LAURA. She/her. 19. Now my life is sweet like cinnamon.🩷 white and black cats. James Buchanan Barnes. night owl. coffee & books. pink. roses. psychology.
D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
summary:: you're a nurse at Hydra,who provides forbidden comfort to the Winter Soldier. After a new serum enhances his aggression, the Soldier becomes intensely protective of you.
warnings::18+,my writing doesn't make any sense,mentions of Bucky's trauma,PINV,no protection,rought sex,HYDRA, the serum is basically sex pollen lol,possessiveness,mentions of blood,creampie,choking
word count:: 1,2k
A/N:: guys,you have no idea how badly I tried to write something for weeks now...the inspiration wouldn't come. And then I put this together by copying 3 random fics I made. So... don't judge.
The Siberian facility was a place of clinical cruelty.You had looked after many soldiers before. Men who were just flesh and bone, broken and put back together.
The winter soldier was one of them. In his files, there was no name,but you knew the truth. In the restricted archives, you had caught a glimpse of an old photograph. James Buchanan Barnes.
And in that sterile white wing, you were the only source of warmth he had ever known. The Hydra protocol dictated that the Asset was a tool, not a patient, and you were never meant to look him in the eye.Yet, you were the one who cleaned the crimson off his skin after a mission, the one who whispered soft words when the memory wipes left him trembling like a lonely child.
HYDRA didn't care about his comfort, only his functionality. But you wanted to give him more than that.Yes,there was no kindness allowed in this place. But they didn't have to know about it,did they?
He never answered, but his breathing would slow, his flesh hand twitching toward your sleeve.
Hydra, however, viewed his occasional flickers of humanity as a flaw in his design.They noticed how his weight shifted when you entered the room, and how his gaze tracked your every movement.To rectify this, they administered a new experimental serum—a cocktail designed to amplify his aggression and solidify his obedience. They wanted a hound that would tear through enemies without hesitation and follow every order with robotic precision.
The scientists had strapped him down tightly to the iron chair, pumping the dark chemical into his veins while he roared in agony.
The serum worked, but Hydra had underestimated the nature of human attachment.You had stood helpless in the corner of the laboratory, your hands clenched behind your back, forced to watch as his veins blackened against his pale skin.
The obedience didn't manifest as a mindless, robotic state.Instead, the chemical broke the mental dams that kept his desperate longing for you under control. It twisted into a territorial focus on the only soul who had ever offered him a touch of grace. The serum didn't make him loyal to Hydra; it locked his focus entirely and irreversibly onto you.
The transformation was instantaneous. The moment the steel doors clicked shut and you were left alone in the medical bay, his gaze locked onto yours.
“Nurse,” he rumbled.
Before you could process the threat, he lunged forward. His body crashing you against the wall with a force that rattled the frames on the bedside table. His metal hand caught both your wrists above your head, holding them tight. He pressed you into the cold wall, leaving you breathless.
The serum coursed through him, igniting a simmering rage beneath the surface. His eyes were dark,wild and ravenous.He had imagined this before in the quiet moments of cryo-sleep. He had imagined kissing you tenderly under a softer sun. But he couldn't do that anymore,not with the serum running in his veins. The gentle caress was lost,replaced by a fierce longing to possess, to etch your essence into his soul, to herald you as his own.
He ripped your scrub top open, the fabric shredding under his strength. He shoved your legs wide, his knee forcing your thighs apart as he yanked his trousers down. He was already rock-hard, leaking a heavy amount of pre-come from the intensity of his arousal.
Without a word of warning, he drove himself into you.
A soft gasp escaped your lips as he buried himself deep in one singular thrust. He was too large, too hard, stretching you to the absolute limit. And god,you loved it.He didn't give you time to adjust; he began to hammer into you with brutal intensity.
As he drove into you,his metallic touch glided from your delicate wrists to your fragile throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to kill, but he gripped you with a firm pressure,just enough to draw the breath from your lungs, igniting a wave of forbidden desire that coursed through you.
“Look at me,” he commanded. His voice seemed to rattle the very bones in your chest.
You lifted your chin, meeting his feral gaze. He adored the way you crumbled, the way your chest heaved as you fought for breath beneath his hand. It was the only way he knew how to express his devotion—through violence.
He picked up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with a wet sound. He was relentless, his movements aggressive.
“Do you like it?” he growled, tightening his grip on your throat, forcing your head back against the wall. “Do you like how I take you?”
You couldn't even answer, only nodding frantically, your body shaking with the intensity of the friction.
You swallowed hard, your voice coming out as a needy whimper. You reached up, your fingers digging into the thick muscles of his biceps, pulling him even closer if that were even possible.
“Yes...” you gasped, your voice strained and breathless. “Yes, Soldat... I love it. I love how you... how you take me.”
The moment the praise left your lips, a low, sound ripped from his throat. The serum had amplified his need for approval.
As the climax began to build, Bucky’s movements became almost manic. He surged forward, his metal arm pinning you even tighter against the wall. He craved to leave a part of himself inside you, a permanent reminder that he belonged to you and you belonged to him.
“I'm going to fill you,” he whispered.
With one final thrust, he bottomed out, his hips locking against yours. He let out a low roar as he came, a thick release that filled you to the brim. He didn't pull out; he stayed buried deep inside you, pumping every drop of his seed into your womb.
He remained there for a long time, his forehead pressed against yours, his hand still loosely circling your throat. He leaned in, kissing your jawline with a softness that contrasted the violence of the act.
“My angel” he murmured. “My everything.” He was breathing heavily, his eyes still dark with the remnants of that feral hunger.
You reached up, your trembling fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck. You could feel him shivering slightly, the aftershocks of the serum and the orgasm leaving him vulnerable in a way he only ever was with you.
✰synopsis: Bucky's your basic sex addict, beneath decades of trauma. When you become the focus of his compulsions, an experimental form of therapy becomes the only thing that quiets his mind, and before long, Bucky isn't addicted to sex anymore. He's addicted to you.
AN: first fic, hear me out? Countertransference - therapist develops emotions about a patient being treated.
Over and over again you have to conquer infinite hopelessness and your deplorable mania for both analysis and control, you start to doubt everything, including your own skills. The manila folder lies open across your desk, its corners softened by two five of being opened, closed, annotated, and reopened again. Your handwriting fills the margins with observations and questions that have become increasingly difficult to answer.
Patient: James Buchanan Barnes.
You read the final sentence from your last session for what must be the tenth time that morning which makes you feel cruel to be optimistic, but you can’t resist the urge to try over and over again. You spend entire days basking in idiotic ways of how to help him, sometimes verging on prayer. The shame of failing consumes you, you are supposed to be the best. People travel across the country, because they believe you succeed where others don't. They arrive at your office carrying both years of trauma and impossible diagnoses, and the certainty that no one can help them anymore. Until now, you have always managed to prove them wrong.
No measurable improvement the patient's...
The words stare back at you with quiet cruelty. You are insane from seeing them and this anger towards yourself has no release, it grows inwards rooting into your spine. You can bear it as long as you find the correct treatment for Bucky. Not merely because of what Hydra stole from him. And that his life was a tragedy. A story carved deep grooves into his brains each time he was awakened from cryo. But he wasn't the one writing the story. Hydra wrote it. But now he is free and wants to write about his life by himself, he doesn't owe anyone anything and that is something that people don't understand—he wants to live, he craves freedom from everything.
You have helped him with pieces of the past. Not enough, it is never enough for someone who has built an entire career on refusing to fail. You have watched him learn to speak of his nightmares without drowning underneath them, watched the memories loosen their merciless grip just enough for him to remain seated instead of retreating into himself. Some memories used to send his pulse into a panicked rhythm, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly before they steadied again upon the armrests of the chair. It is not the pain that used to cause him to be silent, it is because of the ugliness of that pain. He used to have the colossal desire to escape, retreat, not to talk with you. As of today, he is never late for his appointments.
Progress, by any other patient’s standards, but not with this. Not with the one behavior that continues to outmaneuver every method you place before it:
…destructive sexual compulsions.
Three words, yet they have proven far more resilient than every treatment you have placed against them. Porn, magazines, actual sex. He couldn't stop even for a day no matter what you did. You lean back in your chair, with an air of extraordinary determination, pinching the bridge of your nose until sparks of color bloom behind your eyelids, you demand unconditional success from yourself. Contrary to failing for the past months, you know nothing of defeat yet. Healing has never been a profession to you, it is devotion.
To heal is to touch a soul with love where it has previously been touched by fear, to stand patiently beside another person's suffering until they no longer mistake survival for living. Progress has never been enough. While other therapists celebrate smaller victories like fewer nightmares, better sleep, one less panic attack....you smile, congratulate the patient, write 'improving' across the page and then you go home dissatisfied.
You have never been infatuated with progress, you are infatuated with recovery. Perhaps that is your greatest strength or maybe...it is the first flaw James Buchanan Barnes has ever managed to expose.
A quiet knock sounds against the office door which makes your eyes drift toward the clock above the bookshelf. 4:30 PM. The handle turns almost silently as Bucky steps inside, closing the door behind him with habitual care.
He has long hair, falling around his face and brushing against the collar of his jacket. For a moment, you simply stare, because Bucky never wears his hair down and today, it hangs loose. You can’t even remember the last time you have seen him let it down voluntarily. Then your attention drifts lower, to his hands. They remain concealed by weathered leather gloves he insists on wearing in public, regardless of the season or temperature.
You expect him to come and sit, but what you don’t expect is for Bucky to immediately shrug off his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting t-shirt underneath, clinging to his muscled frame, and you watch persistently and curiously. Not solely because of the muscles, but because the gesture catches you off guard. There is something strangely trusting about shedding a layer of himself in front of you. The fabric, stretching taut across his chest and shoulders, accentuates every contour.
As he lays the jacket over the back of the armchair, your eyes meet, the light casting a shadow over his face—his breath hitches, a shiver runs through him. You have an authentic magnetism, it has very little to do with beauty, though he would be lying if he claimed not to notice it. It is the way you listen, the way you listen every time is more equivalent that speech. And when you talk, you are like some swan princess who enhances his imagination in hope, in eventual full recovery.
When he first walked into your office, he had decided you would fail. However, somewhere between the fourth session and the eighth, without ever noticing the precise moment it happened, he had stopped watching the clock. The fifty minutes no longer felt like an obligation. The nightmares still came as well as the guilt remained as relentless as ever, but they no longer occupied every waking hour.
Your eyes set on his blue ones, his lovely melancholy expression, his lovely eyes. He can talk with his eyes, with the stabbing brilliance of those eyes, the perpetual strain around them has softened and it is enough for you to know that he is in a better mood.
Bucky lowers himself into the armchair opposite yours. He sits the way soldiers often do, spine straight despite the softness of the cushions, hands loosely clasped together between his knees. You draw yourself up, though not enough to rise from your chair.
"Comfortable?" you ask with a pleasant voice, with a suave intonation, such as is affected by over-refined professionalism.
Instead, you fold one leg over the other and rest the file neatly upon your lap, using the familiar ritual to disguise the fact that, for reasons you would rather not examine too closely, your pulse has become strangely difficult to ignore. He is a twisted, strange soul, haunted by both the past and dreams, yet there is something profoundly human in the way he carries his suffering.
No university can prepare you for a man whose memories have been rewritten, whose identity has been fractured so many times that even he is no longer certain where one version of himself ends and another begins. There are no textbooks on such trauma or papers on prolonged captivity or case studies on torture survivors. When the file first landed on your desk, you almost laughed, because someone, somewhere, had looked at James Buchanan Barnes and decided that one therapist should somehow be enough. They had asked every specialist before you and most declined. Others admitted, with honesty, that they were unqualified and one resigned from the program altogether after reading the file.
You still remember sitting in Director Hill's office, the folder resting between the two of you like an unexploded bomb. Since rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D., she made Barnes one of her personal priorities, because the world owed him the chance to recover from what had been done to him.
"I don't need miracles," Hill had said, sliding the file toward you. "I need someone who won't quit on him."
You should have agreed as every sensible part of you knew you were walking into territory no one had ever mapped before, but you reached for the file and not because you believed you were the most qualified person for Bucky's case, but because, by then...there was no one else left willing to try.
"As comfortable as I usually am. I'd say I've adjusted, Doc." he says in a soft and measured voice, watching you. At last a shy smile rises to his lips. Without realizing, there is a cordial and amiable smile on your lips in return.
Your beauty is like the edge of the sharp knife. Bucky likes fairy tales, he likes dreaming, dreaming about you. He desires violently, but that’s all can do. He wonders who has access to you, fuck everything, why is he so desperately hungry for you? Your deep-set and serious eyes, big velvety eyes worrying for him, they slit his soul like a razor the moment they finally leave the file to look at him.
"How have you been sleeping?" your soft voice, like cake and vanilla. You are his favorite fantasy over the past two months and he loves to live in that fantasy. You are mystically delicate as you set the open file gently on the table before leaning forward, forearms resting on the desk, your attention fully settling on him, what a tenderness look. Bucky hates himself for how easily he's distracted by you lately. And he is praying that you won’t notice the bulge on the fabric of his jeans. His shoulders lift in a shrug, a low chuckle rumbles past Bucky’s lips as he runs a hand through his hair before he answers.
"Better."
“What about the nightmares?”
He shifts in his chair, trying to will his body into cooperation. His flesh hand drifts absentmindedly over his thigh, sliding slowly from knee to hip and back again in an attempt to ground himself, while his metal fingers tap an uneven rhythm against the armrest. He can romanticize being with you all he wants, but the devil, the Winter Soldier, wrapped in silk, is still the devil, memories taps a gun to his skull and demands to bring them back to reality. He doesn’t deserve a woman like you, you deserve someone whose touch doesn't come with a high body count, measured in corpses and countless one night stands.
"They, they're still very present."
He pauses, his hand still moving idly over his thigh, searching for words as there is an inquiry which springs from the impatience of his own mind to have something going on under the witchery of your beautiful eyes. Panic prickles under his skin, because if he doesn't say something soon, you'll immediately notice. You'll notice his hesitation, the way his eyes keep drifting anywhere but yours, escaping your gaze for reasons that have nothing to do with nightmares.
"They," His gaze drifts briefly toward the window behind you before returning to your face. "They don't stay as long, every nightmare borrows a face I’ve seen before, of the people I-...of the people the Winter Soldier killed." His hand continues its absent path across his thigh as he searches for the right words, but they scatter the moment they reach his tongue. There is another question clawing at the back of his mind, one that has been growing louder with every session, with every smile you offer him. “But with you, it is different than before, with you, I want to talk about it.”
After a short pause he resumes the monologue by saying—
"Do you ever get tired of listening to people talk about the worst parts of themselves?" he goes on, speaking in an emphatic, obstinate, excited, and rapid voice. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. "Forget I asked-"
"No, James." you pipe suddenly, in a honeyed voice with a peculiar intonation, still holding your eyes onto his "I don't get tired, but I get tired of the way they think those parts are all they are. I've met people who lie and who try to manipulate, even people who refuse responsibility for the pain they've caused." You offer the smallest shrug. "Those are the conversations that exhaust me." you pronounce in a voice saturated with feeling, resting your palms against the table.
His eyes tell stories with dangerous beginning and lost endings, where every page is breathing color. Yet, he is so beautiful to you. Professional distance has always come naturally. You listened, you helped, and then you left his pain within the walls of your office, but somewhere between the appointments, something shifted drastically. On your schedule, only his name is written in color. You are at a crossroad: ethical instinct tells you to refer him to another therapist before your feelings cloud your judgment even more…and then, there is an utter impossibility to do it.
"How has your mind been this week?"
"Honestly? Mostly sex, Doc." He rubs a flesh hand over his jaw. "It was easier back when magazines were the extent of my options, like I told you before, but then I discovered the internet." A soft, self-deprecating laugh escapes his lips as he shakes his head." Steve should've never bought me a smartphone."
"Well, even switching to a flip phone didn't help us much." you say suddenly with strange calm, glancing down at the notes spread across your desk before meeting his face again. You watch as his metal thumb idly traces the seam of his jeans before with a faint smile.
"No," he admits. "It really didn't."
"So it wasn't the smartphone."
"Turns out the problem came with the guy holding it." he whispers slyly, laughing immoderately.
Your expression falters for only a heartbeat before you compose yourself again, settling both palms against the edge of the desk in front of you as if the solid wood might anchor your dignity. You remove all traces of worry and try to assume an amiable expression “Tell me what happened over the past week, did you sleep with someone new?”
But the amiable expression of his face suddenly vanishes, there is a gleam of spite in his eyes. He is disconcerted, his eyes are lustreless, they fall to the floor. He licks his bottom lip before drawing it between his lips and pressing his top teeth into it. Your gaze darts down to his lips against your better judgement, and then your eyes settle back on his.
A new mystery woman.
You prepare yourself for what comes next, expecting him to dissect every detail of sleeping with this random woman as usual, every feeling that came with it. You don’t think you've hated something as much as wanting him, because from every story he's told, one thing has remained stubbornly consistent is that he is a gentle lover and it is such an maddening thing to know.
"I met a girl at a bar. A few weeks ago I'd have gone home with her without thinking twice. She made it easy, she wanted me. They all do." his expression is disdainful and even haughty as he brings out suddenly, and a low voice, his fingers brushing the same spot on his thigh, over and over again, replaying the memory. "And all I could think was..."
You.
He thinks about fucking you. In this moment. In fact, he’s thinking about it right now and all you can see is his expression of a smile as it comes back on his face.
"You didn't go home with her," you say, unable to hide the satisfaction in your voice. "That's actual progress!"
"What stopped you?" you ask gently. "Did you recognize the pattern before you acted on it?"
"I can't tell you, Doc. Some things are better left in my head."
He is a man of few words, but from his eyes you know that he has a beautiful soul and a raw heart. An exterior or stone cannot conceal the flowers inside. Everyone mourns the first blossom, but who will grieve the rest who fall? You do.
"James," you say softly, "whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone, I'm here for you, I have proven that to you."
"Doc, I can’t share that," he pronounces firmly as he rubs a thumb over one of one dog tag before letting it fall back against his chest. “That is my problem. I want and I want and want,”
“What do you want, James?”
You've spent months learning the language of his silences, of his face and mannerisms, and this one is different. Something completely new has wedged itself. You glance at him, and are amazed. The eyes, the voice, are not the same as always, or as they have been in the room just now. What you see is almost another face. The intonation of the voice is different.
You rise from your chair and it scrapes a bit against the floor which makes his head lift instinctively. He wonders why people are not as disturbed as he is when he is at your heels clicking on the floor as if hauntingly walking to kill him on the spot. What is wrong with him, he remains standing like a post with his mouth wide open, staring at you with a fearfully stupid expression. Before he has time to object, you've closed the distance between you as you come to a stop directly in front of him.
Close enough that, if he lifted his head, he'd have no choice but to look at you. It's as if his brain short circuits when he's close to you, wires detaching in his mind that make the task of breathing something difficult. You cast your fragrance and your radiance over him. Nothing is more memorable than a smell. Your perfume has become another form of torture as it clings to Bucky’s thoughts with fidelity, turning ordinary moments into reminders of you. That’s why he has bought the same perfume you wear. With his lively imagination, pretending that he is fucking you in his room becomes effortless.
"No, sorry Doc, there is no way," he mutters, vexation roughening his voice and a humorless laugh escapes him. "This one particular thing is too fucked up to say out loud."
He swallows, it is a tragedy, the way he wants you. You are a sin worth starving for. He tells himself it's the past that warped him into this man, that years of being stripped of choice left something permanently broken inside him even sexually. He used to move effortlessly from one stranger to the next, never lingering long enough for a face to matter. He hates to surrender to cumming at the thoughts of you every day, but nothing satisfies him as much as thinking about you. His longing is lovely and his yearning is heavenly.
The silence closes his mouth and twists his heart. The old leather creaks beneath his weight as his shoulders sink into the backrest, legs drift apart in a sprawl. It isn't confidence that spreads his posture open, but exhaustion. The posture of a man buying himself a few extra seconds before he has to continue speaking. In a world where people see him as polished, he is cracking. His fantasies need to be a secret garden in his mind, his walls need to be higher, but he wants to tell you, it is that simple, and as complicated as that.
"Why?" you ask in a low voice.
"Because if I do," His voice breaks into something almost inaudible. "Everything changes." he breaks, as though involuntarily.
His need for you is formidable and vast. He craves you in such a dark and indecent ways that speaking them out loud would blacken his tongue. A thirst that won’t subside until your body is blushed red and blazing hot in his hands.
"Whatever it is, you're safe here. Always. Nothing you're about to say is going to make me turn away from you."
"She wasn't you." he mutters rapidly, and almost in delirium. Finally, his eyes lift to meet yours. They search your face with desperate uncertainty, as though he's trying to determine whether you've truly heard him or whether he still has time to take the words back. Shame and longing wage an evident war behind his gaze. His mouth parts, nothing comes at first, but your reassurance is so inviting, it undoes something inside him.
"What do you mean?" you are just twisting your mouth into a jocose smile, but you instantly check yourself. You genuinely believed that you misheard him.
"The woman at the bar." He forces himself to continue before you can speak. "I know what this is, maybe I'm confusing your kindness with...even my might loneliness is at fault. I tried to tell myself it'd disappear after a few sessions, but sessions became two months…now I can't get off unless I'm thinking about you."
The office falls into a silence so complete you can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. His confessions both consoles and devastates you, you feel your heart pulse, then wither.
"James," your voice calm despite the turmoil beneath it, you watch him with a stern face, but without a trace of surprise. "Thank you for telling me." The words come forcefully, professional. "I imagine that wasn't easy." You force yourself to fucking breathe.
He pushes himself to his feet so fast that the chair scrapes backwards across the floor, but your hand applies the slightest pressure on his flesh shoulder, a quiet indication for him to lean back instead of run away. You should have referred him months ago and the realization settles in your chest with clarity, because this situation arises a mixture of feelings.
"Sit down." you order this with a peculiar irritability.
“Fuck, alright.”
You can imagine how it would be. That is the worst part. The suggestive taunts that makes you feel clumsy and hyper-vigilant, the soft touches that could spring like a trap—they paint a very vivid picture of what it would be like to fuck him, yes. He would be nice and gentle, and he would probably gore your heart like any other trophy in this place just as soon as is done playing with it. The betrayal to yourself and to everything you've sworn to uphold begins the moment you allow yourself to wonder what his mouth would feel like against yours, the moment your imagination reaches for him instead of letting him leave.
"I don't give up on people." I won’t give up on you, you want to say, looking fixedly at him as you look down at him from where you stand, the difference in height making him seem vulnerable.
The words are as much for yourself as they are for him, a reminder that he is, despite your corrupt heart, your patient. Dignity will stain your fingers, and fingers like a pomegranate, greedy fingers clutching at everything you can reach, but the need to prove to yourself and everyone around that you can cure him, help him in every way possible encircles and conquers you.
"I crossed a line, Doc, there is something very wrong with me." he brings out suddenly, in a firm, emphatic voice.
Oh, there is something wrong with him…but there is something wrong with him that is also wrong with you. You want to say something more, suddenly, terror instantly distorts your face, but your panic lasts only one instant, your face works with a sort of strange smile, suspicious and unpleasant. The realization isn’t loud, but you need to voice it to him:
"For months, your compulsive behavior has remained consistent and the strangers, the things you watch, have always changed. But now, your fantasies have narrowed instead of expanding and that's new."
He listens with extreme curiosity, and for a long time he is silent, thinking. The prolonged eye contact should be unbearable, but somehow, he manages to hold it. He is entirely absorbed in contemplation of you, how pretty you seem to him up this close. He longs for you, he admires your composure with which you regard him, even after he's confessed something he believes ought to disgust you. No, you just look at him with infinite care, it feels like an ax in his chest.
"That's not a good thing, Doc." his brow furrows as he says at last, ironically and disdainfully.
"No," you admit. "It’s clinically significant. For the first time, your behavior isn't indiscriminate, It is actually solely attached to a single person. I'm not interested in the fact that they're about me. I'm interested in why they're about me particularly."
His eyes wander, tracing the length of your legs until they settle on the black heels just to follow the line of your legs back up until his eyes find yours again. God, he wants you in some primal, wild way animals want each other, untamed and full of teeth. In a parallel universe, he knows that you would step on him with those pretty heels, but suddenly, he looks at you like he just realized something.
"What if it isn't really about you?"
"Exactly," you reply. "If these feelings are rooted in your trauma and loneliness, dependency, or even transference, then treating them as simple attraction would mean we'd be treating the symptom instead of the cause. Compulsion thrives on novelty and to me, this doesn't look like novelty. It looks like an attachment."
He blinks in surprise. "Your theory is that…I’m attached to you?"
"I think you've formed an emotional bond that your mind is expressing through sexual desire. We need to explore it further, James."
He looks at you in amazement, his face seems to twitch, because what type of question is that?
“Explore it further, explore it?” he asks discreetly, opening wide his eyes, with a rush of surprise which he was unable to suppress, though he does his utmost to hide it.
“What do you want to do to me, James?”
The question and your voice is like a hand between his legs. Your eyes are angelic, but his eyes set on your unearthly lips for a moment. Just the sound of his name leaving your lips has him biting the inside of his cheek. He studies your face as though searching for a hidden meaning you'd forgotten to conceal. Your expression remains composed as usual although you are quite difficult to read, a gentle type of horror, he can’t tell if you are serious or not which makes the misunderstanding worse.
"Is it even legal for you to touch your patients?"
“James, that’s not what…” you say in a soft and measured voice.
He brings his elbows to his knees and lets his head dip down to rest in his hands, because what the fuck was he actually thinking, he's so submerged in his own madness that, for one impossible moment, he'd convinced himself you were asking him to sleep with you. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, because he can't bring himself to look at you. He listens as several taps of your heel breaks the silence, each click is a demand for him to speak. His eyes flutter closed as he lets out a groan.
"Yeah, yeah, this is," his voice is stained, hardly even a whisper. Bucky dares to finally look at you through his hands. You’re still standing a foot in front of him, with your hands on your hips, watching him with an expression of disbelief. "exactly why you shouldn't have phrased it like that." He looks at you for half a second running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Phrased what?"
"What do you want to do to me, explore it further?'" He asks, licking his lips as he peers down at you with narrowed eyes. "You cannot ask a man who's just admitted he's having intrusive sexual thoughts about you a question like that, because for about five seconds I thought you were suggesting we have sex.”
It is bad. It takes you a few seconds to compose yourself and focus, fighting the urge to look down at his visible hardness. You are acutely aware of it, of the unmistakable outline of the fabric of his jeans. You know that it's big, you can see the imprint with your peripheral vision. You stand there, aware that the greatest threat to your professionalism isn't James, it is the part of yourself that keeps wondering.
"I was asking you to analyze the fantasies." you whisper, but your voice is still charged with authority as you look into his haunting gaze, but somehow far from graciously, turn your gaze away in embarrassment and it lands on the clock mounted above the office door. Fifteen minutes remain of his session. You teach patients how to steady themselves through discomfort, and now you can't seem to remember how to do it yourself as your pulse beats a little too fast.
"James, with all due respect, this is not the opening scene of a porno." you say with measured professionalism.
"Well, my brain completely skipped that part." he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You make it so difficult, Doc, with your ridiculously pretty heels, looking down on me, standing between my legs. You have to understand that's what my brain is currently doing with the situation." he deigns to pronounce, in a hoarse bass, words coming out in clipped bursts.
His eyes are the interpreter of the animal lust beneath, his words send a sensation which is sharp and electric, as if a drag of his wet tongue is already on your skin igniting nerves you haven't known existed—you moan shamelessly internally. For the first time since Barnes walked into your office, you have nothing to say. Nothing that belongs to the woman whose name is printed neatly on the plaque outside the door. The room is engrossed by the extraordinary silence and you don’t have a grand gift for silence, Bucky notices and knows something is haunting you mentally. His brows draw together, confusion cutting through the haze in his expression.
“Doc?”
You are thinking about stepping back, returning to your chair, writing a referral, making the phone call, and ending the session before either of you says something that cannot be unsaid, but there is something darling about holding eye contact with Bucky. You may be feeding an impure hunger, you are angry and half in lust with him, and tremendously sorry for what comes next, you will just let the words out. Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Traditional treatment isn’t helping at all and now that the problem has narrowed, this fixation of yours has become singular for the first time. It has attached itself to me. I'm I'm willing to consider something I'd have condemned in any other circumstance.”
“Wait, what are you implying?" he whispers, but it barely sounds like refusal. “You are not serious, Doc."
“I’m not saying it’s right, but I want to help you,”
He studies your face, searching for the smallest sign, the slightest movement of your brow, the vaguest reddening of your cheeks, there is not even a drop of regret in your eyes. He studies your face, he looks at you absent-mindlessly, as though trying to remember what you are talking about. These words are not what he is expecting, it makes him positively stunned.
“Jesus Christ, you are serious." he whispers. “You’re standing there, telling me you might have sex with me because you think it could fix me. That doesn’t fix me, Doc, that gives me exactly what I want.” his eyes and voice are defiant.
“What if getting what you want makes the fantasy lose power?”
“What if it makes it worse?”
“James-”
“No, don’t say that like it's a treatment, you can’t make yourself my medicine. Don't convince yourself this is therapy just because you want to help me. Think about what you’re actually offering.” he says hoarsely.
You stay quiet for a few moments as you run through the scenario in your head for the last time and the idea of sleeping with your patient, it doesn’t seem to bother you in the least, but the idea of going right back to the next session next week doesn’t sit so well with you.
Seeing you standing there unresponsive makes him realize that silence has a sound, he nibbles his lower lip, searching for the strength to say the one word that would save you both, but when he has indulged a lust, his wings drops off…Bucky is a fucked up, curious, needy, wanting thing and you’ve got an awfully kissable mouth. He lives for everything sex related, his brain is wired that way and you are a tender and erotic woman, his favorite fixation. He can't say no.
“I think it’s better if I don’t think about it anymore, James.”
When he pushes himself off of the foot of the chair and comes to stand only a few inches in front of you, towering over you, you take half a second to wonder if you've been living with an undiagnosed mental illness all along, and today's the day it finally introduces itself.
“Just once, just once, yeah?” he whispers, but there is no conviction in it. “You don’t know what I become when I want to fuck, but I will behave, Doc,” his grin becomes a touch leery, innocently cocking his head to the side.
The word lands ugly between you. He doesn’t soften it nor does he apologize. You are perfect, pure maddening sex, and you probably know it, because you play on it, drip it, and allow him to suffer for it. His favorite fantasy.
“James, we have less than ten minutes.”
He is sadly disappointed now that part of his fantasy is ruined, he wanted to take his time with you, savoring the privilege of simply touching you everywhere, afraid that if he rushed, he'd miss something he'd spent months longing to know. The ticking of the clock reminds him that reality is always less generous than fantasy.
“I won’t fuck you, I won’t.” The words sound less like a promise to you than a reminder to himself, he repeats them because he knows exactly how badly he wants to. "We don't have time."
His eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation, but he finds none so he finally takes the leap. He closes the distance slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you don’t, Bucky leans in and closes the gap between the two of you. Months of restraint unravel in a single moment. With the first brush of his lips against yours, your eyes flutter closed. You part your lips, meeting him halfway, and warmth blooms through your body as he sucks on your bottom lip gently.
All of his tails are true, Bucky is gentle. Your arms come up around his neck and he pulls you against him. His hands flatten against your back and you are up on the tips of your toes, kissing him as fiercely as he is kissing you, he shifts his stance and you feel the outline of his fully erect dick pressing against your lower stomach. Oh. His tongue glides along your top lip, feeling his way into your mouth before fully tasting you. He wastes no time in sliding his tongue back into your mouth and letting it work in tandem with yours. You’re the one to pull back first.
“My God,” he gasps, “you are fun to kiss, Doc.”
Your eyes widen at his words, of course, he has a smug smile plastered across his face. One moment your feet are on the floor, the next the world tilts and you’re lifted like you weigh nothing at all. Your breath punches out of you as he sets you onto your own desk. He steps forward immediately, planting himself between your legs before while his gloved metal hand closes over yours before you can think to move it, pressing your palm flat against the desk beside your hip. His flesh hand braces against the table near your thigh, not touching. He immediately presses his hips right against your clothed cunt, his bulge prominent in his pants as he grinds without a care that he is practically humping you in your own office.
“I’ve thought about this exact moment more times than I should admit, Doc.” He murmurs before attaching his lips to the right side of your neck, leaving bruises deliberately. He bites only once, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
“Jesus, Bucky.” your breath leaves you in a shaken whisper. You bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the door. Anyone could walk by since it is not locked. He pulls back from your neck to look at you with sparkling eyes.
“Bucky? You never call me that-” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle.
"The door isn't locked." you interrupt him, looking like a frightened doe and he catches as your eyes dart toward the office door. He follows your gaze for only a fraction of a second before looking back at you.
"Look at me, doll, I don’t mind being caught."
His mocking tone and easy manner makes you angry. You lean forward, bracing one hand on his chest, and bring the other down hard across his cheek. The sound is sharp. His head snaps to the side with the force of it. A low, guttural groan rumbles out of his chest as his dick twitches. “Fuck, Doc, do it again,” he rasps, voice wrecked. His grin widens as though he has discovered a secret about you. “I didn't know you had that in you.”
The cocky amusement dancing in his eyes makes you sick with desire. You can’t bear to look at him just now. If you do, you might well slap him again. Or cry. Or kiss him. And never know which is right and which is wrong and which is madness. The slap has never been about hurting him, It was an attempt to puncture the confidence across his face, but instead of forcing the arrogance out of his face, you have only given it teeth.
You don’t notice him removing his human hand from the table, but you hear his belt slipping free from its loops with a soft click. You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as he groans—his sky-blue eyes stare back into yours, and in his eyes he can see no parting from you. He kisses you again. As much as you’re enjoying kissing him, you know that’s not what he needs right now.
"You have exactly five minutes, James." you say, glances at the clock on the wall once more. "Then I have to leave."
This time when you part, his gaze is lustreless, there is no softness. It is the look of a man whose brain has spent a lot of time confusing intimacy with appetite, whose instinct has always been to reach for the next body, the next distraction, the next brief, blinding high. And you have handed yourself to the pattern. Realization is a cruel kind of education, cutting through every excuse you had dressed in compassion. This isn't treatment or some radical attempt to understand his fixation.
It is a ruinous mistake, but it can’t stop you from having bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. You can’t hide it from him that you are enjoying it as you watch Bucky slide his fingers over the head of his cock, mixing his precum and spreading it down the shaft. He gives it a few strokes, letting his head fall against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he begins to pump. When he smells your perfume, sprayed on your neck, he almost cums on the spot. He stops, to take a breath, his voice barely more than a whisper:
He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear “You got another appointment this late, Doc?”
His hand starts moving again, faster, stroking his cock at a more desperate urgency. His breath hitches as he feels the climax closing in. If he is in his right mind, he would’ve thought he is pathetic. Pathetic for letting you be the reason why he is losing it for the past two months.
‘’Shit…’’ His orgasm comes crashing over him, his body shuddering at the feeling as the warmth of his cum coats his hand and dribbles down onto his pants. ‘’Fuck…that feels...too good, Doc.’’ He whimpers as he draws out the best orgasm in his life as long as he can, pumping his hand up and down until he’s spent. When he finally lifts his head to find your eyes, you begin speaking at once, hiding behind professionalism, pretending the moment you've just shared has never happened:
"Believe it or not," you reply dryly, "I have a life outside this office. I have a date." The vindictive smile that stretches on your ruined lipstick sends shivers down Bucky’s spine.
You twist at the waist, reaching behind you for your handbag resting at the corner of the desk. Your fingers disappear inside the bag before emerging with a packet of tissues. Without daring to look at him, you pull out a handful and press them into his cum-stained hand.
"Here."
Ignoring the weight of his gaze, you retrieve the compact mirror tucked inside your bag. Your lipstick is smudged, the color feathered beyond its lines. With a quiet sigh, you wipe it away and begin applying it again, each stroke giving your trembling hands something practical to do.
Bucky watches you, you are one of those languid woman, made of dark honey, smooth and sweet, and terribly sticky, who has control over the room with a syrury gesture, a single slow whiplash of the eyes and all at while remain as still as a hurricane, apparently unaware of the force of gravity which you attract the yearning and the soul of him. He zips his pants, but he is already hard again. By the time you snap the mirror shut, your expression has settles back into something resembling professionalism.
“Where’s he taking you?”
Your pulse spikes, of anger.
“James, that is none of your business.”
“Is he picking you up?” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain.
“No,”
“What a gentleman,“ he says, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “I can drive you there.”
"You are absolutely not driving me to my date." Your hand is already on your phone, opening the taxi app, when reality catches up with you. It's rush hour. The streets outside will be at a standstill by now.
“Sounds good, Doc. I guess I will see you next week.” He reaches for the small waste container beside your desk and drops the used napkins inside before reaching for the leather jacket draped over the armchair and slipping it over his shoulders. Without another word, he turns and starts toward the door.
"Would you be willing to give me a ride?"
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. Then he chuckles, a low, mocking sound "I thought I was ‘absolutely not’ driving you to your date."
summary: After feeling like you aren’t enough for people to stay, your boyfriend reassures you that there is nothing wrong with you.
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: insecurities, reader feeling like she isn’t enough, bucky being an amazing boyfriend, just lots of fluff and comfort
author’s note: This is related to this request, I’m sorry that it took me so long! I really hope you like it and that it turned out like you imagined <3
Also to all the writers out there, I was wondering if I could ask you for some advice- I feel like my writing is very repetitive and that I am retelling what happens more than I am really letting the reader be a part of the story and I am not sure how to get away from that kind of writing. I’ve heard that it’s something a lot of new writers struggle with in the beginning, but some tips and tricks would really be appreciated!!
dividers by @cursed-carmine
Having friends had never been something you'd taken for granted.
You'd never been one of those people who seemed to be getting along with everyone without even trying, managing to have a place in all different kinds of friend groups or waking up to a load of notifications from friends who wanted to include you without having to think about it.
In high school, when you'd been at the age where teenagers saw every single thing about their looks and their character as a flaw that had to be fixed, you'd tried so desperately to fit in, there hadn't been much left of you when you'd finally accepted that this kind of world was never something you would be a part of.
And the older you got, the more you learned that it might not be as much of an issue as you always thought it was.
You had your friends, after all.
Sure, you didn't have a dozen of people in your close circe, but if there was one thing that adulthood had taught you, itt was that with all the responsibilities it brought, you actually didn't have that much time to spend with your friends either way.
By now, you'd accepted that you could count the amount of people that were actually your friends off on one hand, that your plans always included the same few people and that Bucky knew all of them by now because there hadn't exactly been a lot to introduce him to.
You'd come to peace with it, mostly.
Still, you couldn't deny that there was still this part of you, the one that had developed when you’d been twelve years old and crying about everyone in your class going to a party you weren't invited to, which told you that your worth depended on what others might think of you.
Because if nobody liked you, what even was the point?
And even though you weren't that kid anymore, the desire to be liked had never really left.
It wasn't as intense anymore, sure, but deep down, you knew that it was as much a part of you as the heart beating in your chest, so you accepted it with the kind of resignation that people developed when their doubts took over and fighting them felt like a task too hard to manage.
When you had first started to receive even less messages than you usually did, you'd just thought your friends were busy. You knew damn well that with how hectic life could get, social contacts were hard to manage sometimes.
It was fine. Surely, it was just a phase that would pass again soon.
Except it didn't pass, not really. That's what made it so bad.
Whenever you reached out to your friends, whether it was texting them individually or sending the location of a new café into the group chat, the reactions were… sparse, to put it lightly.
At first, you'd thought that you had done something wrong and they were mad at you, but when you'd asked them about it, the only answer they gave you was that they were busy.
And they weren't lying.
That much you could see in their Instagram stories, the ones you went through more often than you would ever admit.
Pictures from a party on one account, a vacation dump on the other.
They were living their lives and you loved that your them, you really did, but you still couldn't help but notice that all the plans they made were with people you didn't know.
Friends they had, ones that had nothing to do with you because their social circle wasn't even close to as small as yours was.
You figured that with all the friends they had, having one person more or less in their life didn't really make a difference to them.
And all you could do was obsess over how them leaving was your fault.
Maybe, if you would've just managed to step out of your comfort zone a little more, this wouldn't have happened.
After all, interesting people were never the ones that got abandoned, right? That just happened to the ones who weren't entertaining enough to leave an impression.
Maybe, if you would've talked less and laughed at their jokes a little more, you would've been more likeable.
Maybe then you would still have friends.
Honestly, it probably wouldn't hurt so much if you hadn't tried so hard.
You had, though.
You'd tried so hard to be exactly the kind of friend they might want you to be, the one that was always available, the one that answered texts quickly and gave the right kind of advice no matter the situation.
But apparently, that still hadn't been enough.
You'd tried to hide how much this had been affecting you over the last weeks, but you could only do so much.
And with a boyfriend as perceptive as Bucky, you knew that it would only be a matter of time until he would pick up on your change of mood.
The two of you were currently sitting on the couch in his living room, eating dinner together whilst the soft thud if rain hitting the windows provided some comfortable background noise.
Honestly, the scenario would've been comforting in any other situation.
Bucky had spent the last two hours in the kitchen, cooking a warm and comforting meal that made up for the stormy weather outside perfectly, especially because you could enjoy it from the warm living room with the man you loved sitting right next to you.
He'd been so proud of dinner when he'd plated it up for the two of you, you couldn't help but feel guilty for the way you were just absentmindedly pushing it around on your plate.
It tasted good, that wasn't the issue. Bucky's cooking skills had improved so much since you'd first started to teach him how to navigate the kitchen again after he'd admitted that he didn't actually know how to do something so domestic anymore.
You really wanted to just enjoy it with him, to have a nice and cozy evening without letting your stupid insecurities destroy it.
But you couldn't.
The heaviness in your heart was even worse today than it usually was, not because anything in particular had happened but because you knew that it was only a matter of time until you wouldn't have anyone anymore.
It wouldn't take much longer until Bucky would realize that he could do so much better than what you had to offer, and then he would leave.
And with him, the Avengers would be gone too, which would leave you completely and utterly alone and there was nothing you could do about it.
You could try, sure, but there was nothing you could do to stop the inevitable.
You were so deeply lost in thought, you didn't even notice that Bucky had been staring at you for the last few minutes already.
"Do you not like it?"
Your head snapped towards your boyfriend, who was looking at you with an expression that usually meant he was trying to understand something he couldn't exactly figure out yet.
"What?"
"The food," Bucky clarified, gesturing to your full plate. "You barely ate anything. I figured there might not be enough salt in it for you but-"
"Buck, no. It's perfect. I'm just… not hungry, that's all."
The fact that he was now thinking that you didn't like his cooking only made you feel worse, because that wasn't it at all.
The knot in your stomach was just too tight for you to have any kind of appetite.
Unable to look at him any longer, you lowered your gaze to your plate again, forcing yourself to take a bite just for the sake of it.
Bucky really wasn't having it, though.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how he put his plate down on the table before he got up from where he was sitting, moving so he was kneeling in front of you, gently taking your plate away from you aswell.
"C'mon sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?"
Sometimes, his attentiveness really was a curse more than it was a blessing. And with him sitting in front of you like that, his beautiful eyes so full of worry and concern, you couldn't keep this from him any longer.
"I just… I'm not really much of an interesting person, am I?"
Bucky's brows pulled together in confusion, his expression turning a little disbelieving now. "Of course you are, doll. Where is this coming from?"
You could already feel your throat tighten uncomfortably, the way he said it so convinced and certain, like he didn't even have to think about his answer twice whilst it was all you've been thinking about over the last few weeks.
"Well, I'm not exactly the person with the biggest amount of friends, am I? And the few friends I do have don't really hang out with me anymore, so there has to be something I'm doing wrong, right? I wouldn't be this unlikeable otherwise."
The words were all but tumbling out of your mouth now, the dam that had been holding every single one of your doubts and insecurities back finally breaking.
"Everyone's leaving, Bucky, and I really don't know what the hell I am supposed to do to stop it and-"
You couldn't help the way your voice broke, the hitch in your breath dangerously close to a sob as Bucky pulled you into his arms, properly sitting down on the floor so he could put you down in his lap, completely wrapping his arms around you like that was enough to top you from falling apart.
Unfortunately, it really wasn't.
Tears were streaming down your face now, shoulders shaking with the sobs that were ripping from your throat, your boyfriend's embrace giving you exactly the kind of comfort you needed.
And Bucky didn't try to stop you from crying, neither did he try to fix anything right now.
He just… held you. He gave you the oppurtunity to just let go for a moment, to share those ugly and raw thoughts with him and show you that he was there for you anyway.
The two of you just stayed like that for a very long time, how long exactly you couldn't tell, though. It was always like that with Bucky, like his embrace was more than enough to stop the concept of time from making sense anymore.
And Bucky didn't rush you. He just gently rocked you back and forth, his metal arm soothingly moving up and down your back as his other hand cradled your head to his chest.
When the tears finally slowed and you pulled back just enough to look at him again, he carefully brushed some hair out of your face, eyes running over your features like it would help him understand what exactly was going through your head right now. "I need you to listen to me now, alright sweetheart?"
Only when you nodded did he go on, his voice serious in a way you've never heard before.
It wasn't the kind of seriousness that you knew from when he talked about missions.
This felt more personal, like he was talking about something that meant way more too him than anything work related ever could.
"There is nothing wrong with you, and it kills me that you think there is. You are one of the most amazing and interesting people I know, and I love you. If your friends can't appreciate that, that's on them. But I won't let you make yourself small because other people can't see how much of a special person you are."
You knew that Bucky meant what he was saying, you really did, but words somehow still meant so little when words had failed you so often already.
"You're biased, though. Also, I'm your girlfriend. You have to say that kind of stuff."
That made him laugh a little now, a soft smile carefully pulling at his lips.
It wasn't the kind of laugh that was mocking or invalidating your feelings, though. Just the kind which showed that he meant what he said, and that the mere idea of it being a lie a little amusing to him.
"Pretty sure I don't have to do or say anything anymore, love. I'm telling you this because it's true. If you think that my love for you makes me unqualified too answer that question, though, I'm sure that the others would tell you the exact same thing."
You knew that he meant the Avengers by that, but honestly, you weren't sure if that was necessarily true.
"They are your friends, though, not mine."
It wasn't really much of a reasonable explanation, but it made sense to you. To them, you had to feel like an extension of Bucky, which meant that they couldn't exactly say anything bad about you.
Bucky didn't seem to think that at all, though. "Sam told me last week that he would personally kick my ass off the team if I ever managed to mess things up with you. I think it's safe to say that they like you more than they like me by now, sweetheart, and I can't even blame them."
He seemed to notice that you weren't entirely convinced yet, so he just kept going. "I get the feeling of thinking that you aren't enough for people to stay. Trust me, I do. But I also have a very smart and wonderful woman in my life who once told me that my worth doesn't depend on the amount of validation I get from others, because that would never manage to make me feel like I’m enough. And I feel like the things that count for me count for you too, don't they?"
Bucky wasn't wrong- you had told him that, but telling other people things like that was always easier than to believe them yourself. "Well, saying stuff is always easy, isn't it?"
"It is," he agreed. "But you got me and you got the others, doll, and i think it's safe to say that all of us would be more than happy to remind you of how much you mean to all of us as much as you need- especially me. Okay?"
Honestly, it wasn't really okay yet, but after what Bucky'd just said, maybe it was going to be. Sure, there were still going to be days where the feeling of not being enough swallowed you whole and the loneliness felt like a burden too heavy to carry.
But now you knew that you didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Losing friends was never going to be easy, and honestly? You didn't even want it to be.
Friends were people that you carried close to your heart, which was exactly the reason why it hurt so much when the left.
But you weren't just going to stop caring to avoid the consequences, not when it was such a big part of you- a part that others appreciated, even though you couldn't always see it that way.
And losing yourself over other people leaving?
That sure as hell wasn't going to happen.
Especially not with your boyfriend still looking at you like that, convincing you that maybe, everything was going to work out just fine.
Subby!Bucky who hardens instantly when you command him. Being reduced from a super-soldier to your plaything is his ultimate turn-on.
Subby!Bucky who will stay on his knees, trembling and leaking, refusing to touch himself until you give him permission.
Subby!Bucky who will pin you down while kissing every inch of you.
Subby!Bucky who loves being called a "good boy" while he's deep inside. He'll shake and come violently just from that.
Subby!Bucky who craves being yours. He wants your bite marks and scratches all over his body.
Subby!Bucky who becomes a sobbing, needy mess after climax. He'll wrap his body around you, begging for reassurance that you still want him.
Subby!Bucky who is terrified of his own strength. He’ll kneel at your feet or curl into a ball just to be near you, practically begging for a touch with his eyes.
Subby!Bucky who will kill anyone who looks at you wrong, but the moment he turns back to you, he’s asking if he did a good job.
Subby!Bucky who views you as his only anchor. He’ll memorize every detail of your routine and wait for you by the door like a loyal pup, unable to function if you're gone too long.
Subby!Bucky who is incredibly self-conscious about the arm. He’ll try to hide it and when you tell him you love it, he looks like he’s about to collapse from the sheer intensity of his feelings.
Subby!Bucky who is anxious, so he doesn't just hold your hand; he grips it like a lifeline.
Subby!Bucky who the first time you brush your fingers over his cheek or kiss his forehead, he might actually tear up or let out a shaky, broken sob because he can't handle the kindness.
summary:: you're one of the widows,you have no memories. You long for a sense of identity. Unlucky for you — The Winter Soldier is smarter than you.
warnings:: 18+, HYDRA,brainwashed reader,psychological abuse,emotional trauma,gore,smut,dubcon,power imbalance,PIV,bad writing,he “ducks” you against a bookshelf,no aftercare,feeling of being used
word count:: 5,7k
A/N:: the endings feels a bit like it's not finished? So i might make a part 2. Idk. I've been gone for some time because I'm mourning the loss of not getting into the UNI I wanted to get into🥹 any tips on how to survive this?😭
The HYDRA base is always cold, and the hallway lights have this annoying buzz. Everyone in this place knows you, or at least they think they do. You never mess up, you’re always on time, and you don’t show a single drop of emotion. You do the job and go back to your room.
They think you’re completely hollow inside, like a robot.The truth is, you don’t even know if they’re right, because you don’t remember anything.
Your past isn't a story; it’s just whatever bullshit the handlers decide to feed you during the morning briefings. They tell you you’re a weapon, that you were born out of some cold war, and you just have to nod.
But God, it kills you. It’s an ache right in the center of your chest. You know how to stop a man's heart with three fingers, but you don't know a damn thing about yourself. You don’t what your mother’s voice sounded like. You’re just completely blank, staring at your own hands, wondering whose life you’re actually living.
The steel doors opened, and Natasha Romanoff slipped into the narrow corridor of the lower levels. This part of the HYDRA base was mostly abandoned—just cold pipes dripping rusty water and old storage rooms that smelled like wet concrete. She looked exhausted, her uniform dusted with dry mud.
She leaned back against the wall, letting out a breath, and looked over at you standing in the dark.
“You’ve been leaning there a while,” she said. “Don't your legs ache?”
You didn't move. “No.”
Natasha let out a dry laugh, looking down at her boots. “Right.Nobody comes down here. The handlers are all upstairs arguing about the mission files. We have time.”
You let out a long sigh.“Good. How bad was it out there?”
She stared down the empty hallway. “It was a mess in Berlin,” she stated. “A safehouse raid. Simple on paper, but the target knew we were coming. There was a tracking device in the secure drive they made me pull from the mainframe. By the time I hit the perimeter, the local authorities had the whole block sealed off. I had to ditch the primary vehicle and move through the underground drainage tunnels just to bypass the thermal grid. It took four hours just to find a clean extraction point.”
“Sounds like a total nightmare,” you let out a long sigh. “Four hours in a drainage tunnel? I would have probably lost my mind after the first two. They always make these missions sound so clean when they write them down on paper, but they never account for the actual mud.”
You looked over at her, giving a small smirk. “Did you at least manage to keep the secure drive dry?”
“It’s safe,” she remarked, letting out a small laugh. “Wrapped it in three layers of plastic.The mission is completed. That is all that matters”
You looked down at your boots. “I’ve memorized the maps of Berlin,” you murmured. “Every street, every tunnel grid. But hearing you talk about it... it just makes me realize I don’t actually know what it looks like.”
“Well,” she murmured. “I guess that’s just the life of the Black Widows.We don't need to know what it looks like. And honestly? I don't care to look at the sky. Following the protocol keeps us alive.”
“Does it ever stop?” you asked softly. “Or do we just keep looking at maps instead of the actual sky until they finally replace us?”
“It doesn't stop,” she noted. “They don't let people like us just walk away. We move from one room to another, one handler to the next.You know it.”
You stared down at the floor, a bitter smile touching your lips. “Yeah. I know it.” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Sometimes I think the only way out of this place is in a body bag. At least then they stop asking you to remember the protocols.”
“Maybe. But don't get sentimental. It makes you sloppy.” she said sharply. “But I heard something upstairs before I came down here. The tech guys were drunk on smuggled vodka, talking about the lower levels. They said there’s an old archive room. Level four, behind the old boiler grid. It’s completely off the main system, totally analog.”
She paused. “They said HYDRA never actually deletes anything. They just file it away on paper. Real records,from before the chemical rinses. Everything about who we were before they brought us here. If there's anything left of your past... it's down there.”
You looked up, a spark of desperation in your eyes. “Are you coming with me?”
“No. I have to report to the upper levels in three minutes. I don't break protocol, and I don't risk my neck for ghost stories. If you go down there, you go alone. And if the handlers catch you... we never had this conversation.” With a metallic click, the doors slid open, and she slipped through, leaving you completely alone again.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a violent surge of adrenaline making your fingertips tingle. The temptation pulled at you.Level four was just a few staircases away. The truth about your own name, your family, your real life was waiting for you.
But you closed your eyes and forced yourself to take a deep breath. You dropped your shoulders and forced the emotions back.
Going down there right now would be suicide. You didn't know what kind of analog locks were on those doors. Natasha was right about this. It was a dangerous game, and HYDRA didn't give second chances to assets who started asking questions.
You couldn't just rush in blindly. If you were going to find out who you were, you had to be smart about it.
You adjusted the cuffs of your uniform, and walked back toward the main sector. You weren't giving up on your past.
...
The training room smelled of old rubber mats and gun oil. You found Yelena sitting on a bench near the back wall, systematically cleaning her combat knife. She didn't look up when you approached; her fingers just moved with precision.
You stood a few feet away. “They’re updating the perimeter patrol grids on Level Three tomorrow,” you mentioned. “Maintenance said that they might shut down the secondary ventilation shafts to save power.”
Yelena’s thumb paused on the cold blade for a second, then resumed its rhythm. “They always do that when the upper sectors run too hot. Why do you care?”
“The structural layout,” you replied smoothly, the lie rolling off your tongue. “If the vents on Level Three go dark, the pressure drops in the lower pipe network. I was checking the backup routes. The old boiler grid on Level Four handles the overflow, doesn't it?”
“Level Four hasn’t seen a proper maintenance crew since ninety-eight. If the pressure drops, that whole corridor just drowns in steam and rusty water. Nobody goes near it unless they want to ruin their uniform.”
“So the security cameras on that sub-level are probably offline anyway,” you noted casually. “No point in monitoring a dead zone.”
“They’re wired to the old analog loop,” Yelena muttered. “The monitors in the main guard room don’t even show the feed unless someone manually flips the toggle on the old junction box. Why?”
You met her gaze with porcelain blankness, refusing to let the panic show. “I just don’t like blind spots in the facility blueprint.”
Yelena held your stare for a long moment, trying to read you, before she went back to her knife. “There are no blind spots down there. Just old walls and bad air. Leave it alone.”
Weeks blurred into one. You lived your life on a loop,training until your knuckles bled and standing at perfect attention during briefings. To the handlers, you were still the perfect machine. But late at night,you counted the seconds in the dark, mapping out the upper level guard rotations in your head just to find the perfect blind spot to escape your room.
You waited and today was that day.
Upstairs, the main reactors ran hot, and just like Yelena said, the maintenance crew shut down the secondary ventilation shafts to cool the upper sectors.
You slipped out of your quarters at 02:00 AM, avoiding the upper patrols with ease. When you reached the iron stairwell leading to the sub-levels, the air instantly changed. It grew suffocating. As you stepped onto the floor of Level Four, a wall of steam rolled over you, smelling of sulfur and wet rust. You could barely see your own hands in front of your face.
The security cameras hung from the ceiling, their small analog lenses staring blindly into the white mist. No one was watching. Just like Yelena said, this place was a dead zone.
You pulled the collar of your uniform up over your mouth to keep from breathing in the burning air, and you began to walk. The old archive room was just a few steps away.
You reached the end of the corridor, your boots sloshing through the warm water on the floor. Through the shifting steam, the iron door of the archive finally appeared. It looked ancient, its gray paint peeling away in long strips, covered in a thick layer of reddish rust from decades of damp air. There was no electronic keypad, no modern scanner—just a mechanical handle and a simple keyhole. You reached out, your hand slick with condensation, and pushed down. With a low groan the door swung inward.
You stepped inside and shut the door behind you, cutting off the worst of the burning steam.The air inside the archive was cooler, but it smelled of vinegar, paper, and dust. Rows upon rows of towering wooden bookshelves stood there, packed with thousands of folders and old film canisters. A single light bulb hung from a frayed black wire in the center of the ceiling, casting an amber glow over the room.
Your pulse quickened and you moved to the first row of shelves. Your fingers trembled slightly. The labels were all typed on old typewriters, their ink fading into gray.
You moved deeper into the rows of wooden shelves. The alphabetized labels on the shelves caught the weak amber light. Your eyes scanned the letters quickly. You knew your own name; they had never managed to wash that single piece of identity out of your head, no matter how many chemical rinses they forced you through.
You stopped in front of the correct section. Your fingers began to flip through the thick edges of the manila folders.“Come on,” you whispered to yourself.
Then, your fingers froze. There it was. Typed out on a gray label.With a sharp breath, you pulled the folder from the shelf. You laid the file down on a rusted metal table nearby, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as you flipped open the cover.
The silence of the archive room broke with a sound that made your blood turn to ice.It wasn't a loud noise,just the faint clank of a metal arm brushing against the rusted iron doorframe behind you.
You didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room instantly grew suffocating. The Winter Soldier stood in the doorway, his massive silhouette cutting off the faint light coming from the hallway. He was part of the training program upstairs, a soldier that pushed the Widows to their absolute limits during combat drills. You knew the brutal weight of his metal hand all too well.
“You are breaking protocol,” his voice spunded, low and completely stripped of any human warmth. “You do not belong on this level.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you didn't let your hands shake. You slowly closed the manila folder on the table, and finally turned around to face him.
“Neither do you,” you said. “There are no training drills scheduled for tonight, Soldat. So why are you lurking?”
He looked down at the file beneath your hand, then back up at your face.“The upper level armory needs inventory logs from the old armaments stored in the back vault,” he stated. “Step away from the table. Return to your quarters before they notice the perimeter breach.”
“No,” you said softly. “I’m not going back to that blank room. Not until I read what’s inside this folder.You know what it feels like to have nothing, don't you? So don't act like a loyal dog for the men upstairs. Not down here.”
Your words didn't change a single thing about his face. There was no flash of recognition, no soft look of sympathy in his dark eyes.“Emotions are a liability,” he stated. “The folder belongs to the facility. You do not.”
He took a step forward. The dim light caught the silver of his metal arm as he reached down, his fingers clamping firmly onto the top edge of the manila file. He didn't slam you against the wall; he just used his strength to pull the papers out from under your hands, leaving your fingers bare.
“You really are just a machine, aren't you?” you hissed, your voice dropping with venom. You looked up, staring right into his blank eyes. “They didn't just wipe your mind. They took everything else, too.”
“Do it again, and there will be consequences.” The words were short and final. He was giving you your one and only warning.
You knew you couldn't beat him in a physical fight,not with that metal arm, and not down here. You took a slow step back from the table, keeping your chin up. You turned on your heel and walked out, letting the iron door slam shut behind you.
It was barely 06:00 AM, and the massive room already smelled of rubber mats and gun grease. You stood near the back wall with the other Widows, waiting for the morning horror to begin. Your ribs still ached from the night before, and your throat felt dry from the sulfur of Level Four.
Yelena shifted her weight next to you, her uniform sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She didn't look at you directly—but she leaned in just enough.
“You look completely washed out,” she whispered. “Worse than usual. What is wrong with you?”
You kept your eyes fixed on the empty rubber mat in the center of the room. “I just didn't sleep.”
“Right,” Yelena muttered. “And I am the Queen of England. Your heart rate is jumping every time the door clicks. You’re terrified of something. Fix your face.”
Before you could say another word, the iron doors at the end of the grid opened.
The Winter Soldier walked into the center of the mats. He rolled his shoulders, the leather of his tactical vest creaking in the silence of the room. His dark hair fell over his face in messy strands, and the silver of his left arm looked blindingly bright—the exact same metal that had ripped your past away from you just a few hours ago.
“Combat drills,” his voice cut through the hum of the facility. “Hand-to-hand. No weapons. You.” He pointed his finger toward you.
Oh,you were fucked.
Yelena gave you a warning glance as you stepped out of the line. You walked onto the black mat, your heart doing a slow thud against your ribs.
You didn't wait for him to make the first move. You didn't want to look weak in front of him. You lunged forward, throwing a sharp jab toward his jaw, but the soldier caught your fist in his human hand with ease. The impact jarred up your shoulder, but you spun, using his grip to swing your leg around, aiming a hard kick at his ribs.
He blocked it with his silver forearm.Before you could pull back, his metal hand clamped around your wrist. The cold vibranium bit deep into your skin. He threw his weight forward, sweeping your legs out from under you, and slammed you flat onto the rubber mat.
The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp. You stared up at the ceiling, the lights spinning above you.
He came down on one knee, pressing his forearms across your chest, pinning you completely to the floor. His face was just inches from yours, his dark eyes staring right down into your soul.
“You’re sloppy today,” he whispered. “Your head isn't in the fight. Fix it.”
For a split second, the pressure against your ribs increased, pushing the remaining air straight out of your lungs to completely shut you up.Then, just as quickly, the weight was gone.
He rose to his feet in one motion. He stepped back into the center of the rubber mat, turning his back to you as if you were nothing more than a minor inconvenience he had already dealt with.
“Next,” he barked out.
You lay on the mat for a beat, your chest heaving as you forced air back into your lungs. You could feel Yelena’s worried gaze on you from the back wall, and you knew the handlers upstairs were already taking notes on your slow recovery time.
Biting your inner lip until you tasted copper, you pushed yourself up, ignoring the dull ache in your shoulders and ribs. You kept your chin high, and marched back into the line of Widows. You lost,but if anything, the touch of his metal arm had only made you more determined to go back down to Level Four again.But you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead.
The next Widow stepped forward, her movements aggressive. She fought purely on raw instinct and HYDRA programming. She lunged, aiming a kick at his knee, trying to find a weak spot in his balance.But he didn't even flinch.
He was precise, but he was also predictable. He relied on the brutal strength of his left arm to finish a fight quickly. Every time the Widow pushed him too hard on his right side, he would instinctively swing his torso around to absorb the blow.It wasn't a tactical flaw; it was a habit. A mechanical habit burned into his muscle memory through decades of the exact same battles.
The Widow threw a desperate left hook, but the soldier caught her arm, spun her around with a deafening thud, and pinned her flat to the mat within three seconds. He didn't look down at her face. He just released her and stepped back, his eyes catching yours for a fraction of a second as he waited for the next girl to step up.
The facility went dead quiet as the night took over. You lay still on the narrow cot in your quarters, staring up at the dark ceiling.
Your whole body ached. The skin around your wrist was already turning deep purple where his metal fingers had crushed into you.
But you didn't care about the pain.Inside your chest a wild fire was burning. It was an ache that you couldn't put out. You could still smell the wet rust of the archive room. You could still see the light casting shadows over the manila folder — the only piece of yourself they hadn't managed to steal.The thought of it made your blood run hot with adrenaline.
You were so tired of being a ghost. You were tired of looking at maps of cities you had never seen. You wanted to know the girl who had existed before the chemical rinses and blank walls.
You threw the thin blanket off your legs, your bare feet hitting the freezing concrete floor. The consequences didn't matter. You were going to go back down to Level Four, and you were going to take back everything they took from you.
You slipped out of your quarters into the freezing dark.You didn't take the main elevator or the central stairs this time. Instead, you used the abandoned service stairwell behind the old laundry chute.
By the time you reached the threshold of Level Four, the suffocating steam was already rolling across the floor. The analog security cameras hung frozen from the ceiling, their lenses staring blankly into the fog.
Your heart hammered against your ribs.You pulled your collar up over your mouth to block out the burning air and stepped into the mist. The archive door was just fifty yards ahead through the dark.
When your hand finally brushed against the rusted frame of the archive door, your fingers didn't hit a locked handle.
The iron door was already unlocked. It stood slightly ajar.Your breath caught in your throat. Someone had been here or worse—someone was still inside, waiting for you to walk right into their trap. But the desperate fire in your chest was too hot to let you turn back now. You couldn't go back to your bed.
You placed your palms flat against the iron, applying enough pressure to push the door open. You slipped through the narrow gap into the pitch-black room and immediately pressed your back against the wall.
The air inside was still cool, smelling of rotting paper and vinegar. But there was something else tonight—the familiar scent of gun oil and leather.
A few feet away, the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling suddenly flickered to life. It didn't cast its usual bright glow; someone had thrown a dark cloth over the glass, forcing the light to pool downward in an, eerie circle right over the metal table.
You sprinted to the correct row of towering wooden bookshelves, your fingers already flying toward the alphabetized section.
“Come on,” you breathed. “Where is it?” Your fingers flipped through the manila folders once, then twice, your movements getting faster and more desperate. You checked the letters before your name. You checked the letters after. You even checked the shelves below, your hands shaking slightly as they brushed away decades of dust.
It wasn't there.The spot where your file had been sitting last night was completely empty. The only piece of identity you had left—was gone.
A cold sweat broke out across your forehead. Maybe the soldier hadn't just put it back on the shelf after throwing you out. He had moved it. Or worse, he had destroyed it.
Your knuckles turned white against the wooden shelf as you snapped your head around.A massive shadow materialized right out of the darkness next to you.
He stepped out of the black void between the towering wooden bookshelves, standing so close that you could feel the radiation of his cybernetic shoulder.
The Winter Soldier stood there, completely still.Slowly,he raised his human hand.Clutched between his gloved fingers was your manila folder. He held it just out of your reach, a mocking prize dangling in his hands.
“Looking for this?”
He didn't raise his weapon, and he didn't grab your throat. He stood there like a creep, watching you with those hollow eyes, entirely aware that he had caught you red-handed for the second time.
“Give it to me,” you said. “Just give it to me. You knew I'd come back tonight.”
“I told you there would be consequences,” he noted flatly.He stared down at you through the messy strands of his dark hair. The folder stayed firmly clutched in his fingers.
“Then do whatever you're going to do,” you challenged, taking a half-step closer until you could almost feel the cold coming off his vibranium arm. “Report me to the handlers. Schedule the recalibration. But you know that name belongs to me. So just let me look inside. Just for one minute.”
His chest rose and fell in a slow breath. “Nothing in this facility is free,” he noted. “You want your past back. But there is a price you have to pay for it.”
“What kind of price?” you whispered. “You want me to fight you again? You want me to do your grunt work upstairs?”
The folder slipped from his fingers, hitting the dusty floorboards with a dull thud. Before the sound could even echo through the room, his human hand shot forward, closing firmly around your waist. In one terrifying motion, he lifted you off your feet and slammed your back hard against the sturdy wood of the bookshelf.
A gasp caught in your throat, but it was immediately swallowed as his lips crashed onto yours.
The kiss was desperate, completely stripped of any HYDRA discipline. It was a raw collision of two victims trying to feel alive. His metal arm came up, wrapping securely around your thighs to hold you pinned against the shelves, while his human hand tangled deep into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
The wooden shelf groaned under your combined weight. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers into the messy strands of his hair, pulling him closer until there was absolutely no space left between you.
He pressed his entire weight into you, his breathing ragged against your skin as his mouth moved from your lips down to your neck. He was holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
You let out a breath against his lips, your hands still tangled tightly in his messy hair. Even with your heart hammering violently against your ribs and your body pinned helplessly against the groaning wooden shelf, your mind was still calculating.
He thought he was consuming you, punishing your defiance with this... but you knew exactly what you were doing. But you had to admit, it was an incredible way to pay the price.
You tightened your grip around his neck, burying your fingers deeper into the strands of his hair, pulling his face even closer. He let out a low, groan, the sound vibrating straight through your ribcage. The raw desperation in his touch was overwhelming; his human hand clamped down harder on your waist, while his metal arm shifted beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly higher against the wooden shelf.
He kissed you as if he were trying to leave bruises. You matched his intensity, tiltiing your head back as his mouth trailed down your jawline to press hot kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck.
For a brainwashed soldier he sure knew what he was doing. He pulled away from the bookshelf just an inch. His hair fell over his eyes as he looked down at your face.
He carried you effortlessly through the dark aisle. He placed you backward onto the edge of the metal table. The iron bit sharply into the skin through your uniform, making you let out a breathless gasp, but he immediately stepped in between your knees.
He didn't wait any longer. He couldn't.His human hand came down to the stiff tactical buckles of your uniform jacket. His fingers were trembling slightly now, driven by human hunger. He unzipped the material and slid the dark jacket off your shoulders, tossing it carelessly into the the floor.
He stripped the layers away until your skin was completely bare. The chill of the room sent a shiver down your spine, but the warmth of his body and his mouth against your collarbone kept you completely burning. He leaned down, his thumb tracing your jaw before his lips crashed back onto yours, holding you down against the table.
He didn't want any barriers between you anymore.He reached up with his human hand, unbuckling the leather straps of his own heavy tactical vest. He ripped the vest open and threw it away. Next, he pulled the fabric of his shirt over his head, exposing his chest.
This was supposed to be your punishment?
He reached down slowly. The quiet click of his belt buckle breaking open echoed through the archive.He didn't rush. He wanted you to watch. He wanted you to see exactly what the "price" for your curiosity looked like.
As he pushed his tactical pants and underwear down in one motion, you caught your breath. He was thick and fully aroused. He stepped out of the clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, standing before you in his lethal glory.
The sight of him sent a shiver down your spine.As he stepped between your thighs, you arched your back, reaching for him. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to pull him as close as humanly possible. The feeling of his weight pressing you into the metal table made you moan, a sound of desperate surrender.
He let out a guttural groan that vibrated through his entire chest. The feeling of your legs clamping around him snapped something inside him.
He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. With a sudden heave, he lifted you clean off the table.
You gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you across the short distance. He slammed you back against the bookshelf with a violent thud, the folders rattling behind you.
He pinned you there, your legs still locked around his waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, while his cock pressed firmly against your entrance, teasing you.
“Do we have a deal, Widow?”
You couldn't be answer. You arched your hips, begging for a friction, your breath hitching in a desperate sob.
The soldier didn't give you a choice. He surged forward, driving himself into you in one deep thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs. You let out a strangled cry, your head snapping back against the bookshelf as he filled you completely. He was massive, stretching you wide.
As he settled deep inside you, he paused for a second, his muscles locking up. He let out a strained hiss, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt the heat of your walls clamping around him.
He didn't even give you a second to adjust. He started moving immediately, slamming your back into the shelves over and over.
“Look at me,” he growled.You forced your eyes open, seeing the animalistic hunger in his gaze. He wasn't the asset right now, and he wasn't the soldier; he was just a man who had been starving for this.
He shifted his grip, sliding his hand to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your face close to his. He kissed you again. His tongue invading your mouth as he continued his movements.
Each thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your toes curl and your vision blur. You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, pulling him closer.
“That's it,” he rasped, his breath hot against your lips. “Take it all. Everything.” He watched your face, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your mouth hung open in a silent plea for more.
A smirk touched his lips. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Searching for your past... and here you are, dripping for me. You're a desperate little slut, aren't you?”
The words send a fresh jolt of heat straight to your clitoris. You let out a moan, your head thrashing against the bookshelf, your hips unconsciously grinding back against him.
“Answer me,” he commanded, sounding more like the Winter Soldier than the man. He tightened his grip on your thighs, lifting you slightly higher to drive himself even deeper. “Tell me how much you want this.”
“I want...” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Please, don't stop...” A satisfied smirk played on his lips. He slowed his pace for a moment, grinding his hips in an agonizing circle that hit every sensitive nerve ending, making you whimper and squeeze him tighter.
“You’re so tight like this,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “Like you were made specifically to take me?”
He didn't wait for an answer. He resumed the pace. The folder lay forgotten on the floor beside you.You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, desperate to bridge the gap between you.
As you met his gaze, he delivered one final thrust that sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, triggering your release that left you sobbing his name.
He followed shortly after, a guttural groan escaping him as he buried his face in your neck, his body stiffening as he poured himself into you.
Your feet slowly touched the floor as he finally lowered you, the rough wood of the bookshelf still pressing hard against your bare back. Your breath hitched. Your legs felt weak, still trembling.
The soldier stepped back. He began adjusting his tactical gear, smoothing out his uniform as if the last few minutes had never occurred. Yet, his eyes lingered on your flushed face for just a second longer than they should have.
His metal hand reached for the folder and then he slid it safely inside his tactical vest.You stared at him. “The file...” you whispered. “We had a deal.”
“Next time,” he said quietly.Your jaw tightened, a sickening knot forming in your stomach. Next time? A wave of shock and pure disbelief hit you. You had let him touch you, let him take everything, believing it was the only way to buy your freedom. And he had just used you. He had lied to you.
“You said if I paid the price—” you started, anger finally breaking through the shock.
“I said the file has a price,” He interrupted. “I never said this was the full payment. Go back to your quarters.”
He turned on his heel toward the exit. “Wait!” you hissed, but the soldier didn't even pause this time.He stepped out into the corridor and vanished, leaving you completely alone in the freezing archive.
With shaking hands, you finally forced your body to move. You reached for your clothes, which were scattered on the cold floor.
You pulled on your undershirt, your movements frantic as your mind raced. He didn't just break the deal; he trapped you. He knew you couldn't report him without exposing your own treason. He held all the cards, and now he knew exactly what you were willing to sacrifice to get that folder.
You buckled your tactical belt, your knuckles turning white as you yanked the strap tight. As you pulled your jacket over your shoulders and zipped it up, a terrifying thought crossed your mind.What if he never gives it to you?
Pressing your back against the bookshelf one last time, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You had to get back to your quarters without being seen. You couldn't let anyone see the rage and panic written all over your face.
synopsis. 𓂅 one year. that’s how long bucky has spent watching you from the shadows. he knows your life better than anyone, he just wishes your boyfriend didn’t.
disclaimers. dark romance, stalking, knife play, explicit language, smut, dark!bucky, blood kink, fear play, choking kink, bucky breaking into reader!house, penetration, size kink, stalker!bucky fucking reader against the wall, insinuation of murder, taboo fanfic, masturbating while fantasizing, no proof read, sex without the light, oral, (f receiving) cnc, blindfold
every routine you’ve built has become second nature to him, every habit committed to memory. he knows when you’re running late, when you’ve had a bad day, when you’re forcing a smile, he also knows when you come home, and you come home alone. not with this man who’s been coming around recently. the same man who starts kissing your plump lips goodnight at your front door.
at first, bucky decided for his sanity that it was temporary. you were grown, you’ve had hook ups and sneaky links come over. but when filled boxes that he pathetically struggled to carry into the house came, and him staying over every night, his suspicions grew and eventually he realized there was no denial left to believe in, the man was your new boyfriend. so he started following your new boyfriend home, religiously.
he couldn’t believe that you went for someone like this, you were out his league by a long shot. the man was nowhere near fit, looked like he smelt like sweat, hair that looked as if it was maintained in an condom.
bucky adjusted back in the driver seat. the shadows poured into his car, leaving no view of him at all while he stroked his length up and down. he bit on his lip lazily, his massive palm kept the addictive rhythm going on his cock while he looked over at you, across the dark street, talking to your boyfriend at his car. he had just got there, which left bucky annoyed, all he could imagine was you bouncing on his cock in his car, taking his thick and long cock while you managed to barely breathe.
the amount of times he’d seen you get fucked by the guy was overwhelming to hear. he wasn’t good, bucky would catch you looking off at the wall’s decorations, out the window, the ceiling, at times. all of that he caught through his secretive cameras he placed around your window and within your room, it was sad just how oblivious the guy was. he didn’t do nothing for you, just fucked your body while you laid there like a dead corpse. not a single sound coming from those pretty lips.
if bucky had the opportunity to fuck your brains out, he so would. he’d make you feel things you never felt before, make you cry from coming because it felt so good. even now as he sat there still jerking off at the sight of you, across the street, talking to your boyfriend bucky couldnt stop the low groan that slipped from his throat. his hand moved faster, slick sounds filling the quiet car while his eyes stayed locked on your body, the way your hips shifted as you laughed at something that loser said.
he hated how close the guy stood to you how his hand rested on your waist like he owned you. bucky pumped his cock harder, imagining ripping you away from that moment dragging you into his car and burying himself so deep inside you that you forgot anyone else existed. your boyfriend didnt deserve those plump lips or the soft curves he got to touch every night. bucky did. he had studied you for so long watched every moan you tried to hide and every unsatisfied sigh.
his breathing grew ragged as he twisted his wrist just right, precum leaking over his fingers making the strokes smoother. you glanced toward the street for a second and bucky swore you looked right at his hidden spot, even though the shadows swallowed him whole. that single look pushed him closer to the edge, his balls tightening as he kept jerking off furiously to the view of you standing there so innocently unaware. he wanted to mark you claim every inch until you only craved him. one day soon he told himself he would make that fantasy real and when he did you wouldnt be looking at walls or ceilings anymore. youd be screaming his name until your voice gave out.
you lay there on your back in the missionary position, legs open and spread around ryan, as he moved inside you slow and steady. the room stayed mostly dark with just enough moonlight slicing through the window to catch the outline of his body, hovering over yours, and the wet shine on his lips when he leaned down to suck on your neck again. his mouth felt warm but it didnt spark much anymore. you hummed softly when he hit a decent spot eyes half lidded.
“y’like that?” he murmured against your skin voice low and a little breathless. “mhm” you answered keeping it simple your hands resting on his shoulders as he kept thrusting. the rhythm stayed quiet just the faint creak of your bed and his breathing filling the space. you stared up at the ceiling trying to lose yourself in it but your mind kept drifting like it always did lately.
then a sudden clatter echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, like something metal falling in the kitchen or hallway. it wasnt loud enough to be scary but it cut through the silence sharp. ryan paused mid thrust lifting a brow, as he looked toward your bedroom door. “what the fuck was that?” he whispered, then laughed. “i don’t know, how would i know ryan?” you asked him with attitude. “i’ll go check it out babe. stay here.” he smiled.
he pulled out of you with a wet sound and rolled off the bed, grabbing his boxers from the floor and tugging them on quick. you nodded, not really protesting as he slipped out of the room closing the door behind him. the house went still again except for the distant sound of his footsteps.
you stayed laid out on your back, legs still parted, skin cooling in the moonlight. your body felt flushed but unsatisfied like usual. you turned your head toward the window staring out into the dark street. the shadows across the way looked thicker tonight almost like something moved in them but you couldnt be sure. you let your thighs fall open a little wider fingers trailing lazily down your stomach not touching anything just feeling the emptiness ryan left behind. the cool air brushed over your wet folds making you shiver as you kept gazing outside wondering why your skin prickled like someone was watching.
you felt strong hands wrap around your ankles suddenly yanking you down the bed in one smooth pull until your ass reached the very edge of the mattress. your heart jumped hard in your chest. “oh my god, you scared me ryan!” you said softly. you breathed out, frowning a little as you tried to sit up on your elbows staring into the dark shadows where the figure stood.
a black shirt flew toward your face blocking your view for a second. you laughed softly and pushed it off to the side, but before you could ask fully, “what the hell that was for” a thick finger pressed between your lips sliding into your mouth. you hummed around it, instinctively sucking lightly. his finger felt bigger, rougher, than usual but you didnt let it alarm you maybe, he was just worked up from earlier. the bed creaked under shifting weight as the man moved closer towering over you in the low moonlight.
your eyes adjusted a bit and the faint glow caught his pretty pink lips, making you lift up slightly drawn to them. they hovered close, lingering together before he gave you a soft peck then another. his mouth felt fuller and warmer than you expected but it sent a little thrill through you anyway. your head tipped back, as he stayed mostly hidden in the darkness, only those lips visible as he started dragging slow wet kisses down your jaw then your neck across your collarbone and lower over your chest.
his warm hand came up to cover your eyes, gently blocking the moonlight completely. you relaxed into it, breathing him in as his kisses trailed down your stomach. he smelled so good, somethin rich, somethin like a deep earthy musk that felt strangely comforting and intoxicating all at once. it wrapped around you, making your head a little fuzzy. your thighs parted on their own as his mouth kept moving lower, his breath hot against your skin, and you didnt question the differences just let yourself sink into the feeling of being wanted like this in the dark.
you felt his broad shoulders settle between your spread thighs as he knelt at the edge of the bed, pulling your legs over them. his warm hand stayed firmly over your eyes, keeping everything in complete darkness while his mouth continued its slow trail lower. his breath ghosted hot over your wet folds making you shiver.
then his tongue dragged flat and slow right up your center, tasting you like he was starving. a low gasp slipped from your lips at how warm and thick it felt, pressing between your folds, circling your clit with lazy hungry strokes. he sucked gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves before dipping lower pushing his tongue inside you fucking you with it in deep, wet, thrusts.
“ryan” you moaned softly, your hips twitching up toward his face, chasing the pleasure. it felt different, better than usual, his tongue moved with confident precision, like he already knew exactly how to unravel you. his hand pressed a little heavier over your eyes, holding you blind while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider. every lick and suck sent sparks shooting up your spine. your pussy clenching around his tongue as he groaned low against you the vibration making your toes curl.
he ate you out like he couldnt get enough, alternating between long, slow licks that covered every inch and focused sucks on your clit that had you panting. slick sounds filled the quiet room mixed with your soft whimpers, and the faint creak of the bed as he shifted closer devouring you. your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly the strands feeling thicker than you remembered, but the pleasure fogging your brain made it easy to ignore. his smell wrapping around you stronger now, as he buried his face deeper between your legs.
you arched your back, moaning his name again as his tongue flicked fast over your clit then sucked hard, the pressure building fast and overwhelming in the best way. his hand never left your eyes keeping you lost in nothing but the wet heat of his mouth and the way he was making your whole body tremble.
you felt the pressure building fast under his relentless mouth, his tongue flicking and sucking on your clit with perfect pressure while two thick fingers pushed deep inside you, curling just right. your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding against his face as the orgasm crashed over you hard.
you came all in his mouth, your broken moans gained volume. your pussy pulsing and gushing around his tongue. he didnt pull away, instead he groaned deep and hungry, drinking every drop, slurping loudly against your soaked folds like he couldnt waste a single bit of it. his mouth stayed locked on you, licking and sucking through the aftershocks until you were whimpering and oversensitive.
his huge hand stayed pressed over your eyes the entire time, dwarfing your face completely, the rough palm and long fingers covering from your forehead down to your cheeks, making you feel so small beneath him.
then he shifted up his warm breath brushing your ear as he leaned in close. “you like that?” he murmured low and rough right against your skin. it sounded more of a mock than a praise. but you nodded quickly, still catching your breath. his voice sounded a bit different deeper with a rasp that didnt quite match ryan’s voice but the pleasure haze made it easy to assume it was him tired. you just wanted more.
he flipped you over onto your stomach, without warning, guiding your face down into the pillow. you felt him grab his black shirt and tie it around your head, his hand left your eyes, as he was wrapping his shirt snug as his makeshift blindfold blocked out every last bit of moonlight. the fabric smelled like him that same warm, leather, and masculine musk sinking into your senses.
from behind, you heard the distinct sound of him undoing his belt the leather sliding through the loops with a slow deliberate pull. your heart raced thighs pressing together in anticipation as you stayed there on your stomach, completely at his mercy.
you stayed still, the makeshift blindfold from his shirt keeping everything black as you heard him move behind you. the bed dipped deep, when he finally climbed on top, sinking his full heavy weight onto your smaller body, pressing you flatter against the mattress. his metal arm hooked around your throat from behind, applying the softest pressure, just enough to make your pulse race without hurting you. the cool smooth metal felt shocking against your warm skin. then you felt the thick, blunt, head of his cock nudge at your soaked entrance, pushing forward. he was so big it barely fit the stretch, burning as he forced the first few inches inside you.
you gasped, sharply body tensing. “you feel so good.” you whispered, suspicion creeping in fast because he felt way thicker and longer than anything you’d taken before, as well because you’ve never uttered words like that before to him, even when you take the orgasms. his flesh arm lifted, gripping the top of your bed frame for leverage. the moonlight catching a smear of blood on his forearm. but your covered eyes didn’t see. it wasn’t until the realization hit hard, that the arm around your throat was metal, cold and unyielding. this wasnt ryan.
you didn’t freak out, didn’t start freaking out, didn’t squirm and push back against him and letting the panic flooding your chest. you allowed it, despite being scared of the unknown, he was making you feel the best that you’ve ever experienced in your life. “who are you?” you ask, legs quivering as you continued to take his large cock.
“shh” he murmured low and soothing against your ear. his voice deep and rough as he kept sinking deeper, forcing more of that massive cock into your tight heat. “be quiet doll. just take it.” he demands. you whimpered, struggling, for a second. but his weight pinned you perfectly, his hips rolling forward until he bottomed out, stretching you so full, it stole your breath. the overwhelming pleasure mixed with fear. your hand reached up, grabbing onto his metal arm that was hooked over your throat, holding on tight while he started fucking you slow and deep.
his cock was huge, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you with every thrust, his heavy weight pressing you into the bed, creating the perfect angle that made your pussy flutter and clench around him. you moaned brokenly into the pillow, toes curling as he hit that spot over and over again turning your panic into helpless pleasure.
the metal arm around your throat stayed firm but gentle while his hips snapped harder against your ass hitting that sensitive spot so relentlessly it made your eyes roll back beneath the blindfold. your whole body started trembling the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped.
you came hard, pussy clenching and pulsing, wildly, around his thick length, waves of intense pleasure flowing through you, making you shake uncontrollably underneath him. your thighs quivered, legs kicking weakly as broken whimpers spilled from your lips body twitching and spasming with the force of it.
he groaned low, against your ear fucking you through every pulse then suddenly pulled out of your dripping pussy. you felt the hot thick squirts of his cum splash across your ass as he stroked himself through it, marking your skin with long warm streaks. his breathing was heavy above you. then he gave your ass a firm pat like he was finished and about to leave the bed shifting as if pulling away.
your body still shaking and empty you panicked reaching back blindly. “wait. wait.” you gasped voice hoarse and desperate. “please don’t leave.” you begged. your fingers clutched at his metal arm, still hovering near you, heart racing as the words tumbled out, needy and broken, not wanting the overwhelming feeling to end, not wanting him to disappear into the dark after ruining you so completely.
you stayed there, trembling, ass still marked with his warm cum. when he suddenly paused at your desperate plea. the bed shifted under his weight again, and then he was back on you, fully laying his massive body over yours, pressing you deep into the mattress. his heavy frame made you feel so helpless beneath him. every inch of his build dwarfing your smaller one in a way that sent fresh shivers through you.
“i’m here” he murmured, low and rough against your ear, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. you heard a soft metallic clink like something being pulled from a sheath. then a sharp, cold, blade dragged slowly across your bare shoulder blade, the flat side first then the edge just light enough to make your skin prickle with fear and heat.
you bit your lip hard, heart hammering as the knife traced lower down your spine, leaving a thin stinging line that made you wonder if it broke the skin. the possibility sent a twisted rush through you, the fear mixing with the lingering pulses of your orgasm.
your lips parted on a shaky breath and he took the chance, sliding two thick fingers from his warm flesh hand into your mouth. you sucked on them, instinctively, tasting yourself on his skin while his metal arm kept moving the knife’s blade dragging teasingly over your side and hip. the cold sharp edge pressed a little firmer in places scraping, just enough to draw a faint red line of blood that burned sweetly against your heated skin.
he was so big everywhere. his cock already hardening again, nestled heavy and thick between your ass, while his body completely covered yours, pinning you down with overwhelming strength. the knife traced another slow path across your thigh, close enough to make you flinch and moan around his fingers. the fear making your pussy clench with fresh need. a tiny bead of blood welled up where the blade kissed your skin and he smeared it gently with the flat of the knife, spreading the warm wetness like he was marking you as his.
you whimpered softly around his fingers, body shaking under the dangerous pleasure. the size difference making you feel completely owned and the sharp edge of the knife keeping you right on the edge of panic and arousal.
you felt him shift and lift off your body, the sudden loss of his crushing weight making you gain some breath back. there was a soft thud as he placed the knife on the nightstand, the sound clear in the quiet room. before you could protest, he flipped you over onto your back like you weighed nothing your body bouncing slightly on the mattress.
your thighs parted naturally on their own, spreading wide because you still wanted more of him, craving the way he filled your needs. he grabbed the knife again, and you felt the cold, flat, blade trace slowly over your collarbone, down between your breasts and across your stomach. your breathing hitched when the sharp edge pressed in just enough to slice a shallow cut along your hip, the sting sharp and hot.
he leaned down, immediately dragging his tongue over the fresh blood, licking it up with a low hungry groan savoring the metallic taste. the warmth of his mouth followed the trail, making you arch into him. then he moved up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, his tongue pushing into your mouth so you could taste your own blood mixed with him. you moaned into the kiss the flavor, dark and intimate sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.
your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. his massive frame hovering over your smaller body, completely engulfing you. your hands roamed greedily over his chest, feeling the hard muscle the solid strength that felt unreal under your palms. “so strong” you teased in an whisper, breathlessly against his mouth still tasting blood on his tongue.
he huffed out a quiet soft laugh, the sound low and intimate in the dark. “wanna see how much?” he asked, and you nodded eagerly. without another word he picked you up, effortlessly. one arm under your ass, the other around your back like you were weightless. he carried you across the room, pressing your back against the cool wall pinning you there with his body, holding you there with the support of his body.
his mouth crashed back onto yours, tongues sliding deep into each other’s mouths, wet and messy as he kissed you harder. you clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, moaning into the kiss, while his huge hands gripped your thighs spreading them wider against the wall.
his thick cock nudged at your entrance once, before he thrust up hard sinking deep into your soaked pussy in one brutal stroke. the stretch was overwhelming, his massive size splitting you open so completely you gasped sharply for air, mouth falling open against his.
“oh my god” you moaned, as he started fucking into you with savage thrusts, hips snapping up relentlessly. each powerful drive bounced your body against the wall, your hair flying wildly with every impact, your breasts jiggling hard between your pressed chests. he was so deep the angle let him hit your sensitive spot over and over again while his sheer size made your pussy clench desperately around him.
your thighs squeezed tighter around his strong body, trying to hold on as he pounded into you, without mercy. the wet slap of skin echoing in the dark room. you gasped again, struggling for air between moans, every brutal thrust knocking the breath out of your lungs while pleasure flowed through you violently. his mouth stayed on yours, tongues tangling messily as he fucked you harder against the wall, completely owning your smaller frame with his strength.
your nails dug into his shoulders, body shaking, as he kept driving that huge cock into you deeper and faster turning you into a whimpering mess. you moaned even louder into his mouth as his brutal thrusts grew even harder and faster, pinning you helplessly against the wall with his massive body. his thick cock slammed deep into your soaked pussy, stretching you so wide it burned in the most addictive way, every powerful stroke hitting that sensitive spot relentlessly.
your breasts bounced wildly between you hair sticking to your sweaty skin as your back scraped against the wall with each punishing thrust. “oh my god, oh my god.” you gasped again, voice breaking as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter inside you. your thighs squeezed desperately around his waist, trying to anchor yourself but it was useless, he was too strong, too big completely overwhelming every inch of your smaller frame. his hips snapped up harder, grinding against your clit with every deep plunge while his hands.
your body started shaking uncontrollably, pussy fluttering and clenching hard around his massive length. the orgasm hit you like a freight train ripping through you with violent intensity. you came hard, nails digging into his shoulders, legs locking around him as your walls pulsed and gushed around his cock soaking him with your release, waves of blinding pleasure crashed over you, making your vision blur behind the blindfold, your whole body convulsing and trembling in his unbreakable hold while broken moans spilled from your lips.
bucky groaned, deep and guttural against your neck, feeling you fall apart around him. he fucked you through every pulse slamming into your spasming pussy, a few more brutal times before he buried himself to the hilt with a low possessive growl. his cock throbbed violently inside you, swelling even thicker as he started cumming hard, flooding your pussy with thick hot ropes of his cum. he pumped deep, grinding his hips against yours making sure every drop stayed buried inside you, filling you so full it started leaking out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs.
he stayed pressed tight against you panting as the last spurts emptied into you. his massive frame kept you pinned to the wall, bodies slick with sweat and cum while your pussy continued to flutter weakly around his cock overflowing with his release.
authors note. likes, reblogs, and comments are so very appreciated when it comes to my work. i didn’t try much with my grammar, i spat this out as i was thinking of it. huge inspiration from @spankyourlocalbrat with the writing style
Running a bookstore and trying to survive life, you never expect to run into the James Buchanan Barnes. You also don't expect that meeting him will turn your hollow life upside in the best way possible.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
Tags: meet cute, fluff, pre FatWS, bookstore owner reader
wc: 5361
The first time you ever saw James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was when you were eleven years old, and your newest friend made you sit down to watch a war documentary on the late Captain America. She had an unhealthy—borderline fanatic obsession with the lost Super Soldier that only intensified when he miraculously returned during your senior year of high school and helped save the world from an alien invasion. This propelled her to join you in applying for New York based colleges, though your reasons weren’t as boy crazed or fangirl focused.
With a mother too busy drinking to raise you and a father who worked for the shady side of every business, you walked a fine line between following your passion and trying to escape your home life. As soon as you got an acceptance letter from your dream writing college—and your father agreed to help pay for the tuition—you moved from sunny Fontana, California to Brooklyn, New York.
The next time you hear about the Sergeant, is when his name and face are plastered over every news screen across the world.
That was the first time you heard of The Winter Soldier.
Having lived in Brooklyn for four years by then, you had found yourself unwillingly dragged into many superhero based political conversations. You had even read the Sokovia accords and most of the files released when S.H.E.I.L.D was dismantled—purely out of curiosity and boredom between classes and work. What you always struggled with was everyone’s black and white style of thinking in any of these conversations.
You’ve lived in the shades of gray your whole life; being loosely connected to the underbelly of California crime—thanks to your father—you learned early that there is more to every person and story than what you see on the surface. It has made you a fascinating debate partner across campus, but it also hasn’t allowed you to build close connections. Most of your friends were for the accords, even your oldest friend turned on her obsession of Captain America before he went AWOL. By that point you didn’t have much time for friends or partners anyways; especially once your father sent you a rather ominous message.
“Your education trip is getting a little long don’t you think? When are you coming home?”
Despite this subtle threat, he sent over the funds for your master’s degree tuition. You knew time was running out. There was no way you would go back home, but you had to find a stable job and place of your own. Making a foundation for yourself became your sole focus. Friends fell away and contact with both your parents got more and more distant the closer you got to graduation, but you weren’t without connection.
The bookstore you found yourself employed at was one of the oldest in Brooklyn—a very sweet elderly couple ran it. They loved it with every fiber of their being and once they learned you were working towards becoming a published author—they fell in love with you, too. With their help you secured a stable income and a tiny studio apartment. They encouraged you to work on your manuscript every chance you had between customers and restocking shelves.
You finally felt like you were finding yourself.
Then, The Snap happened.
The memory of that day is ingrained in your brain; a nightmare you still have some nights.
It was only a few days after you had finished your master’s degree. The streets were relatively busy—as they always were on an early morning work commute—and you were cradling a fresh to-go coffee close to your chest as you maneuvered through the crowds. The summer heat hadn’t set in yet, but it was comfortably warm enough for you to have pulled out the shorter skirt you had worn that day. Its hem bounced around your knees with each quick step and twist as you weaved around the slow walkers and people too busy on their phones to notice you breezing past them.
There was a smile on your lips as you quietly sung along to the last song you had listened to on your record player. Coincidently, the reason you had been making haste was the Micheal Jackson vinyl you had put on while getting dressed because—as it always is with you and music—you lost track of time again as you belted out every lyric and melody.
Giggling, you moved again to avoid someone talking adamantly on their phone and found yourself bumping shoulders with another person. Still being careful of your coffee, you slowed your pace and turned, raising your free hand out to the person as you began to apologize.
Right before your very eyes, the person turned towards you and disintegrated into an ashy cloud of dust.
There wasn’t even time to fully process what was happening.
A cold sense of dread sank into your stomach, something you hadn’t felt since you were a child and your dad’s “friend” pulled a gun on you for the first time. The coffee cup slipped from your fingertips as they too began to disappear. The lid popped off as it hit the ground, spilling the contents across the concrete, but your feet left no marks in the puddle. A scream—that never came—built up in your throat and the world vanished.
In the next second, you found yourself gasping for air and standing petrified on the same sidewalk. It was sunset—not morning—and the air had the sharp taste of oncoming winter. The stranger you had bumped into was standing before you as well, and they looked just as terrified as you were.
Five years had passed.
Most of the people who returned still have a hard time wrapping their minds around it. Half the population gone in an instant and then brought back just the same.
What stuck with you though was that you were the only person in your family to disappear. From what you gathered across the news, the mad man who caused this claimed half the population would be chosen at random to make it as fair as possible, but for some like you, it didn’t feel fair.
Any friends you had managed to hold onto at the end of college had moved on; your mother had remarried and moved and your father—well, you still haven’t reached out to him and that’s probably for the better you think.
There was no time to dwell on the state of the world, or the loss of all your connections, or even having lost the opportunity to publish your almost finished manuscript. No—you had to rebuild your entire life from scratch and that hasn’t been easy. To your surprise though, there was one thing waiting for you: the bookstore.
After finding their family, you learned that they had grown ill shortly after The Snap. Their children convinced them to let the store go and retire while they still had time, but they refused to outright sell the bookstore. In their final weeks, they fought with a lawyer to set up a contract to have the store placed under your name for a decade before going to market. Every the optimists, they believed that someday someone would bring everyone back and make the world whole again—somehow, they had been right.
You spent your first week back in the bookstore, alone and mourning everything. The apartment you had was gone, almost all your belongs gone with it; there wasn’t a soul on the earth who wanted to speak to you anymore. From there, cold reality set in and the depression took over like a winter storm. Ever the fighter, you made the decision to keep going.
There was no reason behind this decision though. No guiding path or light at the end of the tunnel. All you know is you don’t want your life to be over, so you soldier onward.
Gentle, muffled pitter-patter rouses you from an all too common restless sleep.
“Fuck.”
Rainstorms usually don’t come around Brooklyn until summer and yet—much to your dismay—it has rained on and off for the past few days. An early rain is always better than a late season snow, but rain means water and you still haven’t gotten the seal fixed on the front door. Silently you thank the repair man—who came in and fixed the heating last month—for noticing it. You move that particular task higher in your mental check list of fixes, repairs, and shop tasks; despite the few months you've been at this, the list seems to grow instead of shrink.
With a heavy sigh, you heft yourself up into a sitting position. A sharp pain runs down from your neck to your hips as the floor boards creek beneath you. The room is pitch black, but with the ease of having slept on the floor of this room for almost five months, you raise your hand and flip a light switch above your head. An incandescent bulb hanging form the center of the ceiling flickers to life. It’s yellow glow gives the small office space an old time feel, aided by the fact that the desk across from you is more than likely as old as the store itself—a conclusion you came to when you first started working here. It serves as your desk, dining table, and kitchen counter all in one, with a small single serve coffee machine and hot plate taking up most of the space.
Slowly, you lift your aching body off the pile of blankets and pillows and hobble over to the desk. You grab a pink chipped mug and slot it into place before turning the coffee maker on. It's the newest addition to your makeshift home. You were surprised when you came across it just last month. By this point, the care for those misplaced from returning is dwindling just as much as the care for those misplaced by the returned. It's a pattern of struggle you are all too familiar with and seeing the coffee machine was a site that made you literally tear up and spend a few minutes collecting yourself before taking it home.
A quick glance to the clock above the door behind you shows it’s almost eight in the morning.
Your voice croaks as you mutter, “almost four hours of actual sleep. New record.”
The steady thrum of the coffee machine fills the space as the smell seeps into your skin. You take a deep breathe in, holding it for a few moments before letting it go as you rest your hands on the desk and step back into a slow stretch, head tipping as far forward between your arms as your spine will allow. There's a dull throb as you push a little deeper making you stop and hold until the machine beeps. A strained sigh escapes as you pull yourself upright. You take out a dry creamer container form a wicker basket beside your feet, mixing it in until the coffee reaches your preferred color. You take a sip to confirm it’s the right ratio, humming as the warmth travels down your body.
Instead of letting yourself relish the feeling, you turn and bend down to grab your wrinkled day clothes and let the haze of daily routine slip over your consciousness.
Once dressed—smoothing the wrinkles of your skirt as best you can—you walk through the store and unlock the front door, roll up the shutters, and flip the sign on the door to ‘open.’ Then you do a quick walk through of each aisle—upstairs and downstairs—to make sure everything is in place before settling behind the front counter.
It’s not a large store by any means, and while it may be tight to wander through the three aisles upstairs, the lower section of the store has a good amount of walking space. There’s a smaller aisle leading to the back door and then one connecting the office door and front counter, with one side having been cleverly built into the space beneath the staircase. In the center of the wide aisle are two tables stacked with fresh books you finished pricing the night prior. Next to you—cluttering the space behind the counter—are boxes upon boxes of book donations from the years the store hadn’t been running. People continued to donate and drop them off since so many other stores and libraries had to start rejecting donations due to lack of space.
This is what you occupy yourself with as the day trickles by—checking each books condition and then doing quick goggle searches on the cheap tiny tablet you managed to snag from the donation center, to figure out the best price. A thick steno pad sits on the counter, filled with notes for each book you unpack: title, date, condition, and price. Some are crossed out with a thick red line to denote they were sold, while others have blue asterisks next to their title and a note about its edition number or rarity somewhere on the side.
Order in chaos: getting you through each new day.
The first few customers of the day are uneventful. A few pleasantries passed and a single purchase—which you write down in a separate steno pad tucked under the counter before crossing out the title on the other pad. The owners had at least managed to upgrade their systems to allow card purchases, but the inventory is still all done by hand and memory. Thankfully, opening a new bank account and attaching it to the store had been easy once the government reinstated your social security number—which took them quite a while to figure out.
You manage to finish the box you started the night prior. Once it’s empty and the books are placed on the tables, you take it out to the dumpster in the back alley. There's even more boxes tucked in the corner by the back door, which you maneuver around before snagging a new one to add to the stack behind the counter.
Finish one box, replace it with another: the never ending cycle.
It's sometime past noon, after a lull of customers that a pair of girls strolls in. The bell above the door chimes and you quickly plaster on your best smile. You turn, giving them a cheerful welcome. The pair are giggling as one waves a hand at you. You aren't sure if it's dismissive or friendly, but they vanish into the first aisle, out of eye sight. The faint sound of their voices carries easily in the small space, but you tune it out as always and open a new box to start catalouging.
As the girls come around the corner at the back—stepping into the wider aisle and sifting through the books on the far table—the bell chimes once more. Instead of looking up immediately, you finish scratching down the books condition. The squeak of well worn leather boots reaches you with light footfalls. You expect to look up to find someone of small build—instead, you are met by a six foot figure who’s large frame looks out of place in the space. Despite the poor lighting—due to a few blown bulbs that you can’t afford to replace yet—you can see that his eyes are blue or gray and soft. They’re gentle in a way like he’s aware of how heavy his presence feels and is trying to minimize it. Something akin to familiarity tickles the back of your brain as you take in his long hair and strained smile. There’s evidence of time in his features, wrinkles and creases around his eyes and mouth either form age or years of stress. None of this diminishes the overall thought bouncing around in your head—this has to be one of the most handsome men that has every set foot in the store.
Before the silence stretches on too long—and before you begin to look like a gawking teenager—you throw on your customer service smile and give a cheerful greeting.
"Afternoon," his voice is rough around the edges, with a slight rasp like he isn't used to talking. He takes an awkward step towards the counter and says, “I'm looking for a specific book. I wasn't sure if you'd have it."
Familiar territory. You ease into professional mode, back straightening as you set the book in your hands down. "What are you looking for, sir?"
The man gives a grimace at the formal title. He rests a gloved hand on the surface as he looks around, eyes calculating. "It's called The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien."
A real smile creeps onto your face. It takes some self restraint to not immediately gush about the book, the man is clearly older—probably in his forties or fifties—and you can't imagine he would want to listen to a young woman gush over a book he may also love. Prior to the Blip you had run into your fair share of Tolkien fans who hadn't taken kindly to a girl being as invested in the series and having opinions on his writing style—especially those who only loved the movies. They had many thoughts to share with you even when you didn't ask. Instead of jumping into a passionate speech, you take a second to pretend contemplation.
"I believe upstairs we should have a few copies of the whole series,” you tell him, gesturing to the staircase. “Check the first aisle, right at the top of the stairs and feel free to look at the publish dates for each version. We've had a lot of donations recently, so there may be a few older versions in the lot as well."
"Thanks," he gives a tight smile—not unkind, just awkward—and turns to the stairs.
You let out a slow breath as he ascends. His steps are just as quiet as when he came in, and you’re silently surprised to only hear the faint creak of the stairs instead of the usual loud creaking and groaning when most customers go up and down. Once he’s out of sight, you notice the girls had also been watching him, mouths open as they look to each other.
Their frantic whispers reach across the space with ease. “There’s no way!”
“That’s him,” the shorter of the two gestures towards the stairs aggressively as her face drops into a scowl. “I’d recognize that maniac anywhere after all the press.”
“Can you believe he was acquitted? Of everything?!” They both make noises of disgust and then break in to a fit of laughter.
The tickle of familiarity comes back and with it comes the image of The Winter Soldier. You recall the trials from a few months back, of the latest court sketch and press shot you had seen of him with Falcon—Sam Wilson. It could be him, you reason, but it also could be a case of looking too similar. You are prepared to brush it off, assume he’s a random person with a face similar to one James Barnes, but then one of the girls opens her mouth again and something begins to boil inside you.
“That man should be behind bars or six feet under. No one who has done the things he has should be a free man,” they say.
“Excuse me?” The words are out of your mouth before you can filter them.
Both girls look up in surprise. They’re standing at the table directly before the register and being this close, you can tell they’re younger—probably only in their first or second year of college—and their skin is immaculate in a way only makeup can conjure. A logo on one of their hand bags catches eye—Hermès. Between that and their clothes, their outfits probably cost more then double the average monthly rent. If you were to place a bet, you're sure they didn't bat an eyelash as they paid for them.
Once they process you and see the annoyance on your face, theirs’ melt into indifference.
“What? It’s the truth, I mean—” she leans forward to stage whisper “—did you hear the things he did?”
“Yes. I did.”
“See—”
“I also paid enough attention to know he was brainwashed the entire time,” you cut in, stare hard and unyielding.
“Still did it,” she waves you off, perfectly manicured nails being thrown in your face. “Just cause he’s Captain America’s best friend doesn’t mean he should get off scot-free.”
Rage is one emotion you’ve never had full control over. It doesn’t come out when you get angry though, it comes when you face injustice for others and are faced with a system that tries to put you and the people you love down. It especially comes out when entitled rich people step into your world and act just like this.
“Get out.”
The girls snap their heads to you. “What?”
“You heard me, get out,” you repeat while pointing to the door. “I have the right to refuse service to any customer. I’m using that right because, I don’t have the time or energy to argue with you about ethics you clearly will never understand.”
“Ethics?” The shorter girl starts towards the door as her friend continues to argue. “What is there ethically to talk about? He used his best friend’s name as get out of jail free card.”
“Incorrect," you counter like a practiced defense lawyer. "He was willing to serve the time and his friends stood up to testify for him and show that he was no longer brainwashed. If you actually followed the trial you would know this, but I suspect even if you did you would gloss over it like you people always do,” by this point the frustration and anger at your own situation, your own life; your own troubles, begins to bleed into your words. You can’t stop yourself though, it's been so long since you’d last let yourself feel anything and the rage is quick to fill the void. “Now, again, I don't have the time, energy, or will to explain why the man was fairly acquitted and I won’t stand for people who wish undue harm onto others and spread their misinformed views to shop here. So please, get out of my store.”
She opens her mouth, hand raised to point at you, but her friend grabs her arm and drags her to the door. Both mutter some derogatory term—more than likely racially charged—under their breath, but they leave with the too cheerful chime of the bell.
Silence folds in again, broken only by the rain. There is still a churning in your gut, your breaths heavy as you work to regain your even footing. Then you glance at the staircase—sound travels way too well through such a small space. There isn't a chance the man upstairs didn’t hear all of argument. Embarrassment consumes your anger and you slump onto the stool you had been occupying all morning, face falling into your hands.
Best case scenario: he isn't actually James Barnes and you two laugh it off.
Annoying scenario: he still isn’t James Barnes, but he is on the same side as the girls and you have to brace for throwing out another customer.
Worst case scenario: he is James Barnes and he's offended at you for defending him.
The anxiety spiral hits like a freight train. It chokes the air in your lungs; your hands shake as they drag down your face. With a long breath in and out you reach down and grab the book again. Your eyes stare down at the paper, picking up your pen with a shaky hand. You don’t see the page though. Your ears are laser focused on the floorboards above, listening for the tell tale creak of movement and scratch of books being moved.
Nothing.
The silence is defining.
Trained assassin—your brain supplies unhelpfully.
Eventually you see him make his way down the stairs, book in hand. You don't immediately look up and you try your best to not look as shameful and embarrassed as you feel. What you don't notice is his feet suddenly start making noise on the floorboards once he gets to the point where he can see you and read you. His footsteps and the book gently placed on the counter before you, would have announced his presence if you hadn't been so tuned in. You lay the pen down and turn to him with what you hope isn't a strained smile.
"Find it okay?" You ask as you reach for the book, checking the sticker tag.
"Yeah, didn't realize there was more than just," he waves his hand to the book, "this one."
Before you can think to fix your face, it scrunches in confusion. "Really? The Lord of the Rings is more popular than the Hobbit by far, especially given the movies."
He gives a small, tired chuckle. "Didn't even know there were movies. Guess I got some more reading and watching to do,” His fingers tap the counter, gloves muting the sound as he shuffles his feet. “Lot to catch up on still since being back."
Your smile falters.
This is in fact James Buchanan Barnes.
He looks down.
"Ya know," he starts, hesitant, "you didn't have to—ya know. You didn’t have to kick the girls out. They were just saying their opinion."
You pause to really look at him.
He's hunched in on himself, broad shoulders pulled tight. It doesn't necessarily make him look any smaller, but you feel the way he’s trying to pull his aura inward and how he wears his long hair untucked, loose around his face like a dark coffee colored shield. Unlike earlier, he’s resting his weight on the counter which gives you a clear view into his eyes. The eye contact is fleeting—his gaze landing for only a moment before he shifts his focus away—but it’s long enough for you to feel your heart trip into their steel-blue depths. Though, they could be easily mistaken for a still lake as you see the same hollow, self-deprecation reflected back at you. The small internal misguided view of self reflects back at you and you know deep inside there’s a part of you who craves kind words and gentleness; it’s easy to reason there’s a part of him that wants that too. There’s also probably a part of him that doesn’t think he deserves it—a part of yourself you’ve managed to get rid of.
Even though you have a negative view on your life situation, you know that these misfortunes don’t make you unworthy of kindness and love. Some days are harder than most—obviously—but you make an effort to remind yourself that when the opportunity presents itself you choose kindness and let kindness be given to you.
“Oh,” the word leaves you are a quiet breath.
Bucky takes another look up to you, and whatever he sees makes his aura shrink even more.
With a quick blink and mental shake, you look back to the book and reach for your steno pad. As you flip through the pages to find the specific copy he picked, you piece together your next words carefully. “She was just stating her option, true, but her opinion was misinformed. Especially saying you got off “scot-free.”” Upon finding the book listing, you grab your red marker and cross it out with a harsh stroke. You move your focus to the register, punching in the amount and taking a small calming breath before saying, “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m sure it has come with a lot of drawbacks and struggles. Never judge a book by it’s cover as they say.”
“Even if that cover is as bad as mine?” He gives a strained, painful chuckle.
This time you make deliberate eye contact. With a genuine, gentle smile you reply, “yes, even your cover.”
The heaviness of the earlier silence lifts from the air. There’s a spark of something akin to surprise in his eyes; his face remains stoic if not for a slight loosening of his jaw. It’s a minor movement—almost inappreciable if not for the small distance between you.
A warm wave of joy settles into your system. The kind of satisfaction from knowing you left someones soul a little lighter than when you first met. If this is the only chance you’ll have to meet the infamous Bucky Barnes, then you know that’s the way you want to leave him. There’s no doubt he doesn’t have many pleasant interactions in his life and while you hate assuming things about people—you feel certain this case may be more true than even you are imagining.
Smile unwavering, you gently peel the sticker from the book and place it in front of him. “This one is on me, no charge.”
“No,” he pushes off the counter and reaches into his jean pocket. “I can’t accept that; I can pay for it.”
Shaking your head, you push the book towards him. “Consider it a,” you hum, tilting your head back and forth as you think, “welcome back to Brooklyn gift. Was this one you read before the war?”
The question makes him pause. His wallet is in his hands, but his fingers don’t move to pull anything out. Looking from the book to you, he quietly says, “yeah, it was.”
You aim for a casual tone as if speaking to an easily spooked feral cat. “Then this will bring back good memories, so it’s a gift from one reader to another. If you’re ever interested in the trilogy then I’ll let you pay for those, but this one is on me.”
He stares at you for a long moment—processing—before seeming to admit defeat. After he returns his wallet to his pocket he takes the book and offers you the first real smile you’ve seen on him. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” you say. Nervously, you fold up the sticker between your fingers and look down towards the counter. His continued stare causes a faint redness to bloom across your cheeks and you repress the urge to fidget with you hair by placing the sticker on the pad under the counter.
Without another word—though it feels like he wanted to say something more—he takes his leave. As quickly as he entered your little bubble of a world, he leaves it with the cheerful chime of the store bell trailing behind him.
You expect to feel tense, expect to need a moment to collect yourself—instead you find a weird sense of calm settle into the shelves around you. It’s a welcome feeling. For the first time since you returned to this world you take a deep, relaxing breath and let yourself truly just sit in the feeling.
Something you’ve never said aloud—not even to your old best friend—is that Barnes’s story always struck a chord with you. You could never place your finger on why—all you knew is that similar to how deeply connected some people find themselves feeling to celebrities and their life stories, you found yourself in a similar state with his.There isn’t anything his story and yours have in common—that you can see from the surface—but a sense of connection has been living inside you. It’s why, for a creative writing project one year, you wrote a whole short story about the Howling Commandos—a piece of literature you know is still on your laptop alongside your manuscript and buried somewhere in the office beneath boxes of more important things.
“A once in a life time moment,” you whisper to yourself. Then the calm, serene moment breaks with a snort and you muttering, “and I’ll never see the man again.
The metal of his thumb is freezing against your fever-flushed cheek, but you crave his touch anyway. It is a grounding contrast to the hot fire raging beneath your skin.
Bucky doesn’t say much. He moves quietly through the bedroom. His dark eyes track the ragged rise and fall of your chest. You are drowning in his oversized, vintage soft-cotton t-shirt, smelling faintly of motor oil, and the expensive cologne he usually wears.
You are tangled in pale silk sheets that feel like ice one minute and molten lava the next. The velvet curtains are drawn tight against the harsh afternoon sun. Outside, the city is humming, but in here, time has completely dissolved.
“Drink,” he murmurs.He sits on the edge of the mattress, the weight of his body dipping the bed so you roll helplessly toward him. He presses a glass of ice water to your dry lips. His flesh hand cradles the back of your neck with a desperate tenderness, while the metal fingers of his left hand tilt the glass. The water tastes like...water (obviously), but you swallow greedily. Despite craving some tea.
A stray drop spills down your chin, trailing down your throat. Bucky catches it with the pad of his thumb.He loves you like this.He would never admit it—not out loud—but you can feel it in the careful way he holds you. The independent edge you usually carry is melted away by the sickness. And he gets to take care of you,like he'd take care of a lady in the 40's.
You whimper,aching from the deep chill settling into your joints. You lean your forehead forward, letting it rest against the hard expanse of his chest. Through the thin fabric of his Henley, you listen to the human thrum of his heart. It is the only anchor you have in the delirium.
Bucky lets out a shaky breath, burying his face into your sweat-dampened hair. He inhales deeply. His flesh arm wraps entirely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The contrast between his two sides is dizzying—the warm press of his human shoulder, and the frigid embrace of his vibranium arm locking you into place.
“You're burning up, sweetheart,” he whispers against you.
No, shit. You’re pressed against Bucky Barnes. How the hell are you supposed not to burn?
Every time you cough, every time your breath hitches, you can feel the subtle tremor in his hands. He is terrified of your mortality and fascinated by your softness.
He shifts, gently laying you back down onto the pillows. The separation makes you cold instantly, your hands weakly clutching at his wrists. “Don't go,” you breathe, your voice barely a rasp.
“I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, doll,” he promises, his dark eyes softening into something vulnerable.
He stands for just a moment to retrieve a bowl of ice water from the nightstand. He dips a silk handkerchief into the water, wrings it out with a twist of his metal wrist, and folds it precisely. When he presses the cloth to your forehead, you let out a soft sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.
He sits back down, taking your small, fever-weakened hand into his large flesh palm. He brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing them one by one with a reverent passion.
“You like making me worry, don't you?” he asks softly, his thumb strokes the back of your hand, tracing the delicate blue veins beneath your pale skin. “You like seeing me like this. Ruined over you.”
You try to smile, the corners of your lips twitching with a fragile strength. You look up into his dark eyes, your voice sounding thin.
“Yeah,I guess" you whisper. “It's kind of funny, Bucky.” A sharp breath catches in his throat. His gaze drops to your lips, before he leans down to press his forehead against yours, sharing your heat.
“You're a cruel little thing,” he murmurs against your skin.
You try to smile, but your eyes are too heavy to stay open. The delirium is pulling you under again. But even as you drift, you can feel him. You feel the velvet duvet being pulled up to your chin, tucked tightly around your shoulders to keep the tremors away.
God,you loved this man.
Bucky leans down, his face inches from yours. You can smell the mint on his breath as he presses a soft kiss to your burning temple, his lips staying there for a long minute. He is wishing he could take the fever out of your blood and pour it into his own veins.
“I've got you,” he whispers. His grip on your hand tightens just enough to bruise, just enough to let you know he’ll never let go. “Sleep,sweet girl. Just sleep.”
As darkness finally takes you, the last thing you feel is the soothing stroke of his cold metal fingers tracing your jawline, keeping the monsters at bay.
The metal of his thumb is freezing against your fever-flushed cheek, but you crave his touch anyway. It is a grounding contrast to the hot fire raging beneath your skin.
Bucky doesn’t say much. He moves quietly through the bedroom. His dark eyes track the ragged rise and fall of your chest. You are drowning in his oversized, vintage soft-cotton t-shirt, smelling faintly of motor oil, and the expensive cologne he usually wears.
You are tangled in pale silk sheets that feel like ice one minute and molten lava the next. The velvet curtains are drawn tight against the harsh afternoon sun. Outside, the city is humming, but in here, time has completely dissolved.
“Drink,” he murmurs.He sits on the edge of the mattress, the weight of his body dipping the bed so you roll helplessly toward him. He presses a glass of ice water to your dry lips. His flesh hand cradles the back of your neck with a desperate tenderness, while the metal fingers of his left hand tilt the glass. The water tastes like...water (obviously), but you swallow greedily. Despite craving some tea.
A stray drop spills down your chin, trailing down your throat. Bucky catches it with the pad of his thumb.He loves you like this.He would never admit it—not out loud—but you can feel it in the careful way he holds you. The independent edge you usually carry is melted away by the sickness. And he gets to take care of you,like he'd take care of a lady in the 40's.
You whimper,aching from the deep chill settling into your joints. You lean your forehead forward, letting it rest against the hard expanse of his chest. Through the thin fabric of his Henley, you listen to the human thrum of his heart. It is the only anchor you have in the delirium.
Bucky lets out a shaky breath, burying his face into your sweat-dampened hair. He inhales deeply. His flesh arm wraps entirely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The contrast between his two sides is dizzying—the warm press of his human shoulder, and the frigid embrace of his vibranium arm locking you into place.
“You're burning up, sweetheart,” he whispers against you.
No, shit. You’re pressed against Bucky Barnes. How the hell are you supposed not to burn?
Every time you cough, every time your breath hitches, you can feel the subtle tremor in his hands. He is terrified of your mortality and fascinated by your softness.
He shifts, gently laying you back down onto the pillows. The separation makes you cold instantly, your hands weakly clutching at his wrists. “Don't go,” you breathe, your voice barely a rasp.
“I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, doll,” he promises, his dark eyes softening into something vulnerable.
He stands for just a moment to retrieve a bowl of ice water from the nightstand. He dips a silk handkerchief into the water, wrings it out with a twist of his metal wrist, and folds it precisely. When he presses the cloth to your forehead, you let out a soft sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.
He sits back down, taking your small, fever-weakened hand into his large flesh palm. He brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing them one by one with a reverent passion.
“You like making me worry, don't you?” he asks softly, his thumb strokes the back of your hand, tracing the delicate blue veins beneath your pale skin. “You like seeing me like this. Ruined over you.”
You try to smile, the corners of your lips twitching with a fragile strength. You look up into his dark eyes, your voice sounding thin.
“Yeah,I guess" you whisper. “It's kind of funny, Bucky.” A sharp breath catches in his throat. His gaze drops to your lips, before he leans down to press his forehead against yours, sharing your heat.
“You're a cruel little thing,” he murmurs against your skin.
You try to smile, but your eyes are too heavy to stay open. The delirium is pulling you under again. But even as you drift, you can feel him. You feel the velvet duvet being pulled up to your chin, tucked tightly around your shoulders to keep the tremors away.
God,you loved this man.
Bucky leans down, his face inches from yours. You can smell the mint on his breath as he presses a soft kiss to your burning temple, his lips staying there for a long minute. He is wishing he could take the fever out of your blood and pour it into his own veins.
“I've got you,” he whispers. His grip on your hand tightens just enough to bruise, just enough to let you know he’ll never let go. “Sleep,sweet girl. Just sleep.”
As darkness finally takes you, the last thing you feel is the soothing stroke of his cold metal fingers tracing your jawline, keeping the monsters at bay.
ROCK-A-BYE BABY
college professor!bucky barnes x single mom!reader [4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: when you have no choice but to bring your baby to lectures, mr. barnes reluctantly allows it. what follows is a semester of confused students, increasingly suspicious acts of kindness, one very attached baby, and a strict professor who becomes far too invested for anyone’s peace of mind.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: mdni (this story doesn’t contain smut but my blog is 18+); grumpy!bucky; whipped!bucky; it’s implied that they start dating once reader is not his student anymore; fluff; the baby has a name.
A/N: well well well... what a cute way to launch the requests for my 1.5k followers celebration 🥹 (already 40 followers away from 2k, this is insane thank you so much 🫂). this one is especially dear to me because it comes from a real-life friend of mine and is actually inspired by a true story (minus the love story part lol). one of their classmates has a baby and would occasionally bring her along to lectures, and knowing that I often take inspiration from real life, my friend suggested it could make for a cute bucky fic 😭
you may also notice that the layout for requests (and shorter stories in general) is a little different. partly because I’m running out of pictures for moodboards 🥲 but also because I want to differentiate them from my longer stories since I’m trying to improve my summarizing skills 😭
I really hope you’ll enjoy my shorter one-shots as well!
Universities function on rumor as much as fact, and Professor Barnes has acquired a reputation long before many of his students ever stepped into one of his lectures. He is demanding, precise, uninterested in excuses. Assignments submitted late are graded late, if they are graded at all, but questions are always answered thoroughly—provided they aren’t an attempt to compensate for poor preparation.
By the middle of September, punctuality has become an unspoken rule in his class. Late arrivals are met without comment, only a brief pause and a solemn look that lingers just long enough to make the entire room shiver.
It’s therefore difficult to imagine a classroom less suited to your situation.
Your son fell asleep in the car. That, in itself, is quite unfortunate. Had he remained awake, you would have sat outside with him a little longer, gathered your thoughts, considered whether attending at all was worth the anxiety currently twisting your stomach. Instead, Milo sleeps peacefully against your shoulder while you stand in the corridor outside the lecture hall, alone, staring at the door and trying to not think about the fact that you are carrying a diaper bag covered in cute cartoonish lions, and moments away from walking into a room filled with people who would undoubtedly have opinions and speculations about you and your son.
Everyone’s eyes fall on you the moment the door opens subtly beneath your careful hand. As much as you try to be silent, it would have been impossible to not notice you.
Curiosity proves far more common than judgement, though. Students glance up from laptops and conversations, register the baby, and immediately start wondering whether Professor Barnes had already been informed.
The answer becomes obvious a few minutes later.
He stops just inside the doorway, gaze moving across the room only to land on you almost immediately. His blue eyes remain there long enough that several students abandon any pretense of looking away.
You rise before he can speak.
“I’m so sorry.” Your voice carries farther than you intend in the suddenly silent room. “My babysitter quitted.”
You swallow. “I couldn’t find anyone else.”
Professor Barnes listens in complete silence and that only makes the exchange incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he reassure you. Instead, he stands with both hands by his sides, his expression giving away so little that half the room starts preparing for the worst on your behalf.
Perhaps he expects more explanation. Perhaps you feel compelled to provide it.
“I didn’t want to miss another lecture.” The admission seems to embarrass you as your voice wavers a little.
The baby shifts slightly against your shoulder at that exact moment and you adjust him instinctively.
“If it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”
Professor Barnes glances toward the child with plain reluctance, then back toward you.
“How long?”
You blink. “Pardon?”
“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?”
The question seems reasonable enough. Unfortunately, even reasonable questions occasionally require uncomfortable answers.
You look down, almost in shame.
“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before you can soften it. “I’ve called a few places, but most of them have waiting lists.”
Nobody in the room appears particularly eager to be in your position. And Professor Barnes seems to find this information exactly as inconvenient as everyone expected him to.
The slight tightening of his jaw suggests a man being presented with circumstances he neither likes nor approves of, yet can’t argue against. For a few moments he says nothing at all. Then, he finally exhales quietly.
“Sit down.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“What?”
“You can stay, but take the baby outside if he starts fussing.”
Your lips part in relief so quickly that it’s almost painful to witness.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”
The Professor gives no indication that gratitude interests him and simply glances at the digital clock above his desk.
“Class started thirty seconds ago.” He states louder, throwing a stern look at the rest of the class, too busy staring at you.
The soft murmur reprises normally as everyone frantically starts reaching for their notes.
The matter, as far as he seems concerned, is closed.
At first, your presence in the lecture hall attracts attention. People look up when you arrive, track your progress toward your usual seat near the front, and observe with a curiosity they rarely bother hiding. A baby simply isn’t something anybody anticipates finding in Professor Barnes’ lectures, and for the first couple of weeks there is the persistent conviction that things would soon return to whatever passed for normal.
Instead, Milo keeps showing up and the lecture hall adapts accordingly.
Your classmates learn to move their bags when they see you approaching with your arms already full; somebody always seems to have a spare pen when yours disappears into the seemingly endless depths of the diaper bag, and more than one person has kindly shared lecture notes after discovering that trying to write while simultaneously preventing an increasingly fast infant from eating paper is a task bordering on impossible.
Milo, meanwhile, thrives under the attention.
He likes brightly colored pens and would become completely absorbed by them, tracking their movement with remarkable concentration as soon as the familiar clicks reaches his small ears. He inevitably falls asleep about twenty minutes into every lecture, regardless of how noisy the room happens to be. Your classmates also learn that laughter produces immediate excitement, his legs kicking enthusiastically while he looks around in search of whatever seems to be making everybody so happy.
Most notably, however, they learn that Milo has developed a favorite.
The first sign is the smiles. At seven months old, he smiles frequently enough that nobody considers it unusual. Babies smile at strangers, at ceiling lights, at absolutely nothing at all... but soon the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.
Every morning, without fail, Milo’s attention drifts toward the door shortly before Professor Barnes arrives. Sometimes he is playing with his favorite plushie—a small, soft bunny your best friend gifted him when he was born. Sometimes he is busy trying to pull your notebook from your hands. Sometimes he is halfway through a bottle.
None of that matters, though. The moment Mr. Barnes appears, Milo’s face lights up.
Every. Damn. Time.
“Oh, no.” You mutter one morning as your son nearly twists himself out of your arms trying to watch Mr. Barnes cross the room. “We’re not doing this.”
Milo responds by grinning even harder.
“You don’t even know him!”
False. At this point, Milo sees Professor Barnes with more consistency than he sees his own grandparents.
The problem is that his interest doesn’t stop at smiling.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, the focus of that fascination appears to be Mr. Barnes’ vibranium arm.
At first, the fixation seems harmless: Milo watches it move whenever the Professor gestures, his big eyes following it in awe even as he writes across the whiteboard. If he passes nearby, your son instantly tracks the motion with the unwavering concentration of somebody witnessing a miracle unfold in real time.
“Oh my God.” You whisper exasperated one afternoon after catching him staring openly for nearly ten minutes. “Stop looking at him like that, baby.”
Milo ignores you, of course, and Professor Barnes remains apparently oblivious.
Or, perhaps, chooses to not acknowledge it.
Weeks pass and the fascination only intensifies.
By the middle of October, Milo has started leaning toward Mr. Barnes whenever he walks past your row. By the beginning of November, he is actively attempting to reach for him whenever the opportunity presents itself.
The inevitable finally happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
The lecture has been underway for nearly half an hour, most people having settled into the comfortable rhythm of note-taking and occasional distraction. Professor Barnes is moving through a complicated explanation that occupies nearly the entire whiteboard, his handwriting spreading neatly from one side to the other while students hurry to keep pace.
You are trying to copy a diagram one-handed while your son, who has apparently decided sleep is no longer part of his afternoon plans, occupies your lap and often attempts to interfere with your efforts.
The moment Mr. Barnes approaches the front row, his attention shifts completely.
His eyes immediately lock onto the vibranium hand and a few nearby students notice immediately.
Milo leans forward and you adjust your grip automatically. He only leans farther. Only then do you glance up from your notebook and realize exactly what has captured his attention.
The embarrassment makes your neck burn.
“Oh, baby.”
Several students look away in a futile attempt to hide their grin.
“Don’t do that.” You feel like crying, but Milo doesn’t care at all. His entire focus remains on the arm.
Professor Barnes, noticing the unusual silence that has settled across the room, finally looks over.
His gaze follows the direction of Milo’s, landing directly on his left arm.
You really hope the floor could open beneath your chair.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes.”
The apology emerges instant and desperate.
“He’s… a very curious baby.” You try to go for a smile but you are pretty sure it resembles a grimace.
Professor Barnes says nothing.
Milo, encouraged by the fact that his target is finally looking at him, immediately stretches both chubby hands forward.
The gesture is so earnest, so hopeful, that a few people can’t fight back their smiles anymore.
You look horrified.
“Milo.” You choke out, eyes wide and scared.
For a brief moment, Professor Barnes simply stares down at him. Until your son smiles: a proper curve of his lips that lights up his entire face. The kind that makes complete strangers smile back without meaning to.
The whole class gasps collectively, because Mr. Barnes nonchalantly extends his hand, allowing Milo to grab his fingers at once.
The victory is apparently everything he has hoped for as his delighted squeals echo through the lecture hall.
You drag your unoccupied hand down your face.
“Jesus Christ.”
Professor Barnes glances at you. “He’s fine.”
The statement should not, under any reasonable circumstances, make the situation more embarrassing, but somehow it does.
Milo continues holding onto the offered finger with obvious satisfaction, until the Professor turns back toward the whiteboard.
“As I was saying…” He clears his throat lightly, gesturing at the diagrams.
The lecture resumes, Professor Barnes continues teaching as though a toddler hasn’t just left traces of his own saliva across his hand… and Milo keeps clutching his fingers whenever he wanders close enough.
You spend the next forty minutes with mortification written all over your face.
By the time class ends, not a single person can confidently explain what the lecture has actually been about.
Everybody has become used to a version of Milo that rarely causes any trouble. He babbles, certainly. He occasionally attempts to steal pens. Once he managed to grab an entire page of somebody’s notes and crumple it beyond recognition before anyone could stop him.
Actual tears, however, are rare enough that the sound draws every eye toward the front row.
You want to disappear.
Your eyes widen so fast that it’s obvious you have been dreading this exact moment since the first day you brought him to class.
“No no no, please wait just a second.” You mutter, frantically gathering your things.
Milo only cries harder.
The notebook on your desk snaps shut, one hand reaching for the diaper bag while the other tries to soothe a baby who has apparently decided that nothing short of complete misery would properly express his feelings.
“I’m really sorry,” you fret, rising from your seat. “I’ll take him outside.”
Professor Barnes sets down the marker calmly. In a room currently distracted by a crying infant and an increasingly distressed mother, the movement attracts considerably more attention.
“Where are you going?”
You freeze at the sound of his deep baritone.
“Outside.”
“Why?”
The question catches you completely off guard.
“Because he’s… crying?” You reply unsure.
Mr. Barnes glances at Milo’s crumpled features and fat tears wetting his cheeks, then looks back at you, before sighing and simply holding out his arms.
“Give him here.”
You stare at him with your jaw slack.
“What?” You squeak out.
“Give him here. He’s clearly tired of sitting for hours.”
The rest of the students watch the scene unfold in disbelief.
“And you need to take notes.”
You are still staring at him as if he just started speaking another language.
Mr. Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need them to pass my exam.”
Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, before carefully transferring Milo into his arms.
The crying doesn’t stop immediately. It does, however, begin losing conviction.
Mr. Barnes adjusts his grip with surprising familiarity, settling Milo against his right side before turning back toward the whiteboard.
“The problem with this interpretation is that it assumes the conclusion before the evidence has actually established it.”
The marker moves steadily across the board, and Milo hiccups.
A few minutes later, your son has reduced his complaints to occasional sniffles, until he falls completely silent, his head tucked against Mr. Barnes’ shoulder while he discusses course material with the same seriousness he brings to every lecture.
Nobody recovers.
The sight of Professor Barnes pacing slowly across the front of the lecture hall with a sleeping baby resting against his shoulder is significantly less unsettling than how natural he makes it look.
Once the semester has reached its final stretch, the idea that Professor Barnes merely tolerates Milo has quietly stopped making sense to anyone who was lucky enough to see the three of you interact.
It’s no longer unusual to hear him use the baby’s name as part of the natural rhythm of his speech.
“Milo,” he would say without looking up from the board when the baby starts to wriggle too close to the edge of your lap.
The sound alone is enough to calm him, which in itself has become one of those things students notice but don’t quite understand how to talk about.
Several colorful objects start appearing around his usually dull desk without comment. A teething ring in a muted blue kept inside the top drawer, pulled out automatically whenever Milo grows restless. A small cloth elephant with one ear slightly bent, usually resting near the stack of graded papers, which your son would immediately reach for the moment he is close enough to see it. A soft book with stiff pages and bright illustrations that makes a faint crinkling sound when handled with curiosity by his chubby hands.
Sometimes, he knows what’s happening to Milo before you do.
The lecture has ended five minutes ago, but you are still at the front desk with your latest assignment. Milo keeps squirming in your arms, not settling no matter how you shift him. Your eyes squint at the corrected paper, not really understanding what your professor did to reach the right result.
Mr. Barnes stands beside you, one hand on the desk while skimming the paper without any urgency. The room is mostly empty now, just the three of you and the faint sound of chairs being dragged somewhere down the hall.
You point at the problem set. “I kept ending up with two different answers here depending on how I handled this step, but I don’t understand where I went wrong.”
He gently leans forward and places his index finger on the sign he’d circled.
“Here.” He taps the bracket. “You’re only applying the minus to the first term. It has to go across everything inside.”
You exhale through your nose, half frustration, half acceptance.
“Right. Okay.”
He doesn’t comment and just slides the paper slightly back toward you.
Milo twists again in your arms, letting out a small irritated sound and your hand smoothes his back without looking away from the paper.
Barnes glances down at him.
“He’s uncomfortable.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, still focused on the problem set. “He’s been like this for days.”
“He’s teething.” Mr. Barnes states calmly.
You finally look up at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “How are you so sure, Professor?”
He looks at Milo for a second longer this time, then back at the assignment as if the answer isn’t complicated enough to deserve emphasis.
“He’s always chewing his hand and drooling a lot more than usual because his gums are probably swollen.”
You shift Milo higher against your shoulder again, watching him stare at your professor as he settles briefly. “That’s… annoyingly observant.”
That earns you the faintest glance from him, like he isn’t sure if you are complaining or just acknowledging a fact.
“Cold cloths help,” he adds eventually. “Not ice, just cool water. Wring them out properly.”
You go still, briefly throwing him a curious glance.
“You’ve dealt with this a lot.” You mention off-handedly.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
“No,” then, after a beat, “just paid attention when it happened to my younger sister.”
The chair beside his desk appears the following week without announcement, and nobody would have thought much of it if it hadn’t immediately become the place you end up during breaks, sitting with Milo while trying to breathe for a moment between lectures.
The first time it happens, you look at it uncertainly, hovering for a second too long before Mr. Barnes simply looks up from his papers and repeats, without hesitation, “Sit.”
He doesn’t speak much while you are there, but he doesn’t shut you out either. When you say something, he answers without looking up right away, usually just a few words before going back to what he is doing.
Sometimes you speak more loosely, just thinking out loud about how tired you are or how your day has gone, and he’d respond with a short comment or a quiet hum of acknowledgement. A bottle of water would be set within reach without comment, a granola bar placed beside your notebook as if it had been part of the desk arrangement from the beginning. When Milo squirms too much or reaches toward him from your lap, Mr. Barnes would take him without waiting for you to offer.
If he calms down, he would keep him there. If he starts fussing again, Mr. Barnes would walk a few slow steps around the desk area, still listening to your voice.
Most of the building has already emptied out, the usual echo of footsteps and distant conversations fading into a soft murmur. A new academic year has begun a few weeks earlier, bringing new classes, new students, and different routines to adapt to.
Kate is only passing through on her way back to the library after a quick coffee break when she notices that Professor Barnes’ office door isn’t fully closed, which in itself isn’t unusual during the day, but feels slightly different now, at this hour, when most doors have already been shut and locked into the night.
It stands ajar just enough to let the light spill out into the corridor in a thin line, and something about it makes her slow down without quite knowing why.
You are on the couch near the window, turned toward the coffee table, a stack of notes spread across your lap and the space beside you like you have tried to organize them into something manageable and then given up halfway. Your pen moves every so often, pausing in your fingers while your gaze drifts across the same line over and over again.
Milo is asleep against Professor Barnes’ chest, finally surrendered to exhaustion. One small hand is curled into the fabric of his white shirt as though even unconscious he has to make sure he’s still there.
Mr. Barnes is sitting beside you on the couch rather than at his desk, leaned back enough to give himself space while still holding your son securely, his other hand busy grading a stack of papers balanced across his knee.
Every so often his fingers adjust slightly against Milo’s back without looking down—small, automatic corrections that come too naturally, like his body has memorized the child’s weight by now.
Kate should have left then. Finding the three of you together isn’t particularly surprising. She has spent most of the previous semester sitting beside you, and after a while it became impossible to not notice things.
Mr. Barnes knew which songs made Milo stop crying, which foods he would immediately throw on the floor, and exactly how long he could sit through a lecture before getting bored. More impressively, he knew when you hadn’t slept. Kate had seen him arrive more than once, take a single look at you, and set a coffee beside your notebook before he’d even taken attendance.
She is ready to walk away, but Milo shifts.
A small movement, a restless ripple through sleep, followed by a soft whine tinged with the faintest edge of discomfort. His face tightens, brows drawing together, and his grip on Mr. Barnes’ shirt instinctively changes, fingers curling a little more firmly as if searching for something safe.
The Professor moves at once.
“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s alright.”
He brings Milo closer against his chest, his other palm settling between the baby’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. The papers on his knee remain untouched, his pen resting loosely between his fingers as he focuses entirely on the small toddler in his arms.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, almost absently. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”
The tension leaves his body in gradual stages until there is nothing left, except the faintest lingering sound of his steady breathing. He doesn’t immediately go back to his task, instead gently leaning down to press a brief kiss to the top of Milo’s head.
That should have definitely been her cue to leave.
But Mr. Barnes stays like that for a moment longer, eyes on Milo as if confirming it has actually worked, then leans back into the couch.
“You are staring.” He mentions, but there is no edge to it.
You roll your eyes but it doesn’t land properly because there is still a soft smile on your lips. “You’re imagining things again.”
Mr. Barnes tilts his head just enough to look at you properly.
“Yeah?” He murmurs with a little amused smirk.
Milo decides to make a small sound in his sleep again, and Professor Barnes promptly glances at him, before looking back up.
At that point, his arm comes around your waist as he moves closer, pulling you in until your head lands on his free shoulder. His thumb brushes your belly once.
“You’re tired.” He mumbles.
“I’m fine.” Your answer is automatic, too quick.
That gets you a small, disappointed exhale from him.
“Hey.” He whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once, causing you to slowly look up. Mr. Barnes just nudges his nose lightly against yours—an absent, almost teasing gesture that brings a hint of a smile on your pretty features.
Before you can open your mouth, though, he is already leaning closer, his forehead brushing against yours.
Your breath hitches at that, yet your hand still rises, cupping his jaw as your thumb lightly strokes the stubble on his cheek.
“What?” You whisper, softer now.
His eyes watch yours for a moment—shiny with exhaustion yet still so beautiful—then they flick down to your mouth, the lipstick from this morning now completely gone.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
The kiss is very different from the one you shared last night in your bed—a simple, warm press of lips that gradually deepens as the grip on your waist tightens in response to your cute, soft breaths. Your fingers curve more firmly against his face, holding him there as his mouth languidly move against yours.
The moment you slightly pull back, Mr. Barnes follows your lips once more, your faint giggle muffled against his mouth as he kisses you again, firmly.
His forehead rests on yours when he finally relents, his thumb gently stroking the sliver of skin that peaked out as the hem of your shirt shifted with you.
Your hands eventually wrap around his forearm, squeezing the muscle slightly before relaxing again. It’s only then that Mr. Barnes lets out a little relieved sigh as your head falls back on his shoulder and you finally allow your eyes to flutter shut.
Kate purses her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile, and finally keeps walking.
— ⟢ END NOTES: I guess if I get better at this I might open requests for some of my stories! thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
summary:: You wake up on your birthday, wrapped in the arms of the man you love. But reality comes knocking, and he has to go. What follows is a day of quiet ache, a best friend who knows exactly what you need, and a reminder that you are loved.
warnings:: mommy issues,a lot of angst,best friend!Wanda Maximoff who lowkey gives lesbian energy...lmao😭 that was accidental (at first),bad writing tbh,fluff
word count:: 2,7k
A/N:: this was made for @saddled-on-stars sorry for being late <33
You woke up before the sun did,it was your birthday.The curtains barely moved in the early morning light, painting everything gold. For a second, you didn’t move—just listened. The slow rhythm of his breathing — his breathing,Bucky's — calmed you.
His arm was draped over your waist, metal fingers resting carefully against your skin like he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tight. You smiled to yourself.
“Happy birthday, doll,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, like he’d been dreaming of you too.
You turned slowly in his arms, facing him. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and there was something softer about him in the morning.
“You remembered,” you whispered.He let out a quiet huff, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I remember everything about you.”
Outside, the city hadn’t woken up yet. No sirens, no chaos. Just that fragile stillness.“What do you wanna do today?” he asked, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip.
You thought about it—the candles, the wishes,all those years.But right now, wrapped up in him, none of that felt urgent.“Nothing,” you said softly. “Just… this.”
His lips curved into the smallest smile, the kind he didn’t show anyone else. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.“Then we stay,” he said. “All day.”
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into it.Into your birthday and somehow, it already felt like the best one.
Later reality came knocking,Bucky sighed first. You felt it before you heard it, the way his chest rose deeper this time, like he was already pulling away.
“Wish I could stay,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You didn’t answer right away. Just traced the faint line of his jaw with your fingertip, memorizing it like you always did when you knew he was about to go.
“Avengers stuff?” you asked softly.
He gave a small nod, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Yeah. Early call.”
That made you smile, just barely.But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.The room felt different now—less like a dream.The quiet ache settling in your chest.
It was your birthday.And he had to leave.
“Hey,” he said gently, noticing the change in you. His hand came up, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“That thing where you get all sad and pretend you’re not.” You exhaled, a small, defeated sound. “Sorry.”
He softened instantly.For a second, he looked like he might say screw it—stay anyway, let the world wait. You saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the way his hand lingered just a little longer on your face.
But Bucky Barnes wasn’t built to walk away from duty. And that was why you loved him,he tried so hard to be good,and it made you proud everyday.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised quietly, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Tonight. Just you and me, yeah? I got something planned.”
“Something planned?” you teased faintly, trying to hold onto the softness.
He smirked. “You’ll see.”
Reluctantly, he pulled away, sitting up on the edge of the bed. The absence of him was immediate.
You watched him get dressed—shirt, jacket, gear. Piece by piece, the man you loved turned back into the soldier the world needed.
Before he left, he turned back to you,like always.“C’mere,” he said.
You slipped out of the covers and walked into him, wrapping your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his chest. He held you tight.
“Happy birthday, doll,” he whispered into your hair again, softer this time. “Don’t go anywhere without me.”
You laughed quietly against him. “I’ll try.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough to make it hurt when he pulled away.
And then he was gone,the door clicked shut.The apartment fell silent.You stood there for a moment.
You didn’t stay in bed long after he left.The silence pressed in too much, too loud. So you moved. Shower running, music low, something old and sad humming through the apartment.
You stood in front of the mirror longer than usual.Foundation, soft blush, lashes just right. Lips slightly tinted—nothing too bold, just enough to feel like yourself, or at least a version of yourself you could hold together today.
You wanted to feel pretty today.It was your birthday, after all.You tilted your head, studying your reflection.“Good enough,” you whispered.
Your phone buzzed on the counter.You glanced at it casually at first—but the moment you saw the name, your expression shifted.
Mom.Oh shit.
Your stomach tightened.For a second, you let it ring. Watched the screen light up, fade, light up again.Then, with a quiet sigh, you picked it up.“Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Hello,Antichrist.Hello,theraphy.You frowned without meaning to, leaning your hip against the counter.“Thanks, Mom.”
“You sound tired,” she said.
You almost laughed at that.“I just woke up.”
“That late?” she asked, and there it was—that subtle edge.Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone.“It’s my birthday.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m your mother.”Silence stretched between you, uncomfortable.
You looked at yourself in the mirror again. The makeup,the effort. The softness you tried to build this morning.It felt… smaller now.
“Are you coming by later?” she asked. “I made something.”
Your chest tightened, just a little.You already knew what that meant. The same table,the same conversations. The same feeling of being ten years old again, trying to be enough in a room that never quite fit you right.“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
“Well,” she sighed, “you should. It’s important to remember where you come from.”
Your jaw clenched slightly.And suddenly, the morning didn’t feel golden anymore.It felt grey.“I’ll think about it,” you said.
“Alright,” she replied.The call ended soon after.You set your phone down slowly, staring at your reflection again.
After that,you couldn't stay in the apartment alone.You couldn’t—not with the ache sitting on your chest like that.So you called Wanda,and she came, of course.
“Absolutely not,” Wanda said the second she saw you, eyes narrowing gently as she took in your expression. “You are not spending your birthday spiraling.”
You let out a small laugh, leaning against the doorframe as she walked in like she owned the place.“I’m not spiraling.”
“Mm,” she hummed, unconvinced, slipping off her coat. “You did your makeup to feel better.”
You blinked. “That’s not a crime.”
“It is when you still look like you want to cry,” she said softly.But instead of pushing, Wanda just reached for your hand, squeezing it once.“C’mon,” she said. “We’re going out.”
...
The city felt different in the afternoon.It felt more alive.You and Wanda walked side by side, her arm occasionally brushing yours.
She took you somewhere pretty—somewhere with soft lighting, velvet seats, music humming low in the background. The kind of place that felt expensive and intimate, like a hidden corner of the world.
“You deserve to be celebrated,” she said simply, sliding a drink toward you.
You smiled, softer this time.“To me?” you asked, raising your glass slightly.
“To you,” she echoed, clinking it gently.You swallowed, throat tightening just a bit.“You always know what to say.”
“I don’t,” Wanda admitted, leaning back slightly “I just care about you.”
Hours passed like that.Soft laughter,stories,a little teasing,a little honesty.Outside, the sky began to dim—gold melting into pink, pink into something darker, something deeper.
You checked your phone without thinking. There were no messages.Your heart dipped slightly and Wanda noticed, of course.“He’ll come back,” she said gently.
You let out a small breath, staring into your drink.“I know.”
Wanda reached for your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.“Until then,” she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips, “you have me.”
And somehow—that was enough to keep the sadness from swallowing the day whole.At least for now.
“So,” she said gently, “what happened earlier?” You traced the edge of your drink with your finger.“My mom called.”
Wanda didn’t react right away. Just set her drink down softly, giving you her full attention.“And?”
“She was… normal.” You gave a small, humorless smile. “In her own way.”
Her head tilted slightly.“Normal can still hurt.”
“She wants me to come over,” you admitted. “And I know exactly how it’ll go.”
Wanda leaned in just a little, her voice softer now.“Tell me.”
“You are not who she failed to understand,” she said softly.The words hit deeper than you expected.You looked up at her,her thumb moved slowly over your knuckles.
Your phone lit up against the table.You didn’t think much of it at first—just another notification,but Wanda noticed before you did.“Someone’s calling,” she said gently.
You glanced down at the phone.It was Bucky.You picked up quickly, stepping a little away from the table.“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey, doll.”God, you missed him.
“I’m home,” he said. “Where are you?”
You leaned lightly against the wall, watching the city blur past outside the window.“I’m out with Wanda,” you replied. “She kidnapped me for my birthday.”
“Good. Someone had to.” You huffed quietly. “Rude.”
“Can you come home? I told you I had something planned” he asked.“I don’t wanna pull you away from Wanda,” he added. “But… I kinda need you here.”
You glanced back at the table. Wanda was watching you. Her expression soft like always.“Give me a minute?” you said into the phone.
“Take your time,” Bucky replied. “I’ll be here.” You hung up slowly,for a second, you just stood there, holding your phone, feeling something shift inside you again.
You walked back to the table, slipping into your seat.“Bucky?” Wanda asked gently.
You nodded. “Yeah.He’s home.He wants me to come back. Said he has… a surprise.”
Wanda’s lips curved into the faintest smile, something almost fond in her expression.“Then you should go.”
You hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna just—leave you.”
Her fingers brushed yours again.“You’re not leaving me,” she said softly. “You’re going to someone who’s been thinking about you all day.”
You exhaled, a small smile finally forming on your lips.“Thank you,” you murmured.
Wanda tilted her head slightly, her gaze warm.“Go,” she said. “And enjoy every minute of it.”
You gathered your things, a sudden flutter in your chest making your fingers feel clumsy. You forced yourself to slow down. Rushing felt wrong.
Outside, the evening air hit you first—thick with the smell of cheap street food.Your heels clicked against the concrete, a predictable rhythm that kept you anchored while crowds of people swirled past in a blur of loud laughter and designer coats. Above you, a faulty neon sign buzzed, casting a erratic pink glow over the pavement.
The city kept moving, engines roaring and strangers brushing against your shoulder without a glance. You passed a line of yellow cabs idling at the curb, but you ignored them. You needed the walk to clear your head.
By the time your building came into view, the sky had deepened into that rich, dusky blue color.You slowed your steps without realizing it, your hand brushing lightly against the door as you reached it, hesitating for just a second.
You took a small breath, steadying yourself.And then, finally—you went inside.
The door closed quietly behind you, the sound softer than you expected. For a second, you didn’t move. The lights were low, barely there, replaced by something warmer. Candles lined the room. He’d done it himself, taking his time, trying to get it right. Music played somewhere in the background.
You stepped further inside, your breath catching just slightly and then you saw him.Bucky stood near the middle of the room, like he’d been waiting in that exact spot the whole time. God,you loved that man.
His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a little messy. For a moment, neither of you said anything. He just looked at you—really looked at you—and then his expression softened.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.You let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your lips curving into a smile.“Hey.”
His eyes moved over you for, taking you in—the way you were dressed, the effort you’d made.He saw all the parts that made you look breathtaking.
“You look…” he started, “You look beautiful.” “Thank you,” you said softly.
There was a small, almost shy smile on his face—as he took a step closer to you, then another. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here,” he admitted.“Didn’t wanna rush you.”
“I wanted to see you as soon as I could,” you confessed.
He nodded once, then glanced around the room like he suddenly became aware of it all again—the candles, the music,the decoration.“It’s not… fancy or anything,” he said. “I just thought—”
“It’s perfect,” you interrupted gently.His eyes came back to yours. You stepped closer, the space between you disappearing without either of you really noticing when it happened. The music filled the silence for a moment.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured, and this time when he said it, it felt different.It felt deeper. His hand found yours carefully,as they always did, he was still a little afraid of holding onto you too tightly, even now.
Neither of you moved for a minute. Bucky’s hand was still holding yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Dance with me?” he asked.
You smiled, softer than before, something easing in your chest. “I'd love to.”
One hand slid to your waist while the other held yours, pulling you gently into him. Your bodies found the rhythm without trying too hard,it came naturally. Your hand rested against his shoulder, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. He kept you closer than usual.
“You okay?” he asked quietly after a while, his voice close to your ear.You exhaled, your head tilting just slightly toward him without thinking.“Yeah,” you murmured. “I am now.”
His hand on your waist shifted just a little, pulling you closer in a way that said he heard everything you didn’t say. You swayed together, the world outside fading into something distant and unimportant. Your cheek brushed near his shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“I thought about you all day,” he admitted quietly. You lifted your head slightly, looking at him. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “Didn’t like being away from you.” Your lips curved faintly. “You were busy saving the world.”
“Yeah,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “Didn’t feel as important.” his words made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You just moved a little closer, your fingers pressing slightly more into him.
His metal fingers were impossibly gentle as they traced the line of your jaw. The contrast of the cool metal against your warm skin made your breath hitch, a tiny sound that seemed to draw his eyes straight to your lips.
“Bucky,” you breathed.He leaned in, closing the final inch between you with a little hesitation. When his lips finally met yours, it was a slow collision. It was a desperate pouring out of everything he usually kept locked behind his ribs.
Your fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He let out a ragged exhale against your mouth.His human hand come up to cup the back of your head. The kiss deepened. It tasted like coming home after a lifetime of running.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and uneven as his thumb gently wiped away a tear you hadn't even realized had slipped down your cheek.
summary:: bucky knows the rules when it comes to you and studying. But you both know that he's not one to behave. So, you're not exactly surprised when he starts to beg.
warnings:: 18+,smut,PINV,riding,Dom/sub dynamics,Sub,needy, pathetic!Bucky,Dom!reader,VERY,VERY Historically inaccurate portrayal (I don't even think it was even acceptable to be a sub in the 40's,if you were a man...but yeah. It's very inaccurate),Author doesn't really know how it was in the 40's and author was lazy,hair pulling,begging, choking,orgasm denial (these all happen to Bucky lmao. Reader is a meanie I guess,lmao)
word count:: 4,7k
A/N:: despite how inaccurate it is historically I kinda like it? Idk,please don't hate me lol
The air in the room is heavy as velvet and smelling faintly of cheap tobacco and the wet, rain-soaked asphalt outside the window. You are drowning under a sea of paper, charcoal pencils, and the half-finished ink of a research project that feels entirely pointless while the rest of the world is spinning toward a war.
The desk lamp casts a low glow over your knuckles. You’ve been staring at the same sentence for an hour. It’s an oppressive kind of silence, the kind that makes you want to break something.
Bucky is there on the bed.For the last forty minutes, he’s been sitting on the mattress, idly flipping an unlit cigarette between his knuckles, pretending to be occupied. Slowly, you realize, the rhythmic movement of his hands has stopped. The cigarette slips out of his grip, rolling onto the sheets.
When you steal a glance, you see he isn't paying attention to anything else at all. He is just staring. His eyes are fixed entirely on the back of your neck.His broad shoulders are pulled tight, the muscles in his jaw ticking with a restless tension. He looks at you with an aching concern, waiting for you to notice him.
You deliberately choose not to turn around. The wood of your chair creaks softly under your weight, but you keep your eyes glued to the white pages, forcing your spine to stay rigid. There is a strict rule in this room, a line drawn in this Brooklyn apartment that cannot be crossed: no distractions while studying. The rule is simple, and it has to be followed.
It is a cruel kind of discipline because your boyfriend is dangerously attractive, a boy built out of old leather jackets, and bad habits. He is intimately familiar with you, knowing exactly where to touch you to make you forget your own name, let alone the words on a page. You can still feel his fingers on your skin from earlier. But the boundaries are set. You keep your face turned toward the lamp, your knuckles white against your pen.
He knows the rule just as well as you do, and he is staying in his corner of the dark. He is obeying you, sitting there with his jaw clenched and his broad shoulders are tense.
Bucky Barnes was never good at following simple rules. The rebellious streak that made him a legend on the Brooklyn boardwalks, a restless energy he could never quite contain.
“You've been staring at that exact same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, doll,” he murmurs. His gaze tracks the tense line of your shoulders with a lazy intensity, checking the clock on the wall just to prove his point.
“You’ve been keeping track of the time down to the exact minute, James?” you say softly. You twist your pen between your fingers, keeping your gaze locked onto the blurred text in front of you. “That’s unusually obsessive, even for you.”
A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips as you keep your eyes fixed on the page, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention just yet.
The mattress groans softly as he gets up from the bed, his leather shoes making no sound against the rug as he crosses the small room. Even as the warmth of his body approaches, your attention remains fixed on the paper, your eyes stubbornly tracking the same black lines of ink.
He steps up behind your chair, a presence that smells of rain, wool, and the sweet scent of his hair pomade. Without a word, he places his hands on your shoulders. His palms are warm, slowly his thumbs begin to press into the tense, tightly coiled muscles of your neck and shoulders.
He kneads the tension away with his large hands. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the streets or training for a war, he is entirely soft under your roof. He keeps his head bowed close to yours, silently waiting to see if you will finally break your own rule for him.
“You’re tight as a piano wire, doll,” he murmurs. “And don't tell me you're too busy for a breath. You've been reading the same line since the streetlamps came on.”
“I’m busy, James,” you insist, forcing your eyes to stay glued to the ink even as his fingers send a melting warmth straight down your spine.
He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Busy,” he repeats, the word tasting sour on his tongue. “Right. Or maybe you’re just avoiding me.”
The sharp accusation finally snaps your discipline. You drop your pen, and you finally turn around in your chair to face him.The defense you had prepared dissolves the second your eyes meet his.
Up close, his appearance completely distracts you. He is dressed in his casual loungewear—a lightweight cotton camp shirt with the top buttons left entirely undone, revealing the skin of his collarbone.Below, he wears a pair of dark high-waisted wool trousers, sitting loosely on his hips without a belt or suspenders. His dark hair is still neatly slicked back with pomade, but a few shiny strands have loosened over his forehead.
But it’s his eyes that lock you in place. They look bruised, dark with exhaustion, revealing that he hasn’t been sleeping well at all. Or, perhaps, that he has been staying awake craving something entirely out of his reach—hungry for a closeness that has been denied from him all night.
“I’m not avoiding you,” you say softly. “I’m just stressed. It’s a twenty-page paper, and the deadline is suffocating me.”
Bucky lets out a soft huff from his chest, his lips twitching into a lazy smirk. He doesn't take his hands off your shoulders, his thumbs smoothing over your collarbone. “Twenty pages?” his gravelly Brooklyn drawl dripping with exhaustion. “Jesus, doll. Sounds incredibly boring. No wonder your neck is stiff.”
“It is not boring,” you say. “The topic is actually interesting. It matters to me.”
Bucky lets out a rough chuckle. He keeps his hands resting firmly on your shoulders, his thumbs resuming their teasing rhythm against your collarbone.
He leans down just a fraction closer, his scent completely clouding your senses. “Is that so?” he whispers. “Tell me then, is that paper really more fascinating than I am?”
His hands slide slowly from your shoulders, before his fingers come to rest gently along your jawline. His touch is incredibly soft, holding your face like you are something fragile.
It is a desperate touch, and you both know why. It has been a full, excruciating week since you had shown him anything more than simple affection—just quick kisses at the door or a distracted squeeze of the hand. During that long week, Bucky had repeatedly tried to get your attention, bringing you cold bottles of Coca-Cola, or casually messing with his lighter just to hear you tell him to stop, practically begging for you to look at him.
Now, he finally has your eyes on him, and the hunger in his face is undeniable. As his thumbs slowly caress your jaw, his grip shifts, his touch becoming deeply intimate. He begins to lean down, his lips parting slightly as he chases the warmth of your skin.
The heat of him is intoxicating, but the sight of the open textbooks snaps you back to reality. Before his lips can find yours, you place your hands against his chest, gently pushing against the soft cotton of his camp shirt to stop him.
“James, stop,” you say softly. You look directly into his tired blue eyes. “There is still a mountain of work left to do on this desk. Look at all of these papers.”
Bucky freezes against your hands. For a second, he stays completely still, his thumbs lingering on your jawline. The cocky smirk vanishes entirely from his face, leaving him looking utterly defeated by your words.
“You always seem to have more work to do,” he complains. He looks down at you. “It’s always another book, another page, another hour.”
You don't let his frustration sway you, keeping your hands steady against his chest. “This is simply how earning a degree works, James,” you reply calmly. “It doesn't just happen. It takes time, and it takes rules.”
Then, unexpectedly, Bucky drops to his knees.The abrupt shift in his height catches you completely off guard. He sinks down right beside your chair. He doesn't say a word as he rests his large hands on your thighs, anchoring himself to you.
“Please,” he says. The word slips from his lips so quietly, that it is barely a breath.
“What are you asking for?” The question hits him visibly. Bucky struggles to answer, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs just enough to show how desperately he is holding onto his composure.
The smooth-talking boy from the neighborhood is completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as he tries to find the courage to tell you exactly how weak he is for you.
Many girls in Brooklyn would never believe this if they saw it. To the rest of the world, to every girl on the Coney Island boardwalk or in the crowded jazz clubs, Bucky Barnes embodies masculinity. He is the boy who is always confident, and entirely in control of every situation. He is the protector, the soldier, the leader of the pack.
But with you, he has always been like this. He doesn't want to be the leader here; he doesn't want the burden of control. He craves the exact opposite. He wants to beg for your scrap of attention, completely content to lay his pride on your floorboards if it means he gets to belong to you. With you.
Bucky swallows hard, his knuckles turning white against your thighs as he forces the words past his lips.
“Just... touch me,” he whispers. The request seems physically hard for him to make. “Please. It’s been a week, doll...” He trails off, struggling to express the weight of how much the distance has been affecting him.
You look down at him from your chair. “I know exactly how long it’s been, James,” you reply gently.
“It’s driving me crazy,” he confesses. “You not looking at me, not touching me for seven days. It’s driving me completely out of my mind.”
Your hand moves into Bucky’s hair, your fingers tangling into the thick, dark strands. You grip it firmly and pull his head back, forcing his chin up so he has no choice but to look directly into your eyes.
He makes a desperate sound at the sudden constraint. It is the kind of helpless noise that the proud Brooklyn boy would later feel deeply embarrassed about, a total betrayal of the smooth soldier persona he wears on the streets. But here, on his knees, he doesn't have the strength to hide it.
A faint smile plays on your lips as you look down at him.“Only a week without my attention, Jamie,” you murmur. “And you’re already acting this needy. What am I going to do with you?”
The moment the name leaves your lips, Bucky’s entire body goes rigid against your chair. Jamie. Hearing it now, while he is on his knees completely shatters whatever sliver of composure he had left.
“You’re pathetic,” you say.Bucky doesn't flinch, nor does he try to defend his proud reputation. Instead, he closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.
“I know,” He accepts the humiliation like a holy thing, his head bowing slightly under the firm grip of your hand.
“Stand up,” you command.He obeys immediately,rising until he is towering over your seated figure once again. But as he stands before you, you notice how profoundly the situation is affecting him. The confident of his posture is completely gone; his chest is heaving beneath the loose camp shirt.
His hands hover uncertainly at his sides.He is starving to reach out, to wrap his arms around you. Yet, he doesn't dare close the distance.Waiting with a beautiful patience for your permission.
Underneath the unbelted line of his high-waisted wool trousers, you notice the unmistakable outline of his bulge.A dark flush creeps up Bucky’s throat as he catches your gaze.
You slowly stand up from the creaking wooden chair, but your fingers never leave his hair. Using the grip to maintain your control as you slide your body close to his.
“You’ve been distracting me all night, Jamie,” you accuse him. You tilt his head back slightly, forcing his shadowed blue eyes to stay locked onto yours. “Sitting there on the bed, just staring at the back of my neck while I’m trying to work.”
“I couldn’t help it,” he admits. “I couldn't help it, doll... you're right there. You're so close to me all the time, and it's killing me. I need you. I just need you so bad.”
With a sudden movement, you push Bucky backward, catching him completely by surprise. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the rough streets, he offers absolutely no resistance against you; he lets out a breathless gasp as he stumbles over his own feet, falling onto the mattress with a soft groan.
You follow him onto the bed instantly. You position yourself over him, pinning his body down under your weight while keeping that unrelenting grip tangled in his hair. The glossy strands twist around your fingers, locking his head against the pillows as you look down at him from above.
“I'm paying attention to you now, Jamie,” you whisper against his skin. “Tell me... is this the kind of attention you’ve been wanting all week?”
His thighs buck up beneath you. He arches into your weight, his large hands finally coming up to grip the mattress on either side of his head.
“Yes,” he gasps out, the word breaking into a helpless sob. “Yes, doll...thank you.” He repeats it over and over again. He is begging, entirely unmade by your attention.
“Be still,” you command and he freezes instantly. The desperate motion of his hips halts mid-air, and he drops flat against the mattress, just because you told him to. You sit up over him, shifting your weight on his lap, feeling the thick, hard outline of his bulge pressing firmly against you through his trousers.
Slowly, your hands trail down from his hair, your fingertips sliding over the smooth skin of his jaw before resting against his chest. His heart is hammering like a trapped bird beneath your palms.
“Take your shirt off,” you tell him.Bucky’s breath hitches. His hands shake noticeably as he releases his grip on the bedsheets and reaches up to the remaining buttons of his shirt, his movements clumsy and hurried because he is so desperate to please you.
Bucky manages to get his shirt off, he shoves the lightweight cotton fabric off his broad shoulders, leaving it discarded somewhere in the dark corners of the mattress. In the golden fringe of the desk lamp, his bare chest looks striking.
You look down at his exposed skin, a satisfied smile playing on your lips as you slide your palms over the smooth contours of his chest.
“You behaved so well all week, Jamie,” you comment. “Keeping your distance, letting me work. Such a good boy.”
“I tried so hard,” he whispers, his voice thick with honesty. He lets out a defeated whine, his hands flattening against the sheets. “Jesus, I tried so hard to be good for you... it was killing me.”
“I know it was hard,” you murmur back, your hands slowly trail down the rigid lines of his stomach, your fingertips drawing a lazy path until they find the high waistband of his wool trousers.
The moment your thumbs slip just beneath the fabric, brushing against the skin of his hips, Bucky’s entire body goes completely stiff under your weight. His breath catches in his chest, his hips twitching in a tiny buck against your palms.
You slide your thumbs beneath the thick fabric of his wool trousers, your movements agonizingly slow. One by one, you pop the high-waisted buttons of his fly. He arches his back slightly against the mattress, a tortured groan vibrating deep in his chest.
Once the fabric falls open, you don't reach inside to give him the relief he is starving for. Instead, your hand trails back up the sweaty expanse of his stomach, until your fingers find his throat.
You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your fingers wrap around his throat. Not enough to cut off air completely, just enough pressure to make him feel it.
Bucky just likes it wild,huh.
“Eyes on me,sweet boy,” you say. Your thumb strokes along his pulse point. “You don't get to come until I say so. You don't move withou my permission.You answer every question I ask, and you use your words. Understand?”
He nods, but you tighten your grip just a fraction, making him gasp. “Words,Jamie.”
“Yes,” he breathes, voice already rough. “I understand.”
Your fingers slip inside the open fly of his trousers, brushing over the damp fabric covering his cock. He twitches under the touch, hips jerking slightly before he forces himself still.
You hook your fingers into his trousers and tug them down his hips, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it pools around his knees. Bucky shifts under you, his breath hitching. Your hand moves next, gripping the edge of his underwear and yanking it down in one motion.The head is already glistening with pre-cum that beads at the tip and starts to drip down the shaft.
You wrap your fingers around his throat again, applying that steady pressure he craves while your other hand points directly at the leaking head. “Look at that,” you say. “Already dripping all over yourself. Such a mess before I've even touched you properly.”
Bucky's cheeks flush deeper, his cock twitching visibly under your gaze. You ease off his lap, sliding back until your feet touch the floor beside the bed. He stays where he is, propped against the pillows, trousers and underwear shoved down to his knees.
You take a deliberate step back and start with your blouse, peeling it up and off in one smooth motion. The fabric drops to the floor. Next come your skirt, unbuttoned and pushed down your hips until they pool at your ankles. You step out of the fabric slowly, letting him see every inch of skin revealed. Your underwear follows last, sliding down your thighs until you're bare in front of him.
Bucky's eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide. His cock jerks hard. “You like this, Jamie?” you ask, voice low and teasing as you stand there naked, letting him look his fill.
He swallows hard, throat working under the faint red mark your hand left earlier. “Yes,” he breathes, voice rough. “Fuck, yes,doll.”
You settle back onto his lap, thighs bracketing his hips as you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. The shaft is hot and slick, pre-cum coating your palm the moment you close your fist around him. You give one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb dragging over the swollen head to spread the mess.
Bucky’s breath catches. His eyes stay locked on yours. “please,” he whispers, voice already ragged. “Please… fuck.”
You stroke him again, tighter this time, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. More pre-cum wells up and spills over your knuckles. He twitches hard in your grip, hips jerking once before he forces them still.
“Please,” he says again, almost desperate. “Thank you. Feels so good. Please don’t stop.”
His cock throbs between your fingers, another thick bead of slick leaking out with every pass of your hand. You keep the pace steady, watching the way his stomach tightens and his thighs tense under you. Every time you squeeze near the head he lets out another shaky “please,” the words tumbling out like he’s been trained to say them.
You lean in closer, your bare chest brushing his shirt, and keep stroking him while he repeats the words, voice cracking with need. “You been thinking about this all week, Jamie?”
He swallows, then manages to nod. His hair is stuck to his forehead, dark strands plastered with sweat.That's not nearly enough for you. “Words.“ You command.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah, I — all week. Couldn't think about nothing else.”
You let your palm rest flat on his stomach, feel the muscle jump under your fingers. He's warm and shaking a little.
“I knew you'd be like this,” you say. Conversational. Like you're talking about the weather. “Saw you watching me at my desk all weeks.”
You curl your fingers, drag your nails light across his stomach, and his breath catches. “That's what I mean. I knew you'd be like this. Desperate.Touch-starved. One week without my hands on you, and you're falling apart,sweet boy.”
His brow furrows. Something flickers across his. “You... you knew?”
“Mmhm.” You take him back in your hand, and the sound he makes travels right through your palm and up your arm. His hips tilt into the touch, and you let him have that half-inch of friction before you settle into a rhythm.
His head falls back against the pillow. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that's...fuck — that's good,sweetheart.”
His cock is slick in your grip, and you use your thumb to spread the wetness down his shaft, and his hand shoots out.His fingers close around your waist,just above your hip.
And then he freezes.You see it the second he realizes what he's done. His eyes go wide, his hand stays where it is.
Your hand stops moving.“Jamie.”
“I know.” It comes out strangled. “I know, I just... I forgot, I didn't mean to, I just—”
“You grabbed me without asking.” He closes his eyes. The hand on your waist is trembling now. “Yes.”
Slowly, you lift your hand from his cock. Let it hover an inch away. Let him feel the absence of it. “No, please,sweetheart.”
His hand slides off your waist and falls to the mattress.“I'm sorry,” he says again, and his voice cracks. “Please. Please don't stop. I'll be good. I'll be so good, just, please, I need, I need your hand on me, I need it so bad, I can't —”
His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet again, but this time they're searching yours, desperate for a sign, for a crack in the wall.“I'll be good,” he whispers. “I promise. I'll be so good for you.”
You place a finger on his lips, and he falls silent immediately, his breath hitching.“Shh,” you murmur. “I know.”
He shudders beneath you, his hips twitching involuntarily. He's hard, aching, the length of him pressing against your thigh. But he doesn't move,he waits. He always waits.
You shift your weight, positioning yourself above him. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and he gasps, his hips bucking up instinctively before he catches himself. “Please,” he breathes. “Please, sweetheart, I'll be good. I'll be so good.”
You don't answer. You hold his gaze, watching the fear and want war in his eyes. Then, slowly you sink down onto him.
The sound he makes is broken. A sob and a moan tangled together, torn from the depths of his chest. His eyes roll back, his jaw going slack, and you feel him pulse inside you as you take him inch by inch, filling yourself with him. “Look at me,Jamie.”
His eyes snap to yours, wide and wet. There are tears clinging to his lashes, and his lower lip trembles.
“What happens when you break the rules?”
He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “I get punished.”
“That's right.” You begin to move, a slow, rolling grind that makes him gasp. His hands clench in the sheets, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.
“You wanted to touch me,” you continue, your voice low as you rock your hips. “So now I'm going to use you. I'm going to ride you until I'm satisfied, and you're going to lie there and take it. You're not going to come until I say so. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, I understand. I understand.”
You pick up the pace, rising and falling on his cock, your hands braced on his chest. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room.
He's so beautiful like this. So undone. His hair is splayed across the pillow, dark and disheveled. His eyes are fixed on you, worshipful and desperate. His mouth hangs open, helpless sounds escaping with every thrust.He lies there, taking it, letting you use him exactly as you please.
You lean forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips close to his ear. “You're doing so well, Jamie,” you murmur. “Taking me so perfectly. My good boy.”
A sob escapes him, and a tear slips down his cheek. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
“I know.” You kiss the tear away, tasting salt. “I know you are.” You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His hips twitch beneath you, but he holds still, his restraint absolute. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving your face.
“Close,” he chokes out. “Sweetheart, I'm close. Please—can I—”
“Not yet.”
He groans, but he nods.You take what you need, moving over him until the tension coils tight in your belly.
You rise slow, almost to the tip, and then sink back down just as slow, letting him feel every inch of your heat, every clench of your inner walls.
Beneath you, Bucky is a study in restraint.His hands are still fisted in the sheets, but his knuckles have gone white, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cords. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his ribs rising and falling beneath your palms. His eyes are locked on you, wide and glistening, pupils blown so dark there's hardly any blue left.
“Please,” he whispers, not even knowing what he's begging for anymore. “Please, sweetheart, please—”
You ignore him. You take more. “Shh.” You slow your pace, almost stopping, and he whimpers at the loss of friction.
You begin to move again, building the rhythm back up, faster now, harder. His cock slides in and out of you, slick with your combined arousal, and you can feel yourself climbing toward the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
You can feel yourself getting close. The coil in your belly is wound tight, ready to snap. You increase your pace, chasing the peak, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. “That's it,” you gasp. “That's it, Jamie. Take it. Take all of me.”
“Let go,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Let go, sweetheart. I've got you.”
The words break something inside you. The tension snaps, and pleasure crashes through you like a wave, fierce and overwhelming. You cry out, your body convulsing around him, your nails raking down his chest.
He watches you come undone with reverent, tear-filled eyes.When you still, panting, spent, he's still hard inside you, still trembling on the edge.
“Now,” you whisper, giving him the release he's been begging for. “Come for me, Bucky. Fill me up.”
His back arches, his mouth opening in a silent cry, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're still straddling him, his seed trickling down your thighs. His chest heaves beneath you, his eyes closed, his face slack with exhaustion and relief.
Then his hands come up to cup your face, so gentle. His thumbs brush away the sweat on your cheeks, and he looks at you with such overwhelming love that it steals your breath.
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you down against his chest, holding you close. His heart hammers beneath your ear. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “More than anything.”
warnings::I mean...girl, it's somno and the winter soldier lol.18+ It's dark. Dubcon
Drabbles | WINTER SOLDIER X READER
The apartment door slammed shut, heavy enough to shake the frame, and his heavy boots hit the floorboards like sudden gunshots. His shoulders were rigid, the metal arm whirring faintly as he flexed his fingers.
The mission was a disaster—he had blood on his hands that didn't belong to him, and bad orders that left a bitter, sour taste on his tongue. He was tired of being America’s favorite ghost, tired of the heavy weight of being used as a deadly weapon. He didn't want the war anymore. He needed something soft and warm to ground him—something gentle that wouldn’t fight back in the dark.
You were already asleep when he stepped into the bedroom, curled on your side under the thin sheet while your slow, even breathing filled the quiet room. The sight of you just like that—completely vulnerable, beautifully unaware—sent a dark, thrilling rush straight through his veins.
He stripped out of his heavy tactical gear in silence, the black shirt and cargo pants landing in a ruined heap on the floorboards. His body was still buzzing from the dangerous adrenaline coursing through him. His cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy between his legs.
The soldier climbed onto the mattress behind you without a single word. The bed dipped under his weight, but you didn’t stir from your dream. He pressed his warm chest right against your bare back, the cool metal of his left arm sliding slowly over your waist to pull you flush against his heartbeat.
His flesh hand slipped right under the hem of your soft sleep shirt. That calloused palm glided up your stomach to cup your breast, gentle at first, like he was holding something holy. Then his thumb began to circle your nipple, until it stiffened under his touch.
You murmured something incoherent in your sleep, shifting your weight just a little, but you didn’t wake from the dream. That only encouraged him. His rough hand traveled lower in the dark, fingers dipping between your thighs to find you bare and warm under the covers.
He stroked along your slit with two long fingers, parting your soft folds, feeling the very first hint of slick starting to gather. He began to rub slow circles over your clit, his blue eyes watching your face in the moonlight for any sign of waking. But there was nothing. Just your soft breaths and the occasional, breathless twitch of your hips against him.
Satisfied, he shifted lower on the bed, hooking one of your legs over his to spread you open. His cock throbbed against your ass, the head already leaking. He lined himself up and pushed in with one steady thrust, burying half his length inside your pussy in a single motion. The tight heat clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, forehead pressed to the back of your neck.
He didn’t rush. Each thrust was deliberate, sinking deeper until he was fully seated, balls pressed against you. His metal fingers gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while his other hand stayed between your legs, rubbing your clit in time with his slow, deep strokes. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out filled the quiet room, punctuated by his heavy breathing.
You stirred again, a soft whimper escaping as your body responded on its own. Your pussy fluttered around him, growing wetter with every push. Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice rough. “Take it. Just like that.” He picked up the pace slightly, hips snapping forward, the head of his cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you.
Your eyelashes fluttered in the dark, but you didn't quite wake up. Your body just arched back into his frame instinctively, chasing that dangerous warmth. Bucky took full advantage of your surrender, rolling you onto your stomach without ever pulling out. He covered you completely, chest to your back, metal arm braced beside your head. From this angle he could drive in harder and deeper.
He fucked you steadily, using your sleeping body for his own relief after the hellish day. Sweat beaded on his brow as he chased his release, grunting with each thrust. His flesh hand slid under your hips to keep rubbing your clit, determined to pull an orgasm from you even in your unconscious state. Your walls started to tighten, pulsing around his cock as your body tipped over the edge. Slick gushed around him, coating his length and dripping down your thighs.
Bucky groaned, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Hot spurts of cum flooded your pussy, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with every shallow thrust. He stayed inside you, breathing hard, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. After a moment he pulled out slowly, watching his seed trickle from your well-used hole.
He rolled you gently onto your back and spread your legs again. His tongue dragged through the mess between your thighs, licking up the mixture of your juices and his cum. He sucked on your clit softly, cleaning you with long strokes until your hips twitched in your sleep.
Only then did he crawl up beside you in the aftermath, pulling the thin sheet over both of you. The storm inside him had finally passed. His metal arm wrapped around your waist once more, pulling you flush against his chest, holding you close as his breath finally evened out.
The cruel, rough day faded away into the background, replaced entirely by the quiet comfort of your body pressed flush against his. He pressed one soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his blue eyes finally closing as sleep claimed him too.
oneshots | STALKER!WINTER SOLDIER X BOOKSTORE OWNER!READER
summary:: You are sitting in the bookstore when a bleeding Winter Soldier appears. You tend to his wounds, and the connection grows between you.
warnings:: 18+,bleeding,mentions of HYDRA,sub/dom dynamics, smut, PINV, Bucky almost has a panic attack,Bucky is a bit OC,no protection,he cums inside,dirty talk
word count:: 6,6k
A/N:: this is part 2 of the rose protocol. If you've seen me post this before,no,you haven't
The neon sign of your bookstore hummed against the midnight rain. Inside, everything felt completely surreal. Just a few hours ago, you had the most mind-blowing sex of your life on a cold mountaintop.
The fabric of your dark silk slip dress is clinging tightly to your skin. You are completely bare beneath it. Every time you shift on the hard wooden stool, the cool air brushes against your thighs—a constant, stinging reminder of his final command.
It is degrading, a military punishment designed to strip away your dignity and lock you in a cage of obedience. But as you stared out into the rainy street, a dark thrill rushed through you. The humiliation makes you ache. You can still feel the weight of his vibranium hand bruising your hip and can still taste the bitter gasoline and gun oil in the air.
You lean your head back against the shelf, closing your eyes as the clock ticks away the seconds. Furthermore, you know he is out there; he hasn’t left you. In the shadows across the street, where the streetlamps cannot reach, you know his motorcycle is idling in the dark. And that thought alone is the most intoxicating thing you have ever felt.
Hours bled into one another. Every time the brass bell above the door chimed, your heart violently leaped into your throat. Your eyes would snap up, expecting to see his silhouette, his dark jacket, or the glint of his metal hand. But it was never him; it was just a damp stranger looking for a late-night read, or a regular wiping their boots on the mat. Each time, the disappointment left you feeling emptier than before.
You shifted uncomfortably on the stool, the silk of your dress chafing against your bare skin. Your thighs were cold, your lower back hurt, and the coat felt too warm around your shoulders. You were starting to get tired of the game.
Yet, every time you thought about standing up and going upstairs to put on actual clothes, your eyes would drift back to the windows. Was he still out there, hiding in the dark, mocking your patience? Or had he simply checked you off his tactical list, leaving you bare and foolish? The uncertainty was maddening; it kept you glued to the seat even as your irritation grew.
Then the evening fully settled in, and the suffocating silence felt heavier than ever. You felt foolish,disappointed.He wasn’t coming,the silk dress now felt like a mockery of your expectations.The Soldier had played his game, taken what he wanted, and left you behind to freeze in the dark.
You wrapped your fingers around the cold metal of the lock, your breath hitching as you prepared to click it shut and officially end the wait.
Before you can even gasp, the door is forced open, pushing you backward into the the shop. The Soldat towers in the doorway, his eyes locked onto yours with that same terrifying intensity from before.
You look right into his cold face, your voice trembling but defiant. “You kept me waiting,” you breathe. “Hours. I sat there exactly like you told me to.”
He doesn't apologize,doesn't even blink. He closes the distance between you in a single stride. His vibranium hand shoots out, his metal fingers gripping the back of your neck with bruising force, tilting your head up.
And then, he finally gives you the kiss.It is everything your heart had envisioned. It is desperate, and entirely consuming. His lips are hot, pressing against yours with a starved hunger that completely steals the breath from your lungs. He tastes like copper and rain.It is perfect,it makes your knees buckle beneath your silk dress. You melt against his solid chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to clutch at his tactical jacket.
The kiss breaks slowly. He pulls his lips from yours, but his metal hand remains clamped firmly at the back of your neck, keeping you close.
You look up into his face, waiting for the cold mask of the soldier to slide back into place. But it doesn't.His eyes are wide, and strangely unfocused. The usual calculating sharpness is gone, replaced by a raw look that scares you.
“What's wrong?” your voice cracks. “Bucky, look at me. What happened?”
You blink, completely disoriented. You look down at his chest, your hands still resting against his jacket, and that's when you feel a sticky warmth soaking through the fabric near his ribs.You pull your hand back, and in the pale light, you see the dark, fresh blood.
“What... what is this?” you whisper, panic finally clawing at your throat.“Who did this to you?”
“I was on a mission,” he says, breathing heavily. “But it went wrong. I lost. The Hydra caught me and they tortured me... they wanted to wipe my memory.”
Your heart drops.You stare at him with wide eyes,while, your hands shake.
“I fought my way out,” Bucky continues, his eyes desperate. “I escaped, but they are hunting me. They are following my blood. If I stay, they will kill me.”
You care about him too much to let him die. You step closer, placing your clean hand gently on his shoulder.“My place is a few blocks away,” you say. “They won’t look for you there. Not tonight.”
He goes entirely still, staring down at you. Nobody has ever offered him a home. His jaw tightens for a moment then he nods once.
You turn the brass lock on the bookstore door, plunging the shop into total darkness. You wrap your leather trench coat tighter in the cold night.Bucky is limping slightly, his human hand pressed hard against his ribs to hide the dark blood soaking through his tactical jacket. Every time you pass beneath a flickering streetlamp, you can see the pain etched onto his face. He looks deadly, but dangerously fragile.
Your heart aches with a sudden wave of worry. Without thinking, you reach out and tightly grasp his human hand. Your pace quickens, almost pulling him along as you hurriedly guide him through the empty streets.
He goes stiff at your touch, unaccustomed to anyone reaching for him out of genuine concern rather than violence. For a second, his grip remains loose, confused by the warmth of your skin. But then, as a fresh wave of pain makes him stumble slightly, his fingers tighten around yours.
The moment you unlock your apartment door, you pull him inside.Bucky is pale, his breathing shallow as his strength finally begins to falter. Before he can protest or try to mask his pain behind the icy walls of the Soldat, you take complete control.
You guide his massive frame over to the sofa in the living room, gently easing him down onto the cushions. He sinks into them with a low groan, his metal hand resting uselessly against his knee.
Without wasting a single second, you drop to your knees in front of him on the floor.Well...that's not how you imagined the first time on your knees for him.
Your hands work quickly, filled with adrenaline. You reach for the zipper of his tactical jacket, unfastening it with a sharp click, and carefully slide the stiff, blood-soaked material off his broad shoulders. Beneath it, his dark shirt is completely drenched in metallic-smelling copper. You tear the fabric away, exposing the brutal wound tearing at his ribs.
You rush to the bathroom, grabbing your first-aid supplies, clean towels, and a bowl of warm water, and kneel back at his feet.
As you press a clean cloth against his side to stop the bleeding, Bucky looks down at you through the dark strands of his hair. He is entirely silent, watching your hands move over his skin with a desperate care he has never experienced before.
As you work over his skin, a fierce anger burns in your chest. You look at the jagged tears and the fresh bruises marking his flesh, and you realize just how deeply you absolute hate Hydra. They treated him like a piece of cold machinery, a heartless weapon to be broken and rebuilt at their whim. But looking into his glassy eyes, all you feel is a suffocating wave of care and devotion.
Throughout the entire process, Bucky remains completely still, his eyes tracking your every move with a deep confusion. His mind is a chaotic mess of static and old programming. For decades, whenever someone put their hands on him, it meant torture. It meant the chair, the ice, and a fresh wave of agony designed to wipe his humanity away. He doesn't know how to process the gentle warmth of your hands. He honestly doesn't know if you are trying to help him, or if this is just another cruel trick—a precursor to more pain.
But he doesn't say a single word. He doesn't even flinch. He is so utterly hollowed out and accustomed to suffering that the stinging pain doesn't even register on his face. He simply sits, letting you wash his blood away, entirely captivated and bewildered by your care.
You tie off the final bandage around his ribs, your fingers smoothing down the white cotton against his broad chest.
Slowly, you look up.Your eyes lock right into his. He looks like a wild animal trapped in a warm room, still waiting for the strike that never comes.
The situation is dark, and completely terrifying, but the absurdity of it all suddenly flashes through your mind. You are sitting on the floorboards, completely bare beneath a silk slip dress, covered in the blood of a legendary assassin.Oh,and also the assasin has fucked you just yesterday,but that's besides the point.
“Well,” you say, your voice dripping with dry irony. “At least I don't have to give you a tour of the place. I'm sure the layout isn't exactly unfamiliar to you, considering you've been stalking me for months.”
Bucky blinks, the rigid mask of the Soldat cracking just a fraction. Your lighthearted comment completely throws his brain out of loop.
“The oak tree by the east window,” he grunts out.“The lock on the glass is loose. It takes three seconds to bypass. I could see the kitchen counter from there. And the hallway.”
Your breath hitches slightly, a sudden rush of heat pooling low in your stomach. It is incredibly twisted, completely insane, but hearing him map out your home like a tactical target—knowing he spent freezing nights memorizing the very walls protecting you—turns you on completely.But you force your face to remain completely neutral. You don't say a single word about it. You just swallow the thrill down, keeping your secret to yourself.
Bucky watches you closely, his jaw still tight, utterly oblivious to the effect his blunt admission just had on you.
You push yourself up from the hard floorboards, your knees trembling slightly from the lingering adrenaline. As you stand, the hem of your dark silk slip dress rides up, exposing the long line of your bare legs.You don’t bother fixing it as you step directly into the open kitchen alcove, which is completely connected to the living room in a modern layout.
Behind you, Bucky’s eyes track your movement instantly. He sits perfectly still on the sofa, his chest heavily bandaged, but his gaze is feral. The mechanical static in his brain focuses entirely on the smooth swing of your hips and the shadow of your bare thighs.
You open the refrigerator, your mind scrambling for something that can help rebuild the blood he lost on the street. You settle on a classic, comforting meal: a rich beef stew with thick cuts of potatoes and carrots, and a side of thick, crusty bread.
You work deliberately, letting the routine soothe your frayed nerves. You chop the vegetables with steady strokes, open the pot, and let the rich aroma of simmered broth and garlic slowly fill the apartment. The warm steam rises, fogging up the small kitchen window.
Once the stew is steaming and perfectly rich, you ladle it into a ceramic bowl and slice a generous piece of the crusty bread. You place it all on a wooden tray, taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart before walking back to him.
You hand him the bowl, and he takes it silently. His metal fingers don't touch the porcelain; instead, he uses his human hand, his movements remarkably careful as if he is afraid of breaking something in your house. He shifts his massive frame back against the cushions, clearing a welcoming space right beside him.
You sink onto the cushion next to him, drawing your knees up tightly toward your chest. It is a surreal sight—the Winter Soldier, a weapon of Soviet machinery and Siberian ice, quietly eating a home-cooked meal on your couch while you sit next to him.
“Is the broth seasoned enough?” you ask softly, breaking the quiet with a gentle murmur. “I didn't know if you liked it with a bit of a kick, so I didn't overdo the pepper.”
The soldier stops mid-bite. He swallows, looking down at the rich liquid in the bowl, and then shifts his gaze toward you.“It’s good,” he murmurs. “It’s warm.”
A soft smile spreads across your lips. It warms your heart to see him like this—not as a cold Soviet weapon, but as a man enjoying a simple meal.
“Well, you can have as much as you want. There’s a whole pot of it,” you say. You shift slightly on the cushion. “Do you want a piece of bread to dip in it? That's how I usually eat it.”
“Yeah,” he grunts bluntly, nodding once. “Give me the bread.”
You let out a tiny chuckle and hand it to him, your fingers brushing against his human hand. He takes it carefully, dipping it into the warm broth just like you suggested.
As the clock ticks away the minutes, the conversation flows effortlessly between you. You talk about the weather, how the old bookstore roof always leaks during downpours like this, and how quiet the streets get after midnight.
Later you look at him, his broad chest rising and falling slowly beneath the fresh white bandages, his eyes looking tired.
“It’s late,” you whisper softly. “You need real rest to heal. Come to my room. You should sleep in my bed tonight.”
Instantly,the soft, human look in his eyes vanishes, replaced by an icy stillness. Right before your eyes, he locks right back into the rigid discipline of the Soldat. He sits up straight, his jaw tightening into a hard line, and his metal hand clamps down onto his knee with a sharp creak.
“No,” he says. “Soldiers don’t sleep in beds. They make you weak.”
You blink, caught off guard. “The floor is freezing wood. Just take the bed.”
“The floor,” he repeats. He doesn't even look at you, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. “I take the floor by the door. I track the entry point. That is the order.”
“Fine,” you say, throwing your hands up in a small gesture of surrender. “Have it your way, Soldier. Sleep on the hard floor if it makes you feel safer. I’m going to bed.”
Without another word, you walk into your bedroom and gather your softest blankets and two plush pillows from your bed. Returning to the living room, you purposefully avoid his intense gaze. You drop to your knees right by the front door—exactly where he commanded he would stay—and begin to arrange the bedding on the cold hardwood floor.
You smooth down a dark quilt to create a makeshift mattress, cushioning the hard wood as much as possible for his wounded body. You place the pillows neatly at the head, making sure everything is perfect.
“There,” you murmur. “At least don't ruin my bandages on the wood. Sleep well, Bucky.”
You turn on your heel, ready to finally walk into your bedroom, but his voice stops you dead in your tracks.“Soldat,” he corrects coldly, his jaw setting into a rigid line as he stares at the pillows you laid out for him. “My name is Soldat.”
A quiet shiver slides down your spine, the stinging reminder of his total control washing over you all over again in the dark. You don't look back at him. You just close your bedroom door behind you.
Inside, you let out a long breath. Your body still aches from the exhausting hours of waiting for him. With trembling fingers, you finally slide the dark silk slip dress off your shoulders, letting it pool onto the floor. You are finally free of its humiliating reminder.
You pull on a soft, oversized pajama set.Crawling into your big, empty bed, you pull the blankets up to your chin and stare at the ceiling. Even in the comfort of your pajamas, your mind is completely consumed by him.
The rhythmic patter of the rain against your bedroom window slowly turns into a hypnotic lullaby, gently dragging your exhausted mind down into the dark.
Your eyelids grow heavy, and the racing thoughts about the dangerous assassin sleeping just outside your door begin to blur together. Your breathing slows, your tense muscles finally relax against the mattress, and you drift off into a deep uninterrupted sleep, completely safe inside your own bed.
Just a few feet away, outside your closed door, the Soldat tries to keep his guard up. His brain struggles to stay alert, forcing him to keep his eyes trained on the apartment's entry point. But his bleeding body simply cannot keep up with the harsh programming anymore.
For the first time in decades, without the freezing Siberian ice or the agonizing Hydra chair forcing him into compliance, the machine breaks down in the most human way possible. His eyelids slowly flutter shut. His tense shoulders finally sink into the soft pillows, his breathing evens out, and he sinks into sleep on your living room floor.
...
The suffocating silence of the safehouse didn't last. It isn't loud, but it is sharp enough to tear you violently out of your deep sleep. Your eyes snap open in the pitch-black darkness of your bedroom. Your heart hammers against your ribs, adrenaline instantly flooding your veins.
You lie frozen beneath the blankets, straining your ears, trying to figure out what woke you.
Then, you hear it again. Coming from the open living room, just beyond your closed door.It is a low sound—a breathless whimper that quickly twists into a choked groan. It doesn't sound like the terrifying assassin you know.It sounds like someone being actively tortured, a man drowning in a sea of blood.
You throw the covers off your body, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards as you scramble out of bed. In your oversized pajamas, you rush to the door, twisting the knob and stepping out into the living room.
Bucky is trapped in the violent claws of a horrific nightmare. His frame is tangled desperately in the dark quilts you had so carefully laid out for him. His human hand is clawing ruthlessly at the fabric, his knuckles white, his vibranium arm is twitching violently, the metal fingers locking and unlocking with a sharp click.
The white cotton bandages you wrapped around his ribs are shifting, stained with a fresh bloom of dark blood from how hard his torso is straining. Sweat slicks his pale forehead, his jaw clamped so tight it looks ready to shatter as he lets out another muffled cry into the empty room. He is back in the ice. He is back in the Hydra chair, his mind being ripped apart piece by piece.
The overwhelming urge to protect him overrides the survival instinct screaming in your head. Seeing him so completely broken, shatters your heart. You cannot leave him like this.
You cross the open space of the living room, your bare feet making no sound on the floorboards. You drop to your knees right beside his form, stepping directly into his personal space on the makeshift bed of blankets.
“Bucky,” you whisper frantically. “Bucky, wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”
Your gentle hands make contact with his tense shoulders, trying to soothe the violent tremors racking his body.
You never even see him open his eyes.
In a terrifying, split-second blur of lethal instinct, his metal vibranium arm shoots upward like a striking predator. Before you can even gasp, his cold fingers clamp ruthlessly around your throat. The impact is brutal, knocking the breath completely out of your lungs as he uses his sheer strength to pin you flat against the hardwood floor.
Your head hits the wood with a dull thud. The grip around your windpipe is absolute. You are suffocating beneath his frame as he hovers over you in the dim moonlight.
His eyes are wide and completely hollow— entirely consumed by the violent nightmare. He isn't looking at the bookstore girl who fed him and took care of his wounds. In his mind, the Hydra handlers are still leaning over him, and you are just another target that needs to be neutralized to survive. He squeezes harder, completely cutting off your air.
Panic claws at your chest as the room begins to spin, your hands instinctively reaching up to grab at the unyielding metal of his wrist, desperately fighting for a single breath of air.
In a desperate, final effort, you squeeze your eyes shut and force the only word that matters out of your collapsing throat.“B-Bucky...” you choke out.
His entire body goes rigid. The lethal trance in his eyes is replaced by a sudden clarity. He blinks, his gaze finally focusing on your face—on your wide, terrified eyes, your gasping mouth, and the brutal way his vibranium hand is pinning you to the floorboards.
Bucky lets out a horrified gasp. It sounds like he’s the one who was just choked.He rips his metal hand away from your neck as if the touch burned him, stumbling backward in a blind panic. His boots slide against the quilts, his frame hitting the low kitchen counter with a loud thud. He knocks over a stool, but he doesn't even notice. He is trembling violently, his human hand rushing up to grip his head, his fingers tangling into his damp hair.
“No, no, no,” he stammers. He looks down at his metal hand, his chest heaving so hard the fresh bandages around his ribs begin to stain with blood again. He looks absolutely terrified, a wild, animal realizing he almost slaughtered the only person who cared for him. “What did I do? What did I do? I’m sorry... God, I’m sorry.”
You sit up slowly, pressing a trembling hand against your bruised throat. Your heart is hammering, the room is still spinning slightly, but as you look at him huddled against the kitchen counter, you don’t see a monster. You just see a deeply traumatized man who is completely terrified of himself.
Despite the pain in your throat, your love and worry for him are stronger than your fear. You don't stay on the floor. Slowly, you crawl over the blankets toward the kitchen counter where he is shaking, desperately wanting to comfort him and show him that you are okay.
You reach out toward him, but the moment your hand extends, Bucky flinches violently. He presses his back harder into the wood of the counter, his human hand raising in a desperate gesture to stop you.
“Don’t,” he rasps. He looks at you through the strands of his hair. “Stay back. Don't come near me. I almost... I could have killed you. I don't know how to stop.”
He is desperately trying to protect you from himself, terrified that the cold machine in his head will snap awake again and finish what it started.
You freeze on your knees, just a few feet away from him. The phantom ache of his fingers is still warm against your bruised throat, but you choose to respect his boundary.
Slowly you lift your hand. You don't stretch it all the way to him, but you let it hover in the empty space between you. Bucky stares at your hand. His chest heaves under his blood-stained bandages, his gaze shifting from your face to your open palm. He is still trembling, terrified of his own monstrous hands, but the distance between you is too much for him to bear.
Hesitantly, he lifts his human hand from his side. He lets his arm hover in the air, leaning in just enough until his fingertips meet yours.
“You’re safe,” you whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. You can breathe now. It was just a dream.”
He just pinned you to the floorboards, he bruised your throat, he almost stole your life—yet you are still kneeling here, looking at him with soft eyes.
“Why?” he rasps. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so kind to me? I’m a monster... I almost killed you. You should throw me out of your house. You should lock the door and never look back.”
A quiet smile touches your lips. You don't pull your hand away. Instead, you let your fingertips press just a fraction closer against his warm skin, grounding him completely.
“Because I care about you,” you whisper. “I know what they made you do. I know the monster they tried to turn you into. But I see you. The real you. And I'm not throwing you out.”
Bucky goes completely still at your words. The mechanical static in his brain seems to short-circuit entirely. Nobody has ever spoken to him like that. He doesn't answer, because he doesn't have the words for this kind of tenderness.
The hesitation finally melts away. Seeing him look so incredibly broken against the kitchen counter, you can’t bear the distance between you anymore.
You crawl across the remaining few inches of the cold floorboards. The soldier's entire body goes completely rigid as you enter his space, his breath hitching in his chest, terrified that he might hurt you again. But you don't hesitate. You lean in and gently wrap your arms around his massive shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace.
He freezes in your arms, unaccustomed to the sheer weight of genuine human affection. He doesn't know where to put his hands, terrified of his own monstrous strength, so he just lets his arms hang loosely at his sides, his chest heaving against your shoulder.
You rest your chin against his hair, your fingers gently smoothing down the tight muscles of his back.
“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’m here. I’m right here. You are not a monster to me. No one is coming to take you back. I’ve got you.”
You continue to murmur sweet things into the quiet, pouring all of your desperate care and devotion into every word. You tell him how much he matters, how he doesn't have to be a weapon inside these walls, and how you are going to help him heal, piece by piece.
You feel the exact moment his stubborn defense gives out—a ragged breath escapes his lips, and his shoulders finally slump in total defeat. He leans his forehead against your shoulder, letting you hold the entire weight of his shattered soul.
He doesn't say a word, because he doesn't know how to answer this kind of holy devotion. But he lets himself be held, completely safe and protected in your arms.
He looks at your face, his gaze dropping to your bruised throat, and a profound sorrow passes over his features.He lifts his human hand, his fingers trembling as they hover near your jawline. He is so terrified of his own strength, but you don't flinch. You lean your cheek directly into his palm.
And then, he leans down and kisses you.
It isn't like the aggressive encounter on the mountain, and it isn't like the desperate collision at your bookstore door. This is a deeply emotional surrender. His lips press against yours with a soft, reverent hunger that makes your chest ache with a beautiful intensity. He kisses you as if you are the only holy thing left in a world full of violence.
Your fingers tangle into his hair, pulling him closer, your hearts beating in a shared rhythm. It feels more epic, more monumental than anything you have ever experienced before—a grand kind of devotion born right out of the pages of your favorite books. In this consuming kiss, the line between the predator and the prey completely vanishes.
When the kiss finally breaks, Bucky stares down at you, his dark eyes fierce with an entirely new kind of devotion. The fear and guilt that paralyzed him moments ago have transformed into a consuming need to cherish you.
Before you can even draw a breath, his arms wrap around you. With a single motion, he lifts you effortlessly off the cold floorboards. His human hand grips your waist while his vibranium arm securely supports your thighs, cradling you against his broad, bandaged chest like you are the most precious thing he has ever held. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as he carries you out of the living room.
He walks with slow steps down the dark hallway, entering your bedroom.Gently, with a tenderness that feels entirely sacred, Bucky lowers you onto the mattress. He follows you down, as he parts your legs and settles into the space between your thighs.
His human hand rested flat against the mattress beside your head, while his vibranium fingers braced his weight on the other side, carefully avoiding touching your skin until he was certain you were ready. He looked down at you, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.
“Tell me to stop if it hurts,” he murmured.You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. The softness of your oversized pajamas pressed against the clean cotton of his fresh bandages. Bucky leaned down to press his lips against yours once more.
As his lips pressed against yours with that reverent hunger, your entire body softened beneath him.You pulled away just an inch, your breath mingling with his. You looked directly into his dark eyes, and gave him a reassuring smile.“It doesn’t hurt,” you whispered. “I trust you.”
His human hand glided up your side, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast against your skin as he slipped it beneath your pajama top to cup your breast. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips slowly down the sensitive line of your throat, pressing soft, lingering kisses over the exact spot where his metal fingers had brutally gripped you before—as if he were trying to worship the pain away.
“You're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough. “So fucking beautiful like this.”
“Every part of you,” Bucky repeated, his mouth moving lower to press a fervent kiss into the hollow of your throat. His breath was hot, sending shivers straight down to your thighs. “I can't stop looking at you. I can't look away.”
He squeezed your breast gently, his heavy vibranium arm remaining perfectly braced beside your head to keep from crushing you with his weight.“Tell me what you want,” he rasped, his jaw tightening with a desperate restraint. “I need to hear your voice.”
“I want to feel you. All of you.” You whispered against his lips.The permission seemed to strike him like a physical jolt. A low groan tore from his chest, and the last of his rigid restraint dissolved entirely.
His vibranium arm moved with a surprising gentleness as he helped shift your weight just enough to slide the pajama bottoms down the long line of your legs, leaving you entirely bare beneath him.
The hunger in his eyes was raw, stripped of the soldier’s discipline, leaving only the man who craved you with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
He used his human hand to trace the inside of your thigh, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin with agonizing slowness, teasing the heat blooming between your legs. You arched your back, a soft whimper escaping your lips, and the sound seemed to snap something inside him.
“God, you’re so warm,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave.He reached down, his human hand sliding between your thighs to find you already slick and aching for him. As his warm fingers began to tease you, a bold, sudden longing flared in your chest. You wanted to feel every part of him—even the parts he feared.
“Can you… can you use your other arm? The metal one?” You whispered, your voice small and shy, your breath hitching as you looked up at him.
The movement of his hand stopped instantly. Bucky froze, his entire body tensing beneath you. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes widening with a flash of genuine fear and horror.
“No,” he rasped, his voice sounding strained, almost pained. “No, I can’t. I… I could hurt you. I don't have the same feel in those fingers, I could slip, I could—” He stopped, his jaw tightening as he looked away. “I can’t risk it.”
The raw vulnerability in his voice broke your heart. You reached up, cupping his cheek with your hand and forcing him to look back at you. You saw the soldier who feared his own strength, the man who viewed his arm as a weapon and nothing more.
“Look at me,” you murmured, your voice steady and full of warmth. When his eyes met yours, you gave him an encouraging smile. “I trust you. I know you’ll be careful. I want to feel it. I want all of you, not just the parts you think are safe.”
He searched your face, looking for any hint of doubt or fear, but he found only desire and absolute certainty. “You’re sure?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“I’m sure,” you breathed, arching your hips slightly toward him. “Please.” A low groan tore from his chest. He shifted his weight, his gaze darkening as he finally let go of the fear.
The coldness of the vibranium was an electric shock against your heat, creating a friction that felt otherworldly. Bucky’s eyes never left yours, watching with a predatory intensity as your expression crumbled into pure pleasure. He began to move the metal digit in rhythmic circles.
You let out a broken moan, your hips stuttering upward, chasing the cold metal. The contrast was driving you insane—the searing heat of his chest pressing against you and the freezing, hard edge of the arm between your legs.
“Listen to you,” he rasped. He pressed a bit harder, the metal sliding deeper, grazing the entrance of your heat. “Shit, you actually like this, don’t you?”
You gasped, your head tossing back, unable to find words as he increased the pace, he added a second finger, stretching you with a cold firmness.
“It’s like you were made for me,” he groaned. He pressed a tender kiss to your temple, his gaze softening. “I can imagine waking up next to you every morning... taking you every single day until we both can't stand up.”
You leaned in, nipping at his earlobe. “I want to feel you.I want to feel you stretching me out again.”
That was the breaking point.Bucky let out a jagged groan and abruptly withdrew his metal hand, the sudden emptiness leaving you gasping and aching.
In one fluid motion, he reached down and gripped the fastening of his tactical pants. There was a harsh snap of the button and the rasp of the zipper as he ripped them down and kicked them away with a frantic urgency.
He loomed over you, his breath coming in heavy, ragged heaves, his eyes dark with a desire that bordered on desperation. He looked like a man who had been starving for a lifetime and had finally been given permission to feast.
He positioned himself at your entrance, the heat radiating between you like a physical force. He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching.
With a steady push, he slid inside you. You let out a long, shuddering breath, your legs winding around his waist to pull him as deep as possible. The feeling of him filling you was overwhelming. He stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies adjust, his eyes locked on yours as if he were memorizing every flicker of emotion on your face.
“You’re everything I ever wanted.” He breathed.He gripped your hips as he began to move inside you, each slow thrust deliberate and purposeful. He took his time, savoring the feeling of your warmth enveloping him completely.
“So beautiful, so good for me.” His lips found yours in a tender kiss as he continued rocking into you steadily.
“Bucky... oh god...” you gasped against his mouth. He responded with a low groan, picking up the pace slightly but still maintaining a sensual rhythm.
Bucky's thrusts grew more urgent as he felt your body responding to his every touch. He angled his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you with each deep stroke, determined to drive you wild with pleasure. “Say it. Tell me I'm the only one who can make you feel this way.”
You cried out.“Yes,you are. The only man I've ever wanted like this.”
He rewarded your declaration with a particularly forceful thrust that made you see stars.“That's right,doll.”
His hands slid down to your stomach as he continued, pressing his palms flat against your skin. You could feel the heat of his touch seeping into you, heightening every sensation.“I can feel myself inside you,” he said in awe.
“Yes,fuck—that's so hot”you moaned.He leaned down to capture one of your nipples between his teeth, tugging gently as he continued rocking into you.
“So fucking perfect for me.” His hands slid back up to cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh as he suckled and licked at your nipples.
“Say my name,” he demanded, voice rough. “Let me hear it.”
“Soldat,” you gasped. That was what you called him. What he'd let you call him, when you'd first started this. What he'd said he deserved.
His rhythm faltered just barely. “Don't,” he said. His voice cracked. “Don't call me that. Not now.”
“Then what—”
“James.” He pulled back, looked you in the eye. “I want to hear it from your mouth. I want to know I'm him when I'm inside you.”
Your chest tightened. He was offering you something—the piece of himself he'd buried under the brainwashing and the blood and the years of being a weapon. The boy from Brooklyn who'd wanted to be a good man.
“James,I want you.” you said.
His breath shook.He buried his face in your neck and fucked you like that, slow and deep and desperate, his mouth pressed to your pulse like he was praying.
“Say it again,” he begged. “God, please—”
“James. James. James.” Each time you said it, he pushed deeper. Each time, you felt him grow harder, felt his control fray at the edges.
“Yeah,” he growled. “Like that. Just like that. You feel that? You feel what you do to me?”
“James—”
“I know,sweet thing.I've got you. Let go. I'm right here.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, and you fell apart. The orgasm rolled through you in waves, your body tightening around his, your cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through it. He followed a second later, his hips stuttering, a low moan torn from his chest as he spilled into you.
He stayed there, inside you. After a long moment, he pulled out and settled beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Thank you,” he said quietly. His lips brushed your hair. “For calling me James.”
You turned in his arms, pressed your palm to his cheek. “Is that who you want to be?”
He was quiet for a long time. “I think so..." he said finally. You kissed him, soft and slow.
jacobvanloon
amandla
gummygunk
snowghoul
ellievsbear
