i was inspired by the bunnygirl sketch i reblogged yesterday, and i reeeeeally wanted to do something with bunnygirl!reader and wolfman!Bucky for easter, but i didn't have time. (it's my own fault. i decided i wanted to bake lemon sugar cookies AND lime sugar cookies—but they came out good though!)
so anyway have this little something i wrote in between baking 🐰🐺 this is a new kind of au for me, but if there's interest, i'll try to revisit this premise in a fully fleshed out fic (or maybe i'll finish the fic i started writing on the train yesterday about bunnygirl!reader walking into a dirty dive bar and finding wolfman!Bucky......)
warnings: about 1.8k words of 18+ content ahead (minors dni!!!). includes animal/human hybrids having sex + forest sex, knotting, breeding—these warnings are not complete!
bunnygirl!reader who ventures soooo deep into the woods because spring has sprung and you’re restless. you’re searching for something, but you don’t know what.
bunnygirl!reader who gets overheated because the leaves haven't fully come in yet and you’re so hot in the sun. so you strip down until you’re naked—sure that you’ve wandered so far into the forest no one else will be around—to take a nice refreshing dip in the stream.
bunnygirl!reader who stretches out in a patch of grass, letting the sun dry your skin so you don’t get your clothes wet. you start feeling warm again—but this is a different kind of warm—and you find your fingers wandering down between your thighs, where you’re wet and sticky and so sensitive. you’re aching and empty. you need to be fucked, you need to be pumped full of come like the good little breeding bunny you crave to be.
wolfman!Bucky who stumbles onto your clearing and stops in the shadow of the brush when he sees you, a delectable little bunnygirl making soft, needy sounds that are like music to his pointed ears. it only takes one whiff of your scent, carried on the gentle spring breeze, to make the blood rush to his cock, until he's straining against his jeans and pawing at the bulge for any kind of relief. he knows what you need and he’s more than willing to give you the rough pounding and the thorough breeding that your plump bunny body is yearning for.
wolfman!Bucky who can't take the torture of watching you for long. he's loathe to scare you, but he's not sure how much longer his cock will let his brain win out. he manages until your needy whimpers turn from something sweet to desperate. he watches while you flip over onto your belly, pushing up onto your knees, your cheek still pressed in the thick grass as you get into the new position. your fluffy, puffball tail wiggles and your ass sways invitingly as you finger your dripping hole, keening whines spilling from your perfect lips.
wolfman!Bucky who tears his clothes off as he emerges from the shadows of the forest, following his cock straight to you. he knows the moment you realize he's there because your long ears twitch toward his footsteps and you train hazy eyes on his big, broad form. he sinks down to his knees in the grass beside you, not touching you but pumping away at his cock as he coos at you, "poor little bun, d'you need some help?” his voice is a low rumble, nearly a purr and he watches as some of the tension drains from your body. “my name's Bucky, and I'd love to take care of you, if you'll let me."
bunnygirl!reader who was always warned away from big, bad wolves in the deep, dark forest… but Bucky looks nice, with his lowered ears and his fluffy, flicking tail. and his cock looks even nicer—so thick and long you know it will fill you up so much better than your fingers. he’s so handsome and he’s so hard, and you’re so, so needy. your body moves before your fuzzy mind has even realized you made your decision, your ears lowering in a sign of submission and your spine arching deeper, presenting your ass and dripping pussy to the wolfman with the pretty blue eyes.
bunnygirl!reader who whimpers a soft, plaintive, "please," and it's all Bucky needs to prowl around your body, grab you by your plush hips, and bury his face in your slick, swollen cunt. you cry out, your fingers tangling in the lush, spring grass of the forest as he begins to devour your whole. your hips thrust back against Bucky's face while the wolfman eats you out like he's starving, his greedy mouth drinking your nectar straight from the source while his tongue and teeth worship your plump pussy. he’s voracious, and it’s all you can do to keep your trembling thighs under you while you endure his hunger.
bunnygirl!reader who's so lost in pleasure, you don't even flinch when the wolf's sharp canine teeth graze your clit. instead, a full-body shiver races down your spine and you let out a loud, wailing moan as tension coils tighter in your center. you still feel helplessly empty, your pussy clenching pitifully around nothing—except when Bucky slips his tongue into your pulsing hole—but you're too far gone to care. you're humping your hips, rubbing your pussy shamelessly on the wolfman's face, greedily riding Bucky's wickedly eager tongue. it’s enough to take the edge off your need, and you chase the pleasure relentlessly, eager for everything the wolfman has to offer.
wolfman!Bucky who's determined to make you come before he shoves you full of his cock, but you taste so sweet on his tongue, he's in danger of spilling into the grass. so he works you harder and harder, desperate for your release, sucking on your clit and fucking your tight hole with his tongue, dragging his sharp teeth against your plump flush, learning what you like. it's when he gets rougher, nipping your little pearl hard with his blunt teeth, that you finally come apart. as soon as he feels the telltale squeeze of your cunt, Bucky straightens, lines up the angry red tip of his cock with your pussy and shoves deep with one, savage thrust.
bunnygirl!reader who was already moaning through an overwhelming release, but at the sudden intrusion of Bucky's cock—the thick, hard length of him filling up your clenching cunt so perfectly—your cries ratchet higher, becoming screams of ecstasy. pleasure washes through your body in brutal, devastating waves, one release cresting into a second, your pussy pulsing steadily around the wolfman's cock and sucking him deeper, gripping the base of him, where you can already feel his knot beginning to expand. the thought of him filling you with his come and plugging you full of his knot sends you careening into a new wave of need, your mindless cries of pleasure becoming desperate whines all over again.
wolfman!Bucky who barely stops himself from coming as soon as he's buried knot-deep in your hot, sticky pussy. his entire being—mind, body and soul—narrows down to the point where you're clutching him like your cunt will never let him go. to distract himself, he runs his hands over your ass and hips, thumb flicking the cute little cottontail nestled just above the rosebud of your other hole, enjoying the blissed out whimpers that slip from your lips when he does. when the tenor of your voice changes and your ass begins to wiggle impatiently, Bucky curls his bigger body around your smaller form, his hands groping your tits roughly while his mouth finds your ear. "ready for the real fun to begin, little bun?" he growls, "gonna pound this tight, warm bunny cunt with my big, fat wolf cock and fill you up. gonna knot you—gonna breed you, lil bun."
bunnygirl!reader who goes completely mindless at those words, bouncing your ass against Bucky's lap and urging him on. the wolfman doesn't need any more incentive, setting a merciless pace, his hips snapping hard against your ass, his cock barreling deep into your pussy with rough thrusts. you cream all over his thick length, screaming your pleasure into the grass while you take the wolfman's pounding, so blissed out, so unbelievably full, that you hope it lasts forever. you want to be impaled on Bucky's cock for the rest of your life, a blissed out little bunny with a pussy eager for breeding.
wolfman!Bucky who ravages you tenderly, his hands groping and gripping all the plush softness of your body he can reach—pinching and plucking at your nipples, kneading your tits, squeezing your hips and thighs and pulling you harder and faster onto his cock. his knot is already beginning to inflate, catching at the edge of your hole and making you whimper deliciously beneath his bigger body. Bucky knows he's close, and he wants you there with him, so his hand slips between your thighs, rubbing meanly at your sticky, swollen clit until your breath hitches and your cunt clenches hard around his cock.
bunnygirl!reader who nearly blacks out from the pleasure, your breath caught in your lungs and your whole body strung tight. when Bucky bullies your clit, everything in your body snaps and you scream your release for all the trees of the deep, dark forest to hear. you scream so long and so loud, your throat goes raw, and you're distantly aware of the wolfman rutting into your body, chasing his own release while you're swept away in yours. finally, he shoves his cock deep in your cunt and his knot inflates, stretching you so full, your pussy shudders with another wave of pleasure that steals your breath, all while Bucky spills his hot, potent seed into you. "breed me, Bucky," you rasp sweetly, a dazed smile curling your lips, your cunt milking him dry.
wolfman!Bucky who goes feral at your husky, honeyed words, hips grinding his knot deep into your cunt until his cock is pressed right against your cervix, giving you exactly what you want and filling you with every drop of come from his balls. he presses one hand to your lower belly, where he's throbbing inside you, and uses his other hand to turn your face toward him, growling against the corner of your mouth, "gonna breed you so good, baby. my lil bun's gonna be knocked up before spring's over.” he can feel your smile against his mouth, and it makes him groan his pleasure. “you’re gonna gimme a whole litter of pups before i'm done with you, isn't that right, my sweet girl?"
bunnygirl!reader who hums in agreement, smiling as you turn your head just a fraction of an inch more, pouting your lips until Bucky's capturing them in a devouring kiss. your wolfman cups your head gently and kisses you fiercely while you both come down from your releases. when he finally breaks the kiss, he eases you down onto your side into a more comfortable position. your smaller body fits perfectly into the cradle of his, his knot keeping the two of you tied together while Bucky lavishes your cheeks and neck and shoulders with kisses.
wolfman!Bucky who can't believe his luck. he's holding you in his arms, one hand idly stroking your belly while he brushes butterfly kisses to your cheeks. you're using his bicep like a pillow and smiling so sweetly, giggling so delightedly at the feel of his scruff against your cheeks, that it makes his heart clench in his chest. he knows, on all his honor as a wolf, that he'll take care of you for the rest of his days. he'll kiss you and knot you and breed you. he'll make a home for you and provide for you and raise your kids together. he'll be yours for as long as you'll have him, his sweet little bunnygirl.
thanks for reading! reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes doesn’t know what to do with freedom. so he does the only thing he can think of—he makes a flyer.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mentions of alcohol/drinking, handyman bucky, post tfatws, lowk grumpy x sunshine, semi slow burn, some fluff, heavy banter, yearning to the max, acts of service love language, strangers to something more, domesticity, first kiss, soft bucky, reader is a little too trusting but it works out, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.9k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › guys if this is ass plz lie, ive lost my writers spark entirely and this is something i had to drag out from the bottom of the barrel so i apologize in advance.
Bucky's staring at a blank wall in his apartment.
It’s been blank for three months.
He hasn’t put up art, hasn’t mounted shelves. Hasn’t even leaned anything against it to pretend he might one day decide. The paint is that neutral off-white landlords choose when they don’t want tenants getting ideas, it reflects the late afternoon light in a way that makes the room feel larger than it is.
Larger. Emptier.
He folds his arms over his chest and studies the wall like it’s a problem he’s been assigned.
He’s “free” now. No handler. No mission briefs. No coded directives slipped under doors or encrypted messages lighting up burner phones, no one telling him where to go, who to be, or what mistakes to fix. He thought freedom would feel big. He thought it would be loud in a good way, like fireworks or a door kicked open. He thought it would feel like breathing after being underwater too long.
It doesn't.
It feels… empty.
The kind of empty that echoes. The kind that makes every sound in the apartment too sharp, the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the faint traffic noise drifting up from the street.
He shifts his weight.
Bucky knows what you need to have in today's world to do something, to be something that matters. He doesn’t have half of it. He never went to college, the war kind of interrupted that. He doesn't know where he would start with a resume, “Assassin, covert operative and international fugitive” doesn’t format well in bullet points. He tried LinkedIn, once, then deleted it in under five minutes after they asked what his minimum salary was at a past job.
He doesn't have a plan, he's got what he always thought he wanted from his life and now that he has it, it's collecting dust in his empty apartment.
He knows what he does have. A truck. Old yet reliable, rebuilt twice over with his own hands. Mechanical skills. He can fix almost anything with an engine. Most things without one. A terrifying resting face, that he’s been told scares even the brutalist of criminals away. More than once.
And time. So much time.
He runs a hand over his jaw, exhales, and finally looks away from the wall. He tried therapy. He still goes once a week where he sits on a couch across from a woman who asks him what he wants now that he’s allowed to want things.
He doesn’t have an answer.
He tried the gym. That just made him feel like he was waiting for something.
He tried walking around Brooklyn without a destination. That lasted two hours before he found himself counting exits and scanning rooftops out of habit. Freedom is supposed to come with direction, that’s what people imply. You earn it, and then you use it.
Bucky doesn’t know how to do that, how to do freedom. He moves into the kitchen, if you can call it that. It’s more of an open counter situation, and pulls open a drawer. Inside are exactly three pens, a rubber band, and a folded takeout menu.
He grabs a pen. Stands there for a long moment. Then he finds a pad of paper in another drawer that thick, slightly yellow, the kind meant for grocery lists and tears off a sheet. He sits at the small table by the window. The city moves outside. Car horns, voices, someone laughing. Someone arguing, a siren in the distance.
He stares at the blank page. He doesn’t need a career, per say. He needs… something to do. Something simple. Something useful. So he writes in block letters.
NEED HELP?
He pauses. That’s vague, he thinks, but maybe vague is good. He continues. Adding in things like, Protection. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.
He considers crossing out “stuff.” Leaves it. He taps the pen against the table thinking with a hum, people won’t call a stranger without reassurance.
He sighs and writes: Not a serial killer.
He leans back and stares at it. It’s terrible. And honest.
He adds his name and cut little strips into the page, writing his number on each one as a DIY tearoff. He learned that word from Sam when he told him he should look up some DIY key holders for his apartment.
He studies the finished product. It looks like something a bored teenager would tape to a telephone pole as a joke. So he makes another one.
And another.
By the time the light shifts toward evening, there are fifteen slightly crooked, slightly uneven flyers spread across his table. He stares at them like they might explain themselves. This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is civilian nonsense. And it is defintely not a plan. But at least it’s something, and it's better than staring at a blank wall trying to guess how many layers of paint are on it.
He grabs a roll of tape from under the sink, shrugs into his jacket, and gathers the stack. The hallway outside his apartment smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s overcooked dinner. He heads down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, an old habit, and steps out into the early evening air.
Brooklyn hums.
He’s lived here long enough now that the rhythm of it doesn’t jolt him anymore. It’s background noise instead of threat assessment, mostly. He tapes the first flyer to a lamppost outside his building, presses the tape flat with his thumb and steps back.
It looks ridiculous, he moves on to the next one anyway.
He tapes one outside a laundromat, another near a bus stop, one by a small grocery store on the corner. He hesitates outside a coffee shop, then shrugs and sticks one to the bulletin board already crowded with yoga class ads and guitar lessons and “ROOMMATE WANTED” strips.
He doesn’t overthink it.
If he overthinks it, he’ll stop.
By the time he’s done, the stack is gone and his hands are slightly sticky from tape residue. He stands on the sidewalk, truck parked at the curb, and looks around. That’s it. That’s his grand re-entry into civilian life.
A handful of flyers that say “Not a serial killer.”
He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and climbs into his truck.
Three days pass.
Nothing.
His phone remains silent except for spam calls and a pharmacy reminder. He tells himself that’s expected. That people use apps now, platforms and ratings with verified accounts. Not hand-scrawled paper tabs.
On the fourth day, he walks past the lamppost outside his building. The flyer is still there completely untouched. No numbers torn off. Rain has wrinkled the edges slightly, but the ink hasn’t bled. He stares at it longer than necessary thinking maybe he should take them down.
Before someone reports him.
Before someone thinks it’s suspicious. Before he has to admit that even offering help isn’t enough to make someone need him.
He leaves it up.
A few blocks away, you’re struggling with a box labeled “KITCHEN???” in thick black marker.
The label is inaccurate. It contains exactly one mug, three mismatched plates, and an alarming number of tangled charging cables. You’re sweating. You’re slightly overwhelmed yet feeling the most giddy you had in years.
You’re trying to balance the box against your hip while fishing your keys out of your bag with the other hand. That’s when you see it.
The flyer, taped slightly crooked to the lamppost.
NEED HELP?
Rides. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.
Not a serial killer.
– Bucky
718-325-7038
You blink.
Then you laugh. Out loud and it echoes a little on the sidewalk, surprising even you.
“Not a serial killer,” you repeat under your breath. “Well. That’s reassuring.”
You shift the box to your other hip and step closer.
The paper is slightly damp at the edges. The handwriting is bold, deliberate. Careful in a way that suggests the person writing it wasn’t joking, exactly. Just… blunt. There are little handmade tear-off tabs at the bottom with a phone number.
None of them have been taken.
You glance up and down the street. It’s early afternoon. People moving, cars passing, no one paying attention. You tug one of the tabs free. The paper rips with a soft, decisive sound. You fold it once and tuck it into your back pocket.
“Just in case,” you murmur to yourself, like that makes it reasonable.
You don’t actually intend to call. But something about it, about the absurd honesty that makes this new neighborhood feel slightly less intimidating. Like there are real people here.
Like maybe you didn’t just move into a city of strangers.
You juggle your box again and finally get the building door open. Inside, the hallway smells like old wood and someone’s incense. You don’t know a single soul here.
Not one.
After six hours in Brooklyn you have a new apartment, new job starting Monday, no furniture besides a mattress you haven’t unwrapped yet. You drop the box inside your door and lean back against it, exhaling.
You did it. You moved. This means you’re brave now. It also means you’re also starving, sweaty and slightly terrified. You pull the little tab out of your pocket and look at it again.
Bucky. Not a serial killer.
You snort softly, slipping it into your purse that sat in the kitchen, if you can call it that, next to an array of takeout menus left littered on the counter by the previous tenant. Just in case. You sit back on your heels, breathing slightly heavier than necessary, and let your gaze drift to the small strip of paper sitting on the counter.
It looks small there. Almost insignificant.
Like it couldn’t possibly matter.
You push yourself up with a quiet exhale, brushing dust from your palms as you take in the apartment again—really take it in this time. The stacks of boxes are a little less intimidating than they were this morning. You’ve made progress. There’s a mug in the sink now, your mug. A hoodie draped over the back of the door. Your shoes kicked off by the wall like you plan on staying.
It doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place anymore.
Not entirely.
You move slowly through the space, opening a box here, shifting something there. You line your toiletries along the bathroom sink, straighten the sheets on the mattress you finally unwrapped, plug in a lamp so the corners don’t feel quite so shadowed. Each small action presses you further into the room, like you’re anchoring yourself piece by piece.
Like you’re proving to yourself that you’re really here.
Brooklyn.
You pause in the middle of the living room, hands settling on your hips as the quiet settles around you again. It’s different now. Not as sharp. Still unfamiliar, but… softer at the edges. Outside, the city hums. Car horns, voices drifting up from the street, music faint and distant like it’s being carried on the air just for you.
You step closer to the window, the one you’ll later learn sticks, and peer out at the street below. People move like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they belong to the rhythm of it.
You want that.
Not just the city. Not just the apartment.
The feeling.
You glance back at the room. At the half-unpacked boxes, the bare walls, the life that hasn’t quite settled into place yet. You could stay in tonight. Finish unpacking. Eat something out of a container balanced on your knee and fall asleep early.
That would be the easier choice, the safer one. Your fingers tap lightly against your thigh as you consider it. Then you shake your head.
“No,” you murmur to yourself, quieter but firmer. “That’s not why you came here.”
You didn’t drive hours and sign a lease you can barely afford just to sit in silence and wait for your life to start. You didn’t leave everything familiar behind just to recreate it in a smaller space.
You came here to live.
Even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you don’t know what you’re doing yet. Especially then. Your gaze drifts back to your purse for a second, to the place where you tucked the little tab away. Something about it lingers in your mind, faint but present. Not a plan. Not even a real option.
Just… a possibility.
You grab a different jacket from one of the boxes, tug it on over your clothes, and glance at yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. You look a little tired. A little overwhelmed.
But there’s something else there too.
Something brighter.
“Okay,” you say softly, like you’re making a deal with yourself. “One drink.”
You grab your keys, hesitate only a second, then head for the door. The lock clicks behind you with a soft, final sound.
Hours later, the city feels very different.
Louder, warmer, brighter.
You hadn’t meant to drink that much. It just sort of… happened. One conversation slid into another. Someone bought you a round because you mentioned you’d just moved. You laughed more than you expected to. The music felt good in your chest.
You wanted to feel like you belonged.
Now you’re standing on a sidewalk that looks vaguely familiar but not enough, the neon sign behind you flickering slightly, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.
Your phone battery blinks 4%.
You squint down the street.
How do people get taxis here? Do they just… appear? You raise your arm experimentally. Nothing happens. A group brushes past you, laughing. You step aside too quickly and nearly trip off the curb.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay.”
You could Uber.
You open the app only to find surge pricing.
Of course.
You check your wallet. Not nearly enough cash after buying that last round and leaving a surmisable tip for the bartender, who was kind enough to let you know that you had put your jacket on inside out after your third drink.
You glance around again, the city suddenly less charming and more overwhelming. Your stomach dips and fear spreads low and cold. You don’t know where the nearest bus stop is, or which line to take, you don’t actually know which direction your apartment is from here.
The alcohol in your system stops feeling warm and starts feeling inconvenient. You dig through your purse, fingers fumbling past lip gloss, receipts, keys.
Your hand closes around paper. You pull it out.
Slightly crumpled.
NEED HELP?
You stare at it.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half mortified.
This is insane. You shouldn’t.
You absolutely should not text a stranger who specified he isn’t a serial killer. Your battery drops to 3%. You hesitate for three long seconds.
Then you type.
Hi.
Are you real?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
Bucky’s phone vibrates against the table. The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.
He freezes and for half a second, his brain does something old and dangerous—threat assessment, immediate spike of adrenaline, body already half-rising.
He grabs the phone to see an unknown number.
A text.
He stares at it. His pulse does not settle. Are you real? That could mean anything. That could mean someone found him, that could mean trouble.
Or—
Another text comes in.
I think I need help.
His jaw tightens.
He’s already standing. He doesn’t deliberate, doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs his keys off the counter, shoves his feet back into his boots without tying them properly, and is out the door in under thirty seconds.
The truck engine roars to life beneath him, familiar vibration steadying something inside his chest.
He types one-handed at a red light.
Location?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Then:
Outside Harper’s. On 5th I think. By the hot dog guy??
He knows exactly where that is. He’s there in four minutes.
He spots you before you spot him.
You’re sitting on the curb now, elbows propped on your knees, arguing mildly with a man behind a food cart about whether mustard counts as a vegetable.
You look… small.
Not in stature. Just in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard to seem fine.
Bucky parks sharply at the curb and steps out. The night air hits him cool and sharp. The city noise presses in — laughter spilling from bar doors, the hiss of the food cart grill, bass thudding faintly through brick walls.
He scans automatically. No visible threat, no one crowding you. Just you. He approaches slower.
“You texted me?” he asks.
You look up and squint as if were the middle of the day and not half past one in the morning. Your eyes travel from his boots to his shoulders to his face.
“You’re not a serial killer, right?” you ask, entirely serious.
He blinks. “No.”
You consider him for another beat.
“Okay, good.” You try to stand. It does not go smoothly. Your foot catches the edge of the curb and you pitch forward slightly.
His hands are on your arms before you hit the ground. Gloved yet warm. Steady and solid.
You freeze for a second, looking up at him from far too close. He smells like clean soap and something faintly metallic. His grip is firm but not bruising.
“You needed help because you’re drunk?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind.
“I needed help,” you correct, wobbling slightly. “Because I don't know how New York works. And I also may be a little drunk.”
He exhales slowly.
“Why didn’t you take the subway?”
You blink at him. “…There’s a subway here?”
He just stares at you, something in his expression shifts and his irritation drains. Not completely but enough for a soft breath to leave his lips as he stands back to look at you.
“How long you been here?” he asks.
"What time is it?"
He glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til two."
“Like twenty hours,” you reply honestly.
That adds up, he thinks to himself and nods once.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”
He keeps one hand lightly at your elbow as he guides you toward the truck. You talk the whole way over-explaining where you live.
“Okay so it’s near a brick building over by a big brown bridge—which I know doesn’t help because they’re all brick—but there’s like… a plant in the window? I think? And the stairs creak.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
He already knows the building, he’s driven past it a hundred times just like he has every building in Brooklyn. He opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated and steady before closing it gently. Inside the truck, the world feels smaller, quieter. You lean your head back against the seat with a relieved sigh.
“Thank you for being real,” you mumble.
He starts the engine. “You text random numbers often?”
“Only the ones that clarify they aren’t serial killers.”
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet laugh.
It’s brief. Quiet and low, but real. And you smile at the sound without realizing it. As the truck pulls away from the curb, Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye to see you’re watching the city pass by, like it’s something you’re still deciding whether to trust.
He understands that feeling more than he’d like to. And for the first time in days, the empty space in his chest feels… lightly occupied.
He parks in front of your building with the kind of precision that suggests he’s memorized the street long before tonight. The engine rumbles low beneath you for a moment before he turns the key and everything settles into quiet. The sudden absence of vibration makes the world feel oddly still, like stepping off a moving walkway and having to find your balance again.
You peer out the window.
“Oh,” you breathe, surprised. “This is it.”
“I know,” he replies simply.
Of course he does.
He’s already out of the truck before you’ve fully processed that, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. When he opens your door, the night air curls cool around your flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of rain drying on concrete.
You slide down from the seat carefully this time. He keeps a hand hovering at your elbow—not gripping, just there. Just in case.
The building looms a little taller than it had earlier in the day. Dark windows. Narrow staircase just inside the glass door. The porch light flickers faintly like it’s unsure of its commitment to illumination. You hesitate on the sidewalk. It’s not the alcohol now. It’s the strange awareness that this is the end of something. A brief pocket of safety in a night that could have gone differently.
He notices.
He always notices.
“Up you go,” he says quietly, nodding toward the door.
You move together toward it, footsteps uneven on your part, measured on his. The city continues behind you—cars passing, someone shouting down the block, a siren wailing faint and far—but here on the stoop it feels contained. Close.
You fumble slightly with your keys as your fingers don’t want to cooperate.
He waits.
Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands behind and to the side, broad shoulders blocking some of the street’s draft, presence steady and grounded like a wall you can lean against if you needed to.
The key finally slides into the lock.
You pause before turning it.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the residual warmth coming off him, the faint scent of clean cotton and motor oil and night air. You glance over your shoulder. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something softer at the edges. The crease between his brows less pronounced than earlier, the sharp lines of his jaw less guarded.
“You can call again,” he says, stiff but sincere. “If you need something real.”
Not judgmental. Not mocking.
Just… open.
And you smile. Not the bright, tipsy grin from earlier. Not the exaggerated one you’d been wearing in the bar to prove you were fine. This one is quieter and softer. It reaches your eyes.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
His name leaves your mouth gently, like it belongs there.
Something in his chest shifts. He hasn’t heard it like that in a long time. Not as an order. Not barked across a battlefield. Not attached to expectation or obligation.
Just his name. Warm. Human.
He clears his throat lightly.
“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he adds, almost gruff again as if to steady himself. “It’s loud. And it smells weird in the summer. But it’s… alright.”
You laugh softly.
“I’ll brace myself.”
He nods once, gaze drifting up to the building behind you.
“Hope the city treats you well.”
There’s more under that than the words carry. A quiet wish. A hope that it doesn’t chew you up the way it can. That it gives you something instead of taking.
You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary.
“Maybe it already has,” you say before you can overthink it.
His mouth opens slightly, like he might respond to that. Instead, you turn the key. The lock clicks open and you push the door inward and step across the threshold, turning back just before it closes fully.
He’s still there. Hands in his jacket pockets now. Shoulders squared against the night air. Watching to make sure you’re inside. Safe.
You lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight, not-a-serial-killer.”
A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh.
“Goodnight,” he replies.
The door shuts.
The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes softly through the stairwell. He waits, hums while he counts to five.
Listens for movement inside—footsteps climbing stairs, a door opening above. When he hears the faint creak of wood and the muffled thud of something being set down, only then does he step back.
Only then does he turn toward his truck.
The city hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. Still buzzing. Still alive. But something in him feels… different. Lighter, maybe.
Or at least less empty.
He slides into the driver’s seat and rests his hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine yet. You called, out of all the numbers in the world, you called him. Not because he was assigned, not because he was ordered, but because you needed help. And he showed up. The thought settles deep, warm and unfamiliar.
Upstairs, you lean back against your closed apartment door and exhale slowly. Your heart isn’t racing anymore. Your head still spins faintly, but beneath that is something steadier.
Safer.
You push off the door and wander toward your mattress, kicking off your shoes halfway there. The apartment doesn’t feel quite as cavernous now, the corners less shadowed, the silence less sharp.
You fish your phone out of your purse and glance at it.
2% battery.
You type quickly before it dies.
Made it upstairs.
Thanks again.
You hit send.
Across the street, Bucky’s phone buzzes just as he turns the key in the ignition.
He looks at the screen, the corners of his mouth just barely ticking upwards, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.
Then he types back.
Good.
Get some sleep.
He hesitates before typing out another message.
City’s easier in the morning.
He sends it before he can reconsider. Upstairs, your phone dies before you see it.
But somehow, curled up on your mattress with the window cracked just enough to let Brooklyn’s nighttime hum drift in, you sleep a little easier anyway. And downstairs, parked at the curb a moment longer than necessary, Bucky sits in the quiet of his truck and realizes that for the first time since he put those flyers up with his number—
He hopes it rings again.
The buzz of his phone comes just as Bucky’s settling into the quiet.
He’s halfway through reassembling the carburetor of a bike he doesn’t even own, just something he found on the curb and decided to fix because his hands need purpose the way lungs need air, when the vibration skitters across his kitchen counter.
He stares at it. Unknown number, again.
His jaw tightens automatically. Old habits.
It buzzes again. He wipes his hands on a rag before picking it up, thumb hovering like he’s about to disarm something instead of open a message.
Hi. It's me again. But it’s not a drunk emergency.
I can’t open my window and I think I’m suffocating.
He blinks.
Then another message.
I’m not actually suffocating. Probably.
But it’s very dramatic in here.
He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.
He types back with one thumb.
Be there in five.
A heart appears immediately.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The building looks different in daylight. Less romantic, with more peeling paint and crooked mailboxes.
He takes the stairs two at a time anyway. You door is already open when he reaches the third floor.
You're standing there like you've been pacing, hair pulled into a messy twist that’s given up in several places, socks on, oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. No makeup this time, no glittering party lights reflected in your eyes.
Just… you.
Sober. And clearly mortified.
“Oh my god, hi,” you blurt, words tripping over each other as soon as you see him. “I promise I’m not dying. I just—okay so I tried to open the window and it wouldn’t budge and then I panicked and convinced myself the oxygen was running out and—”
“You know that’s not how air works, right?” he says flatly.
Your mouth snaps shut. “…I did. In theory.”
He steps inside without another word, brushing past your shoulder. You smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy. The apartment is small and bare, boxes still stacked like uneven towers along the walls.
The window in question is in the living room. Old frame. Painted shut.
He walks over, studies it for three seconds.
“You tried pulling?”
“Yes.”
“Pushing?”
“Yes.”
He grips the bottom sash, metal fingers bracing, flesh hand curling over the wood. A small twist of pressure. A sharp upward shove.
The paint seal cracks with a soft pop and the window slides up. Cool Brooklyn air spills in within thirty seconds. He steps back.
You just stare at it, then at him. “…I hate you a little.”
“Join the club.”
You press a hand over your face, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I’m not helpless.”
“Never said you were.”
“You definitely implied it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I implied you’ve never met a window before.”
Your eyes narrow, but there’s laughter dancing behind them. “You’re so mean.”
“I’m efficient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Sometimes it is.”
You huff, crossing your arms—but you're smiling. Bright and unfiltered, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight hitting bare skin.
It’s… a lot. He’s not used to a lot.
He clears his throat. “You’re not suffocating.”
“Thank you, Doctor Barnes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
You grin. “Mechanic Barnes?”
“No.”
“Freedom Flyer Guy?”
He gives you a look and you laughs again, softer this time. “Sorry.”
A pause settles between you. Not heavy. Just… there.
You shift your weight. “So. I owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do. You just saved my life.”
“You were never in danger.”
“You don’t know that. What if I had spiraled? What if I started hyperventilating? What if I fainted and hit my head and then actually suffocated because the window was closed?”
He just stares at you. “…That’s not how any of that works.”
You point at him triumphantly. “See? You care.”
“I care about physics.”
You beam like he just confessed undying devotion, your eyes twinkling as they bore into his. He looks away first.
“I’m not charging you,” he says.
“I’m not letting you leave without compensation.”
His brows draw together. “Compensation.”
“Yes.”
“I fixed a stuck window.”
“You provided emergency ventilation services.”
“You’re impossible.”
You step closer, hands on hips now, chin tipped up in stubborn determination. “I’m ordering takeout.”
“That’s not payment.”
“It is if you stay and eat it.”
His instinct is to refuse.
He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t sit.
He doesn’t… stay.
But the apartment is quiet except for you and the faint rush of air through the open window. The city noise floats in—distant traffic, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog barking.
You look at him like you expect him to bolt. Like you're used to people bolting.
He exhales slowly.
“Fine,” he says. “But nothing fancy.”
Your face lights up like he just handed you the moon. “Yes!”
He winces slightly at the volume.
“Sorry!” you whisper immediately, clapping a hand over your mouth. “I get excited.”
“I can tell.”
You grabs your phone, already scrolling. “Okay, what do you like?”
“Food.”
You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”
“Anything.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
“Any strong opinions about noodles?”
He blinks at you.
You gasp, soft yet dramtic. “You don’t have strong noodle opinions?”
“I was alive before noodles were complicated.”
“I don't know if that's a joke or not but that’s deeply concerning.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
You settle on something Thai. Spicy. “It’ll be here in thirty.”
He nods once.
Then you both look at the apartment. No couch yet, no chairs. Just boxes and hardwood floors.
You drop down cross-legged without hesitation. “Floor picnic?”
He hesitates a fraction of a second before lowering himself across from you, back resting against a stack of sealed boxes labeled BOOKS in loopy handwriting.
For a moment, you just sit there.
It’s quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, just… new. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So. You fix windows often?”
“Second one this week.” he deadpans.
“Wow. You’re basically a specialist.”
“I’ll update the flyer.”
Your laugh bursts out of you before she can stop it, bright and easy. “Please do. ‘Professional Window Hero.’”
“Hero’s a stretch.”
“You got here in, like, five minutes.”
“You were two blocks away.”
You blink, lips parting in light suprise. “You live that close?”
He nods and your smile softens. “That’s… nice.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Feels less scary knowing someone I’ve technically met before is nearby.”
He shifts slightly. “You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”
You tilt your head. “Are we strangers?”
The question hangs there. He studies you face, watching the open curiosity, no edge, no ulterior motive.
“Mostly,” he answers.
You nod slowly, accepting it without flinching. “Okay. Mostly strangers who eat Thai food on the floor.”
“Accurate.”
You lean back on your palms, looking around the half-empty room. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“I moved here four days ago and everything still feels… unreal.” Your voice softens at the edges. “Like I’m house-sitting someone else’s life.”
He doesn’t interrupt. You glance at him, gauging if he’s listening.
He is.
“I was just…so tired,” you say, quieter now. “Of dreaming about things that only existed when I was asleep.”
He frowns faintly. “Like what?”
“Everything.” You laugh, but it’s not as bright this time. “The job I wanted. The city I wanted. The version of me that wasn’t waiting around for something to happen.”
The breeze moves through the room again, stirring the edges of unpacked papers.
“So I stopped waiting,” you continue. “Packed up my car. Drove here. Signed a lease I could barely afford. Figured if I was going to be scared anyway, I might as well be scared somewhere interesting.”
He studies you gently.
“You moved without knowing anyone.”
“Yep.”
“That’s reckless.”
You grin. “You know some people would call that brave.”
“Debatable.”
“See?” you say, pointing at him. “This is what I mean. You see the worst-case scenario. I see the possibility.”
“I see reality.”
“I see potential.”
“You see suffocating from a closed window.”
You laugh again, bright again and unashamed. “Okay, that one was dramatic.”
“A little.”
“But you still came.”
He looks down at his hands, the metal rubs againt the glove as the leather glints under the overhead light.
“You asked me too,” he says simply.
You watch him for a second too long, stirring something warm and heavy that starts to press at his ribs when the knock at the door saves him.
You scramble up, nearly tripping over a box in your haste. “Food!”
He hears your cheerful thank you through the doorway, the rustle of paper bags, and the quick shuffle back. You set everything between you two like it’s treasure and the smell fills the apartment. You eat straight from the containers, knees occasionally bumping.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
Easy.
But it does.
Bucky watches you, the way that you talkswith your hands, animated, telling him about the tiny coffee shop you found that morning. About the subway map that “looks like abstract art.” About how you got lost for forty minutes and ended up discovering a park you now claims as yours.
“You got lost on purpose,” he says.
“I absolutely did not.”
“You just said you walked in circles.”
“That’s exploring.”
“That’s inefficient.” he grumbles.
You grin around a bite of noodles. “I bet you would’ve hated it.”
“I would’ve brought a map.”
“I had one!”
His face falls. “And you still got lost.”
You points at him with your sauce stained chopsticks. “You’re missing the point.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The point is I was somewhere new. Alone. And it didn’t feel lonely.”
He pauses mid-bite. You don’t seem to realize what you've said until a second later. Your eyes flick to him, softer now.
“Not entirely,” you amend gently.
The air shifts and he swallows the rest of his bite.
“You won’t always feel new here,” he says.
“I know.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I hope not completely.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want it to stop feeling like possibility.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, he’s still figuring out what possibility even looks like. You finish eating slower than necessary, even when you're done neither of you rush to stand.
Eventually, you gather the empty containers, stacking them neatly.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
“For showing up. Even when it’s just… windows.”
He nods once. “You can call again.”
The words come out stiffer than he means them to.
“If you… still need something real,” he adds.
Your smile this time is different. Softer, bright but less blinding, more intentional.
“Okay,” you say. “I will.”
He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans and you walk him to the door. The hallway light flickers overhead as you unlock it fully, stepping into the frame like you're guarding it.
He lingers on the threshold.
“I think you'll fit in just fine here,” he says, the words awkward but sincere. “It’s loud. And expensive.”
You laugh softly.
“And,” he adds, after a beat, “it’s not the worst place to start over.”
Something in your expression shifts.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
It lands somewhere deep in his chest just as last time. Warmer than he expects. He nods once, because he doesn’t trust his voice.
“Goodnight,” you say.
“Lock the door,” he replies automatically.
You roll your eyes but smile. “Yes, sir.”
He turns and heads down the stairs. Halfway to the landing, he hears the soft click of your lock sliding into place, and the ghost of a smile curves across his lips.
Only then does he keep walking.
The third time you text him, you stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.
Hi.
Hypothetically—
If someone bought shelves and then realized drywall is apparently not just… wall… what would that someone do?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
That someone would wait.
You grin.
For?
Me.
He shows up with a drill slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.
You open the door before he knocks this time, already smiling. “Hi.”
He pauses just slightly at the sight of you barefoot in paint-splattered shorts and one of those oversized band tees you sleep in. Your hair’s half-clipped up, pencil tucked behind your ear like you’ve been architecting something serious instead of arguing with brackets.
“You didn’t start without me,” he says.
“I considered it.”
“It's good you didn't. You would’ve hit a pipe.”
“I resent that.”
“You should.”
You step aside to let him in, eucalyptus and mint no longer the dominant scent of your place—now it smells like sawdust and fresh coffee and something citrusy you insist on spraying in the mornings because it “feels productive.”
He surveys the wall you’ve chosen. “What’re these for?”
“Plants, books, maybe a tiny ceramic frog. I don’t know yet. It’s about potential.”
He huffs. “Everything’s about potential with you.”
“And everything’s about worst-case scenarios with you.”
“It keeps you from flooding your apartment.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
He levels you with a look.
You grin.
He gets to work, movements efficient, measured. Flesh fingers steady, metal ones precise throught the stretch of their leather glove. The hum of the drill fills the apartment, and you sit cross-legged on the floor watching like it’s a live performance.
“You know,” you say over the noise, “most people would charge for this.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t?” You ask curiously.
“You fed me.”
“That was one time.”
He glances at you. “You planning to stop?”
You blink. “…No.”
“Then we’re square.”
The shelves are up in under twenty minutes. You clap softly when he finishes, which earns you a flat look from Bucky.
“What?” You mutter.
“It’s a shelf.”
“It’s a level shelf!”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t mention it. You just notice.
The dresser comes next.
You absolutely could’ve waited for building management to help. Or ordered professional movers.
But instead:
I have made a mistake.
The dresser is winning.
He’s there in seven minutes. You open the door breathless, like you’ve been wrestling furniture for sport. “It’s heavier than it looked online.”
“They always are.”
He takes one look at the narrow hallway, the impossible angle to your bedroom door, and just nods once.
“Lift when I say,” he tells you.
“Yes, sir,” you reply brightly.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
You bite back a smile.
The two of you maneuver the dresser inch by inch. Your hands slip once and he steadies it without thinking, metal arm braced, body angled to shield yours from the corner.
“Careful,” he mutters.
“You’re the one who said lift.”
“You’re the one who didn’t bend your knees.”
“You sound like a gym teacher.”
“You’d have hated school with me.”
You laugh, breathless, as the dresser finally slides into place against your bedroom wall before you collapse onto the floor dramatically.
“We did it,” you declare.
“I did it.”
“You emotionally supported.”
“I told you what to do.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.
“Okay,” you say one afternoon, holding up the subway map like it’s an ancient scroll. “Explain this.”
He stares at it. Then at you. “It’s color-coded.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It literally does.”
You’re standing at the entrance of the station, the late afternoon rush building around you. The air smells like hot concrete and something metallic.
“I get on the blue one,” you say slowly, “unless it’s express? Or local? And then it skips my stop? Why does it skip my stop.”
“Because it’s express.”
“Why would I want that?” You ask.
“So you get somewhere faster.”
“But not where I need to go.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
You beam at him behind the map. He steps closer, crowd pressing in around you. His shoulder leans into yours as he points at the map. “You take the local during rush hour if you’re only going a few stops. Express if you’re crossing boroughs.”
You squint. “And how do I know which is which?”
He gestures to the small black circles versus the white ones.
Your head tilts. “Oh.”
“You didn’t see that.”
“No.”
He sighs, but it’s softer than it used to be. “Stay to the right on the stairs. Don’t stand in the doorway, and if the train’s packed, wait for the next one.”
“I don’t mind packed.”
“You will.”
You grin up at him. “You’re very protective over public transit etiquette.”
“I’m protective over not getting shoved.”
The train roars into the station. You hesitate for half a second before stepping forward, his hand finds your elbow without thinking, guiding.
“Move with the crowd,” he says quietly near your ear. “Don’t fight it.”
You nod. Inside, it’s warm and loud and close.
You look up at him, eyes bright. “This is kind of fun.”
“It’s not.”
“It is if you decide it is.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go of your elbow until your stop arrives. After that, he walks you through shortcuts like he’s revealing state secrets.
“Cut through here if it’s raining.”
“Take the side exit after ten p.m.”
“Don’t get on the empty car.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Just don’t.”
You salute dramatically. “Yes, subway sargeant.”
“Don't call me that.”
You grin. You don’t stop.
You teach him photography in payment.
“Okay, your turn,” you tell him one evening, camera strap looped around your wrist.
He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“My livelihood.”
“It looks old.”
“It’s film.”
He pauses. “They still make that?”
You gasp. “You wound me.”
You press the camera into his hands, guiding his fingers over the body. “Manual focus. No screen. You have to feel it.”
He studies it carefully, brow furrowed in concentration the way it does when he’s fixing something delicate.
“You adjust the aperture here,” you say, stepping closer. “Shutter speed there. It’s slower. Intentional.”
He glances at you. “Like you.”
You blink and find his eyes, his gaze like a soft sky blue with a dark edge that held the color in, looking at you like you were the eye of the storm. You look back. He looks away first.
You swallow your smile. “Exactly like me.”
You teach him how to look for light instead of just objects. How shadows tell stories. How grain makes things honest. He listens, really listens, so you start bringing the camera everywhere. To the bodega. To the park. To the subway platform at golden hour.
And somehow—he’s in half the frames. Leaning against brick walls. Looking out over the water. Brow creased at something you said.
He notices eventually.
“You take a lot of pictures,” he says one afternoon when you snap another shot of him sitting on the stoop outside your building.
“I’m a photographer.”
“Of me.”
You lower the camera slowly. “You’re in good light.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
You don’t tell him that you’ve started a folder at work labeled The Brooklyn Study. That half of it is just him, that your boss called the shots “intimate” or that you flushed all the way to your ears and clutched the folder to your chest.
You keep that part to yourself. For now.
Over the next few weeks, the calls keep coming.
Is this radiator supposed to sound like it’s screaming?
He arrives to find you crouched in front of it like it’s a wild animal.
“It’s air in the pipes,” he says.
“It sounds haunted.”
“It’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
You watch him bleed it carefully, steam hissing softly.
“You’re very calm around loud, angry noises,” you observe.
He doesn’t answer that.
Sometimes you call and you don’t actually need help.
I think the shelf is… slightly crooked.
It isn’t. He adjusts it anyway.
The hallway light flickers weird.
He tightens the bulb.
Sometimes you just say:
Are you busy?
And when he answers no, you say:
Good.
You sit on the floor again. Or on your fire escape. Or at the small kitchen table you finally bought.
You talk. About work. About how strange it is building a life from scratch. About how sometimes the quiet feels too loud. He pretends he doesn’t notice that those are the nights you text the latest. He pretends he doesn’t notice that you hover a second longer when he stands to leave.
He pretends a lot.
But he starts remembering. Your coffee order—oat milk, no sugar. The way you wrinkle your nose when something’s too spicy. The fact that you hum when you’re editing photos. He starts bringing tools without being asked. A level. Extra screws. A small toolkit he leaves under your sink “just in case.” He checks your building door after you close it.
Always.
You start saving him leftovers.
Tiny labeled containers in your fridge.
For Window Hero.
Emergency Noodles.
Do Not Skip Dinner.
He pretends he doesn’t see the notes but he eats every single one.
One afternoon you hand him a stack of redesigned flyers. His brows lift.
“They were tragic,” you say unapologetically. “No tear-off tabs, no clear services listed and a terrible font choice.”
He flips one over. It’s cleaner and more organized. Still blunt, but somehow warmer.
FREEDOM HELP.
Need something fixed, carried, explained?
Text. I show up.
Your number added beneath his in smaller print:
Subway translations available.
He looks at you slowly. “You added yourself.”
You nod. “I’m your marketing department.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“You needed one.”
A beat.
“…They’re better,” he admits.
You beam like you just won an award.
You start calling him before small problems become big ones. He starts answering before the second ring and soon the loneliness shifts. It doesn’t disappear, not all in one big fell swoop. It settles between you instead of sitting on your shoulders, in shared silence instead of empty rooms. One evening you sit beside him on the stoop, camera resting in your lap.
“You know,” you say softly, “I thought moving here would fix everything.”
He stares out at the streetlights flickering on. “Did it?”
“No.” You smile faintly. “But it gave me something to build with.”
He nods once. You bump your shoulder against his.
“Thanks for showing up,” you add quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulder presses back.
“Thanks for calling,” he says.
It starts small. So small to the point you hadn't even realized anything, until you did and now it's all you can think about. A brush of his shoulder lingering a second too long. The way your apartment feels less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home when his boots are by the door. The way silence doesn’t scrape at you when he’s sitting in it too.
You try not to think too hard about it at first.
You tell yourself it makes sense. He’s the only person you really know here. Of course you call him. Of course you look for him in a crowd on the subway platform without meaning to. Of course your camera finds him before it finds anything else.
It’s proximity. Convenience, familiarity even.
It’s not—
It’s not the way your stomach flips when he says your name like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to drop. It’s not the way you start cooking too much on purpose. It’s not the way you check your phone at night hoping for a text that never comes because he doesn’t text first.
You sit with that realization longer than you’d like.
Because if it’s not just circumstance…
Then it’s choice, and you know what choosing feels like now. It feels like packing your life into boxes and driving toward something uncertain, it feels like standing in a city that doesn’t know you exist and deciding you belong anyway.
It feels terrifying.
The night you call him, nothing is broken. There's no screaming radiator, no crooked shelf, no stuck window. You’re standing in your kitchen staring at two bowls with steam curling up and realizing you only need one, your thumb hovering over his name for a long moment.
Then you press it. He answers on the second ring.
“What broke this time?”
You huff a soft laugh despite yourself. “Hi to you too.”
A pause. “…Hi.”
You swallow. “I don’t need anything fixed.”
Silence stretches across the line. You can almost picture his face—brows drawn together, jaw tight, waiting for the catch.
“…Then why am I coming over?”
The words slip out before you can overthink them. “Because I don’t want to eat dinner alone.”
You don’t try to make it lighter, you don’t fill the quiet with a joke. You just let it sit there. On the other end, you hear him breathe in slow and measured. You almost backtrack, almost say never mind, it’s stupid, forget it.
But then:
“I’ll be there in ten.”
The line clicks dead and you stand in the middle of your kitchen for a long moment, heart beating louder than it should.
When he knocks, you’re suddenly aware of everything. The new couch you finally unpacked and assembled, the lamp casting soft amber light across the room, the way your hair looks, the way you look.
You open the door.
He’s in a dark Henley tonight, paired with his usual leather jacket, hair slightly wind-tousled from the walk. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees you standing there, not panicked. Not flustered.
Just… waiting.
“You’re not bleeding,” he observes.
“Disappointing, I know.”
He steps inside anyway. The apartment smells like garlic and sesame oil. Like home, almost.
“I made too much,” you say, gesturing to the dishes in the sink behind you like evidence. “Again.”
“You always do.”
“I don’t.” You pout.
“You do.”
You shut the door behind him, softer than usual.
“I have a couch now,” you announce, like it’s a milestone.
He looks at it. “You assembled it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“…Is it going to give out under me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Sit down and find out.”
He does, carefully, like he expects it to collapse out of spite.
It doesn’t. You sit beside him with a ghost of a smirk, knees brushing for a second before you both subtly adjust. The rest of dinner rests on the coffee table. The TV stays off as the city hum drifts in through the cracked window he fixed weeks ago.
For a while, you just eat. Not rushed, not quiet in a strained way, just something simple and easy.
You steal a glance at him when he’s not looking. The soft concentration when he untangles chopsticks, the way his shoulders don’t seem as tight here. You realize something slowly, like stepping into water and not noticing how deep you’ve gone until it reaches your ribs.
You don’t just call him because he’s helpful, you don’t just want him around because he’s familiar. You want him here.
Specifically. His dry comments, his steady presence, the way he fills space without overwhelming it. You want more than borrowed time and fixed shelves. The realization settles in your chest, warm and terrifying.
You clear your throat gently. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances over. “You usually do.”
“Why did you put up the flyers?”
His jaw shifts and you watch the way he looks down at his hands, at the faint scuffs on metal and skin.
“I didn’t know what to do with my time,” he says finally.
You wait but he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?” you ask softly.
His mouth tightens, like you’ve stepped near something he doesn’t show people.
“I spent a long time not choosing anything,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now. Less deadpan. “Where I went. What I did. Who I was.”
The words land heavy between you, thickening in the air, you don’t interrupt.
“I was… useful,” he continues. “Just not in a way that was mine.”
Your chest tightens.
“When that stopped,” he adds, “there was just time. And I didn’t know what to do with it.”
The room feels smaller, the air growing warmer.
“So you made yourself available,” you murmur.
He nods once. “That’s it.”
You study him carefully, the rigid line of his spine, the way he holds himself like he’s bracing for impact even now.
“You’re not bored,” you say gently as his eyes flick to yours.
“You’re just not used to choosing.”
The words hang there and something shifts in his expression. Something almost… soft. Not dramatic, not loud. But it hits, hard. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his gaze drops, then lifts again slower this time.
He looks… startled, like you handed him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
“I didn’t want a job,” he says, almost to himself.
You stay very still.
“I wanted…” He exhales through his nose. “Purpose.”
The word settles between you like a fragile thing.
“You have that,” you say quietly.
He shakes his head faintly. “Fixing windows isn’t purpose.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But showing up is.”
His eyes meet yours again, steady and searching for something. You wonder if he sees it in you.
“You wanted someone to need you,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper.
The truth is there, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t deny it. And you realize something else at the same time, something that makes your pulse stumble.
You do need him. But not because you can’t lift a dresser, not because the subway map confuses you, not because you don’t know anyone else. You need him in the way you need someone to witness your life as it unfolds. To sit beside you while it’s messy and unfinished and becoming.
“Well I need you,” you add softly. "Not… just to fix a shelf or move a heavy dresser."
His shoulders loosen a fraction and you feel your heart let out a beat that you didn't know could make. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of you. Maybe it’s just gravity curling around you both and pressing in on you, but when your knee presses fully against his this time, and neither of you pulls away.
The city hums outside, your couch holds steady beneath you. There's a beat that passes between you two, and when your eyes find his he looks at you like he’s seeing you differently now. Not as a problem to solve, not as a task to complete. But as a choice, and you realize, heart thudding slow and certain—
You want him to choose you, not because you’re the only person here, not because you called first. But because he wants to sit on this couch, eat these noodles, share this quiet.
And because he wants to do it wth you.
He exhales slowly.
“I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “not eating alone.”
Your chest warms. “Good,” you whisper.
The quiet after your words doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
It feels aware. He’s still looking at you differently—like the ground shifted half an inch and he’s recalibrating his balance. The takeout cartons sit forgotten on the coffee table, noodles going cold. Your gaze drifts, hesitant at first. To his hands. You’ve seen it, of course. Noticed it the first night he fixed your window. The glint of metal under warm apartment light when his jacket would slip past gloved wrist he seamless line where steel warms.
But you never asked. It felt like staring, like something earned, not taken.
You swallow softly. “Can I ask you something else?”
One brow lifts faintly. “You’re on a roll tonight.”
Your eyes flick down again, then back up to his face. “Your arm.”
He goes very still. You feel it instantly—that subtle tightening, the way his spine straightens like he’s bracing for something sharp.
“I’ve noticed it,” you add quickly, gentle. “Obviously. But I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make it a thing.”
His jaw shifts once.
“It is a thing,” he says evenly.
“I know.” You tilt your head slightly. “But it’s yours.”
That makes something in his expression soften. Barely. You shift on the couch so you’re angled toward him more fully. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”
He studies your face carefully, like he’s searching for pity. You don’t give him any, just curiosity, quiet and steady. After a long moment, he flexes his metal fingers once. The faint whir of internal mechanics hums low in the room.
“Lost… the original,” he says, voice stripped down. No performance. No deflection. “A… long time ago.”
You nod once, not pressing.
“It was replaced,” he continues. “Not exactly by choice.”
There’s weight there. History and shadows you don’t ask him to drag into the light tonight, you don’t need details to understand it wasn’t simple.
“It works better than the first one,” he adds, almost wry. “Stronger.”
“I’ve noticed,” you murmur, thinking about the dresser. The effortless way he steadies things. The careful control he uses so he doesn’t break them.
He glances at you. “Doesn’t always feel like mine.”
The honesty in that lands softly against your ribs, you hesitate, then softly murmur. “Can I see it?”
The question hangs between you. He searches your face again, slower this time.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
He turns slightly on the couch, resting his forearm along his thigh. The metal catches the lamplight—dark grey and golden seams, subtle scratches from use. Not polished or pure ornamental but real. You lean closer without thinking, breath slowing. Up close, it’s intricate, not just plating but delicate etchings along the fingers, tiny grooves and segments that shift when he flexes.
“It’s…” You shake your head faintly, almost in awe. “It’s kind of beautiful.”
He huffs softly. “That’s a new one.”
“I mean it.”
You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. Your fingers hover for half a second before brushing lightly over the plating of his knuckles. Cool and solid, smooth in some places, faintly textured in others. You trace the seam where metal curves into the back of his hand, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of it, by the contrast of it against the warmth radiating from the rest of him.
He watches you instead of your hand. Your touch is careful, not clinical, just… curious.
“It doesn’t scare you?” he asks quietly.
You glance up, still brushing your fingertips lightly over the steel.
“No,” you say simply.
He studies you like he’s trying to understand how that’s possible.
“It’s part of you,” you add. “Why would that scare me?”
Something shifts in his breathing. Your thumb grazes the edge of his knuckles again, softer this time. Not examining, just feeling as he flexes his fingers once under your touch, almost experimentally.
You smile faintly. “Does… can you feel that?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Everything?”
“Mostly.”
You nod slowly, still tracing the lines like you’re memorizing them, you don’t flinch, you don’t hesitate. You just let your hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. When you finally look back up at him, you realize how close you’ve gotten.
Your knees are pressed fully against his now, your hand still resting over metal and seam and strength. There’s no fear in his eyes, just something open, something quietly undone.
“You don’t have to be useful all the time,” you murmur.
His throat moves when he swallows.
“I know,” he says.
But the way he says it sounds like he’s still learning how to believe it, your fingers slide gently from his knuckles to his wrist, resting there feeling the vibrational hum where a pulse used to sit.
The air between you feels warmer now, denser, like fog settling in over rolling hills. The radiator ticks softly in the corner, no longer screaming—just settling into itself. The lamp beside the couch casts everything in gold, softening edges that usually feel sharper in daylight.
You’re still sitting close. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through denim and cotton, close enough that you can feel the faint shift of his breathing when you inhale.
“I like coming here,” he adds after a moment.
It sounds almost reluctant. Like admitting it costs him something, but he says it anyway. It makes a small smile pull at your mouth.
“I know that too.”
The words land gently between you, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be dressed up. You shift on the couch, turning toward him fully now. Your knees slide against his thigh, your shoulder brushes his arm.
You shift closer without standing, without moving anywhere but forward.
“You’re the first person I called when I didn’t know what to do,” you say quietly.
You hadn’t meant to say that tonight, it just feels like the right place to put it. His jaw tightens, then loosens as he swallows.
“You’re the first person who’s called me because they just…” He exhales slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “Wanted me there.”
The air shifts. Not into anything heavy or suffocating but charged, like the moment right before a thunder cloud in a summer storm breaks but, softer. You can hear your own heartbeat now. It doesn’t feel frantic, it feels certain.
He moves first. Slowly, so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist. Not touching yet, just lingering there giving you time.
You don’t shift back, you don’t flinch. Instead, you lean the smallest fraction closer in silent permission. His fingers settle at your side, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can see the hesitant question in his eyes.
You answer it by closing the distance. The first brush of his mouth against yours is careful. Testing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard, but you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen it. It’s not dramatic, there are no fireworks, no sweeping orchestration.
Just warmth. His hand shifts at your waist, thumb pressing gently like he’s confirming you’re real. Your fingers slide up to his shoulder, curling into fabric. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, like he’s memorizing it. Soft, unhurried and a little uncertain but real, very real. You can feel the exhale he lets out against your mouth, the way tension leaves him in slow increments. When you pull back, it’s only an inch.
Foreheads nearly touching, his breath mingles with yours and it's like the seconds slowed around you, the whole world dipped into this sedated ease.
You’ve been kissed before. In doorways, in cars, in moments that burned bright and faded just as fast. This isn’t that. This feels like sitting on your couch with noodles growing cold, like subway maps and crooked shelves, like someone showing up every time you asked.
Like belonging. His thumb brushes lightly against your side again, almost absentminded.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your face one last time.
You smile, softer than usual.
“I didn’t call you because I was lonely,” you whisper.
His brows knit faintly.
“I called because I wanted you.”
Something in him settles at that, deep in his chest and curling through his ribs. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is less hesitant, still gentle but more sure. Fuller as you let out of a soft breath against him. Your hand slides up into his hair. His metal fingers flex slightly at your waist, cool through cotton but steady, controlled.
Then you feel it, something blooming behind your heart, not sparks or chaos. Just the steady warmth of something choosing you back. Outside, a car passes, someone laughs down the block. Inside, on your newly unpacked couch, with half-eaten takeout and lamplight glowing gold, you kiss him like this was always where you were headed.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. Until it isn't.
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings/tags: smut; lots of giggly/clumsy sex; p in v; praise kink (kinda); dirty talk; one instance of pussy pronouns; marking (fingers on back, light bighting); sweat licking; bucky's a very very very soft top; bucky & reader are in a new relationship
Notes: i'm not sure what this is. just something i had in my wips for a while and i got random inspiration for it this weekend. giggly sex is fun and hot and giggly sex with bucky barnes would be even funnier and hotter :)
You and Bucky have been dating for exactly six weeks.
Not that anyone’s counting. (You both are. Secretly. Bucky has it written down in his notes app, you’ve been crossing off days on the calendar on your fridge.)
Six weeks of him tugging your hoodie strings to pull you closer when no one’s looking, of the kind of late-night talks that drift into early-morning ones. It’s kind of a precarious middle ground, long enough that you already know exactly how he takes his coffee every morning, but short enough that your heart still does that funny little flip when his name pops up on your screen.
Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.
And then, there’s the bedroom.
Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.
Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.
You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.
Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.
Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.
He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.
You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.
Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.
“Bucky, what the fuck?”
Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”
"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"
“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”
You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.
He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.
You both stare at it, wide-eyed.
“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.
Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”
You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”
“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.
“Think he’ll call back?”
“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”
The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.
“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”
He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.
“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.
The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.
“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”
The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?
Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.
“She feels so good around my cock.”
The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…
You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.
Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.
His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.
“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.
You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.
And oh, he does.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”
You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.
It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.
Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.
When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”
He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”
“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”
His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.
pls do a fic where reader is usually the soft, sweet one but during sex she snaps and flips the dynamic—grabbing bucky by the jaw, telling him exactly how she wants him to fuck her—and he is completely gone, no thoughts head empty
oh, now this is yummy
--------
Bucky always swore you were the gentlest thing that had ever touched him.
Soft hands. Soft voice. Soft smile. Everything in you was ease; warm patience, careful affection, the kind of sweetness that made his chest ache in a way he’d never learned how to name.
So in his head, it made sense that the sex was usually soft too. He loved it that way—loved how you sighed under him, how your nails skimmed instead of dug, how you guided him through your body like he was something precious.
But tonight?
Tonight you crack and Bucky never stood a chance.
You’re beneath him at first, your thighs parted around his hips as he kisses down your neck, slow and reverent the way he always is. That big body caging you in, lips tracing your pulse, his metal hand stroking lazy circles on your waist.
Suddenly you tighten your hand in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
“Up,” you murmur.
He lifts his head, confused and a little dazed. “Doll?”
You sit up in one clean motion, your palm catching his jaw—not gently, not sweet, but firm, controlled, possessive. His pupils blow wide instantly, like his brain short-circuits at the feel of your fingers digging in.
“Sit back,” you tell him, tone low, steady, leaving no room for anything but obedience.
And Bucky…obeys. Immediately. Without thought. He shifts back onto his heels, spine straightening, chest rising like he’s waiting for inspection. Head empty, instincts buzzing.
You crawl into his lap, slow enough to make him swallow, and wrap your hand around his throat, not to squeeze, just to hold, to guide.
“You listening to me, Bucky?”
His lips part. “Yeah,” he breathes, already wrecked. “Yes, ma’am.”
The title slips out without intention, like his body gives the answer before his mind catches up. Heat floods your stomach.
Your thumb strokes the hinge of his jaw. “Good. Because I’m going to tell you how I want you to fuck me.”
Bucky chokes on air.
Your nice, soft, sweet girl is gone. Or maybe she was always this too; maybe she just hadn’t let it loose until now.
You lean in, nose brushing his as you roll your hips deliberately against his cock, dragging a moan out of him that sounds embarrassingly desperate.
“I want you deep,” you whisper, lips ghosting his. “As deep as you can give me. I want you holding my hips open and fucking me until I forget how to stand.”
His eyes flutter. A ragged sound tears from his throat. He nods so quickly it’s almost frantic.
“You want that?” you ask, tilting his head up by the chin like you’re examining him. “You want to give it to me?”
“Yes—yes, fuck, anything—”
You cut him off with a slow kiss, your fingers tightening around his jaw until he melts. Not a soldier. Not an Avenger. Just a man reduced to trembling putty in your hands.
“Good boy,” you murmur against his mouth.
Bucky whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
Your smile turns sharp.
“Lay down.”
He drops back instantly, muscular body hitting the mattress in one smooth, obedient motion. You straddle him, palms on his chest, watching how his breath stutters. His cock is heavy against his stomach, twitching with every pass of your eyes.
You drag your nails lightly down his ribs. “Look at you,” you taunt softly. “Already gone and I haven’t even gotten on your cock yet.”
“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking like he’s been edged for hours instead of minutes. “Please, doll, I—I need—”
“You’ll get what I give you.”
His hips jerk, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.
You line yourself up, but you don’t sink down yet. You trace the tip along your folds, letting the sensitivity torture him. His fists clench in the sheets, metal hand denting the fabric.
“Hands on my hips,” you order.
He grabs you instantly, grip firm but reverent, as if he doesn’t know how strong he’s allowed to be anymore. Like he’s scared to do anything wrong.
You lean down and kiss him, slow and filthy. “Bucky,” you breathe against his lips, “I want you to fuck me. Not be gentle. Not hold back. I want all of you.”
He makes a broken sound—half moan, half prayer.
But before he can thrust up, before he can even think about taking over, you sink down onto him yourself, inch by inch, watching his expression crumble into pure ruin.
“Doll—oh god—f-fuck—”
Your hand flies to his jaw again, forcing his gaze up to yours. “Eyes on me.”
He obeys instantly, eyes wide, shiny, helpless.
“Now,” you say, settling fully on him, swallowing the thick length of him in one slow, devastating push, “fuck me exactly the way I want.”
His hips snap up so hard it steals your breath—and you laugh. Breathless. Pleased. Addicted to the sight of him unraveling.
Your nails drag into his shoulders. “That’s it. Just like that. Give it to me.”
Bucky’s gone.
Completely.
His head drops back, mouth open, groaning like he’s being pulled apart. His brain is mush, his thoughts turned to static under the weight of your commands, your hands, your body milking him with every roll of your hips.
“Good boy,” you whisper again, and he swears he could come from the praise alone.
You ride him harder, using him, taking exactly what you asked for, exactly what you wanted, and Bucky can only hold your hips and obey, panting, shaking, overwhelmed, worshipful.
When he finally comes undone, it’s with your name gasped like a confession, like salvation.
And when you collapse onto his chest, his arms wrap around you tight, still trembling.
“Doll?” he whispers, kissing your temple.
“Hm?”
“You can… do that again. Whenever you want.” A beat. “Maybe… right now?”
You laugh against his skin.
“Head empty?”
“Completely,” he admits without shame. “Please don’t fix me.”
A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 8.5k
Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink?
Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”
You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.
You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.
"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"
Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa."
Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.
You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.
You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.
Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.
Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.
“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.
You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.
“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."
"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing.
Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.
"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"
“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince.
You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”
“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.
"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”
His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”
“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.
After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you.
Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”
Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.
“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”
Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.
“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”
Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”
Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.
Your body went still.
"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."
You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound.
Okay, it hurt a lot.
It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that."
Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.
“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You swallowed. “Do what?”
“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”
Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”
“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help.
“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership.
Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”
The flight home was torture in slow motion.
Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.
And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.
After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way.
The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off.
His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.
Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.
“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”
Steve glared. “Tony.”
“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”
“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated.
The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on.
And Bucky—
Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.
What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in.
You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.
Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.
“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”
Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”
Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”
Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”
“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”
“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.
He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask.
Swing.
Swing.
Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake.
You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly.
Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—
You nearly whimpered.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin.
Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both.
And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—
"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”
Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."
"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor.
“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”
When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between.
His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”
It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you.
Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place.
With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you.
“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”
"You're not exactly making it easy."
Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”
His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”
The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”
“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”
“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were.
The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.
Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.
He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.
Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough."
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”
Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”
“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief.
“He needs her.”
“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.
“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.
You tried to go about your night.
You really did.
You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.
You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.
You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.
But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.
So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least.
The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path.
His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.
Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.
He didn’t see you.
He was somewhere inside the fever.
“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.
He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.
Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.
He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass.
"Get out of here."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"
Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”
"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.
"You'd never hurt me."
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.
“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.
“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside.
"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you.
You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.
“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.
“Not enough,” you said quietly.
He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”
Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.
“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”
His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.
He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.
He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.
You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”
His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.
“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”
His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.
You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.
So you touched him.
Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.
You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.
His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”
You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.
“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.
The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.
So you sank to your knees.
The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.
You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.
He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.
Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.
“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.
“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”
His knees almost buckled.
The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.
He didn’t last long.
He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.
His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”
“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”
You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.
His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.
“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”
His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water.
Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights.
“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.
Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.
He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.
He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…holy fuck,” he rasped.
You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.
That was all it took.
A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.
But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.
“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”
You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.
He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.
“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”
He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.
He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.
When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.
“I still need more.”
Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.
Then you stood.
Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.
His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.
“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.
“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”
That did it.
He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”
You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.
“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”
You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.
“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”
“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”
His rhythm faltered.
You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.
“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”
You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.
Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.
But Bucky didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.
You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin.
“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”
He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.
Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.
“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”
You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”
His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”
Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.
“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”
“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”
His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”
Then he slammed back into you.
You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.
“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”
He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.
“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.
“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”
“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”
He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”
You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.
His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.
“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”
“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.
You didn’t know how long it had been.
How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.
You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”
Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”
You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
That shattered him.
His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.
His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.
“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”
You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.
“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”
“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”
He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.
Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.
And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.
Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”
“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”
“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”
The door hissed open.
Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.
There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.
Naked.
Dead asleep.
His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.
And the sheets?
The sheets were barely covering anything.
“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”
Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”
Steve groaned. “Tony.”
“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”
“Stop talking.”
Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”
Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”
“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”
Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”
And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.
Tony paused.
“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”
a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!! I'll blame it on the fact that I had to write most of this while working a slow 12.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Tags: Smut.
Warnings: 18+ only. Threesome. Established Relationship (Steve and Bucky). Switching (Bucky).
Summary: Three weeks under the same roof was supposed to be temporary. But proximity has a way of revealing things, desires that were always there, just waiting for permission to surface.
note: (the other) Third prompt of Kinktober 2025: Threesome
note2: I'm sorry @chaichik, I know you asked me about this topic, and I was vague with the answer. I wanted this to be a surprise lol.
Word count: 4.7k
Kinktober Masterlist
The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the apartment, warm and comforting, making it feel a bit more… homey. She'd been staying with Steve and Bucky for almost three weeks now, ever since the fire in her apartment had left everything she owned either smoke-damaged or water-logged from the sprinklers. The insurance company promised the money would come through, that she'd be back in her own place soon, but soon, in insurance language, apparently meant sometime before the next ice age.
Bucky had insisted she stay with them. They'd been friends for over two years now, ever since she'd moved into the building and he'd helped her carry boxes up four flights of stairs when the elevator broke down, and she made them a huge cheesecake as a thank-you gift.
So when the fire happened, he hadn't even let her finish suggesting a hotel before he'd waved her off with that particularly stubborn set to his jaw that meant arguing was pointless.
So here she was, stirring marinara sauce in their kitchen like she'd always belonged there.
The front door opened with its familiar creak and heavy footsteps. She didn't need to look to know it was Bucky; Steve's footsteps were lighter, more measured.
"Something smells good," he said, dropping his duffel bag at the door.
She glanced over her shoulder, wooden spoon still in hand. He was in his usual post-gym attire, hair tied back, a slight sheen of sweat still on his skin despite the cool October air outside.
"Figured I owed you guys dinner after crashing here for this long," she said, turning back to the stove. "Come here, tell me if this needs anything."
She heard him move closer and felt the heat of his body as he stopped just behind her left shoulder. She tore off a piece of bread from the loaf on the counter, dipped it into the sauce, and turned, holding it up to his mouth.
"Careful, it's hot."
Bucky leaned in without hesitation, closing his lips around the bread and her fingers. His tongue brushed the pad of her thumb as he pulled the bread free. His eyes slipped closed as he chewed, and something in his whole body seemed to ease as he moaned.
He just… moaned.
"Perfect," he said, voice quieter, almost intimate. "'S really good."
She smiled, turning back to the stove, but she could feel him still there, lingering in her space. Instead of stepping back, he reached around her for another piece of bread, his sweat-damp chest brushing firmly against her back as he tore off another chunk and dipped it into the sauce himself.
He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint scent of his shower gel from the morning mixed with his own skin. His arm remained extended past her shoulder as he brought the bread to his mouth, caging her in against the stove.
"You're gonna spoil us," he murmured, so close she felt the words against her ear more than heard them. "Might not want you to leave."
Her breath caught, and her fingers clenched on the wooden spoon. "Maybe I don't want to," she muttered before she could think better of it.
She felt more than saw Bucky go still behind her. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then his free hand came to rest lightly on her hip, barely there, could've been accidental, except for the way his thumb traced a slow arc against her side.
"Careful," he said softly, and she wasn't sure if he was warning her or himself.
Then he stepped back, taking the warmth with him, and she finally remembered how to breathe.
What she didn't see was Steve standing in the doorway to the living room.
Oh, but he saw them alright.
Saw the way Bucky leaned into her orbit, the way his expression gentled. He saw the casual intimacy of her feeding him, the way Bucky's voice dropped into that softer register he usually only used with Steve in private moments.
He wasn't angry. Wasn't even worried.
He was... curious.
And maybe a little more than that.
----
"Have you noticed anything different lately?"
Bucky looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of their bed, unlacing his boots. Steve was leaning against the dresser with his arms crossed, but his expression was open. Curious.
"Different how?" Bucky asked carefully.
"With her," Steve clarified. "The way you are with her."
Bucky's hands stilled on the laces. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he sighed and sat back.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I noticed."
Steve nodded, pushing off the dresser to sit beside him on the bed. "You want to talk about it?"
"There’s nothing to talk about," Bucky said, but there wasn't any conviction behind it. "I'm not gonna- I wouldn't do anything, Steve. You know that."
"I know." Steve's hand found Bucky's knee, squeezing it gently. "I'm not worried about that, punk."
Bucky finally looked at him, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. "Then what are we talking about?"
Steve took a breath, choosing his words carefully. "I've been watching you two. The way she takes care of you. Makes you laugh. That thing you do where you get all soft." He smiled slightly. "It's different than what we have. Not better or worse, just... different."
"Steve-"
"Let me finish," Steve said gently. "I like seeing you like that. And I'll be honest, Buck, the idea of you with her doesn't bother me. Actually, it's kind of the opposite."
Bucky stared at him. "The opposite."
"Yeah." Steve's thumb traced small circles on Bucky's knee. "I keep thinking about what it would be like. Seeing you with her. Seeing you be the one who takes control for once instead of always letting me do it."
The air between them thickened with understanding.
"Damn, Stevie," Bucky breathed.
"I'm not saying we have to do anything about it," Steve continued. "But if you're interested, and if she's interested... I wouldn't mind finding out what that looks like. Together."
Bucky was quiet for a long moment, processing the information. Then, almost reluctantly-
"I have thought about it. About her. More than I probably should."
"So we talk to her," Steve said simply. "See what she thinks. With no pressure, no expectations."
Bucky looked at him, studying his face for any sign of doubt or jealousy. Instead, he found nothing but sincerity and something that looked a lot like anticipation.
"Alright," he said finally. "We talk to her."
----
It happened two nights later, after dinner.
She was on the far end of the couch, book in hand, when Steve and Bucky emerged from their bedroom with expressions that made her immediately set the book aside.
"Okay, that's either very good news or very bad news," she said, thinking about the extended period of her presence at their home. "Should I… be worried?"
"No!" Steve said quickly, settling into the armchair across from her while Bucky sat on the opposite end of the couch. "No, nothing bad. We just wanted to talk to you about something."
Her eyes flicked between them. "Alright..."
Steve glanced at Bucky, who took a breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"We've been noticing something," Bucky started. "Between us. You and me. The way we are together."
Her heart kicked up in her chest. "Oh."
"And Steve and I have talked about it," Bucky continued. "About whether there might be something more there. And whether that's something you'd even be interested in."
She blinked, parsing through the careful phrasing. "You're asking if I'm attracted to you."
"Partly," Steve interjected. "But also whether you'd be interested in exploring that. With both of us."
The silence after that stretched.
"Both of you," she repeated slowly. “As if, at the same time-”
"No pressure," Bucky added quickly. "If… if you think this is weird or unwanted, we drop it right now and pretend this never happened. But if there's any part of you that's curious..."
She looked between them, these two men who'd become such important parts of her life. Steve, thoughtful and kind. Bucky, so tender when he let himself be, one of her confidants.
She exhaled slowly and looked at him. "I'm attracted to you," she admitted. "I have been for a while. I just… never let myself think about it because you two are my friends, and together, and I respect that too much to-"
"We know," Steve said gently. "That's part of why we're asking. Because we trust you. And because this doesn't threaten what Bucky and I have. If anything, it adds to it."
She took a shaky breath, letting herself look properly at Steve. It wasn't like she'd been blind to how attractive he was. Hard to miss, honestly. She'd just been so focused on not letting herself think about Bucky that way, that she'd never let herself acknowledge the small flutter she got when Steve smiled at her, or the way her stomach dipped when he'd rest a hand on her shoulder in passing.
"You've really thought about this," she said finally.
"We have," Bucky confirmed.
She looked down at her hands, then back up at them. "And if I said yes? What would that look like?"
"However you want it to," Steve said. "This is about all of us wanting this. All of us being comfortable."
She was quiet for a long moment, her heart racing. Then, softly, "I want to say yes."
Bucky's breath caught audibly.
"But I need to know this isn't going to make things weird after," she continued. "I need to know we're all on the same page, because I love you guys, I would never jeopardize a friendship over-"
"We are," Steve assured her. "And if at any point it doesn't feel right, we stop. Any of us can call it off, no questions asked."
She nodded slowly, meeting Bucky's eyes across the couch, and saw it in his stare; he wanted it.
"Okay," she whispered. "Yes."
----
They ended up in Steve and Bucky's bedroom because it felt more intentional than the poor couch, and more private than her temporary room down the hall. Steve sat on the edge of the bed first, and when she hesitated in the doorway, Bucky's hand found the small of her back, guiding her forward gently.
"You're sure?" he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear.
"I'm sure," she said, and meant it.
Steve reached out, closing his fingers around her wrist, tugging her closer until she stood between his knees. His hands settled on her hips as he started to stroke gentle circles with his thumbs through the fabric of her shirt.
"We'll take care of you," he promised, looking up at her with those impossibly blue eyes.
Then Bucky was behind her, solid and warm, joining Steve's hands on her waist. She felt surrounded in the best possible way, caught between them as Steve leaned forward to press a kiss just above her navel, Bucky's lips finding the curve of her neck.
It escalated slowly, carefully. Hands learning new territory, mouths exploring skin. Steve undressed her with deliberate attention, pausing as if asking permission before lifting her t-shirt over her head. His eyes tracked over her with an intensity that made her feel seen in an almost overwhelming way.
"Damn," he breathed, sliding his palms up her sides, brushing the underside of her breasts through her bra with his thumbs. "It's been a while since..."
"Since we've done this with a woman," Bucky finished, kneeling on the bed beside them. His metal hand joined Steve's, metal fingers cool as they traced her collarbone. "You're so soft, doll."
There was wonder in his voice, in the way both of them touched her like they were memorizing texture and warmth and the catch of her breath when Steve's thumb found her nipple through the fabric.
Steve unhooked her bra surprisingly fast but removed it slowly, watching her face. When her breasts were finally bared before them, both men went still for a moment, just looking at her.
"You're beautiful," Steve said simply.
Bucky made a low sound of agreement, leaning in to press his mouth to her shoulder, then her collarbone, trailing kisses down until he could take one nipple into his mouth. The sensation made her gasp, arching into the touch, and Steve's hand cupped her other breast, learning its weight, the way she responded when he rolled her nipple between his fingers before latching his mouth to it, mimicking Bucky’s hungry suckles. She moaned, hands flying to both of her heads in response to the double assault.
They took their time, exploring her body with hands and mouths, Steve kissing her deeply while Bucky mapped her waist and her hips.
When Steve's fingers hooked into the waistband of her pants, he looked up at her, eyes dark but questioning.
"Yes," she breathed, and he smiled. That rare, genuine smile that transformed his whole face.
He removed her pants and underwear together, sliding them down her legs, and then she was completely bare between them while they were still mostly clothed. Her pussy was gleaming and exposed, so wet with anticipation already.
"Your turn," she managed, squirming a little.
They undressed quickly then, and when they were all finally skin to skin, she felt surrounded by warmth and muscle and want. Steve's hands were in her hair, angling her head for deeper kisses, while Bucky's palm slid up her inner thigh, teasing but not quite touching where she needed him most.
"Please," she whimpered against Steve's mouth.
"We've got you," Steve murmured, and then Bucky's fingers were finally there, sliding through her wetness, circling her clit but still not giving her what she really wanted, building tension until she ground against his hand with a whimper.
"Bed," Steve murmured eventually, and she let them guide her backward until she was lying against the pillows, Steve beside her, Bucky kneeling between her legs.
He looked different like this. More confident, more commanding than she'd ever seen him. His hands slid up her thighs, spreading them wider, and the heat in his eyes made her pussy clench with anticipation.
"Tell me what you want," he said, voice low and rough.
"You," she managed. "Both of you."
Steve's hand cupped her face, turning her toward him for a kiss that was deep and consuming. His other hand traced down her body, slipping his fingers between her legs to massage her clit, already throbbing from Bucky’s attention, and then slid a finger inside her wetness, making her moan and spread her thighs wider.
"Fuck," Bucky breathed, watching.
"Steve, she's-"
"I know, I’m touching her, Buck," Steve murmured against her mouth, smiling. His fingers worked her slowly, thoroughly, building pressure until she was squirming against the sheets.
When he finally pulled his hand away, she whimpered at the loss, but then Bucky was there, positioning his hard cock between her thighs, rubbing its head over her wetness, coating it with her slick.
"Ready?" he asked, pressing the head against her entrance tentatively, and she nodded frantically.
He pushed in slowly, carefully, and the first stretch made her gasp. Steve's hand was immediately there, on her hip, steadying her as Bucky sank deeper, filling every inch of her.
"That's it," Steve murmured, his voice rough with arousal. "Look at you taking him so well."
Bucky bottomed out with a choked sound, somewhere between a groan and a gasp. "Fuck, I-"
He went completely still, every muscle in his body tense, dropping his forehead to her shoulder as he breathed hard against her skin. It had been so long since he'd felt anything like this, tight and wet and warm around him. This was overwhelming in a completely different way from the dynamic he and Steve had, and he could feel his control fraying at the edges, dangerously close to finishing right there.
"Bucky?" she asked softly, reaching to touch his stubbled face. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I just-" He huffed out a laugh, embarrassed, feeling heat creep up his neck. "Need a second. You feel incredible, and I don't want this to be over before it starts."
Steve's hand moved to Bucky's thigh, squeezing reassuringly, understanding in the gesture.
She lifted her head slightly, stretching up to press a kiss to Bucky's jaw. "Take your time," she whispered. "But when you're ready... please move."
Bucky took a shaky breath, then another, forcing himself to regain some composure. "Okay," he murmured against her shoulder. "Okay, I've got it."
He pulled back slowly, then pushed back in, and the sensation was still almost too much, but he gritted his teeth and found a rhythm, focusing on her soft sounds and Steve's encouraging touch.
The rhythm built up quickly, as his hips snapped forward with increasing intensity. She reached for Steve blindly and found him already hard and dripping, wrapping her hand around him, stroking in time with Bucky's thrusts, and Steve's groan was deeply satisfying.
"Wait," Steve said roughly, his hand catching her wrist. "I want-" He looked at Bucky. "Pull out for a second."
Bucky did, both of them making sounds of protest at the loss, but Steve was already moving. He shifted to sit behind her, back against the headboard, and pulled her up and back against his chest so she was half-reclined between his spread legs. From this new angle, his cock was pressed against her lower back, trapped between their bodies, and when she shifted slightly, the friction made him groan.
"There," Steve breathed, his hands sliding around to grip her thighs, spreading them wide and holding them open. "Buck, come here."
Bucky moved between her spread legs again, positioning himself, and when he pushed back inside her, the angle was completely different, deeper, more intense. Steve's cock was dripping and throbbing, pinned against her back, getting friction as he watched his boyfriend mount her with escalating force.
"God, Buck," Steve breathed, watching over her shoulder. "You look so good like this."
Bucky's eyes flicked up, meeting Steve's gaze, and something passed between them that made her feel like she was part of something bigger, something profound.
Steve's hand drifted lower, finding her clit and circling with precision, the other teasing and rolling a nipple between his fingers. The dual stimulation -Bucky splitting her open, Steve's fingers working their magic, and his voice in her ear- was overwhelming in the best way.
"I wanna taste you, sweetheart," Steve murmured against her neck after a moment. "Can I?"
She nodded, breathless, and Steve let out a soft laugh.
"Buck," he said, almost apologetic. "You're gonna have to pull out again."
Bucky's head snapped up, giving Steve a look that was half-exasperated, half-amused. He didn’t even have to voice the "Really?"
"Really," Steve confirmed, biting his lip. He looked at her. "Hands and knees for me, sweetheart?"
She blinked, not entirely sure what he was planning, but trusted him enough to comply. Bucky pulled out with a frustrated groan, and she shifted into position, looking at Steve with confusion.
He had a pleased smile on his face as he looked at Bucky and gestured vaguely. "Sorry, Buck. You can keep going."
Bucky shook his head but couldn't hide half a smile as he moved behind her again, gripping her hips and pushing inside her with a groan. Steve slid underneath her body then, flat on his back, until his face was directly beneath where she and Bucky were joined.
The first touch of his tongue against her clit while Bucky filled her from behind made her cry out, arms nearly buckling.
Bucky's metal hand slid up her back, fisting her hair softly, steadying her, keeping her in place as Steve worked her with his mouth and he drove into her relentlessly.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," Bucky groaned, his voice strained. "So perfect."
Steve hummed in agreement, the vibration against her heated skin adding to the sensory overload. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady above him as his tongue did devastating things to her pussy and Bucky’s shaft. She could see him from this angle, the way his other hand had wrapped around his own cock, stroking it while he watched Bucky take her, while he tasted her.
"God, Buck," Steve breathed between licks, voice rough with arousal. "You have no idea how good you look like this. So fucking hot watching you take control."
Bucky's rhythm faltered for a second, a groan escaping his throat at Steve's words. His grip on her hips became bruising, metal fingers digging in as he thrust harder, deeper.
"Keep talking," Bucky rasped, and Steve obliged.
"Love seeing you like this," he continued, moving his own hand faster on himself. "Love watching you take her, how your fat cock is stretching this pussy. You're so good at this, baby. So good."
She could feel the orgasm building. It was everything at once: Bucky's cock driving into her deliciously with that perfect angle and rhythm, Steve's mouth suckling and licking her clit with devastating thoroughness, the rumble of Steve's voice vibrating against her sensitive flesh as he praised Bucky, the weight of Bucky's hands on her as he fucked her.
She'd never experienced anything like this. Every nerve ending felt like it was firing, her whole body wound tight with pleasure that just kept building and building.
And underneath it all was something else, something that made her feel electric. The knowledge that she was part of some dynamic she was only beginning to understand. The way Steve encouraged Bucky, the way Bucky responded to Steve's words, the way they both seemed to get off on her pleasure as much as their own.
The thought of giving Steve what he wanted to see in Bucky, of giving Bucky this chance to be in control, was almost as overwhelming as the physical sensations they were making her feel.
"I'm close," she gasped, barely able to form words. "I'm so close-"
Hearing that, knowing he was the one doing this to her, sent a surge of heat through Bucky's veins. He wasn’t chasing his own release at someone else's pace; he was the one driving.
His grip on her hips became tighter, metal fingers digging in as he drove into her harder, deeper, chasing her orgasm with single-minded determination.
"Let go, doll," Bucky commanded, “C- cream my fucking cock.”
And the authority in his tone was what pushed her over the edge.
She came hard, clenching around Bucky as waves of pleasure made her pulse and squirm. Steve didn't let up, drawing out her orgasm until she was shaking, and Bucky followed moments later with a hoarse shout, his hips stuttering as he spilled his cock inside her.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but white noise, pleasure and aftershocks, and the feeling of being completely wrung out. Bucky pulled out of her with a hiss, both of them sensitive and trembling, and it took her a moment to remember where she was, who she was.
Then she remembered Steve.
Steve, who was still beneath her, still hard and aching, who'd been patient and giving and had orchestrated this whole thing.
She shifted, looking down at him, and found him watching them both with dark, hungry eyes, his cock visibly straining.
"Your turn," she said, voice rough but determined.
Bucky moved first, helping her shift off of Steve so he could sit up. "Come on," Bucky murmured, guiding Steve to sit with his back against the headboard. "Let us take care of you."
Steve went willingly, looking almost dazed as Bucky leaned in to kiss him, deep and filthy and grateful. She watched for a moment, catching her breath, before moving to kneel between his legs.
"You know," she said, trailing her fingers up his thighs, "you're pretty incredible."
Steve broke the kiss with Bucky to look down at her, confused. "What?"
"This," she gestured vaguely between the three of them. "Was your idea. You made this happen. And then you just... supported us the whole time. Made sure we were both good."
"And, you deserve the best for that," Bucky added, sliding his hand down Steve's chest possessively. "So just sit back and let us make you feel good."
Before he could protest, she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
Steve's reaction was immediate, his head falling back against the headboard with a choked moan, one hand flying to fist her hair. Bucky's mouth found Steve's neck, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin while his hand joined hers, wrapping around the base of Steve's cock where her mouth couldn't reach.
She worked him with lips and tongue, taking him as deep as she could, while Bucky's metal fingers fisted her hair alongside Steve's hand, not pushing but just... present. Connected.
"Fuck," Steve gasped, his voice breaking. "You two are- I can't-"
"You can," Bucky murmured against his jaw. "You've been so good, Stevie. So patient. Let us make you feel good."
She hummed in agreement around him, the vibration making Steve's hips jerk up. His fist tightened in her hair -not painful, just desperate- and she could feel how close he was, could taste it.
Bucky seemed to sense it, too. His hand moved from Steve's cock to cup his heavy balls instead, rolling them gently while she focused on the head, swirling her tongue and sucking.
"That's it," Bucky encouraged, his voice low and intimate. "Let go for us."
Steve came with a broken sound, spilling into her mouth. She swallowed what she could, pulling back slowly as Bucky's hand gentled on Steve, working him through the aftershocks.
Once the throbbing eased, Bucky leaned down, and she watched -transfixed- as he licked a slow stripe up Steve's softening cock, cleaning up what she'd missed and then some. Steve let out a sharp, choked gasp of hypersensitive pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut but not pushing him away.
It was possibly the hottest thing she'd ever seen.
When Bucky was satisfied with his work, he licked his bottom lip and lifted his gaze to meet hers. Something dark and pleased flashed in his eyes before he leaned forward, cupping the back of her neck -slowly, carefully- with his metal hand and pulled her into a kiss. It was deep and filthy and claiming, and when Bucky finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
For a long moment, there was only breathing -harsh and uneven- as they all came down from their respective highs. She sat back on her heels, still kneeling between Steve's legs, feeling wrung out and sated in the best possible way.
Steve's hand reached up, cupping her face gently, brushing her swollen lower lip with his thumb. "Come here," he said softly.
She moved up the bed, settling between them as they shifted to lie down properly. Steve's arm came around her waist, pulling her close, while Bucky pressed against her other side, kissing her shoulder as his arm draped over her to rest on Steve's hip. She found herself bracketed between them, wrapped in warmth and the lingering scent of sex and sweat.
"You okay?" Steve asked softly, brushing damp hair back from her face with his free hand.
"So okay," she managed, voice completely wrecked. "That was..."
"Yeah," Bucky agreed, nuzzling into the curve of her neck.
They lay there in the quiet aftermath, skin cooling, their hearts gradually slowing. She felt Bucky's breath even out against her shoulder, and the weight of Steve's hand on her hip, warm and real.
"Stay tonight, doll" Bucky murmured against her skin. "Don't go back to the guest room."
She should probably think about boundaries, about what this meant for the morning and the days after. But wrapped up between them, warm and safe and satisfied, all she could do was nod.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll stay." Bucky's lips brushed her shoulder again, a soft acknowledgment. Steve's thumb traced idle circles on her skin.
And for the first time since the fire had disrupted her life, she felt like maybe being displaced wasn't such a bad thing after all.
Summary: He played the game to the letter, and she quickly learned the rules.
note: Day ten of Kinktober 2025. The prompt was CnC (consensual non-con).
Word count: 2.2k
Kinktober Masterlist
The street was dark and quiet. The sound of her friend's heels still echoed on the sidewalk as she approached her own building entrance. A prickle of adrenaline ran down her back. She felt watched. She knew that she was.
Her fingers shook as she pulled out the key to her apartment. The first attempt missed the lock; the second scraped against the metal teeth. On the third try, the key slipped entirely, the keychain clattering to the ground with a sharp, metallic clink.
She cursed softly and bent down. As her fingers brushed the cold metal, she felt a shadow loom over her.
Her body tensed instinctively, breath caught in her throat.
The mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving his eyes exposed. Cold, blue, and piercing. Familiar, yet transformed into something deadly.
She tried to take a step back, to recoil, he gave her no time.
With a swift movement, he trapped her body. His heavy, warm frame pressed her against the wooden door, immobilizing her completely. The difference in strength was absolute; there was no doubt about who had the upper hand here.
His gloved hand didn’t touch her; it moved instead to the lock she had failed to open. With one fluid motion, the deadbolt clicked. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, forcing them both into the darkness of her apartment foyer.
A metal arm slid around her waist, not as an intimate touch, but as a transport restraint, forcing her to move with him as he kicked the door shut behind them.
The Soldat had made his claim.
----
He didn’t waste a second in the dark foyer. The sound of the door closing behind them echoed like a gunshot before his next movement.
Before she could process it, he spun her around, pressing her cheek against the rough wood grain. Both her wrists were captured in one hand, pinned at the small of her back, and her body arched slightly, pressed flush against him, completely restrained.
“Let me go.” The words came breathless, a barely audible gasp. “You- you’ve got the wrong person.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t loosen his grip. The silence stretched, broken only by the rasp of their breathing. She felt his mask close to her ear, the cold tactical fabric stark against the heat radiating from his body.
“Please,” she tried again, voice trembling with panic. “I don’t-”
"Тихо" -quiet-, he commanded. The sound was rough, flat, and absolute, instantly extinguishing the last of her resistance.
Before she could reply, he shifted and released her wrists, just long enough to pull a plastic zip tie from a pocket, then bent her hands back into a smooth arc and cinched the tie tight.
His hands left her arms, only to resume the next phase. He pressed her against the door with the weight of his thick thigh and shoulder, immobilizing her again, while the search began.
It started cold and mechanical. His gloved hand swept from the top of her back down the length of her dress. But the pretense of professionalism crumbled quickly. What was meant to be a search for a weapon or a flash drive became something more possessive, more intimate.
He explored the curve of her side, digging his fingers into the fabric above her waist. He pressed her closer, letting the solid weight of the metal arm press against her hip while the other one swept upward, testing the curve of her breast.
Then, one hand ran up her outer thigh over the material of the dress, as the other slid to the juncture of her legs, pressing hard into her heat. She let out a choked sound, arching her body involuntarily against his.
A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest, "Бинго" -bingo-, he murmured, the flat, pleased sound vibrating against the side of her face. The Soldat had found what he was looking for: not a secret file per se, but the secret hunger hidden by her drenched underwear.
When he pressed his thumb on her clothed clit, her reaction was immediate. She squirmed and twisted, arching her back and pressing her rear against the front of his tactical pants, grinding herself against the massive, undeniable erection he had been desperately trying to contain.
For a heartbeat, she let herself forget the rules, the pretense. The sensation was too sharp, too immediate, too delicious.
“Oh… such a long gun you have there, Soldat,” she murmured, teasing, a hint of mischief threading through the breathless words.
Instantly, a sharp smack landed across her ass, the sound echoing against the door. The sting yanked her back into the role. She bit her lip, a soft moan escaping anyway, and pressed herself back against his groin, deliberately yielding, her body both punished and rewarded in the same motion.
The Soldat took in the surrender. The control was his again; the brief flicker of playful defiance had been extinguished. For one punishing, grinding moment, his erection pressed insistently against her rear, asserting dominance, cementing her submission. Then he moved.
He pulled her abruptly away from the door. His right arm released its pressure, but the metal one locked instantly around her waist, unyielding, hauling her forward through the apartment like a trained operative moving a target.
The layout of the space was irrelevant; his focus was absolute, the mission singular. With a calculated press of his thigh against her hip, he nudged her forward. She stumbled just enough to feel the weight of his body guiding her, his arm constraining her movements, forcing her into the path he intended.
Her knees bumped the edge of a large sofa. Before she could brace herself, he shoved her down, and she fell hard, the zip-tied hands at her back leaving her defenseless, landing with a muffled, startled cry. Her rear rose prominently against the armrest, a clear invitation in the dim room.
He loomed over her, tactical black, steel and muscle, silent and inexorable. The mask obscured everything but the cold, unreadable blue of his eyes, catching the faint light.
He didn't speak. He took one heavy step, positioning directly behind her, clamping his metal fingers onto the smooth, dark fabric of her dress. He then hauled the material up her hips and lower back, exposing her thighs, and the damp, slick linen of her undergarments in the harsh shadow.
His metal fingers traced the soaked fabric, making her squirm. "Please, you don’t have to do this, I’ll give you whatever you want-"
The sound of ripping fabric cut off her words sharply.
The Soldat didn't ask or warn. Simply twisted his metal fingers, pulling the wet, thin panties clean away from her body. He crumpled the ruined fabric into a tight ball and pressed it against her mouth. The instruction was clear and absolute.
Her eyes widened, but the moment of defiance was over. She parted her lips and let him stuff the cloth inside, gagging herself with her own submission.
He held the makeshift gag in place with his thumb against her chin, tilting her head back to look at him. His voice, when it came, was a low, chilling whisper.
"What I want," he stated, the words simple and cold, "is for you to be quiet."
His face was inches from hers, and in one fluid, unexpected motion, he reached up and unfastened the top clasps of the mask. The tactical fabric fell away, clattering softly onto the floorboards.
He lowered himself to his knees behind her, filling the space between her thighs with his large frame, and used the pads of his thumbs to spread open her lower lips, exposing her completely to his heated gaze. The rush of cold air and the raw, absolute exposure of the position made her squirm, a muffled sound of shame and escaping around the gag.
He instantly halted the movement and landed a sharp, stinging smack across her wet folds. The quick, shocking slap pulled a surprised gasp from her stuffed mouth, startling her into absolute stillness.
"Тише" -still-, he commanded.
The first touch of his tongue was hot, wet, and relentlessly precise: a direct line from her throbbing clit up her slick, exposed entrance. Before she could fully process the sensation, he dove in, shoving his tongue deep inside her without preamble or hesitation, swirling and thrusting obscenely, lapping her sensitive inner walls, only to apply two hard sucks on her clit and come back to fuck her with his tongue, until her muffled pleas, trapped behind the linen gag, turned into raw, pornographic sounds.
When he felt the initial tremors run through her body, and her inner walls began to clench around his tongue, he withdrew immediately with a final, deep suckle on her clit. The sudden loss of pressure ripped a strained groan of protest from her throat.
He clicked his tongue -a sharp, disappointed sound- and then stood up, popping the button of his fly, and released his aching cock, hissing when the cool air touched his heated skin.
He dropped his chest heavily against her back, fisting her hair, and then, he guided the heavy, slick head of his shaft to press hard against her exposed entrance. Holding her with the sharp tug on her hair, he didn't wait. In one deliberate thrust, he sank himself fully inside her wet heat.
The massive, unrelenting stretch forced a strangled, shocked cry from her lips past the gag.
He didn’t give her time to accommodate his girth before withdrawing until just the head remained inside her, and then he drove back in, bottoming to the hilt once more. The force of his thrusts shook her like a rag doll as his hips slapped against her upturned ass with a brutal, relentless pace.
She could only take it, her hands tugging uselessly at the restraints as he ravaged her, the coach creaking in protest as he fuck her without care.
“Take it”, he commanded, his voice a low, husky snarl. “This is what you wanted, Solnishko. A fucking predator, and you got it.” his hand on her hair tugged harder, not enough to hurt but to make a point.
She whined through the gag, unshed tears prickling on the corner of her eyes as his cock dragged deliciously against her walls, over and over, hard and fast, nothing like he usually-
“You liked my long gun, uh? Now. Take. It.” he snarled, punctuating every last word with a harder thrust that made her see stars. “Oh, you don’t get to cum, after you almost ruined all.” He warned when he felt her walls clenching around him, going completely still, nipping at her shoulder.
When he was sure she wasn’t going to get what she wanted, he resumed his pace, frantic, claiming, unrelenting. He felt the telltale of his climax at the base of his spine, his balls tightening, preparing for the impending release, so he spread one of her thighs open with his free hand to reach deeper, his thrusts becoming a savage assault now.
Her startled moans just spurred him on, letting himself go until he finally came, hips jerking erratically, grinding against her rear as he poured every last drop of cum inside her.
For a long moment, nothing existed but the sound of his breath, harsh, uneven, almost mechanical against the shell of her ear. His body was still pressed on top of hers, every muscle trembling with the aftermath of tension released too fast.
When he finally moved, it was slowly. His metal hand shifted first, loosening its grip from her thigh; the sound of the prosthetic’s servos whirred softly as he did. Then, he let go of her hair. The act, the persona, was receding.
She remained folded over the armrest, pulse racing, the cool air already blowing the trails of cum dripping down her thighs. Her wrists still bound, she could only turn her head slightly, enough to glimpse him standing behind her, head bowed, hands resting on his knees.
The gloved fingers that had held her still moments ago traced a light line on the inside of her thigh, almost tenderly. Then, with a swift movement, he tore the plastic restraints with a finger.
Her hands dropped to her sides, wrists still tingling from the bite of plastic. She pushed herself up on shaky arms, hair sticking to her damp neck, and took off the panties off her mouth. Then turned to him slowly, breath still uneven. “You didn’t let me finish,” she complained, with a trace of accusation. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
He threaded a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling as if his body hadn’t yet caught up with the end of the ordeal. “The plan,” he said finally, signaling at his attire, “was your idea.”
She lifted a brow. “Sure. But you didn’t have to be such an ass about it.”
He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “A victim,” he said, stepping close enough that his body heat brushed hers, “doesn’t compliment her assaulter’s cock.”
“So now it’s my fault?”
He hesitated, and his gloved fingers came up, tracing the faint line the plastic tie had left around her wrist, slow and careful, almost an apology without words.
“Maybe I took it too far,” he said quietly. “Got lost in it.”
She let out a small sound -not quite forgiveness- and lifted her hand to touch his jaw, brushing against the stubble at his cheek.
“Next time,” she murmured, “you’ll make it up to me.”
His voice came out rough, a laugh ghosting through the words.
“Next time, sweetheart. Maybe don’t try seducing your captor.”
Summary: He played the game to the letter, and she quickly learned the rules.
note: Day ten of Kinktober 2025. The prompt was CnC (consensual non-con).
Word count: 2.2k
Kinktober Masterlist
The street was dark and quiet. The sound of her friend's heels still echoed on the sidewalk as she approached her own building entrance. A prickle of adrenaline ran down her back. She felt watched. She knew that she was.
Her fingers shook as she pulled out the key to her apartment. The first attempt missed the lock; the second scraped against the metal teeth. On the third try, the key slipped entirely, the keychain clattering to the ground with a sharp, metallic clink.
She cursed softly and bent down. As her fingers brushed the cold metal, she felt a shadow loom over her.
Her body tensed instinctively, breath caught in her throat.
The mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving his eyes exposed. Cold, blue, and piercing. Familiar, yet transformed into something deadly.
She tried to take a step back, to recoil, he gave her no time.
With a swift movement, he trapped her body. His heavy, warm frame pressed her against the wooden door, immobilizing her completely. The difference in strength was absolute; there was no doubt about who had the upper hand here.
His gloved hand didn’t touch her; it moved instead to the lock she had failed to open. With one fluid motion, the deadbolt clicked. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, forcing them both into the darkness of her apartment foyer.
A metal arm slid around her waist, not as an intimate touch, but as a transport restraint, forcing her to move with him as he kicked the door shut behind them.
The Soldat had made his claim.
----
He didn’t waste a second in the dark foyer. The sound of the door closing behind them echoed like a gunshot before his next movement.
Before she could process it, he spun her around, pressing her cheek against the rough wood grain. Both her wrists were captured in one hand, pinned at the small of her back, and her body arched slightly, pressed flush against him, completely restrained.
“Let me go.” The words came breathless, a barely audible gasp. “You- you’ve got the wrong person.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t loosen his grip. The silence stretched, broken only by the rasp of their breathing. She felt his mask close to her ear, the cold tactical fabric stark against the heat radiating from his body.
“Please,” she tried again, voice trembling with panic. “I don’t-”
"Тихо" -quiet-, he commanded. The sound was rough, flat, and absolute, instantly extinguishing the last of her resistance.
Before she could reply, he shifted and released her wrists, just long enough to pull a plastic zip tie from a pocket, then bent her hands back into a smooth arc and cinched the tie tight.
His hands left her arms, only to resume the next phase. He pressed her against the door with the weight of his thick thigh and shoulder, immobilizing her again, while the search began.
It started cold and mechanical. His gloved hand swept from the top of her back down the length of her dress. But the pretense of professionalism crumbled quickly. What was meant to be a search for a weapon or a flash drive became something more possessive, more intimate.
He explored the curve of her side, digging his fingers into the fabric above her waist. He pressed her closer, letting the solid weight of the metal arm press against her hip while the other one swept upward, testing the curve of her breast.
Then, one hand ran up her outer thigh over the material of the dress, as the other slid to the juncture of her legs, pressing hard into her heat. She let out a choked sound, arching her body involuntarily against his.
A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest, "Бинго" -bingo-, he murmured, the flat, pleased sound vibrating against the side of her face. The Soldat had found what he was looking for: not a secret file per se, but the secret hunger hidden by her drenched underwear.
When he pressed his thumb on her clothed clit, her reaction was immediate. She squirmed and twisted, arching her back and pressing her rear against the front of his tactical pants, grinding herself against the massive, undeniable erection he had been desperately trying to contain.
For a heartbeat, she let herself forget the rules, the pretense. The sensation was too sharp, too immediate, too delicious.
“Oh… such a long gun you have there, Soldat,” she murmured, teasing, a hint of mischief threading through the breathless words.
Instantly, a sharp smack landed across her ass, the sound echoing against the door. The sting yanked her back into the role. She bit her lip, a soft moan escaping anyway, and pressed herself back against his groin, deliberately yielding, her body both punished and rewarded in the same motion.
The Soldat took in the surrender. The control was his again; the brief flicker of playful defiance had been extinguished. For one punishing, grinding moment, his erection pressed insistently against her rear, asserting dominance, cementing her submission. Then he moved.
He pulled her abruptly away from the door. His right arm released its pressure, but the metal one locked instantly around her waist, unyielding, hauling her forward through the apartment like a trained operative moving a target.
The layout of the space was irrelevant; his focus was absolute, the mission singular. With a calculated press of his thigh against her hip, he nudged her forward. She stumbled just enough to feel the weight of his body guiding her, his arm constraining her movements, forcing her into the path he intended.
Her knees bumped the edge of a large sofa. Before she could brace herself, he shoved her down, and she fell hard, the zip-tied hands at her back leaving her defenseless, landing with a muffled, startled cry. Her rear rose prominently against the armrest, a clear invitation in the dim room.
He loomed over her, tactical black, steel and muscle, silent and inexorable. The mask obscured everything but the cold, unreadable blue of his eyes, catching the faint light.
He didn't speak. He took one heavy step, positioning directly behind her, clamping his metal fingers onto the smooth, dark fabric of her dress. He then hauled the material up her hips and lower back, exposing her thighs, and the damp, slick linen of her undergarments in the harsh shadow.
His metal fingers traced the soaked fabric, making her squirm. "Please, you don’t have to do this, I’ll give you whatever you want-"
The sound of ripping fabric cut off her words sharply.
The Soldat didn't ask or warn. Simply twisted his metal fingers, pulling the wet, thin panties clean away from her body. He crumpled the ruined fabric into a tight ball and pressed it against her mouth. The instruction was clear and absolute.
Her eyes widened, but the moment of defiance was over. She parted her lips and let him stuff the cloth inside, gagging herself with her own submission.
He held the makeshift gag in place with his thumb against her chin, tilting her head back to look at him. His voice, when it came, was a low, chilling whisper.
"What I want," he stated, the words simple and cold, "is for you to be quiet."
His face was inches from hers, and in one fluid, unexpected motion, he reached up and unfastened the top clasps of the mask. The tactical fabric fell away, clattering softly onto the floorboards.
He lowered himself to his knees behind her, filling the space between her thighs with his large frame, and used the pads of his thumbs to spread open her lower lips, exposing her completely to his heated gaze. The rush of cold air and the raw, absolute exposure of the position made her squirm, a muffled sound of shame and escaping around the gag.
He instantly halted the movement and landed a sharp, stinging smack across her wet folds. The quick, shocking slap pulled a surprised gasp from her stuffed mouth, startling her into absolute stillness.
"Тише" -still-, he commanded.
The first touch of his tongue was hot, wet, and relentlessly precise: a direct line from her throbbing clit up her slick, exposed entrance. Before she could fully process the sensation, he dove in, shoving his tongue deep inside her without preamble or hesitation, swirling and thrusting obscenely, lapping her sensitive inner walls, only to apply two hard sucks on her clit and come back to fuck her with his tongue, until her muffled pleas, trapped behind the linen gag, turned into raw, pornographic sounds.
When he felt the initial tremors run through her body, and her inner walls began to clench around his tongue, he withdrew immediately with a final, deep suckle on her clit. The sudden loss of pressure ripped a strained groan of protest from her throat.
He clicked his tongue -a sharp, disappointed sound- and then stood up, popping the button of his fly, and released his aching cock, hissing when the cool air touched his heated skin.
He dropped his chest heavily against her back, fisting her hair, and then, he guided the heavy, slick head of his shaft to press hard against her exposed entrance. Holding her with the sharp tug on her hair, he didn't wait. In one deliberate thrust, he sank himself fully inside her wet heat.
The massive, unrelenting stretch forced a strangled, shocked cry from her lips past the gag.
He didn’t give her time to accommodate his girth before withdrawing until just the head remained inside her, and then he drove back in, bottoming to the hilt once more. The force of his thrusts shook her like a rag doll as his hips slapped against her upturned ass with a brutal, relentless pace.
She could only take it, her hands tugging uselessly at the restraints as he ravaged her, the coach creaking in protest as he fuck her without care.
“Take it”, he commanded, his voice a low, husky snarl. “This is what you wanted, Solnishko. A fucking predator, and you got it.” his hand on her hair tugged harder, not enough to hurt but to make a point.
She whined through the gag, unshed tears prickling on the corner of her eyes as his cock dragged deliciously against her walls, over and over, hard and fast, nothing like he usually-
“You liked my long gun, uh? Now. Take. It.” he snarled, punctuating every last word with a harder thrust that made her see stars. “Oh, you don’t get to cum, after you almost ruined all.” He warned when he felt her walls clenching around him, going completely still, nipping at her shoulder.
When he was sure she wasn’t going to get what she wanted, he resumed his pace, frantic, claiming, unrelenting. He felt the telltale of his climax at the base of his spine, his balls tightening, preparing for the impending release, so he spread one of her thighs open with his free hand to reach deeper, his thrusts becoming a savage assault now.
Her startled moans just spurred him on, letting himself go until he finally came, hips jerking erratically, grinding against her rear as he poured every last drop of cum inside her.
For a long moment, nothing existed but the sound of his breath, harsh, uneven, almost mechanical against the shell of her ear. His body was still pressed on top of hers, every muscle trembling with the aftermath of tension released too fast.
When he finally moved, it was slowly. His metal hand shifted first, loosening its grip from her thigh; the sound of the prosthetic’s servos whirred softly as he did. Then, he let go of her hair. The act, the persona, was receding.
She remained folded over the armrest, pulse racing, the cool air already blowing the trails of cum dripping down her thighs. Her wrists still bound, she could only turn her head slightly, enough to glimpse him standing behind her, head bowed, hands resting on his knees.
The gloved fingers that had held her still moments ago traced a light line on the inside of her thigh, almost tenderly. Then, with a swift movement, he tore the plastic restraints with a finger.
Her hands dropped to her sides, wrists still tingling from the bite of plastic. She pushed herself up on shaky arms, hair sticking to her damp neck, and took off the panties off her mouth. Then turned to him slowly, breath still uneven. “You didn’t let me finish,” she complained, with a trace of accusation. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
He threaded a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling as if his body hadn’t yet caught up with the end of the ordeal. “The plan,” he said finally, signaling at his attire, “was your idea.”
She lifted a brow. “Sure. But you didn’t have to be such an ass about it.”
He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “A victim,” he said, stepping close enough that his body heat brushed hers, “doesn’t compliment her assaulter’s cock.”
“So now it’s my fault?”
He hesitated, and his gloved fingers came up, tracing the faint line the plastic tie had left around her wrist, slow and careful, almost an apology without words.
“Maybe I took it too far,” he said quietly. “Got lost in it.”
She let out a small sound -not quite forgiveness- and lifted her hand to touch his jaw, brushing against the stubble at his cheek.
“Next time,” she murmured, “you’ll make it up to me.”
His voice came out rough, a laugh ghosting through the words.
“Next time, sweetheart. Maybe don’t try seducing your captor.”
Summary: Bucky comes back from a mission and gets a full service.
note: Day seventeen of Kinktober 2025. The prompt was Service Kink.
Word count: 1.2k
Kinktober Masterlist
Bucky woke to the smell of coffee and something sweet, pancakes, maybe. For a second, his body tensed, and the instinct to assess threats kicked in before his brain caught up where he was. Then he remembered: home. Her.
He sat up slowly and his shoulders protested. The mission had been a shitshow, three days in Eastern Europe tracking down remnants of a HYDRA cell that should've been dead and buried decades ago. The irony wasn't lost on him. The government mandated therapy, check-ins, a laundry list of requirements to keep him out of a cell, but they had no problem sending him right back into the field when it suited them. And now, he has to crawl out of bed because of course, they want a fucking debrief first thing in the morning.
He pulled on sweatpants and shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep.
She was at the stove, her back to him, wearing one of his t-shirts, humming something under her breath. The table was already set: pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, orange juice, coffee. It looked like something out of a magazine. It looked like way too much effort for six in the morning.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said, his voice rough with sleep.
She turned, and her whole face lit up like he'd just brought her the sun. "Hi honey, I was starting to think I'd have to come drag you out of bed." She set down the spatula and met him halfway across the kitchen.
He pulled her into his arms, cupping the back of her head with one hand as he pressed his forehead to hers. "Missed you," he murmured, breathing her in.
"Missed you more." She pulled back just enough to brush her thumbs over his cheekbones as she studied him like she was cataloging every detail. "Are you okay? Any injuries I should know about?"
"Nothing serious. I'm fine now." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth, soft and unhurried. "Especially now."
She smiled against his lips. "Aren’t you a charmer, sarge. Now sit, please. eat before it gets cold. You must be starving."
He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he sat down and started eating. The pancakes were perfect, fluffy, with just the right amount of sweetness. He went through them like a man who didn't know when his next meal would be, which, old habits and all that.
She sat across from him with her own plate and her coffee, watching him with that soft expression that still made his chest clench even after a year together.
"Good?" she asked, propping her chin on her hand.
"Perfect." He reached across the table to lace his fingers with hers.
She squeezed his hand. "Flatterer."
"Just honest." He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, noticing the faint shadows under her eyes. "You didn't have to do all this, though. Could've slept in."
"I wanted to," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like taking care of you."
He finished the last of his coffee and started to stand, reaching for his plate and hers. "Let me at least help clean-"
The movement pulled something in his lower back, and he hissed through his teeth, freezing halfway out of his chair.
"Okay, that's it." she announced, her tone instantly shifting to a soft command. She was up and around the table before he could blink, pressing her hands gently but firmly on his shoulders, guiding him. "Living room. Now."
"I'm fine, it's just-"
"Bucky." She gave him that look, the one that said she wasn't budging. "Living room. Couch. Sit."
He knew better than to argue when she used that tone. She steered him toward the couch, and he went, feeling a little like a kid being sent to timeout. Except instead of punishment, she disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a bottle of oil he'd never seen before and a couple of towels.
"What's that?"
"Lavender and chamomile massage oil." She set everything down on the coffee table and turned to him with a satisfied smile. "I've been waiting to try it. Take your shirt off."
"Doll-" He caught her hand, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. He could see it now in the morning light, the exhaustion she was trying to hide. "You stayed up waiting for me last night, didn't you?"
She didn't deny it. "I dozed off around two."
"And then woke up at what, five? To make breakfast?" He tugged her closer gently, looking up at her. "You're tired. We should just... watch something. Or go back together to bed until I go."
"You don't want a massage?"
"I-" He ran his free hand through his hair. "You should rest. I'm fine."
"Your back just spasmed picking up a plate."
"It’s nothing."
She raised an eyebrow.
He sighed, trying a different angle. "Look, I just... you should be resting, not taking care of me."
"Bucky, you just came home from a mission. If it's not a problem for me, it shouldn't be a problem for you." She said it matter-of-factly, but there was something underneath, something that made him pause.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
He looked down at their joined hands. "Sometimes I feel like I'm taking advantage of you. Like I don't deserve-" He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the oil on the table, at her standing there looking at him like he hung the moon. "All this. Everything you do for me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she sank down onto the couch beside him, turning to face him fully. "Can I tell you something?"
"Always."
"Taking care of you makes me happy." She said it simply, no hesitation. "Like, genuinely happy. When I'm making you breakfast or doing your laundry or rubbing your shoulders after a long day, I feel good. Useful. Like I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing."
"But you shouldn't have to-"
"It's not about 'have to,' Buck." She squeezed his hand. "It's about want to. Need to, even." She paused, searching for the right words. "You've been through so much. More than anyone should ever have to go through. And I can't fix that, can't take it away, but I can do this. I can make sure you eat good food and sleep in clean sheets and come home to someone who gives a damn. And that feels right to me."
His throat felt tight. "I just don't want you to burn yourself out for me."
She lifted her hand and pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart. "Honey," she said, her voice dropping to a low, firm register, "if I didn't want to, you couldn't pay me to get up at five a.m. to make pancakes. Trust me when I tell you this is something I need to do. "Let me decide what's too much, okay?" She reached up, cupping his face the way she had in the kitchen. "If I'm tired, I'll rest. If I need help, I'll ask."
He studied her face, the honesty there, the softness, the stubborn glint in her eyes that told him she wasn't going to let this go.
He was quiet for a long moment, then he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. "Okay."
Her smile was brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifted on the couch, giving her access to his back. "Just... promise me if you get tired, you'll stop."
"Promise." She kissed his shoulder blade, soft and sweet. "Now relax. Let me take care of you."
She poured oil into her palms, warming it between her hands before placing them on his shoulders. The scent of lavender and chamomile filled the space between them, soft and calming.
"Jesus," he muttered as her thumbs dug into the knot at the base of his neck.
"Told you." Her voice was warm with affection. "You're so tense. When's the last time you actually relaxed?"
He didn't answer because he didn't have one. Instead, he let his head drop forward, giving her better access.
She worked methodically, finding every tight spot easily. Her hands were firm when they needed to be, gentler when they moved over the scars that webbed across his shoulder, the ones that still pulled sometimes, reminders of tables and laboratories and things he tried not to think about.
But then her touch changed. Her fingers traced along his spine, feather-light, no therapeutic purpose to it at all. Just touching him because she wanted to. Because she could.
His shoulders started to drop, the tension bleeding out of him inch by inch.
"There you go," she murmured, working down either side of his spine. "Just breathe."
He did. Slow and steady, letting himself sink into the feeling of having her hands on him, the care in every movement. When she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, just below his hairline, he moaned.
"You're too good to me," he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
"Nope. Just the right amount of good." Another kiss, this one at the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Then her hands were back to work, kneading the muscles along his shoulder blades.
"Lie down on your stomach. I want to get your lower back."
He shifted, stretching out on the couch with his arms folded under his head. The position left him vulnerable -face down, unable to see what was happening behind him- but he didn't feel that familiar spike of anxiety.
He trusted her. Completely.
She shifted, and he felt the couch dip as she straddled him, settling her weight on his ass. It wasn't strictly necessary for a massage -he knew that, she probably knew he knew that- but he wasn't about to say a damn word about it. Not when it felt this good.
Her hands pressed into his lower back, working out the knot that had made him hiss earlier. He groaned into his forearms.
"That's it," she said, her voice low and pleased. "Let it out."
She worked the muscle until it released, then her hands slid up his sides, tracing the lines of his ribs before coming back down. The oil made her touch slick and warm.
"You're so beautiful, you know that?" she murmured, her palms flat against his back, sliding up toward his shoulders.
Heat crept up his neck. "Stop."
"I'm serious." Her fingers traced the edge of a scar, then another. "Gorgeous. Every inch of you."
"You're biased."
"Mm, maybe." He could hear the smile in her voice. She leaned forward, pressing her body against his back as she worked his shoulders again from this new angle. Her breath was warm against his ear. "Doesn't make it less true."
He turned his face into his arm, hiding the flush he knew was spreading across his face. He didn't believe her, couldn't quite make himself believe that someone could look at him, at all his damage and scars, and see something worth that kind of softness.
But she did. And she kept saying it, kept touching him like he was something precious, and he let her. Let himself be vulnerable in a way that would've been unthinkable a year ago.
Her hands moved lower again, working down his spine with long, sure strokes. Then lower still, kneading the muscles just above his hips in a way that made him exhale hard.
"Feel good?" she asked, and there was something different in her voice now. Something warmer.
"Yeah," he managed. "Really good."
"Good." She pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, lingering. "You deserve to feel good."
Her hands moved lower, fingers digging into the muscles of his ass with the same thorough attention she'd given the rest of him.
"Really?" he said, but there was no heat in it. If anything, he sounded amused.
"What?" Her thumbs worked into a knot near his hip. "They're muscles too."
"Uh-huh."
"Very important muscles." She was definitely smiling now. "You want me to skip them? Do a half-assed job?"
He snorted into his arms. "Did you just-"
"I did." She sounded entirely too pleased with herself.
Her hands became completely possessive, cupping his firm buttocks with confident pressure. She squeezed the muscle, lifting his weight for an instant from the cushion, and then kneaded the area with the heel of her palm, searching for the deep line where the glute met his thigh.
Her total focus on that part of his body was too much, and he couldn't stop the small, involuntary grinding of his hips against the sofa, a muffled, desperate attempt to seek friction. "Fuck," he muttered, the word choked and strained in his forearms.
She finished with his glutes -because they were muscles, apparently- and then shifted her weight, moving down to sit beside his legs on the couch. Her hands slid down to his thighs, still slick with oil.
"Everything okay?" she asked, softer now.
"Yeah." His voice was muffled by his arms, relaxed in a way he couldn't remember being in... he didn't know how long. "More than okay."
"Good." Her hands worked down his right thigh, finding tension he hadn't even realized was there. Then back up, slow and deliberate. "Just keep relaxing. I've got you."
Once she’d taken care of the back of his legs, she gave his ass a soft, playful pat.
“Turn over,” she murmured.
He lifted his head, glancing back at her over his shoulder. There was something in her expression -something heated and intent- that made his cock twitch.
"Yeah?" His voice came out rougher than he meant.
"Yeah."
He rolled onto his back, suddenly very aware of how relaxed he'd gotten, how good he felt, how her touch had been both innocent and not for the past twenty minutes.
"Comfortable?" she asked.
"Very."
"Good." Her hands settled on his left calf, working the muscle there with the same care she'd given everything else. Then up to his knee, his thigh. The oil made her touch slick and warm, and he could feel his body responding, the relaxation shifting into something else entirely.
She worked her way up slowly, methodically, like she had all the time in the world. When her hands reached the top of his thigh, her fingers brushed against the inside, close enough to the edge of his sweatpants that his breath hitched.
Her eyes flicked up to his face, a small smile playing at her lips. "Still okay?"
"Yeah." It came out strained.
She switched to his right leg, starting back at the ankle and working her way up with the same maddening patience. Up his calf, over his knee, along his thigh. And then higher, her hand sliding up the inside of his leg until it wasn't his femoral muscle she was touching at all.
She didn't seem surprised to find him hard.
"Looks like you're feeling better," she murmured, pressing her palm against him through the fabric.
He exhaled hard, slightly lifting his hips into her touch before he could stop himself. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants. "Lift up a little more for me."
He did, and she pulled them down along with his boxers, freeing him. The cool air hit his flushed, throbbing skin for barely a second before her oil-slicked hand wrapped around him, warm and sure.
"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch.
"Just relax," she said, echoing her earlier words, but the context was entirely different now. "Let me take care of you."
Her hand moved in slow, firm strokes, with the pressure she knew he liked. She watched his face as she worked him, taking in every reaction, the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went shallow, the way his hand gripped the couch cushions like he needed something to hold onto.
"You're so pretty like this," she murmured. "All relaxed and letting me do whatever I want."
"Jesus-" He tried to form a coherent thought and failed. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true." Her thumb swept over the head of his cock, spreading the oil and precum, and he groaned. "I love seeing you like this. Knowing I'm the one making you feel good."
His metal hand came up to cover his face. He was flushed, she could see it spreading down his neck, across his chest.
"Don't hide," she said softly, her free hand catching his wrist and gently pulling it away. "I want to see you."
He lowered his hand slowly, meeting her eyes. The vulnerability there -the trust- made her chest tighten.
"That's it, babe," she said softly.
Before he could respond, she leaned down and replaced her hand with her mouth.
"Shit-" His whole body jerked, one hand flying to fist her hair. Not pushing, not pulling, touching her, to ground himself and sink in the reality of what she was doing.
It always threw him off balance, this. It wasn't something that happened much back in the '40s. A quick fumble in the dark, maybe, if a girl was feeling adventurous, but never like this. Never with this kind of deliberate attention, this absolute, focused service. Part of him still thought of it as something that lowered her somehow, put her in a position she shouldn't be in.
But his body didn't care about his outdated hang-ups. His body responded instantly to the wet heat of her mouth, the way her lips sealed precisely around the sensitive head of his cock, isolating the most responsive part.
"You don't have to-" he started, the words wrecked by a sound half-protest, half-plea.
She pulled off just long enough to look up at him, her oil-slicked hand still working him slowly and confidently. "I want to. Remember?" Her tongue traced along the underside of his glans, and his hips bucked, a desperate, involuntary motion. "This is for me too. My pleasure is serving you."
She knew exactly what he liked. A year together and she'd learned that he didn't need her to take him deep, didn't want that kind of performance. This, her mouth on just the tip, sucking and licking while her slick hands worked the rest of his shaft, undid him completely.
Because as much as his old-fashioned brain tried to tell him it degraded her, there was something about this that made it explicitly clear what was going to happen. She was going to drink everything he gave her until the last drop, and that knowledge alone made him almost cum at the second suckle. It wasn't just acceptance; it was a feeding, hungry lips working a fucking bottle. He felt his body clench, pulled by the forbidden thrill -the realization that his orgasm would be her final, greedy reward.
"Doll-" His voice was strained, his fingers tightening in her hair. "I'm not gonna last-"
She gave him a low, greedy hum of acknowledgment, right where it counted, but didn't pull away. If anything, her hands moved faster, her mouth sucked with more purpose, the wet sound of her nursing becoming the only thing Bucky could hear.
"You don't get to decide when it stops," she whispered against him, pulling back just enough to utter the command before going back to her ministrations.
That final, raw assertion of her control -the denial of his agency- was the breaking point. It was the absolute, forbidden thrill he had been fighting and yearning for. His body seized. With a ragged, guttural moan of defeat and pleasure that barely left his lips, his back arched violently off the couch. His shaft pulled violently in her hand and mouth, thick, hot, almost endless load down her throat.
But she wasn't done. Oh, hell no.
As the main spasms faded, and he slumped back, thinking it was over, she kept going. She took the last,humiliating bits of seed from his sensitive slit, making sure he was squeezed completely dry. Every last fucking drop.
His body arched violently against her mouth again, a final, unexpected tremor of pleasure.
He tried to speak, his voice thick and wrecked: "Damn, sweetheart, that's-"
The words failed him. He couldn't articulate the gratitude and the crushing shame of being so thoroughly emptied. His old self wouldn’t believe he was going to get his lady to do something like this to him.
As she let go, he was still trying to remember how to breathe.
"Don't move," she said softly, pressing a quick kiss to his hip before standing. "I'll be right back."
He watched her disappear into the bathroom and heard the water running. His whole body felt loose and heavy, boneless in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with her doing. The flush was still hot on his face, spreading down his chest.
She came back with a warm, damp washcloth and cleaned him up tenderly. He hissed and bucked his hip when she patted his underside.
“Are you ok?” she asked, tossing the washcloth aside and helping him pull his sweatpants back up.
"Yeah." His voice was still rough. "More than okay."
She settled onto the couch beside him, and he immediately pulled her into his side, needing her close. She melted into him easily, her head on his chest, one hand resting over his heart.
They stayed like that for a while, quiet except for their breathing and the distant sound of rain still coming down outside.
His brain was slowly coming back online, blood returning to his head, and with it came the thought: He needed to do something for her. She'd been up early, made him breakfast, given him the best massage of his life, and then-
His face heated again just thinking about it.
"You're blushing," she said, tilting her head to look up at him with a knowing smile.
“It’s your imagination.”
“Oh really? Doesn’t have anything to do with-”
He cut her off with a slow, deep kiss, pouring into it everything he couldn’t quite put into words: Thank you. I love you. You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll try like hell to.
When they finally pulled back, he kept her close. After a moment, he finally broke the silence, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I feel like a selfish bastard."
She tilted her head, looking up at him with honest eyes. "Why?"
"Look at you," he gestured vaguely toward her. "You stayed up half the night, woke up at five, cooked enough food for a platoon, and I let you… I let you do all that. And then I just lay here and took from you. I didn't even-" He broke off, unable to finish the thought: I didn't even get to satisfy you properly.
She reached up, cupping his jaw and forcing him to meet her gaze. The expression was all business, no softness this time. "Listen to me, Buck. I’m going to be blunt here because you don’t seem to get it if I’m not.” She took a breath, feeling hot on her cheeks. “I get off servicing you.”
She ran her thumb over his bottom lip, and her expression softened. "Don't you dare ruin that for me by bringing guilt into it. In fact, “she murmured, leaning in until her nose brushed the corner of his mouth, I think your enhanced senses can probably smell what you're going to find inside my panties if you touch me now. The body doesn’t lie,” she teased, nipping softly at his stubble.
He swallowed hard, the words catching before they made it out. “You-” His voice came out rough, broken halfway between remaining restraint and need. He tried again, a low rasp this time. “You talk too damn much.” His hand slid up her thigh, firm now, and in a single shift of his weight, he turned, rolling her beneath him. He leaned until his lips were against her ear, jaw tense, brushing her skin when he murmured, “My turn now, sugar.”
Summary: The weapon was built to comply. That night, it served to entertain. Ten rounds. A wager. Pink ears and empty eyes. She was pulled from the toolbox to repair what they had broken. Sometimes, the cruelest orders were the ones that forced gentleness.
note: Days twelve, fifteen, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and thirty of Kinktober 2025. The prompts are basically all the warnings except the HTP.
note2: This is a side-story from the completed Toy Soldier series. It can likely be read as a standalone. Still, for context, Reader is a mutant with healing abilities, kept in cryo alongside the Winter Soldier over the decades to repair him and ensure he remains operational.
Word count: 5.8k - Kinktober Masterlist
They brought her in like always: without warning or explanation. Just firm hands on her arms and the long concrete hallway leading to that door she already knew too well.
This time they didn't seat her in a chair off to the side. They left her standing near the entrance, close enough to see, with a guard planted beside her. She didn't need to be told what that meant. Watch. Or we’ll make you.
The room reeked of cigarette smoke and something sweeter she couldn't quite identify. Incense, maybe. Or some drug she didn't know of. The lights were dim with an orange tint, and music poured from a record player in the corner, playing with a heavy, hypnotic rhythm. Several men were sprawled across the furniture, shirts unbuttoned and wide ties hanging loose around their necks. One had exaggerated sideburns reaching nearly to his jaw. Another played with a Zippo lighter, flicking it open and closed with an enervating click-click-click.
And in the center of the room, kneeling on the floor with his hands obediently resting on his thighs, was he.
Completely naked. There was no pretense of modesty. Why would there be? Things didn't need clothes.
The Asset's skin already showed the marks of its ordeal: bruises blooming across its ribs, red bites along the tender skin of its scarred shoulder, and what looked like dried saliva on its neck and chest. Its penis hung limp between its thighs, scrotum tight and bruised-looking. A piece of meat on display.
She clenched her teeth and kept her gaze forward. The stench of stale sweat and cheap cologne from the guard beside her was almost as overwhelming as the sight of the Asset's broken submission.
One of the men -younger than the others, with a thin mustache and a brown velvet vest- rose from his seat and walked toward the Soldat with slow, almost lazy steps. He stopped in front of it, looking down with a crooked smile.
"So this is the famous Hydra's fist," he said in English, with an accent she couldn't quite place. "Doesn't look like much right now, does it?"
Then he crouched down, grabbing a fistful of Soldat's dark hair and yanking its head back with a sharp movement. The Asset's neck was exposed, the line of its throat tense and vulnerable.
"But I heard it's very... accommodating."
A round of laughter.
The Soldat made no sound. Its eyes -those blue eyes that must have been stunning once- it simply stared at some point on the ceiling, empty, idle.
The man straightened without releasing Soldat's hair, looking toward the others. "Who wants to go first? I think our pet here already had a proper warm-up." He pulled the hair again, harder this time, forcing the Asset's head to one side. "Show them your mouth, mutt."
A beat of silence.
Then, slowly, mechanically, its lips parted. The movement was barely there, a pathetic, trained compliance.
"Good boy," the man murmured, almost affectionately.
From her spot by the door, she couldn't see his full face, only his profile. But she caught the way his jaw tensed for a second -barely a flicker of resistance- before relaxing again into absolute, dead submission.
The guy with the Zippo stood up, putting it into the pocket of his bell-bottoms. "I volunteer," he said with a lazy smile. "I didn't have the pleasure of trying the toy yet."
The man with the mustache finally released Soldat's hair, giving it a condescending pat on the cheek before stepping aside. "All yours, kamerad." Soldat's head immediately slumped forward, ready for the next command.
What followed was methodical. Brutal in its indifference.
Zippo stood in front of it, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other grabbed its hair again, this time with a firmer, possessive grip. "Stay still," he ordered, unnecessarily, as if it could do anything else.
She wanted to look away. Oh, how she wanted to.
But the guard beside her took a barely perceptible step closer. Just a reminder. So she watched.
She watched as they used him for what they believed he was: a thing. She watched as Zippo yanked his head forward and slammed his heavy cock deep into his mouth before the Asset could even fully prepare. There was no finesse, only raw, impatient demand.
They used its hair to guide it, to position it, to keep it in place. Its body remained rigid but obedient, lips and throat working around the slick, rough cocks they forced it to take, its compliance punctuated by gagging sounds and the desperate, subtle muscle contractions of its neck as it struggled to avoid choking on the thick cum that eventually coated the meat they forced on it.
Its hands stayed perfectly still behind its back while trails of viscous seed dribbled down its chin, staining the floor. They didn't even bother to make it clean itself. It was just a receptacle, left to overflow.
And at some point -she didn't know exactly when- their eyes met. A blink in the middle of the horror.
He looked at her.
And in those blue eyes, so carefully emptied, she saw the glint of something that shouldn't be there.
Then someone pulled his hair again, harder, digging nails into his scalp, and the connection broke.
----
"Alright, alright," one of the older men drawled from a leather armchair, waving a hand lazily through the cigarette smoke. He had a thick accent -German, she thought- and wore aviator glasses with tinted lenses despite the dim lighting. "Enough with the mouth. It’s getting repetitive." He said in a bored tone.
The man with the mustache -still holding the Soldat's hair- glanced over his shoulder. "Alright, Klaus. What do you propose?"
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting out the smoke through his nostrils. "Make it crawl a little." He paused, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like the dog it is."
A ripple of interest moved through the room. Someone chuckled. Another sat up straighter.
"Oh, wait- I have something." The guy with the Zippo rummaged through a bag near the couch, pulling out what looked like a child's headband. Bright pink fabric with two floppy dog ears attached. Utterly ridiculous. "Found this at a shop yesterday. I couldn’t resist."
Laughter erupted around the room again.
"Perfect," Klaus said, grinning wider.
Zippo approached the Soldat, who remained kneeling motionless. Without ceremony, he shoved the headband onto its head. The contrast was grotesque: the Asset's blank, masculine features under those absurd, kiddie accessories.
"There we go," Zippo said, stepping back to admire his work. "Much better."
More laughter. Someone took a photograph, the flash briefly illuminating the room.
"Now crawl," Klaus commanded, gesturing with his cigarette. "Around the room. Let everyone see Hydra's good little puppy."
Soldat didn't hesitate. It shifted forward, lowering itself onto its hands and knees. The pink ears bobbed ridiculously with the movement. Its penis hung completely flaccid and slack beneath its abdomen, swaying obscenely over the carpet as it moved. The metal arm caught the orange light, gleaming dully as it pressed against the stained carpet.
"Slower," Klaus commanded, leaning forward in his chair. "We want to appreciate the view. And spread those thighs."
It obeyed. Slowing its movements to a deliberate crawl, each placement of hand and knee was careful, measured. The Asset's hole was clearly visible in the low light, a tight, puckered flesh presented to the room.
"Is that a bullet graze on its thigh?"
"Probably. Thing's been through worse. But damn, check that ass."
"Hm, all muscle, no fat. Makes you want to sink your teeth into it."
She kept her expression blank, but her hands were shaking. She hid them behind her back, pressing her palms together hard enough to hurt.
The Soldat crawled past the sofa where two men sat with drinks in hand. One of them -younger, with long hair pulled into a ponytail- "accidentally" knocked his glass over. Amber liquid splashed across the carpet, pooling directly in front of the Asset's exposed crotch.
"Tsk," he clicked his tongue. "Looks like the mutt made a mess." He looked at Klaus. "Should we get paper towels?"
He waved a hand dismissively. "It has a tongue, doesn't it?"
The ponytailed man grinned. "Good point. Puppy, put that slutty tongue to good use and clean that up."
The Soldat stopped crawling. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly, it shifted and lowered its head to the carpet.
She watched, still capable of surprise, as it began to lap at the spilled alcohol, simulating a pool of his own piss. The pink ears flopped forward pathetically with each movement. The men around it howled with laughter, some slapping their knees, others raising their own drinks in a mock toast.
"That's it, good dog!" the man sitting next to ponytail flicked the ash of his cigarette, letting it drop directly onto the Asset’s exposed, muscular glutes. The Soldat flinched -a barely visible twitch- but did not stop.
"Someone get a picture of this!"
"Does it want a treat after?"
The Soldat continued until the carpet was merely damp instead of soaked, its tongue and lips stained with cheap, stale whiskey.
"Enough," Klaus said eventually, sounding satisfied. "Keep moving."
The circuit continued. Around the record player. Past a side table. Along the wall.
And then its path brought it near her again.
Close enough that she could see the raw, red carpet burns forming on his knees. Close enough to see the slight glaze in his eyes from some forced drug on him.
Someone had set a dog bowl on the floor a few feet from her. Metal. Dented. Filled with maybe two inches of water.
"Thirsty, puppy?" Mustache called out. "There's your water. Go on, drink up."
The Soldat changed direction, crawling toward the bowl. When it reached it, it lowered its head without hesitation, lapping the lukewarm water with sharp, hungry slurps, like they wanted, like it needed. Like the animal they'd decided it was.
Before it could finish drinking, a heavy boot slammed into its side, making it stumble.
"That's enough," Klaus said. "Back to the center. On your knees. Hands behind your back."
The Asset shifted immediately into the commanded position, the water still dripping from its chin. Kneeling upright, straight back, hands clasped behind its back, those ridiculous pink ears still perched on its head. A perfect display of submission.
Klaus leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "Good dog." He lit another cigarette. "Now let's see what other tricks it knows."
"I have a proposition," the man with the ponytail said, swirling the remnants of his drink. "A little wager, if you will."
Klaus raised an eyebrow behind his tinted glasses. "Go on."
"How many times do you think we can make it come before it passes out?"
The room went quiet for a beat. Then someone laughed, sharp and interested.
"That's the spirit," Mustache said, grinning. "I'm in. What are we betting?"
"Does it matter?" Ponytail shrugged. "Bragging rights. A bottle of good vodka. Whatever." He stood, walking a slow circle around the kneeling Soldat. "I'm more interested in the experiment itself."
"It's a weapon built to endure," Klaus said slowly, considering. "Could be enlightening to find its limits."
"Exactly." Ponytail stopped in front of the Asset, tilting its chin up with two fingers. "What do you say, puppy? Ready to perform?"
The Soldat just stared straight ahead. Silent. Waiting.
"I think it needs another dose," Zippo said, already moving toward a cabinet in the corner.
She felt her stomach drop. That meant chemicals. Things designed to override the body's natural responses, to force reactions.
The guard beside her shifted slightly, not toward her, just a small adjustment of weight. Another reminder.
Zippo returned with a small black case, setting it on the coffee table and flipping it open. Inside: syringes, small vials of clear liquid. Clinical. Efficient. "This should do nicely," he said, holding up one of the vials to the light. "Vasodilator. Nerve stimulant. I think it’ll suffice."
"How long does it take to work?" Mustache asked.
"Five, maybe ten minutes for full effect." Zippo prepared the injection. "But we'll see results almost immediately."
Klaus gestured lazily toward the Soldat. "Go ahead."
They didn't bother with gentleness. Zippo grabbed the Asset's flesh arm, jabbing the needle into the crook of its elbow and depressing the plunger. The Soldat didn't flinch. Didn't react. Just kept staring forward with those empty blue eyes.
The wait wasn't long.
She saw it happen in stages. First, the slight change in his breathing, shallower, faster. Then the tension in his shoulders, his jaw. His hands, still clasped behind his back, began to tremble.
And then the physical response they were looking for. Inevitable. Mechanical. The body betraying its owner because chemistry didn't care about consent.
His cock, slack and humiliated moments ago, grew rapidly to a hard, flushed spike, thick and aggressive against his flat stomach.
"There we go," Klaus said, watching the Asset's involuntary erection with satisfaction. "Right on schedule."
The Soldat's face remained blank, but she could see the muscles in his throat working. Could see the way his thighs tensed, the way his stomach contracted with each shallow, ragged breath.
"Alright," Ponytail stood, cracking his knuckles. "Let's start the count at zero and see how high we can go. I'll take first."
What followed was methodical. Clinical cruelty.
Ponytail worked the Asset roughly, one hand fisted deep in its hair to keep its head tilted back, the other wrapped tightly around its chemically-hardened shaft with no gentleness.
The Soldat's breathing became more labored, and its body started to tremble. Its hips bucked once, a humiliating, involuntary spasm. "Come on," Ponytail muttered, increasing his pace. "It shouldn’t be that hard, mutt."
It took longer than expected, but eventually, inevitably, it happened.
A full-body shudder. A choked, broken sound from its throat, the only noise it was allowed.
"One!" someone called out, and a round of applause followed.
Ponytail stepped back, wiping the sticky residue from his palm onto Soldat’s shoulder with a satisfied smirk. "Who's next?"
"My turn," Zippo said, already standing.
He added his own creative flourishes to the matter at hand. Instead of touching the Soldat's cock, he pulled out his Zippo, not to burn, but to trail the hot metal casing along the tender underside of the Asset's cock and the sensitive skin of its scrotum, making it jerk and gasp. The heat was a shock to the heightened nerves. Its erection immediately swelled further, thick and pulsing.
"Two!"
Mustache went third. He was rougher, less patient. He didn't waste time with his hands. He reached into his velvet vest pocket and pulled out a small, flesh-colored gelatin sleeve, a crude masturbatory aid from the early sex-tech boom.
Klaus frowned, leaning forward. "What the hell is that?"
Mustache chuckled, spitting onto the synthetic flesh. "It's the future, Klaus. They break less often than the women we procure." He slid the sleeve over the Soldat's rigid cock, the warm, synthetic grip shocking the chemically-sensitized organ.
With one hand, he worked the sleeve with a bruising, grinding force against the shaft. With the other, he scraped his fingernails against the Asset's perineum, targeting the nerve bundle at the base of its balls.
"This is what you're for," he hissed into its ear, yanking the Soldat's ear with his teeth. "You're a hole to be filled, a vessel to be emptied. A frightening thing in the open, and a worthless bitch inside these walls."
The Asset's hands, still clasped behind its back, were shaking violently now. Its chest heaved with each breath. Sweat dripped down its temples and chest, mixing with the filth already painting its skin from previous ordeals.
"Three!"
Mustache pulled the sleeve off the Asset's cock with a loud, sucking noise. He didn't drop it. Instead, he turned the synthetic toy over and squeezed the sleeve hard above Soldat's bowed head. A thick, warm splash of the Asset's own semen shot out, drenching the hair on the back of its head and running down its neck, mixing with the sweat and grime already covering it.
"Such a dirty dog," he sneered, tossing the toy aside.
Klaus took fourth. He was methodical, almost scientific in his approach. Explaining what he was doing as he did it, like this was a lecture.
"The refractory period should be increasing," he mused, adjusting his grip on the Asset's slick, angry-red shaft. "But the chemicals we used should override that. Interesting to see how long the body can maintain function under such conditions."
"Four!"
By the fifth round, led by a man who'd been quiet until now, the Asset was visibly struggling. Its body was exhausted, overstimulated to the point of pain. Each touch had to be more forceful, more aggressive to scrape the same result from the failing organ.
"Five!"
"It's slowing down," Ponytail observed with disappointment. "Losing effectiveness."
"We could give it another dose," Zippo suggested.
"No," Klaus said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Too much and it might actually break. We need it to be functional tomorrow." He looked toward her, still standing by the wall with the guard. "Bring her over. Maybe a softer touch will help."
Her blood turned to ice.
The guard's hand landed on her shoulder, not necessarily rough, but firm. Propelling her forward.
"Come on, pet," Mustache said. "Your toy seems to be running out of steam. See if you can coax one more out of it."
She forced her legs to move. One step. Then another. Until she stood in front of the kneeling Soldat, with its face tilted slightly downward.
And when she looked down, she saw it.
The Asset's entire body was trembling. Not from arousal, nothing was arousing about this. From exhaustion. From pain. From chemicals that wouldn't let him rest, even as everything in him screamed to stop.
His cock was engorged, flushed and angry, painfully red, overstimulated to the point where any touch must have felt like sandpaper. His thighs were slick with the evidence of what they'd forced from it, again and again, thin, clear trails of spent cum and pre-cum, painting his skin.
And his eyes-
When he lifted them to meet hers, she saw everything they'd tried to beat out of it. Pain. Desperation.
Her hands shook as she knelt down slowly. "I'm sorry, dear," she whispered, too quiet for the others to hear.
"We don’t have all day," Klaus commanded. "Make it come. Six is a good number to end on."
She swallowed hard, reaching out with trembling fingers. She took the thick, slick length into her hand, deliberately, gently, trying to soothe the ravaged nerves while still complying with the order.
It had taken longer than expected, far longer than the previous rounds. Even with her softer touch, even with her whispered apologies, the Asset's body had fought against what they demanded. The chemicals could only do so much when exhaustion and pain became overwhelming.
Mustache leaned forward, squinting through the smoke. "Look at that. The mutt's enjoying her hand. I bet it’s stretching it out."
Ponytail snickered. "Yeah, the thing wants her to work for it. Thinks it deserves a reward."
She ignored them, pushing her healing energy into the tortured flesh as she pumped it, until eventually, finally, it happened.
Soldat had shuddered, a broken, quickly supressed sound escaping his before sagging forward. His final, exhausted release was a meager, painful sputter against her hand.
"Six," someone had counted, but without the enthusiasm of before.
----
Now the Asset knelt in the center of the room, head bowed, chest heaving with each labored breath. The pink ears hung limply, one barely attached to the headband. Sweat dripped from its temples, its jaw. Its hands, still clasped behind its back, shook with fine tremors. It was functionally spent.
"It's done," Ponytail said, sounding disappointed. "Look at it. Can barely stay upright."
"Shame," Mustache agreed. "Was hoping for at least ten."
"The chemicals are still active," Zippo pointed out. "It's just reached its physical limit. We could wait a bit, let it recover-"
"Boring," Klaus interrupted, lighting another cigarette. "If we have to wait, what's the point?"
A beat of silence.
Then a new voice spoke up, one of the men who'd been quieter throughout the night, watching from a corner with dark, calculating eyes. He wore a turtleneck under his suit jacket, which seemed oddly formal compared to the others' casual debauchery.
"You know," he said slowly, standing and approaching Soldat with measured steps. "I'm almost disappointed in all of you."
"How so?" Klaus asked, raising an eyebrow.
Turtleneck circled the kneeling Asset, studying it like a piece of machinery. "You've been so focused on one method. So... unimaginative." He stopped in front of the asset, tilting its chin up with one finger. "It occurs to me that no one thought to try the other end."
The room went quiet. The air hung thick with anticipation.
Turtleneck's smile was cold, clinical. "The prostate is quite sensitive. With the right stimulation, we could achieve the desired result without putting any strain on its... overworked anatomy." He looked around the room. "We might even get to ten after all."
"Brilliant," Klaus said, nodding approvingly.
"We're going to need quite a bit of spit," Ponytail chuckled, already standing. "There’s some vodka-jelly over there too,"
The Soldat's eyes -those blue eyes that had been holding onto consciousness by a thread- widened slightly. Just a fraction. Just enough for her to see the flash of something that might have been raw fear. Or maybe just the crushing knowledge that this wouldn't end. Not yet. Not until they decided it was over.
Turtleneck's hand was still under its chin, holding its head up. "What do you say, puppy? Ready for round seven?"
The Asset didn't respond. Couldn't respond. But its hands, still clasped behind its back, clenched until the knuckles of the flesh one went white, the only external sign of its internal screaming resistance.
Turtleneck didn't wait for permission. He shoved the Soldat forward, forcing its torso to the floor. "Ass in the air, Asset. Display that hole as the slut you are."
Soldat's exposed buttocks rose sharply, presenting the tight, unprepared hole. Turtleneck spat a thick, wet glob of saliva onto the sphincter. Ponytail, grinning, then grabbed a handful of the syrupy, sticky vodka-jelly from the bowl and smeared it across the sensitive flesh, rubbing the cold, sugary grit against the opening.
"There's your lube, mutt," Ponytail hissed. “Might sting a little.”
Turtleneck mounted him immediately. He drove his thick, throbbing cock into the unprepared ring with a single, brutal thrust. Soldat's back arched violently, a silent, agonizing spasm of shock and pain. The sound that tore from its throat was instantly cut short, a choked noise of pure neuro-muscular protest.
Turtleneck began to thrust quickly, shallowly, aiming for the deep, sensitive core. Then bingo. He hit the prostate.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Soldat's body seized and bucked again, its hips thrusting back into Turtleneck with a force that had nothing to do with pleasure or will, and everything to do with a chemical and pain-induced neuro-response. Turtleneck held Soldat pinned to the floor, pounding into its violated rear with short, furious thrusts, using the forced surrender as his own motor. It remained locked in position, spent and broken, its new weakness exploited.
A second, agonizing shudder ran through its frame, and a thin, spent stream of semen sputtered down from its already ravaged cock onto the carpet.
"Seven!" Klaus bellowed, raising his glass in a toast.
Turtleneck finished his final, brutal thrust, withdrawing with a wet, sucking sound that left the Asset hole gaping and exposed.
“So” Klaus drawled. "Who's next to take the puppy's back entrance?”
A tall man in the back grinned, pulling something long and curved from the bar countertop: a thick, greenish banana.
The men howled with laughter, slapping their knees at the absurdity of it all.
He moved behind the Soldat, who remained collapsed on its stomach, lifted the banana and shoved its blunt, cool tip deep into the violated rim. The Soldat's body tensed violently, its head snapping up from the floor at the new, grotesque invasion.
While forcing the banana in, the man’s free hand went down and grabbed the Asset's already ravaged cock working it with frantic, merciless speed, overriding the remaining fatigue. The dual-stimulation -grotesque intrusion from the back, crushing stimulation on the front- was immediate.
Its body convulsed, a desperate, violent spasm of pure, overstimulated nerve ending as a pathetic, clear fluid poured from its spent shaft.
"Eight!" someone yelled over the laughter and the loud, mocking whistles.
Ponytail removed the banana with a wet slurp, tossing the slimy, bent fruit onto the carpet. "Who wants a bite?" he joked, triggering another round of sick laughter.
She felt her world narrow. This was a degeneration she hadn't anticipated. Then again, they always had ways to make things worse.
Mustache didn't miss a beat. He was already behind the Asset, smearing a thick coat of saliva and bile-inducing jelly onto his own cock. "My turn for almost the final push."
He mounted the Soldat with the same merciless drive, plunging into the stretched, abused sphincter. He didn't thrust for long, but hard and deep, targeting the prostate with punishing intent.
The body's response was delayed this time, a slow, weary surge. The Soldat's entire frame shook with fine, terrible tremors, its final burst a mere weeping trickle of fluid.
"Nine!"
"One more!" Zippo shouted. "One more and we win!"
Klaus was already standing. “Oh, we’ll win alright.” He ignored the rear entrance, deeming it sufficiently abused. He moved in front of the Soldat and pushed it by the shoulders, making it fall back, sitting heavily on the stained carpet. The movement was rough, unceremonious. The Asset dared to wince when its ravaged hole hit the ground.
The correction came swiftly. Klaus delivered a hard, stinging slap to its cheek, making the Asset’s head fall to the side. "No one told you to whine like a bitch," he warned, his voice low and vicious.
And then, without losing time, he took the raw, painfully engorged cock into his mouth, not for pleasure, but for final, humiliating surrender. Then, he cupped Soldat’s heavy, tense sac beneath his thumb, simultaneously applying crushing pressure to the base of the shaft while forcing the thick length deep down his throat.
He used a grinding, suffocating motion, ensuring the Asset had no escape. The final act was a forced deepthroat, a gesture designed to target the remaining nerve clusters at the root and achieve the most violent, conclusive surrender. Soldat’s body gave out completely under the relentless pressure and violation. A long, ragged sob escaped its lips as its muscles finally failed, and a final, agonizing spurt of semen coated Klaus’ chin.
The man's reaction was instantaneous. Even as the final spasm gripped Soldat's body, his fingers closed around the Asset's testicles with a sudden, vicious squeeze, crushing its sac as he removed his mouth from the fevered flesh. The sob cut off with a sharp, inhaled gasp, replaced by a noise of pure physical agony.
"You're a weapon, not a wet doll.” He snarled. “You are supposed to have learnt that by now," he added, letting go of its abused member with a rough movement. Then, he sighed dramatically-
"And… ten! We win!"
The room erupted into cheers and drunken applause. Soldat slumped entirely, its head bowing toward its chest, the pink ears falling off the headband as its body lay limp, covered in filth, reduced to a trembling, conquered piece of flesh.
There were cheers and celebrations. Mustache signaled her to go to it with a dismissive wave of his hand.
----
She knelt beside him, close enough that their shadows merged in the dim corner light. Behind them, the card game had started, laughter and the slap of cards on the table, ice clinking in glasses. The music droned on, that same hypnotic bass that had been playing all night. They weren't paying attention anymore. The toy had served its purpose. Now it was just a matter of maintenance.
"I'm going to touch you now," she murmured, keeping her voice low. "Starting with your knees."
He didn't respond. Didn't even blink. Just stared somewhere past her shoulder, eyes glassy and unfocused. That carefully constructed emptiness they'd beaten into it.
Her hands settled gently on his left knee first, the one he had been dragging. The skin was raw, slick with dried vodka-jelly and blood, carpet-burned deeply enough to show inflamed, exposed tissue. She let the healing flow travel through her fingertips, warm and steady, knitting the damaged tissue back together.
A slight tremor ran through the Asset's frame. Not pulling away. Just... registering what was happening.
"I know," she whispered. "I know it hurts."
She moved to the right knee. More of the same damage. As her hands worked, she kept talking, softly, continuously, the kind of stream of words that meant nothing and everything at the same time. "Almost done with these. Then I'll check everything else."
Soldat's breathing was still ragged, still too fast. his hands, which she carefully adjusted to rest palms-down on his thighs, trembled with fine, exhausted spasms.
She finished with the knees and shifted her attention upward. She couldn't ignore the angry, overstimulated state of his shaft. It was beet-red, swollen, and smeared with a crust of sticky, dried semen from his violent climaxes.
She placed both hands around the aching, violated skin, careful to cover the entire length. Her healing energy pulsed, and the thick, painful swelling rapidly subsided, the raw color receding to the pale, original flesh tone. When her work was done, the penis rested flaccid and mercifully unblemished between his thighs.
"Checking inside now," she warned softly, moving one hand low on his abdomen.
There was significant internal trauma. She could sense tears in the rectal lining from the aggressive penetration and the deep, throbbing ache of the over-pressurized prostate. Her power pushed deeper, searching out torn tissue, inflammation, damage that would take days to heal naturally, but that she could fix in minutes.
He made a sound, small, barely audible. Somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His body swayed forward slightly. Not collapsing. Just... leaning. Like a plant seeking sunlight. Seeking her warmth. Her gentleness.
She froze for a second, then deliberately softened her other hand where it rested on his hip. Soothing.
"I've got you," she murmured. "You're doing so good."
The Asset's head dipped lower, exhaustion finally winning over trained posture. his forehead nearly touched her shoulder, not quite making contact, but very close.
"There's water here," she said quietly, pulling a small glass bottle near a bag of colorful pills. "Can you drink?"
No response. Just that vacant stare.
She uncapped the bottle, bringing it close to its lips. "Please. Just a little."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly -so slowly- Soldat's lips parted. The lower lip was heavily swollen and split. There was a thin, sticky residue of dried semen clinging to the soft skin of his chin and the corner of his mouth. She tipped the bottle carefully, letting just a small amount flow into his mouth. He swallowed mechanically at first, then with more urgency, like it had just remembered what thirst was.
"Not too fast," she cautioned, pulling the bottle back slightly. "You'll make yourself sick."
Another sip. Another swallow.
When she finally pulled the bottle away, some water escaped, trickling down his chin. She didn't hesitate. She reached down with her free hand, using the clean sleeve of her jumpsuit to gently wipe away the water and the sticky, dry filth from his skin and the edge of his lips. It was a gesture of purification, erasing the sign of his use.
His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to see that flash of awareness she had glimpsed other times before. Or just recognition, maybe, that something kind was happening in this place where kindness didn't exist.
Then it was gone again, shuttered behind the blank mask.
But his body remained leaned slightly toward hers. Seeking that contact. That warmth.
She set the water bottle aside and returned her glowing hands to his skin, checking the last of the damage. Her fingers ghosted over the biting marks on his marred shoulder, repairing not only the recent marks but also older bruising that was dangerously close to self-inflicted injuries.
"Almost done," she promised. "Just a little longer."
When she finally pulled her hands away, the worst of the damage was gone. The Asset would still be sore, still exhausted, but functional.
That's all they cared about.
She didn't know who he had been before. Didn't know if there had ever been a before. But sometimes -in moments like these- she wondered. Wondered if those flashes she caught in his eyes meant something. Or if she was just projecting her own desperate need to believe that something human still existed in this nightmare.
She rested one hand briefly on his shoulder, a touch that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with- she didn't know what. Comfort, maybe. Or just proof that gentleness still existed somewhere in this hellhole.
Soldat didn't react at first.
But for just a moment -one brief, fragile moment- his hand lifted from his thigh and his fingers found the hand she had resting on her own knee, and brushed against it.
Barely a touch. Barely anything at all. A terrifying, vulnerable concession.
Then the moment shattered.
"Is it fixed?" Klaus's voice cut across the room.
She pulled her hand back quickly, standing up. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He didn't even look over. "Put it back in position. We might want another round later."
Her stomach dropped, a cold, sickening lurch. The repair was only a pause, not an ending.
"Yes, sir," she heard herself say.
He was already moving before she could help, shifting from kneeling to hands and knees, that limp still barely visible as he crawled back toward the center of the room.
Back to his place.
Her eyes followed him, seeing not just the Asset, but her own reflection in his forced compliance: To watch. To be an accomplice. To be another cog in this machine of degradation and suffering.
The card game continued. The music played on. The low, pulsing bass was now a steady drumbeat marking the passage of her own torment.
And in the center of the room, just as he was when she came, knelt the Soldat: hands resting obediently on his thighs, shoulders straight, head slightly bowed.
Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.
Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.
You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.
It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.
He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.
Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.
Still, you didn’t argue.
Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.
There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.
You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.
So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.
No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.
Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.
You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.
And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.
He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.
The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.
Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.
A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.
It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.
Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.
You grab a basket and move forward.
He follows without a word.
You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.
You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.
Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.
Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.
He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.
It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.
His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.
“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.
You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.
“What?” you ask softly.
His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.
“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”
He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.
For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.
Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”
Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.
You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.
Bucky watches.
He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.
His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.
He simply observes.
You step over to the plums.
Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
But you feel him.
The attention he gives you.
His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.
You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.
You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.
But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.
“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.
Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.
“S’ fine.”
But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.
So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.
Bucky doesn’t look away this time.
And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.
The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.
You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.
Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.
His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.
It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.
He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.
You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.
He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.
It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.
That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.
You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.
He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.
You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.
“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.
But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.
Something warm fills your chest.
You missed him, while you were gone.
He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.
You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.
You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.
He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.
It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.
He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.
You remember how he was when you left.
Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.
He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.
And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.
Maybe that’s why he came with you.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.
Maybe he missed you, too.
He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.
You can’t have that.
Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.
“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”
Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”
You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”
Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.
“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”
You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.
“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”
Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.
You glance up at him, arching your brow.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”
You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”
“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”
Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.
You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.
You plan on keeping him that way.
You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.
“Creamy or crunchy?”
Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”
You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”
There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”
Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.
“You’re wrong.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”
You snort.
Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.
You watch him.
The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.
Because you want more.
More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.
So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”
Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”
You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”
For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.
You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.
You wait, patiently.
Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”
You gin. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.
You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.
“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”
Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.
His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
But there is no bite to it.
And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.
You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.
You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.
You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.
Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.
A soft thud.
Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.
Chocolate-covered almonds.
The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.
The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.
The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.
Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”
Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because you like them.”
Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.
Just a fact.
Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.
The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.
You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
“How do you know that?”
The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.
Something about the fact that he’s been watching.
That he’s noticed.
That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.
His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.
He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.
“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.
You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.
Or if he just really is that observant.
That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.
So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.
“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”
Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.
“Don’t.”
“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”
Prompt: When you turn in a paper arguing that the Allies weren’t entirely heroic in WWII, Professor Barnes calls you into his office to discuss your controversial opinion.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x college student reader
Word count: 3.9k
Notes / warnings: porn with plot; professor x student; age gap (reader is mid twenties, bucky is early forties); desk sex; dirty talking; hair pulling; p in v; unprotected sex; no use of Y/N
Nervous fingers tap against the papers in your left hand, the hallway not nearly loud enough to drown your swirling thoughts. Today, you stand in front of your History professor’s office, red ink marking the graded paper you had handed over last week.
See me during office hours. Would like to discuss this paper further. Prof. J.B.
You're dreading this conversation. You knew, the moment you wrote this paper, this would be trouble. And yet you wrote it anyway. You, sitting in Professor Barnes’ class, wrote a full thirty pages on how the Allies were not entirely heroic during World War II. Dared to write and hand over to the man who had written several papers defending the importance of Captain America during the World War, who'd even helped set up an exhibit at the Smithsonian museum honoring several war heroes. And while knowing all of that, you still signed your name at the bottom of the page and handed it to him like it was just another paper.
A deep breath later, you finally raise your hand to knock on the hard wooden door before you hear a faint “Come in” calling.
When you open the door, you see Professor Barnes sitting behind his desk, hair slightly disheveled from maybe running his fingers through it too many times. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms, with a black waistcoat sitting carefully on top of it, hiding half of his carefully placed tie. He looks… well, unfair. As usual. It hasn't been easy to sit in his class with the way he looks, unfairly attractive, and that deep voice that always does wonders to your overly active imagination.
You walk in and close the door behind you before Professor Barnes gestures towards the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit,” he says, not really looking up but recognizing you all the same. His tone is carefully neutral, and he writes something down on a piece of paper while you take a seat.
You clear your throat, trying to ground yourself. “You wanted to discuss my paper, Professor?”
Professor Barnes moves some papers on the desk and finally looks up at you. His icy blue eyes are not nearly as neutral as his voice was, but you're not sure you can detect what's in them yet.
“I did.” He leans back against his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Some veins along his arms look more visible now. You try not to stare. “You made a very bold statement in your paper.”
Oh, here we go. You sit slightly straighter, as if that'll help you. You're confident in your paper and in the opinion you've stated, but there's a difference between writing that and discussing it with a man who's an expert in this field and almost twenty years older than you.
Professor Barnes notices you don't say anything, so he continues.
“There's a marked passage on your paper. Read it to me.”
Heat spikes through you. Embarrassment, a little fear, and panic. Your fingers tremble across the pages as you search for the passage highlighted in red before you start.
“The Allies, often lauded as heroic, were responsible for acts of destruction that were strategically effective but morally complex. The bombings of Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki demonstrate that even the victors of war leave behind a legacy of suffering.”
You pause to swallow because you feel like you're about to run out of air. Professor Barnes only taps one finger against the wooden desk.
“Keep going,” he murmurs, rough, and you feel like maybe he punched you in the chest. Those simple words shouldn't sound indecent. Why do they?
You read on.
“History tends to glorify winners, to simplify narratives of heroism and villainy. But true understanding requires acknowledging the shadows behind victory, the moral ambiguities that challenge the neat stories we are taught.”
That's the end of the highlighted text. You place the pages carefully on the desk before you meet his eyes. He looks at you with one slightly raised eyebrow, head tilted.
“You really stand by that claim?” Straight to the point.
You don't back down. You can't.
“Yes,” you answer, careful but attempting to be firm in your words. “Many of the allies’ actions were brutality dressed as victory.”
You think you notice a muscle in his jaw twitch.
“Do you think the world would have been better off if they hadn't acted?”
“I think moral purity is a myth,” you shoot back quickly. “Heroes have blood on their hands too. It's naive to believe otherwise.”
For a long moment, Barnes studies you. Maybe wondering how hard he has to push for you to break and back off your original statement, or whether or not he should continue this conversation.
“And you're not naive,” he finally says. So, he has decided for sharp provocation. You feel it between your ribs like a knife, your eyes only slightly narrowing before you clear your throat again.
“We glorify the Allies as if they never crossed any lines. But History is messy. No one walks away from a war with their hands clean.”
Professor Barnes stands from his chair in one quick motion, almost as if he's tired of you trying to prove your point, or maybe just tired of hearing your voice. His fingers scratch his beard around his jaw, almost in thought, before he walks around the desk and rests his hips against it, looking down at you. The leather of your chair creaks when you instinctively lean back a little.
“You're not wrong,” he finally admits, although that's not what you'd expected to hear. “But you argue it like it's an idea. Like you don't know the weight of it.”
Your lips part, words caught in your throat. His leg just barely touches your knee when you move—barely, maybe accidentally—and you almost spontaneously combust.
“I think I can understand more than you give me credit for,” you answer back.
Professor Barnes blinks once, and then his mouth curves, but not quite kindly. “You're bold.” He says it sharply, and he leans forward just enough that you catch a hint of his cologne. “Bold can get you in trouble.”
You're already in trouble. Because your Professor is debating your claims while heat pools in your stomach at the way he looks at you. Unconsciously, your teeth sink down on your bottom lip. His gaze follows the movement. You think you hallucinated that.
“Are you threatening me, Professor?”
“Warning you,” he says, eyes still lingering on your lips before he moves them back up to your eyes. “There's a difference.”
His fingers (you'd really never realized how long his fingers were until now, how veiny his hands are) curl around the edges of your paper, and he slowly hands it back to you. Your fingers and his touch for half a second when you take it, and you feel like you've been zapped.
“Are you always this defiant?” He asks, and although his voice is still sharp, there's an underlying tone you can't quite put your finger on.
“Some subjects bring it out in me.” You reply, eyes on his. And then, as if your mouth gained a life of its own, “Some Professors, too.”
That earns you a low chuckle from him, and the sound feels so out of place it throws you off balance. Professor Barnes shifts, bracing one palm against the arm of your chair, caging you in. In theory, the move is casual, but the way he looks at you is anything but as he leans in.
“You're not just bold. You're reckless.” The hand not in your chair moves and taps the pages in your hands. “You write something like that, say something like that… brave or foolish?”
Your heart hammers in your chest. “Both.”
The corner of his mouth twitches again, and he leans closer until his beard almost scratches your cheek.
“Do you know what happens when you poke at dangerous things?”
Fuck. This is so far from casual. You know you should stop and ask to leave; he's not moving, not pushing forward, and clearly waiting for a signal from your end to know he should continue.
You blink, eyes looking anywhere but at him.
“Maybe I want to find out,” you answer.
That does it. He moves one hand and drags his knuckles across your cheek, waiting for a reaction. When you don't flinch and don't say anything, he drags his thumb over the soft skin, and you tilt your head into his touch.
His head moves to meet your gaze.
“You're crossing a line,” he says, not really a warning—more of a reminder.
“So are you,” you tell him back.
And before you know it, Professor Barnes is closing the full distance and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is hard and demanding, despite the softness of his fingers on your cheek, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he'd been thinking of replacing yours the moment he saw you biting down earlier. Your mouth opens to him, and he only kisses you harder, tongue slipping past your lips, tasting you like his favorite treat.
His hands move to your waist, and he pulls you to him, raising you from the chair with a strong grip. You follow suit, dropping the pages of your paper as your hands cling to his waistcoat, but he doesn't stop the kiss, and neither do you. With both hands settled on your waist, he grips tight and turns the two of you so that your hips are now pressed against the desk, and leans down, your back bending over just a bit.
One of his hands moves up your body and tangles in your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, before he finally breaks away for air. His breathing is ragged, but he only replaces your lips with your neck, lips trailing wetly over the skin under your jaw. You whimper, body arching into him, and his eyes gaze up when he catches that sound. Torn between it being his new favorite thing and his ruin. Maybe both.
“Professor,” you gasp, and his hips roll involuntarily against yours. You feel it, then. The very undeniable shape of him, of his hard cock, straining in his suit pants. He makes no effort to hide it even when he stops grinding against you, but your eyes only widen at the realization that your History professor is turned on by you. By this.
Your lips remain parted, as if waiting for him to claim them again, eyes watching the way he's masterfully exploring your neck, mouth kissing down the length of your throat, reaching just above your collarbone, and then his eyes are on yours again, and you feel like he's cut off your air supply.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growls, teeth nipping at the skin. You almost whimper.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to forget I'm your professor.”
You tugged at his black tie then, yanking it loose with shaky fingers, desperate to get to the man underneath all that careful, professional armor. You don't pull it off, though; just leave it hanging loose around his neck while you work to open the buttons of his waistcoat.
His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your skirt higher until the fabric is wrinkled around your waist. This fucking skirt—he's noticed you wearing it before, in class. How your legs carefully cross when you're wearing it, hiding what's between them so masterfully.
“Every time you sit in my class in this fucking skirt,” he rasps, biting at your jaw, “you drive me insane.”
Your breath caught as his lips claimed yours again, harder, rougher, while his fingers tugged at your blouse. Buttons open under his impatient touch, the fabric sliding off your shoulders until you are bare to his hungry gaze.
“Fuck…” he mutters, eyes raking down your body before locking back onto your face. “You came here not even wearing a bra?”
You only smirk before your fingers curl around his shirt to bring him closer, but the moment your fingers attempt to open the buttons, one of his hands catches your wrist, a filthy look in his eye.
“No, sweetheart. I'm gonna fuck you like this,” he says, hips rolling forward once, this time deliberate. “Need to remind you I'm still your professor.”
He's smiling as he lowers his head, catching one of your nipples between his teeth, tugging gently before lapping at the sting with his tongue. You squirm under him, but he holds you tight before his hands clear the path on his desk—sending papers and pens flying off—and sit you down on top of it without ever stopping the ministrations. He moans into your tits like you're a feast and he's been starving his whole damn life, and you only gasp, one hand reaching for his hair and tugging gently.
“Fuck—” he half growled into your breasts, resting his forehead for a few seconds against your skin like he's trying not to come on the spot. “Pull my hair like that again and I'm going to cum in my pants like a teenage boy.”
Your skirt was shoved higher, his suit pants straining against his arousal as he pressed against your heat.
That warning rumbles in your ears.
A smarter girl would’ve listened.
But you never did like to play safe.
Your fingers curl tighter into his thick hair, tugging harder this time, dragging his head back so you can look him right in those wild, blown-out blue eyes. The second you do, he lets out a guttural groan, his mouth falling open like you’d just ripped every last thread of control from him. He crashes his hips into yours hard, and you feel his body shake against yours as he buries his head between the valley of your breasts. And then, just barely, the feeling of a wet patch in his pants brushes against your thigh.
He did actually cum in his pants.
“Fuck—” he growls, and before you could smirk about it, his hands slam flat on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. His chest heaves against yours, suit pants presenting the evidence of just how badly you are undoing him.
“You're going to regret that.” His voice is wrecked and jagged, his hair messy from your grip.
With a snarl of frustration and arousal, he hauls you forward until you are perched right on the edge, your thighs spread wide as he steps between them, grinding his hips against the heat of your panties.
He buries his face between your breasts again, biting, licking, and sucking like he can't get enough, his beard scraping your sensitive skin. One hand squeezes your thigh so hard you know it will leave bruises, the other snaking up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place for his mouth.
The hand in your thigh traveled high enough until his fingers could hook around the delicate fabric of your panties, and he slid them down your legs, letting them fall to the floor next to his feet. Before you have time to play any other dirty game, Professor Barnes slides one finger inside your already wet cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. He watches in awe and satisfaction as you react to his finger inside of you, fingers clawing at his shirt.
“Do you want to say something petty now? Do something funny?” He grunts as he fucks you with that one digit, your thighs trying to press together before he moves his other hand to your legs to keep them spread. “No, sweetheart, you're going to keep those pretty legs open for me while I fuck you. You're my smartest student. Don't play stupid now.”
Without ceremony, the Professor slides another finger inside of you, smirking as a louder moan falls out of your lips, your hips trying to buck into his hand as he fucks you faster, knuckles deep inside your fluttering pussy. Soft, wet noises fill his office, and he licks his lips as he watches you, eyes fixed between your legs, seeing you spread and slick for him.
“Can't say anything now? No more recklessness?” He teases, and he gives a particularly deep pump of his fingers, dragging another moan out of you. Your hands hold on to him, fingers buried on his shoulders, and your head falls back until you're right there, on the edge, so fucking close—
And then he stops.
Drags his fingers out of you when he feels your walls clenching around his fingers, and you open your mouth to complain, disappointment spreading across your figure. That's when you see him: hands working on the leather of his belt, snapping it open before he works his suit pants, shoving them down to his knees, his cock springing free.
It's half hard, leaking, and the mess from when you'd made him cum in his pants is spread over him. He wraps his large hand around himself, stroking his cock a couple of times at the sight of you spread on his desk, dripping for him, and soon enough he's fully hard again, the head of his cock flushed. And you bite your bottom lip hard, because fuck, he's big, and his fingers worked you masterfully, but you know you're still going to be tight around him.
The thought only makes you wetter.
“Been aching for this all fucking semester,” he rasps, lining himself up with your slick heat. “You think you’re clever, writing papers to test me—looking me in the eye while you push and push—” His words break into a groan as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, smearing you open, teasing your entrance. “But this is what you wanted all along, huh, sweetheart? To get fucked stupid on your professor’s desk.”
“Professor—please—” The plea rips out of you before you can think, thighs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer.
Professor Barnes smirks even through the haze, and he drags his cock across your entrance again.
“You beg so pretty,” he says, voice dripping with want. “Go on. Beg your Professor to fuck you again. Beg nice, sweetheart.”
You're unsure whether he's trying to get revenge for the way you undid him, or if sex with him is always like this, but either way, you are too turned on to be embarrassed. You curl one hand around his tie, dragging him close to you, and you look into his pretty blue eyes when you say,
“Professor, please fuck me.”
That wrecks him. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your soaked cunt. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders as the desk rattles beneath you, his hands bruising your hips. He stills only long enough to feel the tight heat of you squeeze around him before his restraint snaps completely.
He fucks you hard, relentless, the desk shaking with every thrust, papers scattering to the floor around your feet. His black pants stayed half on, his shirt and vest a mess, and his tie wrapped around your hand. Professor Barnes makes no attempt to push you back onto the desk, and instead lets you pull him to you by the tie, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he thrusts into you.
“Knew you'd be so fucking tight,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple.
Each thrust drives the air out of you, his cock hitting deep, making your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his back. He hisses at the sting but fucks you harder for it, grunting into your ear.
“Pull my hair again.” This time, it's not a dare. Not a challenge. You hear it in the way his voice almost breaks on the last word—it's a request. One of his hands grips your thigh hard, and you respond by curling your fingers around his dark locks and pulling hard. Professor Barnes buries his head in your neck, muffling a moan against your skin, and his hips stutter like he’s about to lose it. One hand rests on your breast, kneading the flesh softly in contrast with his harsh thrusts, and the contact sets your skin on fire, desperate whimpers dropping from your lips like prayers from a believer.
You cling to him, moaning, writhing, and desperate, as he drives you to the edge and keeps you there, teetering but not yet letting you fall off. “So tight, so hot… you feel so good, sweetheart,” he rasps, shaking with need. “You’re going to come on my cock,” his voice breaking. “Right here—where anyone could walk in and see your precious professor ruining his star student.”
Your head falls back, a whimper tearing out of you as the desk creaks under the force of him pounding into you. His hips snap against yours, merciless, his teeth scraping your throat as his breath comes fast and ragged.
And then—inevitable, overwhelming—the tension shatters. Moans, gasps, and the two of you collapsing together in a tangled, heated mess of limbs. Your orgasm rips through you like fire, your body clenching down around him hard, your thighs trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you.
“Christ, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he says, broken, his grip tight on your thigh. “Soaking my cock like a good little student.”
Professor Barnes is barely holding it together; your walls are milking him, and the sound of his name breaking on your lips is all too much. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his release tears out of him.
“Fuck—fuck—take it—” he groans, forehead pressed to yours as his cock throbs inside you, pumping you full with every hot pulse of his cum. His whole body shakes, teeth gritted, breath coming in ragged gasps as he spills deep inside, unable to stop even if he wanted to.
He pulls you close after, lips pressing sweet, soft kisses to the length of your throat. Your fingers comb through his dark hair, not pulling anymore, just threading in places where sweat is dampening the strands.
“You really did warn me not to pull your hair, Professor,” you tease softly.
His grin widens, boyish for just a heartbeat. Then he nips at your jaw, playfully. “Good thing you didn’t listen.” Professor Barnes catches your lips, a softer kiss than before, tasting you, and a quiet gasp is breathed against your lips when he pulls away.
“Could stay like this all day,” he whispers, his beard gently scratching the skin of your chin.
You smile even as your body remains oversensitive. “Pretty sure office hours are over, Professor.”
He chuckles low, chest vibrating against yours. “Not for you.”
The tenderness lingers as he holds you, stroking your skin, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. But then his hand cups your ass firmly, voice dipping dark again as he kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t think this gets you out of trouble. That paper of yours? Still controversial. Still needs a serious discussion.”
You smirk, rolling your hips just enough to make him hiss. “Guess I’ll need a private tutoring session, then.”
Ahhhh omg I love gentleman Bucky. Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honour. NEED HIM
oh god, i do too. i wrote this in my hotel room and i'm thinking about how much i want bucky 😭.
here's a little something before i crash for the night ❤️
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni
Bucky's the kind of man who would open doors, carry your bags and kisses the back of your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He is polite to a fault—chivalrous, old-school, the kind of gentleman who calls you baby, sweetheart, darling with a softness that could melt steel.
But underneath all that clean-shaven charm and quiet smiles is something much darker. A need that simmers just beneath the surface, sharp and hungry, and so intense it borders on obsession.
Because you know what they say—gentleman in the streets, freak in the sheets—and Bucky god damn lives it.
In public, he’s all warmth and patience, touching the small of your back, pulling out your chair, kissing your hand like you’re something fragile.
But behind closed doors? He’s anything but gentle.
Because when he has you alone, the gloves come off—figuratively and literally.
That pretty mouth, the one that whispered yes, sweetheart at dinner? It’s filthy now—groaning against your inner thigh, spitting on your pussy just to watch it drip down before he licks it clean.
He doesn’t just want to make you cum. He wants to break you with it. Wants to feel you scream his name, claw at his back, sob through your orgasms until your voice gives out.
He’ll have you shaking, begging, soaking the sheets—and he’ll still ask for more.
He eats you like he’s starving, like it’s the only thing that’s ever tasted good to him. Tongue buried deep, moaning into your cunt like your pleasure is air in his fucking lungs.
He keeps you spread for him, held down and worshipped, hands gripping your thighs like he owns them.
Like he owns you.
And maybe he does—at least in that moment, when you’re crying out his name and he’s murmuring, “That’s it, princess, just like that. Gimme another. I need it.”
He doesn't just want you to cum—he needs it. Treats your orgasms like they're sacred, like his purpose is to bring you to your edge, over and over, until you're trembling and slick and gasping into his shoulder, and even then, he doesn’t stop.
God, he can’t stop. Not until you’re spent and messy and ruined, soaked thighs draped over his shoulders and voice hoarse from your pretty cries.
Don't even get me started on the way he fucks you.
It’s brutal. Raw. Like he’s been starved of you for too damn long and now that he’s got you under him, he’s going to devour you from the inside out.
He slams into you, thick cock stretching you wide, splitting you open with every desperate, punishing stroke. He keeps one hand wrapped around your throat, anchoring you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.
His other hand is everywhere—gripping your ass, spreading your legs wider, shoving them up until your knees are almost hitting your chest so he can get deeper. Just so he can hit that spot that makes your vision blur.
“Listen to you,” he grits out, lips brushing your ear as your soaked cunt sucks him in again and again. “Dripping all over my cock. Fuckin’ obsessed with it, aren’t you?”
And you are. You can’t even deny it—not with the way you’re clenching around him, begging without words, just breathy little whimpers and moans that only make him fuck you harder.
His hips are relentless, slapping into you with wet, obscene sounds, his balls tight and heavy against your ass as he drives in so deep it feels like he’s fucking you right into the mattress.
He doesn’t stop when you cum.
Fuck, he barely slows down—just grins, wicked and dark, as you tremble beneath him, whining from the overstimulation.
“That’s one sweetheart,” he mutters, dragging his cock out just enough to watch your slick coat him before slamming back in. “You’ve got more in you. Gonna fuck you until you forget how to fucking breathe.”
Clint tossed you a granola bar during a debriefing because you looked “snacky,” and your eyes lit up like you’d just been offered ambrosia by Zeus himself.
You didn’t even unwrap it with your hands. Just bit through the wrapper like a goblin and chewed it with terrifying delight.
That should’ve been the warning.
But no. Instead—
“Aw,” Clint cooed. “You’re adorable when you’re chewing. Look at you—fluffy menace.”
You purred at him. Loudly.
“Dangerous game, Barton,” Bucky muttered from across the table.
Clint waved him off. “C’mon. How bad could it be?”
Twelve hours later, Clint wakes up to find you curled at the foot of his bed in full fox form. You’re using one tail as a pillow and your ears perk up when he moves.
He blinks. “Uh… hi?”
You blink back, then chirp, “Hi, Snack Dad.”
He panics. “Wait, no. Nononono—don’t imprint on me.”
You purr louder. you stick to Clint for three days asking for pets and specially to be fed again and again.
Steve catches you next.
He gives you a cookie, just one. One perfectly innocent oatmeal raisin cookie because you looked cold and a little pouty after training.
You take it, devour it in two bites, then nuzzle under his chin and declare sweetly:
“You smell like responsibility. And cinnamon.”
Steve flushes pink from hairline to shirt collar and doesn’t stop you when you curl a tail around his waist.
From that day forward, you purr every time he walks into a room with baked goods, and he’s too Midwestern to tell you no.
Bucky Barnes, however, knows better.
He has been resisting you since day one, fending off your flirty remarks, smug tails, sleepy fox cuddles, and “accidental” glamor tricks like a battle-hardened nonchalant soldier with actual PTSD.
So when he sees you sitting in the common room, eyes locked on his protein bar like it’s a sacred offering, he knows this is a trap.
You tilt your head.
He doesn’t move.
You inch closer.
He sighs. “I’m not feeding you.”
You blink innocently. “Just a bite?”
“No.”
“Pleeeease?” you plead.
“No.”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you say sweetly, “if you feed me, I’ll purr.”
His eye twitches.
He throws the protein bar at you. “Fine. But this means nothing.”
Five minutes later, you’re sitting in his lap in fox form, smugly munching the bar while curled in a perfect spiral against his chest.
You lick his jaw once in thanks. He chokes. “Why.”
“You’re my Crunchy Daddy now.”
“WHAT.” Bucky, Shocked and flustered with the nickname.
You purr. Loudly.
He turns bright red. Steve walks by, sipping coffee. “Told you not to feed her, man.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “I gave her one protein bar.”
“That’s all it takes,” Clint says, walking by with a trail of granola wrappers in his wake. “I haven’t had personal space in three days.”
From the hallway, Tony yells, “I’m making signs! Big ones! Neon! DO NOT FEED THE FOX!”
You just stretch lazily in Bucky’s lap, nine tails fanned across his body like a victory flag, and purr so loud it rattles his ribs.
