, honeyed intervals, highlighting his neck, the breadth of his chest, his shoulders, the glint of his arm. Beneath you, the car hums and purrs, still blowing out hot air that only serves to exacerbate the flush already pouring through you.
His hair is damp, you realize. It curls a little, near his ears, above his collar. The sight is so intimate it grabs your heart in a fist.
Bucky must hear something go wrong with your mechanisms, because he pulls his eyes back from the road and onto yours again. They hold, brilliant blue flashing through bursts of streetlights.
Then they slide away.
Air thins in your lungs, tingling heat crawling up to your temples.
"You look nice," he murmurs.
You jolt at the compliment. "If you like drowned rats," you manage, fighting the urge to shift and pull your soaked clothes from your skin.
Bucky shakes his head and makes a little sound in his throat, mildly disapproving. "Always sellin' yourself short. So what's the deal with the guy, what happened?"
"Oh, you know. Grade-A jackass," you say, trying to ignore his voice in your head, always sellin' yourself short. "He's only interested in hearing himself talk. Cocky, thinks he's god's gift to women," you roll your eyes, nose wrinkling in distaste. "I couldn't even make it through dinner. Told him I needed the bathroom then I booked it."
A faint smile tugs at Bucky's mouth. "Attagirl."
A maelstrom whips through your gut. You try to mask the rush of your inhale by shifting in your seat, your clothes sliding on the leather as you stare out the window. Safest possible place, though nothing about this whole ordeal feels safe anymore. You feel stripped raw and naked.
D.C. glitters through the rain, golden lights pooling in the fat drops. They race down the window, trailing streaks along the glass. You fiddle with your hands.
"I do feel kind of bad for walking out, though."
"Don't." He says bluntly. You can see the reflection of his watch in the glass, large hand clenched around the gearstick. "If he's not worth your time, he's not worth your time."
You tell yourself you won't, but you can't help yourself from looking back to him. Moth, flame.
Ash.
"That easy?" Your voice is lighter than you feel.
Bucky's eyes catch yours. "That easy," he murmurs.
What about when he is worth my time?
But it's clear that Bucky Barnes is the farthest thing from interested in you. He's nice, sure. A little soft on you, but it doesn't mean anything when he drops off sweet treats on your desk or calls you doll. He's just old fashioned like that. Literally a hundred years old. A man out of time whose baseline for treating women is unfortunately much, much higher than that of any of the men of your generation.
Or century.
You're gone horribly bad for him, you know. Even now—especially now, cramped in this small car with his stature blooming too big—you feel it flurrying around in your stomach. You're already damp, and yet sweat beads on your palms.
And he doesn't even know. Metal, gold-threaded fingers reflecting on the far side of the windshield, one arm stern at the wheel, the other draped over his thigh, he has no idea what he's doing to you. He's in an impossibly tight t-shirt and he's wearing soft-looking, dove gray sweatpants and his hair is all loose, tumbled over his brow and somehow, incredibly, boyish, softening his whole face—
His eyes make you go stiff in your seat, piercing blue like a dart through your chest.
"Let me guess, you didn't eat."
You shrug one shoulder, a little wry. "Unless you count half a salad."
Bucky shakes his head. The blatant disapproval in it makes you both smile and ache—you don't know which it is, kids these days or, I could do better. Both are equally devastating.
"Okay, I'm getting you real, actual food. Protein. Carbs. Non-negotiable," he says when you open your mouth, ready to protest.
"I'm—um. I'm kind of soaking wet, Mr. Barnes."
He deflates, like he'd forgotten. "Bucky." He almost sighs out, as if it pains him.
"Bucky, yeah, sorry," you amend. "But I appreciate the offer," you give him a smile, though something in you cracks, flutters, hot and cold and a whole mess of your stomped-on heart. "Really."
Bucky's exhale is soft, compliant. He drives you silently to your complex, but you can't help but wonder what he possibly had in mind. If you were dry and a torrential downpour wasn't beating at the windows, would he have taken you to a restaurant or some obscure diner? Pulled your chair out at the corner bodega or brought you over to his apartment, ordered in, let you eat at his couch, or in his kitchen, or maybe off the coffee table, on the floor, your knees grazing his?
A million stupid little fantasies. You wonder, but you'll never get to know.
-
You look nice.
James Buchanan Barnes is either an excellent liar or an obtusely blind man. You lean rather heavily towards the former.
You look like a mess. Or at least you did, before you toweled all the rain off and scrubbed at your waterlogged makeup, but a mess, nonetheless, and he looked you dead in the eyes and evenly said nice.
He'll kill you one day, you think. You're sure of it. You should probably resign before he does one other thing your poor heart can't handle and just sends you toppling to the ground, a stiff, lifeless corpse at his feet.
Maybe you should transfer. Congressman Wright has been propositioning you for years—
The doorbell rings, startling you.
You throw your towel in the laundry, frowning. Your first thought is your ghosted date, but you quickly dismiss it. The guy couldn't even be bothered to park his car and knock on your door.
The last person you expected to see, standing stiffly through the peephole, is Bucky.
You pull open the door. "What—?"
There's a paper bag hooked into his fingers. He lifts it, mouth quirking into that half smile of his.
"I'm just droppin' this off."
You stare. "What?"
The question was longer in your head. What is it, what is all of this, why are you—
"Dinner," he says patiently.
Warmth floods your chest. It spreads and spreads, reaches tips of your ears, plunges down the pit in your stomach.
This fucking man.
"Bucky," you admonish, your voice faint. "You didn't have to."
"I could practically hear your stomach growling," he says. Then, softer: "Please, doll. I wanted to."
His hand is still extended. There's a quiet plea in his eyes and you sigh, a short little exhale that's too heavy for your lungs to keep, all sugary sweet fondness and aching want. Bucky reads it for what it is: acquiescence.
Your fingers brush as you take the bag—a fast, hot kiss of his skin skimming over yours, here, there, gone. Bucky slips his hand in his pocket and steps back, his head dipping in that gesture that you know means goodbye.
"Well, I'll just—"
Your fingers close around his wrist before you can stop yourself.
"No, hey, are you kidding?"
You realize, belatedly, that it's his metal arm, cool, dark vibranium pressed under your fingertips. It whirs quietly. You thumb the metallic joint, almost without feeling it, and tug him just a little. "Come in."
Bucky's face goes kind of slack.
"I…"
"You said you weren't busy," you venture.
He's always handsome, is the thing. You're always aware of it. But there's something particularly devastating about seeing him in your doorway, dressed down with his hair a half-dampened mess, shoulders held stiff like he's not quite sure he belongs. There's a warmth in his eyes—they flutter, eyelids droopy and soft, nothing like the sharp gaze he holds in the office. You ease his hand out of yours and feel the loss as you wilt into the doorframe, glancing through your lashes to meet brilliant, steel blue.
Bucky traps you there, for a long, sticky second, before he looks away.
"Fine." He acquiesces. It's muttered low—a sigh, really, half air and not enough conviction.
You only realize the danger you're in too late, after you've opened the door wider and he fills up the entirety of the doorframe with his size. He enters with a disproportionate amount of caution and is instantly greeted by your overcurious calico, her tail fuzzed up into the air.
Bucky stares down at her in mild wonder.
You shut the door behind him, shifting your eyes away from the faint droplets of rain scattered over his shoulders. "This is Princess."
"Princess." He echoes.
His voice is skeptical. She meows, and he makes a little sound, the breathiest laugh. It rings in your ears as he crouches, holds out his warm, blood-and-bone hand.
Princess gives it a sniff. She grants her approval, and you go unreasonably warm, watching Bucky pet between her ears. The movement is easy and gentle—the last possible thing you could've expected from Bucky Barnes, and as instinctive as breathing.
Her eyes slit closed as she leans into it, content. A string of purrs reverberates from her chest, and you have to force your legs to move because you've never heard of something more laughably pathetic than being jealous of your own damn cat.
Behind you, you hear Bucky rise to his feet and follow you into the kitchen. His footsteps echo yours like a heartbeat, thudding soft, loud, heavy. You set the food down on the counter and wet your lips.
"Thank you, Mr—"
"Bucky."
"Bucky, I—"
"Please stop thanking me."
"You've been interrupting me a lot," you say with no real heat, stopping him in his tracks. "All night. You keep doing that."
A chastened look falls over him.
"I'm sorry," he says profusely. "It's… well—it's just…" his brows pull, and he does that thing with his mouth, the same thing he does when he's trying to string together his thoughts but they're all scrambled in a big mess. You quickly redirect your gaze. "You're too—my god, Jesus," he mutters, cutting himself off again. Your lips twitch, but your amusement quickly smooths over when he starts talking. "You do it so much. Too much—all the thank you's and sorry's and the whatnots. You don't have to keep apologizing, and you don't have to thank me for every little thing. I'm happy to do it. You do things for me every day, all the time."
"That's my job," you say softly.
"Consider this mine, then."
He says it with a ringing finality, full stop, end line—and it's so ridiculous, so terribly sweet that you huff out something like a laugh, except it kind of hurts.
"Bucky."
"I'm serious." His eyes blaze. "I want to. And I'm… I'm really fucking sorry about all this." His voice lowers, softens. There's that wrinkle between his brows. "Tonight. You deserve better."
"Yeah, well, no one has that 1940s chivalry in them anymore," you say wryly. Bucky's frown sharpens, genuinely displeased. "I mean," you reroute, "it's not like I was expecting that, anyway, when I logged into tinder. So."
He makes a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Yeah, it's pretty hellish."
Your brows lift. "You've been on tinder?"
"My therapist tried to—" He rolls his eyes, waves a hand—"get me out there."
"How's out there?"
"Terrible."
"Yeah," you laugh.
Bucky doesn't join you. He scrubs at his face, rakes a hand through his hair. Distress rises off him in waves. "The point is," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because you deserve better." It rushes out of him like he's been holding it in for years. You blink, a little stunned at his intensity, and he swallows. Hard.
Before your eyes, Bucky Barnes unravels.
"And because I could give it to you. I want to." Then, lower, softer, almost to himself: "Christ, I want to."
You've possibly stopped breathing. Maybe you hit your head, and you're dreaming up all these words pouring out of Bucky's mouth. Because they're…
"Give it to me?" You repeat dumbly.
There's a sudden, deep-rooted pain in his eyes, so glaringly potent you wonder how you've never picked up on it before. "Everything," he rasps, "I'd give you everything—anything you want. I'd treat you so much better." His voice drops as he inches a few steps closer. "Treat you like you deserve to be treated, not whatever it is those punks are doin'."
It floods you again, the scent of his cologne, just as it had in the car. There's a rain-dampened, blurred quality to it now—the fragrance melted onto his skin, fused with the very warmth that engulfs you, traps you against the counter. Bucky's eyes are impossibly blue.
You're drowning. He anchors you and pushes you down, hands clenched around the counter on either side of you, chest just a breath away from yours. You inhale too sharply and feel the brief cold of his t-shirt.
"Fuckin' kids. They don't have a fucking clue, any of them." It's a low, raw murmur, ghosting over your cheek. "None of them deserve you," he says hoarsely. "Hell, I don't, either—"
"Bucky."
He pauses, breath caught. "Yeah?"
"Kiss me." You mumble feverishly, barely even audible to your own ears, but he's close. He listens. He always, always listens.
And he obeys.
"I should take you out first," he murmurs, taking your face in his hands. "Treat you to dinner. Do it right."
You shiver at the contrast of his hands. The metal sears your cheek. "It's right like this," you whisper, tugging at the collar of his shirt, your knuckles finding damp skin, a ball chain, warm metal—
Bucky rumbles a sound against your mouth, and then he kisses you.
I won’t be adding any more warnings as the title is already self explanatory so, MDNI +18 and fully smut ofc 😏😏.
I decided not to put the taglist everytime as it would be a ton of notifications for you all (the taglist will be the same for the other stories)
happy summer kinky october my dears <3
You should’ve known when he pulled you onto his lap without a word.
That look in his eyes had already told you everything you needed to know.
He didn’t speak, just sat on the edge of the bed thighs spread wide, hands sliding up the back of your legs until his palms were gripping your thighs like he owned them. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh possessively as he guided you down onto him, inch by inch, with that look.
The one that said you’re gonna take all of it no matter what.
You’re still adjusting.
Still struggling to breathe.
Your palms press against his shoulders like you might be able to steady yourself, but it’s useless. The moment you sink down fully, he’s everywhere, so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs.
“Too much for you, baby?” Bucky smirks, voice husky and rich, the sound vibrating through his chest into your fingertips. His hands slip under your shirt, rough palms against your warm skin kneading at your hips. “You’re always so cocky until I get inside you.”
He’s not wrong.
Your knees are shaking where they’re braced on either side of his thighs. Your nails are dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave little crescent moons. Your pussy is aching around him, stretched and stuffed full in a way that borders on overwhelming.
It’s too much.
He’s too big.
Too thick.
Too long and he knows it.
“That’s it,” he whispers, one hand sliding down to the base of your spine, holding you close so there’s no space left between you. “Take all of me. Look at how full you are, sweetheart.”
Your breath stutters. Your walls flutter around him from just being filled.
“F-feels… fuck… it’s so much... Bucky...” you whimper, burying your face in his neck inhaling the smell of leather and soap and him. “I can’t move.”
“You don’t have to.” He hums satisfied. “Just sit here a minute. Let that sweet little cunt adjust.”
He brushes a kiss against your jaw, then another at your temple. His fingers rubbing gentle circles into your back.
It’s a confusing mix.
Softness wrapped around something utterly filthy because even as he holds you like glass, his cock twitches inside you and he groans, rough and low against your ear.
“Every single time, baby,” he growls. “Every time I fuck you, it’s like you’re not ready for it.”
“I never am,” you gasp, voice breaking.
He chuckles darkly, lips grazing your skin. “I know. That’s my favorite part.”
You moan.
Humiliation, arousal and disbelief that you still haven’t gotten used to the way he stretches you.
He tilts your chin up with a finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown, blue almost swallowed by black.
“Look at how small you are on me,” he whispers. “Fucking made for me.”
And then he grabs your hips and rocks you forward. You cry out, hands scrambling for balance as he lifts you and slams you back down on his cock.
The stretch, the impact and the way he hits that spot deep inside.
You’re already falling apart and you haven’t even started moving on your own yet.
“That’s it,” he hisses. “Let me see you bounce on it. Show me how good you can take it.”
You’re a mess in his lap, trying your best lifting and sinking slowly, your movements shaky and desperate. Your walls clench hard around him, like your body’s trying to keep him inside even as you rise.
“It’s too deep,” you gasp. “You’re hitting… ah... Bucky!”
“You can take it,” he growls, voice like gravel. “You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again. You’re mine. You were made for this cock.”
His grip tightens and then he takes over completely, bouncing you in his lap like a doll. Using his strength to drive you down onto him again and again, until your thighs burn and your eyes roll back, mouth falling open around a soundless cry.
“You’re fuckin’ ruined for anyone else,” he mutters into your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “No one else is gonna stretch you like this. No one’s gonna fill you the way I do.”
You moan helpless, breathless, loving every filthy word. His cock drags along your walls with every thrust, pushing deeper than you thought possible and keeping you open around him, stuffed full.
It’s relentless heat, friction and pressure. Everything blurring until all you can do is hold on. You’re already so close it hurts.
“Feel that?” He pants, pressing a hand to your lower belly where he bulges against you. “That pressure in your belly? That’s me. All of me. Filling every inch of you.”
You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Can’t... can’t hold it...”
“Don’t.” He groans. “Fucking come on it. I wanna feel you squeeze me.”
The command tips you over.
You fall apart in his lap, crying out as your orgasm crashes over you clenching around him like a vice, pulsing and shaking, thighs trembling as you writhe in his grip.
Bucky doesn’t stop.
He keeps fucking up into you harder now, chasing his own high, hips snapping as he drives you through the aftershocks until tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”
And then he slams you down one final time, grinding deep and groans as he comes thick and hot, flooding you so deep you feel it everywhere. His hands are gripping you so tightly you think you might bruise, but you need it.
Need to be held together.
You’re shaking overwhelmed and full.
He doesn’t pull out right away, just holds you there cock buried inside, breathing hard against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice gone rough. “You always do that to me.”
You slump forward, boneless in his arms. “Because you’re huge, Bucky.”
He chuckles, breathless and proud. “You love it.”
You nod, dazed. “I love you.”
His arms wrap around your waist, grounding you as your heartbeat slows. “I love you too, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re so good for me.”
You nuzzle into him, still full, still twitching around his cock. “You’re staying inside, huh?” You mumble.
He grins against your skin. “Damn right. Gotta keep all that come in there. Make sure it takes.”
You laugh soft and wrecked. “You’re insatiable.”
“And you’re perfect.”
He shifts you slightly still buried in you, rubbing slow soothing circles on your hips as your body finally begins to calm.
The room smells like sweat and sex and him, warm and heavy.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing syncing with his, your forehead resting against his jaw and even though you’re full to the brim and trembling, you already know that you’d let him pull you into his lap all over again.
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : cockwarming, no use of y/n, edging, size kink, dom!bucky, intimate sex, praise kink, established relationship, dirty talk
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : ohhhh cockwarming with buckyyy 🤤🤤🤤🤤 we all need that big d....
The safehouse was quiet except for the low hum of the old radiator and the occasional creak of the floorboards under their weight. Rain pattered against the window, casting shifting shadows across the dim room. Bucky Barnes had been watching you for the past hour, ever since you’d curled up against him on the threadbare couch under the pretense of watching some old black-and-white movie neither of you cared about.
You’d started it innocently enough: shifting closer, letting your thigh press against his. Then your hand had wandered, tracing idle patterns over his chest through his worn Henley. Bucky’s jaw had tightened, his metal fingers flexing where they rested on your hip, but he hadn’t stopped you. Not yet.
“You’re playin’ with fire, doll,” he finally murmured, voice low and rough, that Brooklyn accent thicker when he was trying to stay in control. His blue eyes flicked down to where your fingers were now brushing dangerously close to the growing bulge in his jeans. “Been a long mission. You keep teasing like that and I won’t be gentle.”
You smiled up at him, biting your lip. “Who said I want gentle, Buck?”
That was all it took. In one smooth motion, he pulled you into his lap so you were straddling him, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands, warm flesh on one side, cool vibranium on the other, settled on your waist, holding you firmly in place. He didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he let the tension build, staring at you with that intense, almost predatory focus he got when the soldier side of him stirred.
His thumbs slipped under the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing the fabric up. Inch by inch, he exposed your skin to the cool air, tracing the line of your ribs, the curve of your waist. When he finally tugged the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, he leaned in, lips brushing just below your ear.
“Been thinking about this,” he confessed quietly. “About how warm and tight you get for me. How you squeeze around my cock like you never want me to leave.”
You shivered at his words, grinding down against the hard ridge of him through his jeans. Bucky hissed, his grip tightening. He let you rock against him for a few long moments, building that delicious friction, but every time you tried to speed up he held you still.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice dropping into a low rumble. “You’ve been teasing me for an hour, doll. Now it’s my turn. We’re doing this my way… slow.”
He finally kissed you, slow at first, almost lazy, his mouth claiming yours with patient thoroughness. His tongue teased yours, tasting, exploring, while one hand slid up your back to unhook your bra. The cool metal of his left hand made your nipples harden instantly as he cupped your breasts, rolling them gently, then pinching just hard enough to draw a whimper from you.
Bucky smiled against your lips. “So sensitive tonight.” He dipped his head, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, until his mouth closed over one nipple. He sucked slowly, tongue swirling, while his other hand worked your other breast. The contrast between hot mouth and cool metal fingers had you arching into him, grinding harder against his lap.
Your hands fumbled with his shirt, desperate to feel skin. He let you pull it off, revealing the scarred, muscled torso you loved, metal plates glinting in the low light. You ran your palms over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, then lower, tracing the sharp V of his hips until you reached the button of his jeans.
He caught your wrist. “Slow,” he reminded you, voice husky. “We’ve got time.”
But he did let you open his jeans. You pushed them down just enough to free him. Bucky’s cock sprang out, thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip and already glistening with pre-cum. It was big, intimidatingly so, the veined length curving slightly upward. You wrapped your hand around as much of it as you could, stroking slowly from base to head, feeling him throb in your palm.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he groaned, head falling back against the couch. His hips twitched once, but he stayed in control, letting you explore him. You pumped him leisurely, thumb swiping over the sensitive head, spreading the slickness. Bucky’s breathing grew ragged, his metal hand sliding into your hair to guide your mouth to his for another deep kiss.
Minutes stretched like that, kissing, touching, teasing. He worked your shorts and panties down your thighs, fingers dipping between your legs to find you soaked. Two thick fingers circled your clit with maddening slowness, then dipped inside, curling just right while his thumb kept up the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, then eased off, again and again, until you were trembling and begging against his mouth.
“Please, Bucky… need you.”
He pulled his fingers free and brought them to his lips, tasting you with a low hum. Then he lifted you slightly, positioning the thick head of his cock at your entrance. He rubbed it up and down your slit, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
Your eyes locked with his as he finally started to push in.
The stretch was exquisite, slow, deliberate, every inch forcing you open wider around his girth. Bucky’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking as he fought the urge to thrust up hard. “So fucking tight… that’s it, take it all.”
You sank down onto him gradually, whimpering at the fullness. When he was finally buried to the hilt, your ass flush against his thighs, he wrapped both arms around you and pulled you tight to his chest. No thrusting. Just deep, complete connection.
“There we go,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just keep me warm, doll. Feel how deep I am? How full you are?”
His cock twitched inside you, heavy and hot, the veins pulsing against your walls. You clenched around him involuntarily and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hands stroked your back, your sides, your thighs, gentle soothing touches that contrasted with the filthy fullness between your legs.
Time slowed. The rain continued outside. Bucky stayed perfectly still except for the occasional lazy roll of his hips that pressed him impossibly deeper, nudging against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He whispered praises and filthy promises against your skin:
“Such a good girl, keeping my big dick warm like this.”
“Could stay buried in this perfect pussy for hours.”
“Feel me throbbing? That’s all for you.”
Your body relaxed into his, every nerve alight with the constant, overwhelming sensation of being stretched and filled. Every small shift made you both gasp. His metal hand traced patterns on your lower back while his flesh hand tangled in your hair.
When you eventually started to squirm, desperate for more friction, Bucky held you firmly in place. “Uh-uh, doll. Don’t move.” He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, then another, savoring the way you fluttered and clenched around his cock. “You wanted this slow… so that’s what you’re getting. I’m not moving until I decide you’re ready.”
Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.
Word Count: 10.3k
Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky
Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡
Part One
Masterlist
The car is too quiet.
Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.
You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.
The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.
Like a breath, you haven’t taken.
Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.
His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.
You glance over at him.
He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.
The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.
You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”
“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.
You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.
The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.
And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.
He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.
He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.
But Bucky didn’t hear healing.
He only heard damage.
He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.
You watch him now, his breath thinning.
“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”
Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.
“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.
But Bucky doesn’t answer.
Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.
“Buck-”
“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”
His foot slips heavier on the gas.
The lane lines start to blur.
“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.
But he doesn’t answer.
His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.
His breathing is shallow. Too fast.
You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.
“Bucky-”
His chest heaves harshly.
He blinks - once, twice - too slow.
His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.
“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”
The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.
You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.
“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”
Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.
“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”
Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.
You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.
Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.
And Bucky falls apart.
His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.
He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.
“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.
Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.
Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.
He still can’t breathe.
You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.
His eyes squeeze together tightly.
“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.
“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”
He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.
“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”
“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”
He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.
But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.
His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.
You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”
His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”
You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.
“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”
And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.
And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.
****
You’ve never known silence like this.
Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.
Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.
You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.
The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.
You’ve been here since late afternoon.
And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.
Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.
Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.
“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.
You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”
The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.
Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.
That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.
And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.
You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.
You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.
And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.
He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.
He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.
And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.
But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.
His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.
You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.
But he’s been hesitating for weeks.
Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.
You haven’t had sex since.
You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.
And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.
But you are fine now.
Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.
So you’ve waited. Because you love him.
But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.
You notice it right now.
Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.
“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.
He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”
His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.
Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.
“Hi,” he breathes.
You lean in first.
The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.
He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.
His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.
And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.
His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.
His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.
You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.
Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.
His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.
You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”
He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”
He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.
“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”
“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”
You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”
He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.
“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.
“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”
You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”
He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.
“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”
“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”
He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.
You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”
His eyes widen. “Doll-”
“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”
“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.
You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”
He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”
“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.
His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.
You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”
He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.
“You’re really okay?”
“I am.”
Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”
You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”
****
He doesn’t rush.
He doesn’t dare.
Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.
It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.
It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.
The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.
His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.
His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.
You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.
“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.
You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”
He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.
After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.
“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”
You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.
And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.
His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.
“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.
You nod again. “Please.”
He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.
You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.
And suddenly your chest is bare.
And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.
You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.
Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.
You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.
He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.
His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.
Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.
“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”
You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.
And he melts.
He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.
When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.
He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.
He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”
You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.
“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.
He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.
His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.
“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.
“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.
“And if you want to stop-”
“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.
He nods.
Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.
“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.
You nod.
But that’s not enough.
“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”
You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.
“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”
With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.
And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.
When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.
Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.
He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.
“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”
But he doesn’t finish.
He lowers his mouth to you instead.
The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.
Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.
“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”
And you do. You can’t help it.
He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.
And he keeps checking in.
He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.
You moan. Soft and breathy.
And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.
And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.
Because this moment is for you.
This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.
And god, does he worship you.
He takes his time.
He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.
He listens. Learns.
Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.
“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.
“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.
“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”
You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.
He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”
Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.
He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.
“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”
“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”
And you do. You let yourself fall.
Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.
And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.
And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.
You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.
His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.
He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.
He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.
You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.
“Your turn,” you whisper.
Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”
You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”
His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.
But he nods.
And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.
His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.
And it never gets easier seeing him like this.
He’s stunning.
He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.
And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.
He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.
He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.
“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”
“I promise,” you respond quietly.
“And you’re sure you’re-”
“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”
His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.
And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.
“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”
But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.
His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.
“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”
He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.
“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.
His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.
He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.
“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”
You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.
But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod, soft. “Okay.”
And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.
His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.
He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.
Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.
You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.
From relief. From the feel of him.
Bucky’s gaze flares.
“Okay?” he whispers.
You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.
He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.
You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.
And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.
“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.
You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.
His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.
He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.
Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.
His breathing stutters.
You moan again.
And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.
“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.
“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”
And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.
He watches you. He doesn’t blink.
He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.
“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.
You stroke the back of his neck.
His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.
And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.
And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.
Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.
Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.
So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.
Until you fall apart on his fingers.
And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.
He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.
And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.
“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”
You nod, biting your lip.
And he reaches down to line himself up.
There is a pause. A beat of stillness.
You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.
His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”
“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”
He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.
You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.
He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.
You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.
“Shit, baby- fuck-”
You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.
But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.
You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”
“Promise me.”
You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.
“I promise.”
And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.
But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.
And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.
Still. Connected.
He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.
And he’s trying not to cry.
You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.
His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.
“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”
His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.
They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.
“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”
He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.
“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”
“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”
He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.
“I need you, Bucky.”
And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.
“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”
You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”
And he moves again.
Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.
It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.
His eyes won’t leave you.
Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.
You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”
But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.
“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”
And then he thrusts a little deeper.
It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.
His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”
You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”
He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.
He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.
You cling to him.
He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.
His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”
“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”
He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.
Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.
“I love you,” he sighs.
And your heart bursts.
You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.
“I love you too.”
And it happens slowly. Then all at once.
He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.
You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”
One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.
He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.
And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.
“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”
He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”
You nod, gasping.
And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”
And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.
You come with his name on your tongue.
His eyes snap shut.
That’s all it takes.
He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.
His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”
Neither have you.
Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.
This was something else.
This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.
He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.
His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.
You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”
He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.
And the look in his eyes is too much.
As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.
He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.
“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”
You whisper it back. Because you do.
Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.
You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.
“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.
You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.
“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”
Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”
His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.
“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”
That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.
And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.
You blink. “Buck?”
“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”
You open your mouth, not able to say anything.
Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.
“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.
“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.
“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”
You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.
And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.
With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.
He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.
He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.
“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.
You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.
You think you know what he’s talking about.
Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.
It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.
But tonight, it did.
“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”
He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”
“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.
And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.
And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.
He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.
He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.
The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.
Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.
You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.
The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.
You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.
Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”
And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.
But instead, your chest caves in.
Your throat locks up.
You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.
Because he means it. He really, truly means it.
Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.
Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.
And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.
The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.
And now this.
This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.
You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.
You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.
And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.
You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.
Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.
And you stay silent. Turning your head away.
His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”
You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”
You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.
“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”
He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.
You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.
And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”
He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.
“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”
“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”
But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.
You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.
You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”
His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”
Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.
You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”
Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.
And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.
“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”
You nod against him, laugh through your tears.
He exhales and his whole body sags with it.
“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”
He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”
“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”
He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.
“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”
He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”
You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.
His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.
His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.
“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.
And his eyes are shining.
He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.
And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.
He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.
He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.
He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.
Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.
Word Count: 7.4k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky
Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡
Masterlist
You are bleeding.
The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.
The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.
Your breath is shallow.
The bleeding won’t stop.
With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.
You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.
A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.
Bucky is still in his bedroom.
Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.
That’s how it’s always been.
He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.
He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.
But you still keep running. Every time.
The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.
You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.
You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.
But fuck, it hurts.
You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.
You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.
The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.
Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.
And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.
Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.
You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.
You press your hands to the cool porcelain.
One more breath.
Then another.
Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.
Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.
It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.
Bucky is always nice.
You were friends first, after all.
Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.
Things had been easy, light, and simple.
You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.
Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.
It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.
You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.
You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.
Because there was no stopping from then on.
You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.
But you keep coming back when he calls.
He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.
But today was different.
He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.
He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.
His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.
Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.
There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.
His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.
He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.
He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.
He fucked you like it’s you he craved.
He fucked you like it was making him blind.
It did.
Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.
His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.
He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.
Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.
But it wasn’t today.
Because the pain only grew.
The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.
You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.
Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.
You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.
You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.
It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.
You know you should have said something.
You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.
But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.
So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.
And you let him.
Because you didn’t want to ruin this.
Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?
So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.
You still don’t stop bleeding.
It’s not your period.
You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.
But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.
But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.
There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.
So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.
And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.
God, you hate this.
Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.
But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.
You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.
You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.
A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.
“Hey, you alright in there?”
Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.
“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.
“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.
You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.
Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.
But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.
Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”
Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”
There is a beat of silence.
The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.
“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”
It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.
“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”
It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.
And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.
His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.
“Are you hurt?”
Your breath stays caught in your throat.
“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.
“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”
You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.
You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.
“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”
The door handle rattles.
“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”
You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.
“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.
The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”
You don’t move. Your knees are weak.
“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.
You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.
But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”
You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.
“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”
The door handle tugs again.
“I need to see you.”
You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.
“Bucky-”
“Please.”
That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.
“Buck, I need a second, okay?”
You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.
Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.
“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.
You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.
The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.
You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.
Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.
You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.
On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.
His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”
“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.
Bucky’s breath shudders out.
You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.
Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.
“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”
Your legs give out.
It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.
The impact rattles the whole thing.
A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.
“Alright, I'm coming in.”
Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.
The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.
Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.
His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.
His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.
“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”
You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.
Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.
“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”
You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.
But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.
He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.
His eyes are on you.
And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.
His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.
He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.
The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.
You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.
Bucky’s jaw is tight.
You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.
Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.
“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.
His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.
Then he stills.
His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.
His gaze drops.
The storm behind his eyes turns feral.
You know what he is seeing.
You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.
The blood.
A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.
For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.
You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.
But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.
Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.
“Bucky-”
“Hush.”
It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.
“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”
You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”
“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”
His grip on you is firm, but not rough.
His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.
Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.
His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.
He is shaking.
A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.
It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.
“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.
You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.
Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.
“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.
His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?
But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.
You don’t want him to see you like this.
It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.
Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.
He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.
With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.
You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.
And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.
You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.
You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.
But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.
None of it seems to matter.
Only you.
He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.
Then he takes off.
You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.
And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.
But the thing is, he is already making this worse.
Not in the way he thinks.
Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.
Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.
He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.
And this hurts so much more.
It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.
But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.
He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.
His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.
His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.
His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.
Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.
Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.
His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.
It feels like he is bleeding grief.
And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.
Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.
But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.
This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.
And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.
His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.
And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.
He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.
His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.
“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”
You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.
Bucky waits.
And again, that makes it worse.
Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.
He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.
You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.
His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”
You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”
Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.
A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.
His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.
He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.
He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.
“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”
You can’t look at him.
You want to. But you can’t.
Because he is too much.
Because he is everything.
Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.
There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.
Bucky moves instantly.
He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.
His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.
“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.
His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
His thumb catches a tear.
His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.
“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.
His forehead almost touches yours.
“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.
He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.
“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”
You choke on your next breath.
Your mind blanks.
He shakes his head, like he hates himself.
“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”
You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.
Words are lost on you.
Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.
His voice lowers. Softens.
“But I can’t do this anymore.”
His fingers tighten.
“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”
His voice splinters.
You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.
Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.
“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.
Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”
Bucky’s eyes go wide.
He looks broken.
His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.
You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.
Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.
“You thought I wanted you to leave?”
The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.
“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.
“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”
His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.
“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”
You feel everything crack open inside you.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.
“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.
Bucky’s face contorts in pain.
“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”
Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You had it all wrong.
And so did he.
You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.
You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.
“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.
Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.
With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.
His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.
“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.
You shake your head, but he won’t have it.
“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”
His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.
“You’re stayin’ right here.”
You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.
And Bucky melts.
Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.
He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.
His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.
“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.
Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.
You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.
Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.
His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.
“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.
Bucky gives you a warning look.
“It only hurts a little.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.
“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”
His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.
He is looking at you like you are everything.
“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”
“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”
You sigh.
“Bucky-”
“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”
Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.
Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”
He doesn’t even let you finish.
He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.
And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.
His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.
You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.
“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.
But you try to.
Because you want to.
“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦
“What the fuck is his problem?”
You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.
“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“
“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”
You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“
“Thought he hated you-“
“He does. But- It’s complicated.”
And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.
But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.
Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”
Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“
“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.
“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.
He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.
It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.
You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.
“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”
“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”
“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“
“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“
“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
“So?”
“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“
“They’re fine.”
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldn’t have that.
The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.
Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.
“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
“I don’t know, but-“
“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”
“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“
“She deserves better-“
“Better like you?”
That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“
“And you do?”
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“
“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”
“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say a thing-“
“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”
Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”
“What’d they fight about-“
“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
“Was it-“
“Yeah.”
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.
“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”
Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.
“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
“No.”
“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“
“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“
“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”
You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“
“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.
“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“
“I’m not makin’ a face-“
“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“
“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
“You’re just jealous.”
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-
He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.
“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
“Leave me alone, Bucky-“
“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“
“Well I don’t want to hear it-“
“I know, I know, just-“
“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”
Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“
“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”
Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“
“I do care-“
“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.
“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.
“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
“Bucky…”
“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.
“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
“With everything I got.”
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“
Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.
He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.
“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.
“All the time.”
You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”
You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?
“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”
You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”
Bucky pauses. “Like-“
“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“
He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”
You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
“Buck-“
“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.
“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”
“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.
“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck- James- James-“
“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”
It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument.
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“
“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.
Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”
You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.
“Do they?”
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“
“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”
You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.
“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”
Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.
“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank god-“
“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.
“Yeah. You.”
Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”
“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was.
✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Could you make a blurb/oneshot about reader being obsessed with Bucky's scent. Like absolutely obsessed. Even on missions, she just can't get enough. She'll nuzzle into him, almost wanting to crawl into his skin. And she's big on PDA, the thunderbolts will be having a movie night and she'll be practically in his shirt. Not paying attention in the slightest. Please and thank you
Really it's a small issue.
The first time Bucky really notices it, you’re coming down from a mission—adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, the quinjet humming low beneath your boots. You’d taken a hit, nothing serious, but enough to leave you shaken in that quiet, lingering way. He sits beside you without a word, broad shoulder brushing yours, metal hand resting heavy against his thigh.
You don’t ask before you lean into him.
At first, it’s subtle. Your head tipping against his shoulder, your breath evening out as you tuck yourself closer. He assumes you’re tired, that you need grounding, something solid to hold onto after everything. So he lets you. Always lets you.
But then your nose presses into the crook of his neck.
And you inhale.
Slow. Deep. Like you’re trying to memorize him.
Bucky stills.
“Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “you good?”
You hum in response, barely coherent, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “Yeah. Just… stay.”
He doesn’t move for the rest of the flight.
---
It escalates from there.
Not all at once. Not in a way that feels strange at first. It becomes a habit, something natural, something instinctive. You gravitate toward him in every room, every hallway, every quiet moment between missions.
But it’s not just closeness.
It’s him.
His scent—clean soap, something faintly earthy and woodsy, a trace of gun oil that never quite leaves his skin no matter how hard he scrubs it away. There’s warmth there, too. Something unmistakably him. Grounding. Safe. Addictive in a way you don’t even try to fight.
You start seeking it out without thinking.
In the kitchen, you’ll slip behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing between his shoulder blades. He’ll pause mid-sentence, metal fingers tightening slightly on the counter as he feels you breathe him in.
“You’re doing it again,” he says once, not unkindly.
You don’t even bother denying it. “You smell good.”
A beat.
Then, softer, quieter, almost shy despite the words, “You always do.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to process that.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod against him, already nuzzling closer.
He doesn’t push you away.
---
On missions, it gets worse.
Or better, depending on who you ask.
After fights, after close calls, after the kind of moments that leave your hands shaking and your chest tight, you seek him out before anything else.
You’ll grab his vest, drag him down just enough to press your face into his neck, inhaling like you’ve been starved of it.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one arm coming around you automatically, metal hand hovering at your back before settling carefully against your spine. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”
You don’t answer.
You just breathe him in again.
And again.
Like if you stop, something terrible might happen.
At first, the others pretend not to notice.
Then they stop pretending.
---
Movie night is when it really becomes a problem.
Or not, again, depending on who you ask.
The Thunderbolts are scattered across the living room, the lights dim, some action movie playing on the screen that no one is really paying attention to. Popcorn’s half gone, someone’s arguing about plot holes, and Bucky is seated on the couch, broad and solid as ever.
You are, quite literally, in his shirt.
Not wearing it.
In it.
You’d started the night curled against his side, but at some point, you’d tugged his shirt open just enough to slide your arm inside, pressing your cheek flat against his chest. One of your legs is thrown over his thigh, your fingers loosely hooked into his waistband, keeping yourself anchored.
Your face is buried against his skin.
Breathing him in.
Completely oblivious to everything else.
“Are you even watching the movie?” Yelena asks from across the room, one brow raised.
You don’t respond.
Bucky glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself. “She hasn’t seen a single second.”
“I’m comfortable,” you mumble, voice muffled against him.
John snorts. “Comfortable? She looks like she’s trying to fuse with you.”
“Wouldn’t blame her,” Alexei adds, grinning.
Bucky shoots them a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. His hand comes up instead, brushing gently through your hair, smoothing it back from your face. You lean into the touch immediately, pressing closer.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, just for you. “You good?”
You nod against him, inhaling again, slower this time. “You smell like home.”
It hits him harder than he expects.
His chest tightens, something warm and unfamiliar settling deep in his ribs.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
You hum. “Yeah. Makes everything feel… quiet.”
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Then his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, if that’s even possible.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, even tthough you’re already there. “Stay as long as you want.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
---
It’s late when the movie ends, the others filtering out one by one until it’s just the two of you left in the dim glow of the television. You haven’t moved an inch.
Bucky glances down at you, a soft huff of amusement leaving him. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”
“No,” you answer immediately.
He huffs again, but there’s fondness in it. “Figured.”
You shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press your nose back against his neck, inhaling deeply.
He stills for a second then relaxes.
“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice low, thoughtful, “I don’t mind it.”
You blink up at him. “You don’t?”
“Nah.” His thumb brushes lazily along your arm. “If that’s what you need, doll… you got it.”
Your chest warms at that, something soft and heavy settling there.
“You’re stuck with me, then,” you tease lightly.
His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you just a fraction more. “I think I’m okay with that.”
You nuzzle back into him, breathing him in like you always do.
Bucky doesn't think there will be a time he ever wont.
summary: some loves begin bright red. yours deepened into something darker, stronger, something that stayed.
word count: 2k
⁀➷ thea’s note: hello my beautiful bucky lovers, i know im not as active, please forgive me. life has been rough lmao, between work and my faculty and getting into another faculty i barely had time to see anything or anyone. this was written a long time ago and i wanted to post it. if yall still remember me, i wanted to thank you for 600 followers!! i can’t believe we’re here!! love ya mwah mwah mwah
❝ check me out: maroon ❞
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ﾒ૦
Morning arrives slowly in the Avengers Compound.
It slips through the curtains in thin, pale lines and spills across the bed, across the sheets twisted around your legs, across the broad stretch of Bucky’s chest where your head is resting. The world outside is still quiet, the kind of quiet that exists only before everyone else wakes up, before missions and briefings and the constant hum of saving things that are always on the verge of breaking.
You lie there listening to him breathe.
Slow. Deep. Steady.
His arm is wrapped around you, heavy and warm, metal fingers curved loosely against the small of your back. Even in sleep he holds you like that, like something instinctive inside him refuses to let you drift too far away. The vibranium is cool against your skin, but the rest of him is warm, impossibly warm, and you fit against him the way you always have, like the space was made for you long before either of you knew it existed.
You tilt your head slightly, just enough to look up at him.
His face is softer in sleep. The sharp edges of his expression disappear when he’s like this, the lines between his brows smoothing out, his mouth relaxed instead of guarded. His hair falls messily over his forehead, brushing your temple every time he exhales.
Sometimes you watch him like this and it still surprises you.
The quiet of it.
The peace.
Because there was a time when loving him never felt this still.
Your fingers drift absently across the fabric of his shirt, tracing the faint wrinkles in the cotton, and your mind moves somewhere else without asking permission. It slips backward the way memories do when you’re not holding them in place.
You remember red.
Not the gentle red of sunrise creeping across the bedroom floor, but the darker kind, the kind that spreads quickly and stains.
It had been a party at the tower. Loud music, too many people, Tony insisting everyone needed to “relax for once” like that was something the Avengers knew how to do. You’d ended up in the kitchen with Bucky, tucked away from most of the noise, leaning against the counter while he told you some quiet story about Brooklyn that he only half remembered.
Someone bumped your shoulder then. A glass tipped. And suddenly the deep red wine in your hand was everywhere.
It splashed across his chest in a dark burst, soaking into the white of his shirt, blooming outward in a slow spreading stain.
Burgundy, you remember thinking. So dark it was almost brown at the edges.
You had stared at it in horror for exactly one second before your brain caught up with the situation and you lunged forward with a handful of napkins, apologizing so quickly the words tangled together.
“Buck—shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Your hands had barely reached the fabric when his fingers closed around your wrist.
Not tight. Just enough to stop you.
“Hey.”
You’d looked up then. And the way he was looking at you had done something strange to your chest.
The wine was still spreading across his shirt, the stain darkening the cotton, but he didn’t seem to care about it at all. His eyes were on you, steady, blue, quiet in a way that made the rest of the room feel distant.
Your cheeks had gone hot. Not just warm. Not just embarrassed. Hot in that sudden, rushing way that climbs up your throat and settles beneath your skin until you can feel it pulsing there.
Scarlet.
You remember thinking, absurdly, that if anyone looked closely enough they’d probably see the color of it written all over your face.
“It’s just a shirt,” he had said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
But he hadn’t let go of your wrist yet.
His thumb had brushed lightly against the inside of it, a small absent motion that probably didn’t mean anything to him and somehow meant everything to you.
And you remember laughing then, breathless and nervous and a little too loud, because suddenly it felt like the air between you had changed.
Like something had tilted.
That night was the first time you realized loving Bucky Barnes was going to be dangerous.
Not because he was the Winter Soldier. Not because of Hydra or the ghosts or the war carved into his bones. But because the way he looked at you felt like standing in the middle of something powerful enough to ruin you both.
Back then everything was bright.
Messy and loud and alive in the way early love tends to be. You would end up in the kitchen at two in the morning dancing barefoot to music playing faintly from someone’s phone, Bucky’s hands warm on your waist while he pretended not to know how to dance. You’d steal his shirts because they smelled like him and he’d grumble about it while secretly pulling you closer every time you wore them.
The world was still sharp around the edges, still full of missions and bruises and exhaustion, but when he looked at you it felt like something steady existed in the middle of all that chaos.
Like a place you could land. But love doesn’t stay bright forever. Sometimes it deepens. Sometimes it darkens. Sometimes it bruises.
You don’t remember exactly when things started to change, only that one day the air between you felt a little heavier than it used to.
Bucky would come back from missions quieter than before, something shuttered behind his eyes that he wouldn’t explain no matter how gently you asked. You had your own shadows too, the kind that creep up behind you when you’re already tired, whispering things that make you doubt the good parts of your life.
At first it was small things. Missed calls. Half-finished conversations. Long pauses where words used to live.
You’d stare at your phone some nights wondering if you should call him again or just wait, wondering if the silence meant something or nothing at all.
Rust creeping slowly along the wire between two people who used to talk about everything.
It never meant the love disappeared. If anything, it felt heavier because it was still there. Still pressing against both of you. Still demanding to be held.
But neither of you had ever learned how to carry something that fragile without dropping pieces of it along the way.
The worst night came quietly. No explosions. No dramatic breaking point.
Just a hallway outside your room in the compound and the feeling that the ground beneath everything you’d built together was suddenly very thin.
Bucky stood at the end of the corridor when you opened your door.
He looked exhausted in that hollow way that comes from fighting too many battles in your own head. His shoulders were tense, his hair damp from the rain outside, his eyes fixed on the floor like he wasn’t sure how to start whatever conversation had dragged him here.
You had been fighting for days already. Small arguments that kept circling the same painful center.
Why won’t you talk to me.
Why won’t you understand.
Why does loving you feel like trying to hold onto smoke.
Your chest already hurt by the time you stepped into the hallway.
“How did we lose sight of us again?” you asked, your voice breaking in the middle of the sentence.
Bucky flinched like the words had landed somewhere physical.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered.
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I stopped trying.”
The frustration sitting inside your ribs cracked open.
“I’m not saying you stopped trying,” you said, the words shaking on their way out. “I’m saying we’re falling apart.”
That was when you noticed the flowers in his hand.
Red carnations.
Their petals were crumpled slightly from where his fingers had been gripping the stems too tightly.
You stared at them for a long moment, a strange hollow feeling opening in your chest.
For a second you wondered if he thought they were roses.
If somewhere in his mind he believed something that simple could fix what had already started breaking.
“That’s us,” you said quietly.
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
You swallowed.
“Carnations you thought were roses.”
The words didn’t make perfect sense even as you said them, but the feeling behind them did.
Something almost right. Something beautiful in a way that still hurt.
Bucky’s shoulders sagged.
He dragged a hand down his face before sinking onto the bench against the wall, elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands like the weight of everything had finally caught up with him.
“You think I don’t know I’m screwing this up?” he said hoarsely.
You didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was you knew he did know. That was the worst part.
The silence stretched between you until it started shaking.
You remember crying then. Not quiet tears. The kind that tear out of your chest like something breaking open.
Bucky didn’t look up.
Just sat there with his face buried in his hands while the sound of it filled the hallway.
And in that moment it felt like the ending of something you weren’t ready to lose. You slept alone that night. The bed felt enormous. Cold in a way that made your bones ache.
You kept expecting to feel him there beside you, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder, but the space stayed empty.
You stared at the ceiling until the sky outside your window started to lighten and wondered how two people could love each other so much and still come so close to letting it die.
A shift beneath you pulls you back to the present.
Bucky’s chest rises under your cheek as he takes a deeper breath, his fingers moving slowly along your back like he’s tracing something invisible into your skin.
You realize your eyes have filled with tears.
One slips down your temple before you can stop it.
“Hey.”
His voice is still thick with sleep.
You lift your head and find him looking at you now, blue eyes soft but immediately alert.
His hand comes up to cup your face.
“Why’re you crying?”
You shake your head, wiping quickly at your cheek.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You hesitate.
Then you whisper, “Us.”
Something flickers across his expression.
Concern. Memory. You can see him walking the same path through the past that you just did.
“We almost didn’t make it,” you say quietly.
The words sit between you for a moment.
Then Bucky pulls you closer, his arms tightening around you until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
The word is rough.
“But we did.”
His forehead presses gently against yours.
And the way he’s looking at you now, God, it’s the same look from that kitchen years ago. The same quiet intensity. The same careful wonder, like he still can’t believe you chose him.
“I love you,” he says.
Not casually. Not like something he’s said a thousand times before. More like a promise he’s still trying to keep.
Your chest aches with the weight of it.
“I know.”
His thumb brushes your cheek slowly.
“You scared the hell outta me back then,” he admits.
“You scared me too.”
A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He studies your face for a long moment.
Then he pulls you fully against him again, tucking your head beneath his chin like he’s protecting something fragile.
The world outside the bedroom is starting to wake up now, distant footsteps, the faint clatter of someone in the kitchen, but inside the room everything still feels suspended in that quiet early light.
Your love isn’t bright the way it used to be. It isn’t careless or easy or untouched by the things that almost broke it. It’s deeper than that now.
Darker.
The color of something that bled and healed and stayed.
summary: a wave of nausea hits you in the middle of your shower, causing you to collapse on the spot and bucky can't bear to see his sweet baby like that.
warnings: FLUFFILINGUS AMOUNTS OF FLUFF, established relationship (they're married sorry I js love husband!bucky ugh), whipped!bucky, extra doting!bucky, slightly paranoid!bucky, descriptions of nausea and vomiting so it might be a lil disgusting, reader described to be naked (ion think anyone showers w clothes on), nicknames (sweetie, angel, babydoll, doll, sugar, baby, sweets), not rly proofread (what's new)
word count: ~1.8k words
note: before tumblr decided to betray me, i was saying that im back w another lil drabble cus the clark and bucky fics are taking me ages and i need some happiness in my life.
The room is quiet, the only sound being the gentle hum of the air conditioner running. The room smells like sea salt and cinnamon from the candle kept on the bedside table. Bucky is sat on the bed, holding a book in his hands.
But his attention is not on the book, it's on you and how adorable you look right now.
You're running all over the place, grabbing all sorts of products and your towels for your everything shower. Your hands are so full that you can't even lock the door of the en suite bathroom. You don't lock the door around him anyway. Because Bucky is extra paranoid when it comes to you. He wants to be able reach you as quickly as he can just in case something happens to you without anything in his way.
Bucky still doesn't quite understand what you even do in those everything showers, but he knows you look forward to them every weekend so he doesn't want to ruin your fun by asking stupid questions.
He smiles when he hears the water running and your soft, slightly off key hums with it. It calms him down. Bucky had trained himself to focus on you early on in the relationship and it really helped him shut off the voices in his head. Now, it's almost like second nature. His enhanced hearing is almost always focused on you and your sweet little sounds.
He opens his book, opening the page he'd last bookmarked by the bookmark you'd made for him last month. Even though it's only a simple piece of paper, he still cherishes it dearly because you've made it for him. You love making crafts and he's the one privileged enough who gets to keep all of them, whether it's a photo carousel or a simple bookmark.
Bucky is at peace. His eyes scan over the words on the page as he waits for you to get out.
But he immediately stiffens up when he hears a sound that's awfully a lot like you throwing up. His heart drops to his stomach at the thought of you being in any kind of danger. He immediately abandons the book and knocks on the door of the bathroom.
"Sweetie? You okay in there?"
When you don't answer, Bucky's concern increases even more. He pushes the door open, running towards the shower as fast as he can.
There, he finds you, sitting right there on the shower floor, slumped against the wall with your head lolled to the side. You're panting. There's drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as the shower sprays down water on you. He frowns at the sight and slides the shower door open.
When Bucky is inside, he shuts the water off and crouches down in front of you. He cups your face and his frown deepens. Your eyes are unfocused and dazed but at least you're concious.
"Talk to me, angel, tell me what's wrong," he coos, his thumbs running over your cheek. He hates seeing you like this. Usually, you're so energetic and cheerful, but right now, you can barely even manage to keep your eyes open.
"Don't know, Jamie, feel all dizzy, I can't stand. I also threw up," you feebly manage to stutter out, voice groggy from the acid in your throat. Your hands grasp his shoulders as he picks you up and you fully lean against him. There's still shampoo in your hair, suds of soap all over your arms and legs.
Bucky holds you against him as he grabs the showerhead with his vibranium arm, gently rinsing the soap off your body. You lean against him, pliant and trusting as he washes you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, which is burning up, your whole body is.
He doesn't understand. You were fine just thirty minutes ago before you went to shower and now you're looking so sick.
"Oh, babydoll, you're burnin' up," he mutters, holding you tighter. His clothes are getting wet, but he doesn't care about that. The only thing on his mind is that you're sick and he has to take care of you.
"Head hurts so bad, Buck," you mumble against his chest, your hands wrapping around his waist to keep yourself upright.
Once you're properly rinsed, Bucky carries you out of the shower. He presses kisses along your hairline, setting you down on the counter in the bathroom. He grabs a towel and wraps it around your frame.
"You'll be okay, doll, I'll take care of you, yeah?" he says as he stands in between your legs, patting your hair dry. Even in your sickness, you're still the prettiest thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky—" you try to warn him, but before you can complete your sentence, warm, yellow liquid spews out of your mouth, missing him by just an inch. You bend over to vomit properly and he places a hand on your back, running it up and down. Every lurch of your throat makes his heart squeeze with worry but he still stands there, patient and doting.
"It's okay, sugar, it's not your fault. I'll clean it up, don't worry," he coos at you and turns the tap in the sink on. He rinses your mouth with the water while mumbling soft reassurances to you. You can only look up at him with an apologetic frown, feeling guilty for making his job even harder.
Bucky discards his shirt, cursing under his breath as the wet fabric clings to his skin. You can't lie, the sight of his bare torso does make you feel a little better. He lets go of you and grabs a rag for the dirty floor.
You can't help but focus on his movements. Your eyes travel all over his body, dazedly studying the flex of his arm as he works. He looks up at you and heat rushes to your cheeks as your eyes meet his. He grins at your embarrassment before he focuses back on wiping the floor clean.
As he's done, he stands up, keeping the dirty rag to the side. He walks over to you, picking you up in his arms. Your hands rest on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. Your eyes stay fixed on him, soft and tired, following every movement of his. Bucky smiles down at you and presses a gentle peck to your lips.
"Jamie, no! I have vomit breath!" you whine, giving him a half-hearted shove. He doesn't relent, instead, cups your face and connects your lips to his in a gentle kiss. You can't stay mad at him for longer after that.
"You think I care, angel?" he muses as he pulls away from your lips, connecting your forehead to his. Just to emphasise his point further, he pecks your lips again. Bucky wraps your legs around your waist, making sure you were secure in his arms.
He carries you out of the bathroom, keeping his grip on you tight the whole way. He sits down on the bed with you in his lap. You slump against his chest, the cool air of the room making you shiver. He mumbles and apology in your hair and turns the air conditioner off.
Bucky lets go of you with a kiss to your forehead, laying your back against the headboard. He takes medicine box out of the bedside drawer and rummages through it for a paracetamol.
Your heart warms at the sight of him being so attentive. With a brave attempt, you lean towards him laying your head on his shoulder. Your head is still violently spinning but you try your best to keep it upright.
A surprised smile spreads across Bucky's lips and he wraps an arm around your waist. You nuzzle into his side, the coolness of his cybernetic arm feeling oddly pleasant against your damp skin. The notes of cedar and oak from his aftershave swim around your nostrils, calming you down greatly.
"Be careful, angel," he says, trying not to jostle you too much.
When he finally finds the medicine, he pops a pill out on his hand. Reaching for the bottle of water, Bucky puts the pill in your mouth. You scrunch your nose at the bitter taste of the pill and he snickers.
"You're so cute, baby, y'know that?" he teases, pouring water inside your mouth. You swallow the pill, leaning against him. His eyes travel over the goosebumps on your skin and he gently pulls himself away from you. You whine at the loss of his body heat, looking up at him with a frown.
"Stay here, yeah? I'll be back in just a second," Bucky says, running towards the closet. He opens the door and pulls out one of his warmer henleys.
He rushes back to you with the shirt in his arms, sitting down on the bed. He pulls you in his lap and puts the shirt over your frame. Your body is practically swimming in the henley. You always look so adorable in his clothes, it makes his heart feel so full. He still finds it so hard to believe that he gets to experience this domesticity with you.
He lays down on the bed, still holding you. Your mouth opens into a yawn and tears collect at the corner of your eyes. Bucky wipes them away, pressing kisses along your hairline to comfort you.
"Wanna sleep," you mumble, snuggling yourself into his chest. He smiles and pulls the blanket over your tangled bodies. He lays your head on his human arm while the vibranium one runs over yours to warm you up.
You sigh in contentment, eyes fluttering shut. Your index finger draws little hearts on his abdomen, a gesture that always relaxes both you.
"Goodnight, babydoll," he coos, his hand going up to stroke your hair.
"Night, Buck. I love you."
"Love you too, sugar,"
And just like that, you're pulled into a deep, content slumber. While it is drug induced but part of it also has to do with the safety of being in Bucky's arms.
Bucky looks down at you adoringly, a smile spreading across his lips. You look so peaceful, so trusting. He still can't believe that he's the one at the receiving end of your affection, of your trust. He never thought that he'll ever be worthy of the life he has with you.
But now that he's experienced it, he can't ever think of going back.
"You're everythin' to me, angel."
i hope you liked reading ts one <3. also tysm for a hundred followers and all the love y'all have been showering on my blog. ydk how much it means to me :3 ilysmm ill try my best to write absolute bangers for you cuties 𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
summary: a wave of nausea hits you in the middle of your shower, causing you to collapse on the spot and bucky can't bear to see his sweet baby like that.
warnings: FLUFFILINGUS AMOUNTS OF FLUFF, established relationship (they're married sorry I js love husband!bucky ugh), whipped!bucky, extra doting!bucky, slightly paranoid!bucky, descriptions of nausea and vomiting so it might be a lil disgusting, reader described to be naked (ion think anyone showers w clothes on), nicknames (sweetie, angel, babydoll, doll, sugar, baby, sweets), not rly proofread (what's new)
word count: ~1.8k words
note: before tumblr decided to betray me, i was saying that im back w another lil drabble cus the clark and bucky fics are taking me ages and i need some happiness in my life.
The room is quiet, the only sound being the gentle hum of the air conditioner running. The room smells like sea salt and cinnamon from the candle kept on the bedside table. Bucky is sat on the bed, holding a book in his hands.
But his attention is not on the book, it's on you and how adorable you look right now.
You're running all over the place, grabbing all sorts of products and your towels for your everything shower. Your hands are so full that you can't even lock the door of the en suite bathroom. You don't lock the door around him anyway. Because Bucky is extra paranoid when it comes to you. He wants to be able reach you as quickly as he can just in case something happens to you without anything in his way.
Bucky still doesn't quite understand what you even do in those everything showers, but he knows you look forward to them every weekend so he doesn't want to ruin your fun by asking stupid questions.
He smiles when he hears the water running and your soft, slightly off key hums with it. It calms him down. Bucky had trained himself to focus on you early on in the relationship and it really helped him shut off the voices in his head. Now, it's almost like second nature. His enhanced hearing is almost always focused on you and your sweet little sounds.
He opens his book, opening the page he'd last bookmarked by the bookmark you'd made for him last month. Even though it's only a simple piece of paper, he still cherishes it dearly because you've made it for him. You love making crafts and he's the one privileged enough who gets to keep all of them, whether it's a photo carousel or a simple bookmark.
Bucky is at peace. His eyes scan over the words on the page as he waits for you to get out.
But he immediately stiffens up when he hears a sound that's awfully a lot like you throwing up. His heart drops to his stomach at the thought of you being in any kind of danger. He immediately abandons the book and knocks on the door of the bathroom.
"Sweetie? You okay in there?"
When you don't answer, Bucky's concern increases even more. He pushes the door open, running towards the shower as fast as he can.
There, he finds you, sitting right there on the shower floor, slumped against the wall with your head lolled to the side. You're panting. There's drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as the shower sprays down water on you. He frowns at the sight and slides the shower door open.
When Bucky is inside, he shuts the water off and crouches down in front of you. He cups your face and his frown deepens. Your eyes are unfocused and dazed but at least you're concious.
"Talk to me, angel, tell me what's wrong," he coos, his thumbs running over your cheek. He hates seeing you like this. Usually, you're so energetic and cheerful, but right now, you can barely even manage to keep your eyes open.
"Don't know, Jamie, feel all dizzy, I can't stand. I also threw up," you feebly manage to stutter out, voice groggy from the acid in your throat. Your hands grasp his shoulders as he picks you up and you fully lean against him. There's still shampoo in your hair, suds of soap all over your arms and legs.
Bucky holds you against him as he grabs the showerhead with his vibranium arm, gently rinsing the soap off your body. You lean against him, pliant and trusting as he washes you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, which is burning up, your whole body is.
He doesn't understand. You were fine just thirty minutes ago before you went to shower and now you're looking so sick.
"Oh, babydoll, you're burnin' up," he mutters, holding you tighter. His clothes are getting wet, but he doesn't care about that. The only thing on his mind is that you're sick and he has to take care of you.
"Head hurts so bad, Buck," you mumble against his chest, your hands wrapping around his waist to keep yourself upright.
Once you're properly rinsed, Bucky carries you out of the shower. He presses kisses along your hairline, setting you down on the counter in the bathroom. He grabs a towel and wraps it around your frame.
"You'll be okay, doll, I'll take care of you, yeah?" he says as he stands in between your legs, patting your hair dry. Even in your sickness, you're still the prettiest thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky—" you try to warn him, but before you can complete your sentence, warm, yellow liquid spews out of your mouth, missing him by just an inch. You bend over to vomit properly and he places a hand on your back, running it up and down. Every lurch of your throat makes his heart squeeze with worry but he still stands there, patient and doting.
"It's okay, sugar, it's not your fault. I'll clean it up, don't worry," he coos at you and turns the tap in the sink on. He rinses your mouth with the water while mumbling soft reassurances to you. You can only look up at him with an apologetic frown, feeling guilty for making his job even harder.
Bucky discards his shirt, cursing under his breath as the wet fabric clings to his skin. You can't lie, the sight of his bare torso does make you feel a little better. He lets go of you and grabs a rag for the dirty floor.
You can't help but focus on his movements. Your eyes travel all over his body, dazedly studying the flex of his arm as he works. He looks up at you and heat rushes to your cheeks as your eyes meet his. He grins at your embarrassment before he focuses back on wiping the floor clean.
As he's done, he stands up, keeping the dirty rag to the side. He walks over to you, picking you up in his arms. Your hands rest on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. Your eyes stay fixed on him, soft and tired, following every movement of his. Bucky smiles down at you and presses a gentle peck to your lips.
"Jamie, no! I have vomit breath!" you whine, giving him a half-hearted shove. He doesn't relent, instead, cups your face and connects your lips to his in a gentle kiss. You can't stay mad at him for longer after that.
"You think I care, angel?" he muses as he pulls away from your lips, connecting your forehead to his. Just to emphasise his point further, he pecks your lips again. Bucky wraps your legs around your waist, making sure you were secure in his arms.
He carries you out of the bathroom, keeping his grip on you tight the whole way. He sits down on the bed with you in his lap. You slump against his chest, the cool air of the room making you shiver. He mumbles and apology in your hair and turns the air conditioner off.
Bucky lets go of you with a kiss to your forehead, laying your back against the headboard. He takes medicine box out of the bedside drawer and rummages through it for a paracetamol.
Your heart warms at the sight of him being so attentive. With a brave attempt, you lean towards him laying your head on his shoulder. Your head is still violently spinning but you try your best to keep it upright.
A surprised smile spreads across Bucky's lips and he wraps an arm around your waist. You nuzzle into his side, the coolness of his cybernetic arm feeling oddly pleasant against your damp skin. The notes of cedar and oak from his aftershave swim around your nostrils, calming you down greatly.
"Be careful, angel," he says, trying not to jostle you too much.
When he finally finds the medicine, he pops a pill out on his hand. Reaching for the bottle of water, Bucky puts the pill in your mouth. You scrunch your nose at the bitter taste of the pill and he snickers.
"You're so cute, baby, y'know that?" he teases, pouring water inside your mouth. You swallow the pill, leaning against him. His eyes travel over the goosebumps on your skin and he gently pulls himself away from you. You whine at the loss of his body heat, looking up at him with a frown.
"Stay here, yeah? I'll be back in just a second," Bucky says, running towards the closet. He opens the door and pulls out one of his warmer henleys.
He rushes back to you with the shirt in his arms, sitting down on the bed. He pulls you in his lap and puts the shirt over your frame. Your body is practically swimming in the henley. You always look so adorable in his clothes, it makes his heart feel so full. He still finds it so hard to believe that he gets to experience this domesticity with you.
He lays down on the bed, still holding you. Your mouth opens into a yawn and tears collect at the corner of your eyes. Bucky wipes them away, pressing kisses along your hairline to comfort you.
"Wanna sleep," you mumble, snuggling yourself into his chest. He smiles and pulls the blanket over your tangled bodies. He lays your head on his human arm while the vibranium one runs over yours to warm you up.
You sigh in contentment, eyes fluttering shut. Your index finger draws little hearts on his abdomen, a gesture that always relaxes both you.
"Goodnight, babydoll," he coos, his hand going up to stroke your hair.
"Night, Buck. I love you."
"Love you too, sugar,"
And just like that, you're pulled into a deep, content slumber. While it is drug induced but part of it also has to do with the safety of being in Bucky's arms.
Bucky looks down at you adoringly, a smile spreading across his lips. You look so peaceful, so trusting. He still can't believe that he's the one at the receiving end of your affection, of your trust. He never thought that he'll ever be worthy of the life he has with you.
But now that he's experienced it, he can't ever think of going back.
"You're everythin' to me, angel."
i hope you liked reading ts one <3. also tysm for a hundred followers and all the love y'all have been showering on my blog. ydk how much it means to me :3 ilysmm ill try my best to write absolute bangers for you cuties 𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
Pairing: Congressman Barnes x Reader
Word count: 4.6k
Warnings: SMUT, p in v (doggy style), oral (f receiving), fingering, jealousy, established relationship, secret relationship, Bucky Barnes being down bad for you.
Summary: It's entirely your fault that people think Bucky is still available, but that doesn't mean that you have to like it.
+fran: this is in the same universe as undisclosed relations, can be read as a standalone. read all my congressman barnes works here
dividers by @/bhavihelps
Before he met you, early mornings in his apartment were quiet.
Bucky went out for his runs pretending the sheer stillness of the place didn't make an itch bloom in the back of his brain.
Sometimes the condo felt too big, even though it wasn't huge, it also wasn't a shoebox.
Since the night in his office, though, he wakes up around 6:45am to the sound of his kitchen being used and, if he asked you, the sound of hearts breaking all over D.C. in the process.
Bucky stretched in bed like a cat, groaning at the tightness in his low back that you'd definitely tease him about. He could hear your voice a little further down the hall when he got out of bed.
The sunlight spilling into the penthouse is soft and gold, cutting across marble floors and stainless steel like something out of an architectural magazine.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s very accomplished,” you said smoothly into the AirPod you had on. “No, I don’t need her résumé." You sighed. "If she’d like to attend the fundraiser, she can RSVP through the official channel like everyone else.”
He turned the corner and there you were.
Your laptop was open on the kitchen isle, hard paper planner and your favorite pen beside it. Your hair was pulled up by the claw clip you had on, and the only thing over your frame was a blue striped button down Bucky wore the day before.
You nodded you head as if the person on the phone could see you, and rolled your eyes knowing they couldn't, as you sliced and scooped half an avocado with surgical precision.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe for a second and allowed himself to just watch you in your bubble.
Watching you like you’re something he’s not entirely sure he deserves.
“Mmhm. I understand,” you continue, voice honeyed but impenetrable. “But Congressman Barnes’ schedule is quite full. He’s not taking personal engagements at this time.”
You placed the avocado on a piece of toast on the counter by the stove, turning to your side and scooping some scrambled eggs from the frying pan to put on top of it.
“I’m sure brunch would be lovely." Bucky raised his eyebrow at that, pushing off of the doorframe and walking over to stand behind you as you turned off the heat on the bacon pan.
"Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one engagements with donors under forty who describe themselves as ‘emotionally intuitive.’” He snorted into your shoulder, pressing a kiss there.
You crumbled the crispy bacon on top of your toast, and put the rest on a plate over a paper towel to absorb the grease.
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as you got off the phone. “Three women have tried to secure private time with you in the last twelve hours.”
“And?” he asks quietly.
You turn, holding his plate out to him. “And,” you say, eyes cool but faintly amused, “they can get in line.”
He takes the plate but doesn’t break eye contact. “Didn’t know I had a line.” You could kiss the smug smile off his face in a second.
“Oh, you do.” You take a bite of your toast. “There’s a Pilates instructor. A nonprofit founder. And someone who signed her email ‘Future Mrs. Barnes.’”
His lips twitch. “And what’d you tell them?”
You swallowed the bite before answering it. “That Congressman Barnes is unavailable.” A beat. “For brunch,” you add lightly, raising your brow to make a point.
Bucky set his plate down on the counter by your laptop, and you do the same with yours, snagging a slice of bacon off the plate. “Just brunch?”
“Congressman Barnes’ personal affairs are private,” you say calmly, letting one foot rest on your knee, standing on one leg and leaning agasint the counter.
His thumb brushes slowly along your hip, his other hand braced on the counter, effectively trapping you between him and the marble.
“You’re eating my bacon,” he murmurs.
“You’re welcome,” you shoot back, taking another perfectly measured bite. “For saving your old man arteries.”
He actually scoffs while you take a sip off your coffee. “Old man?”
“You are over a hundred,” you point out, finally glancing at him over the rim of your mug. “Statistically speaking, you should be dust.”
He stepped closer, offended but amused. “Super soldier.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Super stubborn. Super dramatic. Super in denial about cholesterol.”
Another call came in, phone buzzing again. He reached past you and flipped the phone face down. “They can call back,” he said simply, with a smirk that told you the things going through his mind weren't simple at all.
You studied him for a second. “You know this is only going to get worse,” Another sip, and you put the coffee on the counter. “Election cycle. Public appearances. The mystery bachelor narrative.”
He leaned down slightly, voice lowering. “Good thing I’m not a bachelor.”
You arched a brow. “Oh? Since when?” His hand tightened at your waist — not possessive in a public way, but certain.
“Since you started answering my calls at six in the morning and making avocado toast in my kitchen.” You pretend to consider it.
“Strictly professional,” you said.
“Mm.” His mouth curved. “Was it also stricly professional to sit on my face until you had a calf cramp las ni—” You didn't let him finish as you shoved a slice of bacon in his mouth.
"Eat your bacon, old man."
The phone rang again and you turned in his hold, twisting just enough to reach across the counter and grab it — and in the process, you bent slightly over the marble, pushing your ass into his groin on purpose.
Bucky groaned through the bacon slice. “Congressman Barnes' Office.” you say smoothly, voice honeyed and professional.
You shifted, grinding back into him some more. “Yes,” you continue into the phone. “I’m aware she’s very interested in supporting the campaign.”
You really hoped they could not hear the sound of your panties being pulled down.
The gala is loud in that polished, fake, expensive way — crystal glasses clinking, donors laughing just a little too hard, cameras flashing every few minutes.
She’s stunning. Effortless in that way that takes effort. Red dress. Confident smile. She waits for the donor Bucky’s speaking to finish, then slides in seamlessly.
“Congressman Barnes,” she says warmly, touching his arm like she’s testing ownership. “I’ve been hoping to meet you.”
Bucky immediately clocks what she's doing, and also your reaction, which is to take a couple steps towards him awith a painfully fake, polite smile.
“I host a private policy dinner every quarter,” she continued. “Very intimate. Carefully curated guest list.”
“That sounds lovely,” you say before Bucky can respond. “If you’d like to submit an invitation, Congressman Barnes’ office reviews all engagement requests formally.”
The bitch has the audacity to look you up and down and dismiss you.
“Oh, I’m sure we can skip the paperwork,” she says lightly, eyes sliding back to him. “This is more… personal.”
A lesser woman would've grabbed her by the hair and made a scene.
If staring burned holes into people, she'd have a dinner plate sized one in the middle of her skull. “Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one dinners with donors,” you say, tone pleasant but final. “Transparency is very important for his campign.”
“I’m very persuasive,” she says, voice dropping, stepping closer to him.
You stepped closer too — just enough to close the gap. “Congressman Barnes is very disciplined,” you answer smoothly.
The tension hums, and her smile tightens. “Well,” she says, eyes flicking between you, “if he changes his mind—”
“He won’t,” you reply calmly. "Oh, I see Senator Whitmore," you turned your gaze to Bucky. "He was looking for you, Congressman."
Bucky gave her a half-meaning apologetic look. "Duty calls." And started to walk towards him with you.
“You were about two seconds away from committing a crime in a ballroom,” he murmured in your direction, making you roll you eyes.
"I'm not jealous, she was…" You huffed. "Presumptuous."
As you appreach the older man, Bucky files your reaction away int eh back of his mind, smirking to himself. “Whitmore,” Bucky greets easily, slipping into politician mode without effort. “Good to see you.”
You spent the rest of the night a little quieter, not as many sarcastic remarks, shifting on your feet like you did when you were itching to get the hell out of the room. You contribute when needed, nod at the right moments, redirect a conversation or two.
When you both slipped into the backseat of the towncar, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, you haven’t said much in ten minutes before asking the driver to drop you off at your apartment, making Bucky whip his head towards you in surprise.
"What?'
You shrugged. "It's on the way."
"I know that. Why are you going home?" The driver pulls up the partition when Bucky's voice goes up a smidge.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” That makes his brow furrow and his lips turn.
“Inconvenience me?”
You finally look at him then, composed but tired. “You’re a very busy man,” you said evenly. “Wouldn’t want to complicate your schedule.”
“This about red dress?”
You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Don't insult my intelligence by insulting yours, yes you do.” His voice was stern now, like he was done entertaining whatever Catch 22 you had going on at the moment.
“She was inappropriate,” you say.
“And?”
“And she clearly thought she had access.”
You swear you made sense most of the time. You do. But Bucky's been around for long enough to know it does make sense, even when it doesn't.
“You think I’d go?” He was almost hurt at the thought of you thinking that.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the point.” He sighed, turning his entire body towards you, two fingers tilting your face towards him. "You realize you're the one keeping me a secret, right?"
You huff, trying to stay mad, but he’s laughing softly now, clearly enjoying every second of your internal crisis.
“All I’m saying,” he continues, voice teasing, “is if you wanted to go public, I’d be very cooperative.”
You shake your head, frustration bubbling back up. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“And I’m trying to choose you,” he says. “You don’t get to shut this off when it’s inconvenient,” he says quietly. “Not after tonight.”
"That's not—"
“You were ready to go home because some woman thought she had a shot. But you won’t let me make it obvious she doesn’t.”
"Your career is more important than my feelings, Buck. You can make real change here."
“I want to hold your hand without you dodging me in front of reporters.” That made you falter. He noticed immediately.
His teasing softened just a little, thumb brushing your cheek. “You know I’m not embarrassed by you, right?”
You look away, and he nudges his forehead against yours.
“Also,” he added lightly, grin returning, “I’d like to stop pretending my PR manager doesn’t kiss me goodbye like I’m shipping off to war every morning.”
You blink, head snapping back feigning offense. “I do not—”
“You do,” he says, delighted. “And it’s adorable.”
You swat his chest, cheeks burning, and he just laughs, catching your wrist and kissing your knuckles like he’s won something.
He ends up knocking on the partition again, and telling the driver to just go straight to his condo instead.
By the time the car pulls up to his building, whatever sharp edge was left in your mood has dulled into something quieter.
“Bucky,” you murmur under your breath, low enough that it sounds like nothing.
He doesn’t look at you. “What?”
“You’re—”
“I know.”
The marble lobby gleams under soft lighting. A couple people linger near the seating area.
The doorman opens the door, greets him by name, nods respectfully at you.
Bucky doesn’t let go of your hand for a second, pulling your left arm behind you so he can have his right arm around your low back and pull you even closer as you wait for the elevator.
You just smirk to yourself at the same time he does. A silent "so this is what we're doing now?" being responded with "yes, it is." just as quietly.
The clicking of your heels matches the cadence of the thud of his shoes against the floor, the walk from the elevator to his front door seemingly shorter and longer than usual at the same time, anticipation bubbling in your stomach like freshly poured champagne.
Bucky unlocked the door and opened it, standing outside of the doorway looking at you like this was it.
This was your out.
You could keep the optics, turn around, and go to your place, and he wouldn't bring a public relationship up anymore for a while.
Or, you could step into his apartment, which you've basically made a home out of already, and stop hiding.
You held his gaze for what it felt like a million years to the both of you, words caught in your throat. He raised his brow, posing the question once again. Daring you to dare him to choose you.
And when you made up your mind, he could see it in your face.
Every guarded wall just came down as you sighed, happily and anxiously at the same time, biting your lip and grabbing him by the tie, walking backwards into the dark apartment wanting nothing but to turn the smug smirk on his face into your most comfortable seat.
It took him no time to press you up against the wall in the foyer, “Careful,” he muttered, one hand tight on your waist and the other hand coming up behind your head just before you hit the wall. His mouth coming down on yours immediately.
His hands met behind your back as his mouth worked over yours, tongue leaving no inch of yours unloved as your hands tugged on his hair and scraped the nape of his neck.
He popped a single button and down the zipper went, the now itchy and bothersome fabric of your Saab gown dropping and pooling around your feet, leaving you only in black stockings and black lace panties.
Bucky pulled away from your kiss to pepper kisses and licks and sucks down your jaw and neck, pulling your right leg to wrap around him, fully clothed.
"I like this way better." The fact that he had you putty in his hands, practically naked, while all you did was pull his tie off and throw it somewhere you'd find tomorrow, should be at least a fineable offense.
“This is so irresponsible,” you whisper.
He chuckles against you, pressing you on the wall harder so you feel exactly how irresponsible he's feeling. "Y'can complain tomorrow." He smirks.
Bucky carries you to the bedroom like it's routine, because it is. He doesn't bother turning a light on until he drops you on the bed softly, your hair fanning out around your head and your lipstick long gone, replaced by a sheer flush from his beard rubbing all over your face and neck.
He sat up on his knees once you snuck your hands under the shoulder of his jacket, shrugging it off and immediately going for the last few buttons of his shirt while your hands found themselves undoing his pants like you'd die if you didn't.
You’re half tangled up with him, breath a little uneven, his mouth warm against your skin, his hands steady and sure like he’s still making up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself tonight.
You felt the buzz of the phone before you heard the ring.
It came from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, thrown carelessly on the bed. He looked at you with an expression that bordered "are you serious?" before his mind took a more nefarious route.
You fished the phone out from the pile of fabric, your blood immediately boiling when the caller ID revealed who it was.
“Oh my god,” you say, sitting up slightly. “How the fuck did she get your number?”
“I didn’t give it to her,” he says easily, not even sounding concerned, keeping the assault of his lips on your neck.
“I know! That’s worse,” you mutter, looking at the ceiling like if you stared at it hard enough a meteor would crash into her house. “That means she worked for it.”
“Answer it,” he says, kissing your sternum.
You turn your head to look at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Blue eyes meet yours as he flicks a nipple with his tongue and closes his lips around the peak.
“You want me to answer this?”
“Mhmm,” he groans, way too calm about it, biting the supple skin of your breast lightly. “Go ahead.”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs against your stomach, going lower and lower as his eyes look up at you, entertained, curious. “Let’s hear it.”
As your fingers swiped to answer the call, his hooked around your panties and pulled them off of you while his mouth bit at the skin below your bellybutton.
You brought the phone to your ear and let out a chipper "Congressman Barnes' phone." out of your mouth. Much too chipper for someone who had said congressman between her legs.
“Oh— I was actually hoping to speak to him directly.”
You glance down at Bucky as he holds your gaze, placing a kiss on your folds, making you choke on a breath.
“Congressman Barnes is unavailable,” you reply evenly.
So unavailable. Not like he's flattening his tongue against you, parting your lips and licking the slick that has pooled there for his presence near you alone.
“Well, I figured this might be a better number to reach him,” she says, a little sharper now. “Things tend to move faster when they’re… personal.”
Bucky can hear everything, the smug motherfucker.
You throw your head back, eyes shut tight, taking a deep breath to not moan at the feel of his tongue circling your clit.
Bucky shuffled above you, getting comfortable with your legs over his shoulders and his front flush against the bed.
“Not in this case.” He pulled you closer to him, groaning into you. The vibration caught you by surprise in such way you let out a whimper.
“I’d still love to discuss dinner,” she continues.
“Of course you would,” you mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” you say sweetly. “Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend private dinners.”
At this point, she was as annoyed that you picked up the call as you were.
“Is that his policy, or yours?”
Bucky's metal middle and ring fingers plunged into your heat at the same time he sucked your clit into his mouth. "Both!" Your voice went up an octave before you tried to recover, glaring at him and only receiving a wet smirk in response.
"He's a very busy congressman. Any communication will be done through official channels. This number will not be accepting anymore calls from…" You saw him raise his brow. "Anyone."
You hung up without waiting for a response, phone falling from your hand onto the hardwood floor as your hands threaded through his hair for purchase instead.
"Fuck, Bucky—" You whined, grinding your hips down on his face, heels digging onto his now naked back.
He chuckled against you once more, pulling his mouth away from your pussy to bite at the skin of your inner thigh, his own hips grinding onto the mattress. "Did so good, baby."
You whined, his fingers still curling deliciously inside of you, rubbing the spongy spot that made your feel like you were floating, soaking his hand and face even more.
"Not gonna let anyone think you're single now." You said, a complete 180 of your own opinion barely an hour before.
He kissed the spot over the bite mark. "Don't want you to."
You pull him up by the back of his neck, kissing him and tasting yourself. The kiss was messy, slow, as if he was savoring the moment you'd let all hell break loose.
You made quick work of his pants, and he discarded them just as easy.
Bucky turned you around on the bed, until you had both shoulders on the mattress, face down, and pulled your hips up, thumbs spreading your cheeks as his palms kneaded your skin.
"God, sweetheart…" He bent down and pressed kisses up your spine, until you could feel his breath beside your cheek and the blunt head of his cock nudging between your folds.
You sighed contently at the feeling, pushing back into him while your eyes met.
When he pushed the first inch in, both of you sighed into each others mouths.
Then he kept pushing, and further, and further, until your folds touched his pelvis and your mouth knew no other shape than his name.
He kissed your cheek as you let your head fall forward, and he pulled out until only the tip of him was in, then pushed back in.
So slow you could feel every ridge of him, the thick vein on the underside and left side that split into two the closer it got to where he'd spill into you.
"Mmmmm, feel so good…" Your cheek was now smushed against the soft duvet that you chose, nails scraping softly against the fabric.
Bucky kissed your shoulder blade, thursting deeper, but not faster, keeping you right where he wanted you. "There she is…" Another kiss.
His voice is softer now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, your fingers tightening in the sheets as he keeps that slow, deliberate pace—like he’s in no rush anymore.
You push back into him instinctively, earning a quiet, approving hum against your skin.
“Always so impatient,” he teases, but there’s no real bite to it. Just warmth. Just something fond underneath the heat.
“Not—” you start, breath catching, “not impatient—”
“Mm,” he interrupts softly. “You are.”
Another kiss, higher this time.
“But I like it.”
Your head turns slightly, just enough to catch his eye, and there’s something in your expression that makes his breath hitch—something open, unguarded in a way you don’t usually allow.
"Never gonna let anyone think they can compete, baby." Another punctuated thrust. "M'yours," and another. "Just like you're mine."
Your chest tightens just slightly, the weight of it settling somewhere deeper than the moment itself.
"Yours." You swallow thickly. "Yours, Bucky, please—"
His flesh hand reached down as his metal fingers interlaced with yours, deft fingertips teasing and rolling your clit between them like he was much used to doing. "I got you, baby, c'mon."
He felt you clech around him and groaned against your skin.
You pushed back into him in the same rhythm he pushed into you, a plap! plap! plap! of wet skin the only symphony aside from your moans.
Your hand grasped at his forearm, desperate for some sort of grounding, anything to keep you from floating away like your mind thought it was gonna happen.
“I love you,” you remind him, voice softer now, and he stilled for half a second.
Then leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly against your shoulder “I know.” His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, like he was anchoring you there. "I love you too, baby — fuck—"
“Say it again,” he murmured.
You swallowed deeply, turning your head just enough. “I love you.” A particularly deep thrust knocked the air out of your lungs and you let your head fall forward again. "I'll always choose you, Bucky, fuck, I'm—"
Your brain was mush at this point. Jelly.
"I know, baby, c'mon," His fingers worked deeper circles, the spring in your stomach contracting so tightly you couldn't breathe anyjmore. "That's my girl, you're almost there…"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my God!"
Your eyes squeezed shut and a rainbow of colors exploded behind your eyelids, Bucky following suit at the feeling of your cunt squeezing around him.
He thrust until he was sure you had milked him of every drop, and that he had fucked every doubt straight out of you.
He stayed there after, barely holding his entire weight on top of you as you both breathed heavy, more than just the physical component of getting your brains fucked out weighting in your lungs.
He pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder as your nails grazed his forearm lightly.
“You with me?” he murmured, voice low, softer, careful.
You hummed faintly in response, eyes still closed, cheek pressed into the duvet. “Mm… yeah.” A shy smle adorning your face.
“Hey,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder just enough with his nose. “Look at me.”
You turned your head, slow, a little dazed—and when your eyes meet his, something in his expression shifts.
“Hi,” you murmur.
He huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “Hi.”
Your fingers loosened slightly against him, but didn't let go. “I meant it,” you said softly after a second.
His gaze didn't waver. “I know you did.”
“I always do.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” it was muffled against your shoulder as he kissed it again. It’s not a question.
You shake your head faintly. “No.”
“Good.” His thumb traceed slow, absent patterns along your side, grounding, steady. “You still spiraling?” he added after a moment, a hint of that teasing tone slipping back in.
You let out a soft, tired laugh. “A little.”
“Mm, figures.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him again. “You didn’t help.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re a problem.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you admitted easily.
He smiles at that—soft, satisfied in a way that doesn’t need to be loud. “Good,” he murmurs.
And when he pressed another kiss to your skin, it was slower, gentler. And the kisses that followed, all the way to your lips, were just as much.
Like he wasn't trying to take anything from you, just stay right there with you.
Exactly where you both chose to be.
Congressman Barnes Sparks Dating Rumors After Intimate Lobby Moment with PR Advisor
Washington, D.C. — Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes may have just traded his mystery bachelor status for something far more complicated.
Late last night, Barnes was photographed entering his Capitol Hill residence following a high-profile fundraising gala — but it wasn’t his arrival that caught attention. It was who he brought with him… and how he held her.
Photos obtained by The Capitol Wire show Barnes accompanied by a woman widely identified as a senior PR strategist from Pressing Issues PR, LLC, a firm closely tied to his campaign’s public image.
While the two have been seen together at official events for months, insiders have long maintained their relationship is “strictly professional.”
These photos tell a different story.
@/winterthorne
the way he looked at her in that last pic???
yeah no that man is GONE
@/buckydefenseleague
everyone saying “he’s just being polite” I’m sorry have you EVER been held like that by a man who wasn’t obsessed with you
Note Wrote this a couple weeks ago, when Sebas was out there showing those fucking legs and... yes. I am so sorry for the mistakes but been having a busy week and this was in my drafts, just waiting to see the light hehe
The gym was empty at 3 AM. That was why you’d chosen it—the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant thrum of the building’s HVAC system, the way the mirrors reflected nothing but polished concrete and gleaming equipment. No prying eyes, no judgmental stares, no Natasha smirking from the treadmill or Sam offering unsolicited advice between sets. Just you and the punching bag. And the ghosts you were trying to punch out of your head.
You’d been at it for an hour already, sweat soaking through your sports bra and tank top, hair plastered to your forehead in unruly strands. Your knuckles were raw even through the wraps, but you didn’t care. The rhythmic thud of fist against canvas was meditative in its brutality. Each impact drove away another thought—the mission that had gone sideways, the close call that had left you breathless, the way Bucky’s hand had found yours in the quinjet when you thought neither of you would make it out.
That last thought made you punch harder.
The door to the gym hissed open, and you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You’d know that footfall anywhere—the slight drag of his left foot, the way he landed heavier on his right side to compensate for the weight of the arm. You’d catalogued every sound Bucky made over the past two years, filed them away in some secret part of your brain that you refused to examine too closely.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked, not pausing your assault on the bag.
“Something like that.” His voice was rough, sleep-roughened, and it sent a familiar shiver down your spine. “FRIDAY said you were down here.”
Not just any shorts—deep red gym shorts that ended well above his knee, exposing thighs that should have been illegal. Thick, muscular thighs slightly dusted with dark hair, the kind that made you think about what it would feel like to have them holding you down against your bed… Stop it, you told yourself fiercely. He’s your best friend. Your best friend who you sometimes kiss when you’ve had too much whiskey or when you’ve both nearly died and the adrenaline is still singing in your veins. That’s all.
You finally turned, and the words died in your throat.
Bucky was standing in the doorway, and he was wearing shorts.
But the shorts were only the beginning. His t-shirt was pink—actual pink, a soft rose color that should have looked absurd on a hundred-year-old assassin but instead made him look devastatingly soft. And it was tight, hugging the broad expanse of his chest, the defined cut of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. The same t-shirt you gifted him on his last birthday just because you said he would look so fucking good.
You’d never seen him in anything that fit him properly. He always wore loose joggers and baggy t-shirts, like he was trying to hide himself from the world. Like he was still fighting that battle with his own reflection.
This was different. This was intentional. This was Bucky showing up, baring himself, trusting you to see him.
And you were absolutely, completely, catastrophically short-circuiting.
“You’re staring,” he said, and there was something in his voice—a hint of satisfaction, maybe even a little cockiness. His lips twitched, threatening a smirk.
“I’m… you're—“ You gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes.” He walked past you toward the weight rack, and you watched the flex of his calves, the shift of muscle in his thighs. “People wear clothes to the gym.”
“Not those clothes. Not you.” You were still staring. You couldn’t stop staring. “You look like… you look like—“
“Like what, honey?” He’d picked up a pair of dumbbells and was doing curls now, and if you’d thought the pink shirt was devastating, watching his biceps flex under the thin fabric was a whole new level of torture.
“Like a Pinterest thirst trap or those Tik Tok trends that Lena loves to make fun of it.” you blurted out.
He laughed—that low, surprised laugh that always made your stomach flip. “A what?”
“Forget it.” You turned back to the punching bag, hoping the flush on your cheeks could be attributed to exertion. “You just look different, that’s all.”
“Different good or different bad?”
You didn’t answer, because the truth was too dangerous. Different devastating. Different I want to climb you like a tree. Different how have we never gone further than kissing when you look like that.
Instead, you threw yourself back into your workout, focusing on the bag, on the burn in your muscles, on anything but the way Bucky’s thighs flexed when he did lunges.
It didn’t work.
He’d moved to the squat rack, and you could see him in the mirror—the way the shorts rode up just slightly when he bent his knees, the way his shirt pulled across his chest when he lifted. He caught your eye in the reflection and winked.
Winked.
Bucky Barnes, who still flinched when people touched his left shoulder, who sometimes woke up screaming and wouldn’t let anyone near him for days, who’d once confessed to you in a whiskey-soaked whisper that he didn’t think anyone would ever want to see him clearly—that Bucky Barnes was strutting around the gym in barely-there shorts like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Your form’s off,” he said, straightening up from the squat. “You’re leaning too far forward.”
“My form is fine.”
“It’s not.” He walked over, and suddenly he was behind you, his chest nearly flush with your back, his vibranium hand coming up to press against your hip. “You’re not engaging your core. Here—“
His right hand settled on your stomach, and you forgot how to breathe.
“Breathe into it,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Feel the tension here.” His fingers pressed slightly into your abdomen, and you could feel the calluses on his palm through the thin fabric of your tank top. “Then push from your hips, not your shoulders.”
You tried to follow his instructions, but all you could focus on was the heat of him behind you, the scent of his soap and something underneath—something that was just him. His thumb traced a small circle against your hip, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
“There you go,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Better.”
He didn’t move away. His chest was pressed against your back now, and you could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, or maybe that was your own heart trying to escape your ribcage.
“James,” you managed, and your voice came out wrecked. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Unless you want me to stop?”
You should have said yes. You should have stepped away, laughed it off, gone back to your corner of the gym and pretended that your heart wasn’t about to beat out of your chest. That was what you’d always done, what you’d always been too scared to risk.
But you were tired. Tired of pretending, tired of lying to yourself, tired of wanting so badly it felt like a physical ache in your chest.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
His hand slid from your hip to your waist, turning you to face him. And then you were looking up into those impossibly blue eyes, the ones that had seen too much and yet still managed to hold so much warmth when they looked at you.
“You know,” he said, and his voice was different now—softer, more hesitant. “I’ve wanted to do this all day. Ever since I put this stupid shirt on.”
“This isn’t stupid.” You reached up, fingers brushing the pink fabric at his shoulder. “You look—Bucky, you look incredible.”
“Yeah?” He ducked his head, and there it was—that flash of shyness that always made your heart clench. “I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe you’d think it was weird. Me trying to… I don’t know. Feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“I could never think that.” You stepped closer, your body flush against his. “I think you’re the bravest person I know.”
He made a sound—half laugh, half something else—and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t like the other times. Those had been slow, tentative, like you were both testing the waters. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding back for years and the dam had finally broken.
His hands came up to cup your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept against your lower lip, and you opened for him eagerly, drowning in the taste of him. He tasted like coffee and mint and something dark and sweet that you wanted to bottle and drink forever.
You fisted your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your mouth. The sound went straight to your core, made you press your thighs together.
“That’s it,” he breathed, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw. “Wanted it like this so bad. Want you so much, baby.”
“Then have me.” You arched into him, and he made that sound again—low and guttural and so incredibly hot. “Bucky, please—“
“I’ve got you, pretty face.” His hands slid down to your thighs, and then he was lifting you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist automatically. The shorts had ridden up even further, and you could feel the heat of his skin against yours, the hard length of him pressed against your core through both your clothes.
“Not here,” you managed, even as you rocked against him. “Someone could—“
“I know.” He was carrying you toward the door, and you were grateful that the gym was on the same floor as the residential quarters, that his room was only down the hall. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
The walk to his room was a blur. You were aware of the cold air in the hallway, the way he was still kissing your neck, the way his hands were gripping your thighs like he was afraid you might disappear.
He kicked the door to his room open, and you both tumbled inside.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city through the windows. Bucky set you down gently, and for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, looking at each other.
His eyes were dark with want, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made your chest ache. He was still shy, still uncertain, even after all of this. You reached up and touched his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble, the warmth of his skin.
“I want this,” you said. “I want you. But only if you want it too.”
“God.” He laughed, but it was shaky. “I’ve wanted this for so long. I just—I didn’t want to ruin things. You’re the only good thing in my life, and I thought if I pushed too hard—“
“You could never ruin things.” You pulled him down for another kiss, softer this time. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning. His hands found the hem of your tank top, and he pulled back just long enough to tug it over your head. His breath caught when he saw you, and his eyes went dark.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your sports bra was next, and then his hands were on your breasts, calloused and warm and so careful. You arched into his touch, gasping when his thumb brushed over your nipple.
“Bucky—“
“Tell me what you want.” His mouth found your throat again. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I want you.” You were pulling at his shirt now, desperate to feel his skin against yours. “I want all of you. Please.”
He pulled off the shirt in one fluid motion, and you had to stop and stare. You’d seen him shirtless before—it was impossible not to in a compound full of supersoldiers—but never like this. Never with the knowledge that you were about to have him.
His chest was a masterpiece of muscle and scars. The vibranium arm caught the light, gleaming dully, and you reached out and traced the line where metal met flesh. He stiffened for just a moment, then relaxed into your touch.
“Does it hurt?” you asked softly.
“Not when you touch it.” His voice was rough. “Never when you touch it.”
You kissed the seam, then his shoulder, then his collarbone, working your way down his chest. He shuddered under your lips, his hands carefully touching your hair.
“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned.
“Not yet.” You looked up at him through your lashes. “I have plans for you.”
His laugh was choked, half-desperate. “Fuck, I love when you talk like that, always makes me so hard when you use that voice to threaten people.”
You were both undressing each other now, clothes discarded on the floor in a messy trail toward the bed. His shorts were the last to go, and when you saw him—all of him—you had to swallow hard.
“You’re staring again,” he said, but his voice was breathless, and there was that shyness creeping back in.
“I’m appreciating.” You reached out and wrapped your hand around him, and he gasped, his hips bucking into your touch. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” His hand covered yours, guiding you. “Not a problem. Just—fuck, sweetheart, if you keep doing that—“
“Then don’t let me keep doing it.” You released him and stepped back, letting your eyes run down his body. “Unless you want to come right now.”
“Not a chance.” He was on you in a second, pushing you back onto the bed, his body covering yours. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He kissed down your body slowly, reverently, like he was memorizing every inch of you. His mouth found your breasts, and you gasped as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.
“Bucky—“
“Shh.” He moved to the other side, giving it the same attention. “I’ve got you. Just let me—I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart. Wanted to taste you.”
His mouth continued its descent, over your stomach, your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You were trembling by the time he reached your core, your hands fisted in the sheets.
“Look at you,” he murmured, and his breath was hot against your slick heat. “So wet for me. All for me. Did I make you this wet, honey? Are you this sweet always?”
“Bucky, please—“
He didn’t make you wait. His mouth closed over you, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was so good, so thorough, his tongue working you with a skill that made your mind go blank.
And he was moaning—actually moaning, low and hungry, like he was the one getting pleasure from this. The vibrations from his voice sent shockwaves through you, and you could feel the pressure building, coiling in your core.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Please don’t stop—“
He doubled down, his vibranium hand coming up to hold you open while his tongue worked you mercilessly. The contrast of temperatures—cool metal and hot mouth—pushed you closer to the edge.
You came with a scream, your vision whiting out, your body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky worked you through it, only pulling back when you started to whimper from overstimulation.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and his face was flushed, his lips slick with you. “Look at you. So beautiful when you come.”
You pulled him up, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. “I need you inside me,” you said against his mouth. “Now. Please.”
He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom, and you watched as he sheathed himself. He was trembling slightly, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes again.
“Sam bought me these as a joke a couple weeks ago,” he said, smirking while positioning himself at your entrance. “Tell me if I hurt you, baby and I’ll stop. I haven’t done this in like seventy years and I think I can’t control myself.”
“You won’t hurt me.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I trust you, Bucky. I trust you completely.”
His eyes went soft, and he leaned down to kiss you as he pushed inside.
You both groaned at the sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the way he fit inside you like he was made for you. He paused once he was fully seated, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
“You feel,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You feel like everything. Like coming home.”
“Move,” you begged. “Please move, Bucky.”
He did, setting a slow, deep rhythm that made your toes curl. Each thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, and you could feel another orgasm building already.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned, his hips picking up speed. “So perfect. Fuck, sweetheart, I’m not going to last.”
“Then don’t.” You clenched around him, and he moaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Come with me. I’m close—“
“Look at me,” he demanded, and you opened your eyes to find his gaze burning into yours. “I want to see you when you come. Want to see what I do to you.”
That was all it took. You shattered around him, crying out his name as pleasure ripped through you. He followed moments later, burying himself deep as he came with a groan that was almost a sob.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He was still inside you, still breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, rapid and strong.
Slowly, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. Then he was back, pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.
You lay there in the silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. The weight of what had just happened settled over you, and you felt a sudden flutter of anxiety.
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice was soft. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I just—“ You swallowed hard. “Is this going to be weird now? Between us? I don’t want to lose you.”
He pulled back, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “Lose me? Sweetheart, you couldn’t lose me if you tried.” He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I’m in this. I’ve been in this. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
The words hit you like a freight train, and you felt your eyes well up. “Years?”
“Years.” He smiled, and it was that rare, genuine smile that made him look like the man he used to be. “I was just too scared to say anything. Figured I’d screw it up somehow. But then you looked at me in those shorts—“
You laughed, the sound watery. “I almost had a heart attack.”
“I know.” His grin was smug now. “That was the point. Not giving you a heart attack but like, make you wet by seeing me in these and fuck, baby, never thought you would be into seeing my legs.” He grins and laughs, kissing your forehead.
You swatted his chest, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. “I love you too,” you said quietly. “Just so you know. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“Oh, it was clear.” He pulled you closer, tucking you under his chin. “I’m kind of a spy. I notice things.”
You snorted. “You’re an assassin, not a spy. There’s a difference.”
“Not according to Peter.” He was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking your hair. “So… what now? What does this make us?”
“Partners, like always,” you said, and he tensed, so you quickly added, “In every sense of the word. If you want.”
He relaxed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that. I so badly want to be your boyfriend, honey.”
You lay there in the dark, wrapped up in each other, and you thought about all the kisses that had come before—the tipsy ones at parties, the desperate ones after missions, the ones that were just because you couldn’t resist. All of them had been leading here, to this moment, to this man who had become your entire world.
“I have to warn you,” he murmured, his voice drowsy. “I’m going to be insufferable about this.”
“About what?”
“About you.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m going to kiss you in the kitchen and hold your hand in the common room and make Steve and Lena gag with all the PDA.”
“I’m counting on it.” You snuggled closer. “But for now, can we just… stay here?”
“Stay here,” he repeated. “I like the sound of that.”
His breathing evened out, and you knew he was falling asleep. You listened to the steady rhythm, matching your own breathing to his, and felt something settle in your chest.
For years, you’d been dancing around each other, too scared to cross that line. And now you were here, in his bed, in his arms, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Outside, the city was waking up, the sky starting to lighten. But inside, in the quiet of Bucky’s room, you were exactly where you belonged.
“Hey, Buck?” you whispered, barely awake yourself.
“Mm?”
“I’m glad you wore those shorts.”
His laugh was sleepy, warm, full of love. “I’m glad I did too.”
And you fell asleep with a smile on your face, wrapped in the arms of the man you loved, finally home.
Bucky and his wife (reader) telling each other how many kids they want to have and it turns out that they want to have the same amount of kids
It starts out as one of those slow, quiet nights—the kind that feel stitched together with soft breathing and the hum of the city far below your apartment windows. You’re curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, a blanket tucked around both of you like it belongs there permanently now.
His hand is tracing absentminded patterns against your calf, warm and grounding, while some half-forgotten movie plays in the background. Neither of you are really watching it. You haven’t been for a while.
You tilt your head to look at him, studying the way his eyes are softer these days, less haunted. Still intense, still him, but lighter. Happier.
“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.
His gaze drops to you instantly, attention sharpening like it always does when you speak. “You can ask me anything, doll.”
There’s a small smile tugging at your lips, but your heart is doing something a little more nervous in your chest. Not in a scared way, more with awareness that this feels like one of those questions that means something. The kind that nudges the future.
You shift, propping yourself up slightly on his chest. “How many kids do you want?”
The words hang between you.
For a second, Bucky just blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that to be the direction your night was going to take. His hand stills on your leg.
“…Kids?” he repeats, quieter this time.
“Yeah.” Your voice softens, but you don’t look away. “I mean—not right this second or anything. Just… in general.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression then. Not hesitation—more like something careful. Thoughtful.
Bucky exhales slowly, his hand moving from your leg to your hip, thumb brushing back and forth like he’s grounding himself before he answers.
“I…” He pauses, glancing up at the ceiling for a second like he’s organizing thoughts he’s probably never said out loud before. “I never really let myself think about it.”
That makes your chest tighten just a little.
“Yeah?” you whisper.
“Yeah.” His lips quirk faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet. “Didn’t exactly think I’d get this. You. A life like this.” His gaze drops back to you, something warm and steady settling there. “Didn’t think I’d get the chance to be someone’s dad.”
You reach up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You’d be a really good one.”
That lands. You can see it—the way his expression shifts, the way something deeper roots itself in his chest at your words.
His hand slides up your back, pulling you a little closer without even thinking about it.
“…Yeah?” he asks again, softer this time.
“Yeah,” you repeat, more certain. “You already take care of everyone like you’re responsible for the whole world. You’re patient. You listen. You’d be the kind of dad kids run to, not from.”
He lets out a quiet breath, something almost disbelieving slipping into it. Like he’s still learning how to accept something good being said about him.
There’s a pause. A warm, quiet one.
Then his thumb starts moving again against your back.
“If I could choose,” he says slowly, like he’s building the thought piece by piece, “I think… I’d want more than one.”
You smile a little at that. “More than one,” you echo. “That’s very specific, Buck.”
He huffs softly. “Alright, smartass. Let me think.”
You settle in, chin resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he considers it.
“…Three,” he finally says.
Your head snaps up so fast it makes him blink.
“Three?” you repeat, unable to hide the grin breaking across your face.
He looks immediately suspicious. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but your smile is way too big to be innocent.
Bucky narrows his eyes at you slightly. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That you already have an answer and it’s about to make me look stupid thing.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not gonna make you look stupid.”
“Uh-huh.” His hand squeezes your hip lightly. “So what’s your number, then?”
You bite your lip, trying to hold it in, but you can’t. “Three.”
There’s a beat.
Bucky just stares at you.
“…You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
His eyebrows lift, and something like disbelief turns into something softer—something almost awed.
“Three?” he repeats again, quieter this time.
“Three,” you confirm, nudging his shoulder with your chin. “I’ve always wanted three. Not too many, not just one. Enough for chaos, but like… manageable chaos.”
A slow smile starts to spread across his face, and this one does reach his eyes.
“Manageable chaos,” he echoes.
“Exactly.”
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“We really just…” He trails off, looking at you like you’ve just aligned something in his world without even trying. “Same number. No argument. No negotiation.”
“Guess we’re just that in sync,” you tease lightly.
But there’s something deeper sitting underneath it, and you both feel it.
Bucky’s hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a way that turns your teasing into something quieter. Softer.
“…Three kids,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the future on his tongue.
Your heart stutters a little at the way he says it. Like it’s not just an idea anymore. Like it’s real.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
He studies your face for a second, like he’s committing this version of you to memory—the one talking about a life that includes him so easily.
“…You really see that?” he asks, voice low. “With me?”
The question is quiet, but it hits hard.
You don’t hesitate.
“I don’t see it without you.”
Something in his expression breaks open at that. Not in a painful way—in a finally way.
His forehead drops to yours, his nose brushing against yours as his hand tightens gently at the back of your neck.
“Three kids,” he repeats again, almost like a promise now.
“Three kids,” you echo.
There’s a quiet moment where neither of you move, just breathing each other in, the weight of it settling between you—solid.
Then Bucky huffs softly, a hint of humor slipping back in.
“You realize I’m gonna be completely outnumbered, right?”
You grin instantly. “Oh, absolutely.”
“Three of you?” he continues, already shaking his head. “I don’t stand a chance.”
“You really don’t.”
His eyes narrow playfully. “You’re raising little menaces, aren’t you?”
“We’re raising little menaces,” you correct, poking his chest.
He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without breaking eye contact.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “We are.”
And somehow, in the quiet glow of your living room, wrapped up in each other with the future stretching out in soft, certain lines, it doesn’t feel like a maybe anymore.
It feels like something already waiting for you both to step into.
Bucky loves aftercare, he's always been the type to care deeply about making you feel like it's not just about him getting off, that it's about the connection that you two share.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He always thought he has a nice face, it's nothing special, nothing particularly that stands out. But it's a part of him that hasn't been used to kill, that still feels like it's entirely his. On his partner he's a sucker for tummy's and thighs, there's something inherently soft and comforting about those places. Resting his head there, kissing there, the softness, it makes him feel safe.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Bucky is the type to pull out at the last second to finish on either your thigh or stomach. Is it the safest method? No, but there's something about not seeing you disgusted by it, by him that just adds to the layer of affection he has for you.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Secretly Bucky longs to be taken care of, he wants to be pampered and loved on like he's the most precious man in the universe. He worries that you won't see him as masculine anymore, or that your opinion of him will change if he admits it though
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) Due to his ladies man past, Bucky is very experienced, he's been with quite a few girls. He's not the type to settle for one night stands, but he's had a few encounters.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Any form of cowgirl, but he also really likes 69 because then he feels like he can care for you just as much as you take care of him.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) When he's in his healing era not at all, this is scary and new to him all over again, he's taking it very seriously. Once he's done some healing, or pre-trauma Bucky, he's not one to shy away from making a joke.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Pre-war Bucky would be trimmed, all other Bucky's genuinely don't care and let it grow unchecked.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Same as goofy, healing era is all intimacy, others are a mix of both romantic intimacy and lightheartedness.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Bucky used to only jack off as his stress relief, worried that no one could see him as deserving of love anymore. Now he just does to not be a bother or too needy.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Lingerie, dressing up for him just because you love him? Eats it up.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do) He will wherever you're willing, but he does like the intimacy of the bedroom.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Lingerie of any kind, tender whispers/touches, "Come here big guy, you've had a long day". Putty in your hands. Also anything over the top and old fashioned romantic, reminds him of a simpler time.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Anything with sharing, or any kind of degradation or humiliation. Nothing involving pain of any kind. No BDSM or bondage, too many unpleasant memories of being restrained.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Eater for life. Will worship between your thighs. He wants you to feel so good. He will ask if you're sure you want to give him oral, even though he loves it too.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Very slow and sensual, he wants to take his time and savour everything about you. It's not easy for him to be open like this, he's taking his time. He makes love to you every time.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) He will never turn one down, but he likes to draw things out and show you how romantic and loving he can be.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) Not often, he has a set few things that are safe to him, and he's usually afraid to differ from that.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) He's a super soldier, he can go and go. Best stamina you'll find. Will be shooting blanks and keep going for you.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) Toys make him nervous, it's not something from his time, not really. They're new, different. If he really trusts you he might try them, but anything too far out of his comfort zone is a big no no.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He doesn't really like to deny you, but if you want him to, he will.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) He starts out quiet, wanting to hear you, but when he discovers that you like his noises too, he's going to let it out. Mostly sighs, but lots of them.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He won't touch you with his metal arm if he can help it. There's too much blood on that hand, he worries that a weapon of HYDRA would bring you nothing but pain. He's not going to risk it.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 7 inches, thick, with a few veins but small ones.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) He's touch-starved, if he can get affection, he's ready whenever you're willing.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) He falls asleep rather quickly, finally at peace in your arms and knowing that someone doesn't see him as a monster.
i love you in my universe @buckyinmyuniverse - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
