welcome to... flushedmilk! ♡
zoe. she/her. bucky barnes enthusiast. tayriana supremacy. clark kent lover. writer. chronic yearner. ISTP.
will write: smut, angst, fluff, au's, rant, chaos
18+ only!!!! minors DNI. reqs open !!
masterlist coming soon!!
Today's Document

Discoholic 🪩
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Andulka

Janaina Medeiros
cherry valley forever
Three Goblin Art
taylor price
Peter Solarz
Cosimo Galluzzi

roma★

if i look back, i am lost
tumblr dot com

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AnasAbdin
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sheepfilms
will byers stan first human second

seen from France

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@flushedmilk
welcome to... flushedmilk! ♡
zoe. she/her. bucky barnes enthusiast. tayriana supremacy. clark kent lover. writer. chronic yearner. ISTP.
will write: smut, angst, fluff, au's, rant, chaos
18+ only!!!! minors DNI. reqs open !!
masterlist coming soon!!
ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: bucky barnes x fem!reader ᴡᴄ: 2061 ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: fluff, no use of y/n, established relationship, reader doesnt look exactly like picture—shes just in that exact outfit!, bucky showing that he was clearly born in the early 1900s, reader is early to mid 20s ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you decide that it would be fun to teach your super old boyfriend some modern slang ᴀ/ɴ— how cute is this 🥹 also im kinda consistent ayeee #newperson (also this was very much not proofread)
Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched as he polished a set of vintage dog tags—a nervous habit he’d never quite kicked. He looked up as you breezed into the living room, the bright pink of your sweater clashing magnificently with the moody lighting of his apartment.
"You look... nice," he settled on, his voice a low gravel. "That's a lot of pink. Reminds me of a taffy shop in Brooklyn, back before the war."
You grinned, popping a hip. "Thanks, Buck. I’m feeling very cutesy today. Honestly? I think I’m eating."
Bucky froze. The rag stopped moving against the metal tags. He blinked slowly, his brow furrowing in that way that usually meant he was calculating a tactical retreat or trying to remember if he’d left the stove on.
"You don’t have any food?"
You stifled a laugh, watching the genuine concern wash over his face. He actually started to lean forward, his eyes scanning the room as if a sandwich might manifest out of thin air to save you from your apparent starvation.
"No, Buck," you giggled, walking over to him. "I mean, I did have lunch, but that's not what I meant. 'Eating' means I look good. Like, I’m doing a great job with the outfit. I’m consuming the competition."
Bucky stared at you for a long beat, the gears visibly grinding behind his blue eyes. He looked down at your pink cable-knit sleeves, then back up at your face, his expression deadpan.
"You're consuming the competition," he repeated slowly, his older Brooklyn accent making the modern phrase sound like a line from a dry military briefing. "By wearing a sweater the color of a strawberry milkshake?"
"Exactly! You’re getting it."
He let out a huff that was half-sigh, half-chuckle, turning back to his dog tags. "In my day, if you said someone was 'eating,' it meant they had a fork in their hand. If you looked 'swell,' you just... looked swell. You didn't have to pretend to be a cannibal."
"It's about the energy, Bucky," you said, dropping onto the cushion next to him and leaning your head on his shoulder. "Like, if I said this outfit was 'serving,' what would you think?"
Bucky didn't even look up this time; he just closed his eyes for a second, looking weary. "I'd ask you where the tray was and if there was any pie on it."
He shifted his metal arm, the plates whirring softly as he tucked it around your waist to pull you closer.
"I think," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, warm register he reserved only for you, "that you're 'eating' just fine. Even if the English language is apparently falling apart one word at a time."
He paused, a tiny, mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Does that mean if I like your shoes, I have to say you're... having a snack?"
You stared at him for a full second before bursting into giggles. “No, silly! Just say you like my shoes, duh.”
"See? That’s exactly what I mean," he muttered, though he couldn't hide the way his eyes softened at the sound of your laughter. "One minute it’s all 'eating' and 'serving,' and the next, plain English is back in style. It’s enough to give a guy whiplash."
He set the dog tags down on the coffee table and shifted, fully turning his body toward you. His human hand came up, calloused fingers gently tugging at the hem of your pink sleeve.
"Okay, hotshot," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Since I’m apparently an 'antique' who needs a manual to talk to his own girlfriend... give it to me straight. What else? If you look 'cutesy' and you're 'eating,' what happens if I look good? Am I... fermenting? Am I a buffet?"
You snorted, leaning back against his chest. "No! But if you wore that leather jacket I like, I’d probably say you had 'aura.'"
Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. "Aura? Like a ghost? Or those people who think they can see your mood in colors?"
"Sort of! It’s like... a vibe. You just have this presence. Like you’re cool without trying."
He was quiet for a second, processing. He looked down at his plain black t-shirt and then over at his metal hand resting on your hip. He looked back at you, a genuine, confused frown creasing his forehead.
"Doll, I’m a hundred-year-old man who spends his Friday nights polishing pieces of tin and wondering why the milk tastes different than it did in 1942," he said flatly. "I don't think I have 'aura.' I think I have a library card and a bad back."
"That is exactly why you have aura, Bucky. The mystery? The brooding? It’s very... demure. Very mindful."
Bucky let out a long, pained groan, dropping his head back against the couch cushions. "Demure? I know that one. My Ma used to use it. But I have a feeling the way you're using it involves me being confused for another twenty minutes."
He pulled you closer, his chin resting on top of your head, smelling of peppermint and gun oil. "Just promise me one thing," he murmured into your hair. "Don't ever tell Steve he has 'aura.' His head is already big enough as it is."
You laughed against his chest, the vibration of his soft chuckle rumbling through his ribs. "Deal. No telling Steve he has aura. But honestly, Sam might already be telling him that just to mess with him."
Bucky let out a low grunt, his calloused thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of your pink sleeve. "Sam uses words I don't understand just to see the vein in my forehead pop. I don't need the two of you teaming up." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the small hallway that led to the bedroom, then back to your outfit. "So, where are you taking this 'consuming the competition' look anyway? Are we staying in, or are you showing off the strawberry milkshake to the rest of the world?"
"I was thinking we could walk down to that bakery on the corner," you said, tilting your head up to look at him. "Get some of those lemon bars you like. Unless you're too busy being an antique."
Bucky rolled his eyes, but the fond smile on his face gave him away. "Alright, alright. Let me grab my jacket."
He pushed himself up from the couch with a soft, dramatic groan that completely justified his earlier comment about his back. He disappeared into the bedroom for a minute, returning with his dark leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He slid his arms into it, the dark leather instantly making him look like the lethal, devastatingly handsome super-soldier he was. He caught you staring and raised a single, challenging eyebrow.
"Well?" he asked, his voice dripping with dry humor as he zipped it up halfway. "How's the... what did you call it? The ghost energy?"
"Aura," you corrected, biting back a smile as you stood up. "And honestly, Buck? It's off the charts. You're practically glowing."
"Great. Fantastic. I'm a glowing hundred-year-old," he muttered, though he held the apartment door open for you with a courtly, old-school sweep of his arm.
The spring air outside was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the apartment building. As you walked down the bustling Brooklyn sidewalk, Bucky automatically shifted to the street side—a protective habit from the 1940s that he’d never dropped, no matter how many times you told him the sidewalk was perfectly safe. He kept his gloved left hand tucked in his pocket, but his right hand slipped into yours, his fingers warm and reassuringly solid.
When you reached the bakery, the sweet aroma of powdered sugar and fresh bread hit you instantly. The place was relatively quiet, save for a teenager behind the counter who looked entirely drained by their shift.
You ordered two lemon bars and a coffee, and Bucky reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. As he handed the cash to the teenager, he gave them a polite, tight-lipped nod.
"Thank you," Bucky said, his deep voice carrying that distinct, old-school Brooklyn rhythm. He took the brown paper bag of pastries, looked at you, and then turned back to the cashier. With a completely straight face, his blue eyes deadpan and unwavering, he added, "The service here is very... mindful. Very demure."
The teenager blinked, instantly snapping out of their bored trance, their eyes widening as they processed the rugged, leather-jacket-wearing man using TikTok slang.
You bit your lip so hard it hurt, desperately trying to suffocate the laugh building in your throat. You grabbed Bucky’s arm and practically dragged him out the door before you burst.
"Bucky!" you gasped the second the bakery door clicked shut, letting out a wild laugh. "Oh my god, you did not just say that to them."
Bucky walked alongside you, a look of supreme, smug satisfaction washing over his features. He didn't even crack a smile, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead as he popped a piece of a lemon bar into his mouth.
"What?" he asked innocently, though the spark in his eyes gave him away completely. "I was being polite. I'm adapting to the modern era, doll. I think I did a great job." He chewed thoughtfully for a second before glancing down at you. "Honestly? I think I'm eating."
You nearly choked on your own breath, a loud snort escaping you as you stopped dead in your tracks on the sidewalk.
"Bucky, no!" you wailed, covering your face with both hands, though your shoulders were shaking with laughter. "That is not how you use it! You can't just say you're eating after you actually ate a lemon bar!"
Bucky stopped a few paces ahead of you, turning around with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. The smugness radiating off him was heavy enough to have its own zip code. He took another deliberate bite of the pastry, chewed, and shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Seems pretty literal to me, doll," he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. "I look good in the jacket. The food is good. I am currently consuming it. Therefore: I’m eating. I’m serving the lemon bars."
"Stop, stop, please, my lungs," you gasped, walking up to him and burying your face in the front of his leather jacket. The familiar scent of leather, peppermint, and a hint of gun oil surrounded you, grounding you even as you laughed so hard your eyes watered.
His human arm wound around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of your head, and you could feel the rumble of his deep chuckle against your cheek.
"See? I'm a natural," Bucky murmured into your hair, his tone dropping back into that sweet, private warmth that was meant only for you. "Give me another week, and I'll be teaching Steve how to have... whatever it is. The color mood."
"Aura," you mumbled into his chest.
"Right. Aura." He squeezed you gently, his fingers pressing into the soft pink fabric of your sweater. "But seriously. Thanks for dragging me out. And for... whatever the hell we just did in there."
You tilted your head up to look at him, reaching up to adjust the collar of his jacket. "Anytime, Buck. You gotta stay current if you're gonna keep up with me."
Bucky looked down at you, his blue eyes softening in a way that made your heart do a little flip. The playful, smug soldier melted away, leaving just the man who loved you more than anything in this century or the last. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his thumb tracing the side of your hip.
"I think I'm doing just fine keeping up," he whispered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. He started leading you back down the sidewalk toward the apartment, his hand securely holding yours. "Come on. Let's get back before my hundred-year-old back actually gives out. And you can explain to me what a 'snack' is, because I'm still convinced it involves a plate."
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked together through the Brooklyn twilight, perfectly content.
ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʏᴍᴇɴᴛ?
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: landlord!bucky barnes x tenant!reader ᴡᴄ: 6.9k ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: 18++ {minors dni!!!}, smut, fem!reader, dom!bucky, riding, face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, lots and lots of hickeys, oral (f!m!receiving), spit kink, bigdick!bucky, reader secretly being freaky as hell, bucky being in love with reader for monthsssss, panty stealing ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you're behind on your rent, but you haven't got paid yet. and your oh so sweet landlord, gives you another option for payment ᴀ/ɴ— ayeeee first smut do u guys like it plssss like it or ill be embarrassed (not proof read!)
You had such a long day at work today. Customers at the bar were just… something else. Everyone seemed to forget about boundaries and personal space. You were also not supposed to work today, but your coworker, Karina, begged you to take her place because she "wasn't feeling good,” but you know she was with her boyfriend.
You got home around 10pm, already annoyed and wanting to just relax. Unfortunately someone else had different plans.
When you got home you noticed a paper sticking halfway in you door. Your heart sunk. You knew you were behind on rent, but your landlord would never evict you… right? You grabbed the paper and unlocked the door—scared to open the paper and see the big red words.
Once you settled in, change of clothes, locking the door and windows, shutting the curtains—you finally grabbed the envelope and opened it. You finally breathed once you realized it was just a reminder for rent.
You hung it up on your corkboard near the fridge. You obviously knew you needed to pay rent—but your manager was being an absolute pain in the ass. She hasn’t paid you for last weeks check either. It’s not that she was planning to fire you—you were her best worker—she claimed she “hasn’t found the time.”
You explained your situation to your landlord, and he’s been supportive. He said you can take your time—but it was clear he didn’t know it was going to take 2 weeks after rent was due.
Once you finally sat on the couch and put on a good show—there was 3 knocks on the door. You groaned and stood up, walking over to the door. Once you opened it, all your annoyance was gone, it was your landlord.
“Hi, Mr. Barnes.” You said, feeling your heart beat even faster—was he about to evict you? No, he couldn’t. Right? He barely gave you the notice.
“Hey. You get the paper?” His voice was husky, his hands were in his jacket pockets.
“Uh, yes sir. I’m sorry. My manager still hasn’t paid me. I’ve been begging and nagging her and—”
“It’s okay.” He cut you off, raising a hand slightly. “Just wanted to talk about how much longer you have until I… need to send an eviction notice.”
“Oh.” Your heart sank. You swallowed and stepped aside, allowing him to walk in. “Come in.”
Bucky stepped inside, the familiar scent of his leather jacket and something crisp—like pine—immediately filling your small living room. It was a sharp contrast to the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume that usually clung to you after a shift. He didn't sit down; he just stood near the couch, looking more like a permanent fixture of the building than a guest.
"I don't want to evict you," he said, his voice low, eyes tracking you as you nervously smoothed out your sweatpants. "You know that. But the owners... they're breathing down my neck. They see the zeros on the spreadsheet, and they don't care about 'manager troubles.'"
You leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms. The exhaustion was making you bold, or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you—not like a landlord, but like a man who had been thinking about this conversation for a long time.
"I'm doing my best, Bucky," you sighed, dropping the 'Mr. Barnes' for a moment. "I took my coworker’s shift today just to get the extra tips. I’m exhausted. I’m stressed. And I really don't want to be homeless."
He took a step closer, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He looked around the room, his gaze landing on the corkboard where the notice was pinned. "I’ve been patient. Two weeks is a long time."
He turned back to you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something dark and intense in his blue eyes. The air in the room felt thicker, warmer.
"I was thinking," he started, his voice dropping an octave as he closed the remaining distance between you. He placed a hand on the counter right next to your hip, effectively pinning you in place. "Maybe we can find another way to settle the balance. Something that doesn't involve your manager’s checkbook."
You felt a thrill run down your. You didn't pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, meeting his gaze with a look that was far more daring than he probably expected from his "sweet" tenant.
"Another way?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "What did you have in mind... sir?"
He didn't move his hand from the counter. Instead, he leaned in closer, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. The "sweet landlord" persona was officially gone, replaced by the man who had spent months watching you walk into the building from his window, counting the minutes until you were safe inside.
“Maybe you could… do something for me?” He asked, his voice dipping lower. His hand was close enough to you that he could reach his thumb out and stroke your hip.
“Like what?” Your voice suddenly seemed so small. You swallowed—the many thoughts of what could happen rummaging through your mind.
“You have sensitive knees?” He asked, throwing you off guard.
“My… knees? I guess so, why?” You searched his eyes, looking for any hint about what was about to happen.
“Get on ‘em.” He said, eyes dark with hunger.
Your eyes went wide, but you didn’t make him say it again. You got down on your knees and gathered your hair on one side—ready for what was next.
The shift in the room is instantaneous. As you sink to the floor, the cold linoleum of the kitchen tile bites into your knees, but the sensation is nothing compared to the heat radiating off Bucky. From this new vantage point, he looks even more imposing—towering over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the dim light of the apartment.
"Good girl," he rumbles, the praise vibrating deep in his chest.
He slowly pulls his hand away from the counter, but he doesn't reach for you yet. Instead, he takes off his leather jacket, the material creaking in the silence of the room. He throws it onto the couch, revealing the way his shirt stretches across his frame.
He takes a small step forward, his boots clicking against the floor until he’s standing right in front of you. You’re at eye level with the buckle of his belt now. The air smells like rain and anticipation.
"Now," he says, reaching down to tilt your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye. "I want you to show me just how much you want to keep this apartment. Show me exactly what you're willing to do to make sure I don't sign that notice."
You nodded, hands reaching up for his belt buckle. You unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, pulling the zipper down. Once his pants were pooled around his ankles, you were directly in front of his cock—which was now straining against his boxers.
"I've been dreaming about this since the day you moved in," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly growl. "Watching you come home late, wondering if you'd ever let me get this close. You have no idea how much trouble you’re in."
He didn't wait for a response. He reached down and gripped your chin, his thumb pressing firmly against your bottom lip until you were forced to open your mouth for him. The proximity was overwhelming—the heat radiating off his body, the scent of leather and spice, and the sheer power he held over you in this position.
He shifted his weight, his presence looming over you like a shadow. "Use your hands. Use your mouth. I want you to make me forget about that rent check entirely."
You nodded as best as you could. Once he retracted his hand, you lifted yours up to hook into the waistband of his boxers. Once you peeled them down, your mouth watered at the size of him. He was big. Big. The veins on his cock were standing out extremely. The tip was red and already leaking with precum.
The sight of him, thick and pulsing in the dim kitchen light, sent a jolt of pure heat straight to your core. You didn't hesitate; you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick the bead of precum from the tip, tasting the salt and the promise of what was to come. Bucky let out a choked, guttural sound, his hips jerking involuntarily toward you.
You wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, your fingers barely meeting around the sheer girth of him. You started slow, swirling your tongue around the sensitive rim of his head before taking him into your mouth. The heat of your throat against his cock was an immediate shock to his system. You pushed further, feeling the thick, veined length slide past your lips, your cheeks hollowing as you began to suck him with a rhythmic, desperate hunger.
Bucky’s hands immediately found your hair, his fingers tangling deep in the strands. He wasn't gentle anymore; he was guiding your head, his breathing coming in jagged, heavy hitches that echoed off the cabinets.
"God, you're so warm," he hissed, his voice breaking as you increased the suction, your tongue flicking against the underside of his shaft.
Every time you went deep, the back of your throat hit the broad head of his cock, making his knees buckle slightly. You looked up at him through your lashes, watching his eyes roll back, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck were straining. You were making Mr. Barnes completely unravel, and the power of it felt incredible.
You sped up, your hand pumping his base while your mouth worked frantically over the top, the wet, slurping sounds of your mouth filling the quiet apartment. Bucky’s grip in your hair tightened, pulling you even closer until you were buried against him, his hips beginning to roll in a slow, demanding grind that told you he was reaching his limit.
The friction of your mouth against his burning skin was relentless, the sound of your frantic, wet suction echoing off the cold kitchen tiles. Bucky’s breath had turned into a series of jagged, ragged hitches as he looked down at you, his pupils so blown they nearly swallowed the blue of his irises. Your hand was a tight, slick vice around his base, milking the thick, throbbing length of him while your tongue lashed at the sensitive underside of his head, driving him to the absolute brink of his sanity.
"F-fuck," he choked out, his voice a raw, primal rasp. He let go of the counter entirely, both hands now diving into your hair, his knuckles white as he guided your head with a desperate, forceful rhythm. He was no longer just the landlord collecting a debt; he was a man completely undone by the heat of your throat. You took him deeper, pushing past the initial reflex until the broad, rounded head of his cock was buried against the back of your throat, the sheer girth of him stretching your lips to their limit.
He began to thrust back, his hips snapping forward in a sharp, demanding motion that forced you to swallow him whole again and again. The taste of his salt and the slick, sticky trail of his precum coated your tongue, making your own arousal spike until you were soaking through your underwear. You looked up at him, your eyes watering from the depth of him, and saw the raw hunger on his face—the mask of the "sweet" neighbor had shattered completely, leaving only a dark, possessive need.
"Take it all," he growled, his voice vibrating through the crown of your head as his thrusts became more frantic, more uncontrolled. "Show me what a good little tenant you are. Suck every drop out of me."
A hot, thick jet of his cum hit the back of your throat, followed immediately by another, and another. You didn't pull away; you stayed right there, your throat working to swallow the heavy, salty cream as he filled your mouth. Bucky let out a long, guttural moan that sounded like a prayer, his hands shaking in your hair as he slumped slightly, the raw power of the release leaving him breathless and reeling. He stayed buried in your mouth for several long seconds, his pulse still thrumming against your tongue, marking the exact moment the debt was settled and something much more dangerous had begun.
He finally slid out of your mouth with a pop sound—a string of your spit mixed with his cum being drug out. Bucky stood over you, his chest heaving as he stared down at the mess you’d made of him. He looked completely wrecked, his usual composure shattered by the way you’d just taken every drop of him. He reached down, his thumb catching that thick, pearly string at the corner of your mouth and smearing it across your bottom lip, forcing you to taste him all over again.
He let out a low, dark chuckle when he saw the dazed, blown-out look in your eyes. The power dynamic in the room had shifted permanently. The rent notice was still pinned to the board behind you, but it felt like a lifetime ago that you were worried about a check.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, he let his fingers linger on your jaw, his touch possessive and heavy. “You look so ruined… I haven’t even done my best yet. Stand up.” You stood up, your thighs sticky with your own arousal.
“Go to your room.” He demanded, stepping out of his pants and pulling up his boxers. You nodded eagerly and made your way to your room. He then called out, “And strip.” So once you got to your room—you stripped. You discarded your shirt and sweatpants, being left in only your lingerie. You debated whether to keep them on, or go fully nude. You quickly made your mind up, sliding your panties down and into a pile, and unhooking your bra and tossing it on the floor.
Standing in the center of your bedroom, the cool air of the apartment felt like a caress against your bare, heated skin. Your pulse was a frantic rhythm in your throat, and your body felt sensitized to every shadow and sound. You heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots approaching, and then the door creaked open. Bucky stood in the threshold, having discarded his shirt as well. His bare chest was a landscape of solid muscle and dark hair, and the sight of him—half-undressed, and looking at you with a hunger that felt predatory—made your knees feel weak all over again.
His eyes swept over you, taking in every inch of your naked form, from the flush on your chest to the dampness between your thighs. A dark, possessive smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I knew you’d be a quick study," he rumbled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly low. He didn't just walk toward you; he stalked, his movements fluid and predatory until he was standing directly in your space.
He reached out, his large, rough hand wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. The friction of his skin against yours was electric. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Now, let's see just how much of a mess I can make of you," he hissed. He lowered himself onto the edge of your bed, sitting back and spreading his legs wide, exposing the massive, pulsing tent in his boxers that was already soaked through with fresh precum.
He looked up at you, his blue eyes dark with an unholy intensity. "You want to settle that rent? I want to see that pretty little pussy of yours up close. I want to feel exactly how wet you are for me." He reached up, his fingers digging into your hips as he guided you toward him. "Climb up. I want you to straddle my face. I want to taste every bit of that heat while you grind yourself into my mouth."
You didn't hesitate. You stepped over his thick, muscular thighs, the heat radiating off him making your head spin. As you lowered yourself, your slick, swollen folds hovered just inches above his mouth. The scent of your own arousal, heavy and sweet, filled the air between you. Bucky groaned, a deep, guttural sound of anticipation, as he reached up to grab your ass, his thumbs hooked into the creases of your thighs to pull you down.
"Sit on it," he growled, his breath hot against your soaking wet slit. "I want you to ride my face until you're screaming for me."
You didn't need to be told twice. You lowered yourself slowly, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs rubbing against his stubbled cheeks until your soaking wet heat finally made contact with his mouth. The sensation was an absolute shock—the contrast of his hot, rough tongue against your slick, swollen folds made your back arch instantly.
"Oh, god, Bucky," you gasped, your voice breaking as you gripped his broad shoulders for balance.
Bucky didn't waste a second. He buried his face into you, his nose pushing deep into your clit while his tongue began to lash at you with a heavy, rhythmic force. He wasn't being gentle; he was eating you out with a starving intensity, his hands squeezing your ass cheeks and pulling you down harder against his face. You could feel the stubble on his jaw grazing your sensitive skin, adding a delicious, stinging friction to the overwhelming wetness of his tongue.
You began to move your hips, grinding your clit against his mouth in a slow, desperate circle. "Yes—right there, please," you whimpered, your head tossing back as you felt his tongue flicker over your opening before darting back up to tease your nub. You were becoming a vocal mess, your moans filling the quiet bedroom, punctuated by the wet, slapping sounds of your pussy meeting his face.
Bucky let out a muffled growl against your skin, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still so he could go deeper. He started to use long, firm strokes, laving you from bottom to top, drinking in the overflow of your arousal. You were so slick that every movement felt like sliding over velvet and fire.
"You're so loud for me," he rumbled, the vibration of his voice buzzing right through your clit, sending a fresh wave of electricity through your nerves. "Keep making those sounds. I want to hear exactly how much you like this."
You increased the pace, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. You were riding him hard now, your hands moving from his shoulders to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as you forced yourself down even firmer. The scent of your own sex was heavy in the air, mixed with the smell of his skin, and it was driving you over the edge.
"I'm—I'm gonna..." you trailed off, your voice high and thin. You felt your muscles begin to twitch and tighten, the pressure building into a tight, unbearable knot. Bucky sensed it, too; he intensified his focus, his tongue working frantically, his suction turning into a vacuum that threatened to pull your soul right out of you.
"Cum for me," he commanded against your wet skin, his voice dark and demanding. "Flood my face with it. Show your landlord how much you appreciate the extension."
The command in his voice was the final straw. You slammed your hips down, burying his face so deep in your soaking heat that his muffled groans were lost against your skin. Your walls were already beginning to spasm, clamping down in tight, rhythmic pulses that milked the very air.
"Bucky—fuck—I’m—" You couldn't even finish the sentence, your voice breaking into a high, keening wail as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you.
You ground yourself into him, your clit buzzing with an electric intensity as his tongue flicked faster and faster, relentless in its assault. You were completely vocal now, screaming his name as your pussy began to drench his mouth and nose in a hot, sweet flood of your release. The sheer volume of your squirt coated his beard and jaw, dripping down his chin, but he didn't pull away for a second. Instead, he lunged upward, his mouth opening wide to catch as much of you as he could, swallowing the heavy, slick cream of your climax.
"That's it, give it all to me," he growled against your thrumming folds, the vibration making you sob.
Your legs were shaking so violently you thought you might collapse, but his massive hands were like iron clamps on your hips, keeping you pinned to his face while your body wrung itself out. Every twitch of your inner muscles was met with a firm, laving stroke of his tongue, making sure you felt every agonizingly perfect second of the comedown.
The room smelled entirely of you—of sex and sweat and the raw, heavy musk of Bucky’s own growing desperation. When you finally slumped forward, your chest heaving against his bare shoulder, he stayed right there for a moment, breathing in the scent of your satisfaction.
He slowly pulled back, his face a glistening, wet mess. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with a terrifyingly possessive pride. He reached up and wiped a streak of your juices from his lip, then slowly licked his thumb clean, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You're a goddamn mess," he rasped, his voice sounding more like a predator’s than a man’s. "And we're just getting started. I haven't even gotten what I really came here for yet."
He gripped your waist and sat up, the bed creaking under the sudden weight. You were now in his lap, the only barrier between you guys being his boxers.
Bucky’s hands were large and warm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist as he pulled you flush against him. With every ragged breath he took, you felt the heavy, throbbing heat of his cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing right into your still-aching, hypersensitive center. The friction was maddening—the rough cotton rubbing against your swollen, soaking wet lips with every small shift of your hips.
He leaned in, his nose brushing against your neck as he inhaled the scent of your release. "You’re so wet for me," he growled, the vibration of his voice rattling through your entire body. "I can feel you soaking right through these."
He didn't wait for you to answer. He tilted your head back, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your shoulder and biting down just hard enough to leave a mark—a dark, purple brand that would remind you exactly who you belonged to when you looked in the mirror tomorrow. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands as you ground your crotch down against him, desperate for the barrier to be gone.
"Please, Bucky," you whimpered, your voice thick with a need that made the rent notice feel like a distant memory. "I need you. Now."
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a dark, predatory smirk playing on his lips. "You need your landlord, do you?" He reached down, his thumb hooking into the waistband of his boxers. "Then show me how much you're willing to take. Because once I'm inside, I'm not stopping until I've claimed every cent of what you owe me."
Bucky didn't make you wait another second. He gripped the waistband of his boxers and shoved them down his muscular thighs, kicking them off his feet until he was completely bare beneath you. His cock sprang free, thick and angry-red, the heavy head slicked with a fresh coating of precum that glistened in the lamplight. You gasped at the sheer size of him up close, but before you could pull back, his hands were on your hips like iron vices.
He guided you upward, lifting your hips until the broad, pulsing head of his cock was lined up perfectly with your soaking wet opening. You hovered there for a heartbeat, the heat radiating off him making your head swim. Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, you began to lower yourself.
"Fuck," Bucky choked out, his head snapping back as you took the first few inches. You were so tight, so incredibly hot, that the sensation felt like being swallowed by fire. You eased down further, your walls stretching and molding around his impressive girth. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling onto his shoulder as you finally bottomed out, taking every bit of his length until your pubic bones slammed together.
Bucky didn't let you rest. His mouth immediately found the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he began to suck a deep, dark hickey into the junction of your neck and shoulder. He was marking you—territorial and rough—ensuring that every time you looked in a mirror, you’d remember exactly how you paid your debt.
"Move for me," he hissed against your skin, his hands digging into your ass cheeks to help you find a rhythm.
You began to rise and fall, your movements slow and syrupy at first. The wet, slapping sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by the high-pitched whimpers leaving your throat. As you gained confidence, you started to grind your hips in a circular motion, your clit rubbing against his base with every downward stroke.
"Oh god, Bucky... you're so big," you cried out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your nails leaving red crescents in his skin. "I can feel you... everywhere."
"I want you to feel nothing else," he rasped, moving his mouth to the other side of your neck to start a fresh mark. He began to thrust upward to meet your descents, his heavy balls slapping against you with a rhythmic, carnal sound. He was relentless, his cock hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your toes curl and your vision go blurry.
You were becoming a vocal wreck, your voice rising in pitch with every fast, shallow breath. "Please... harder... Bucky, please!"
He obliged, his hands moving from your ass to your waist, holding you steady as he increased the pace. You were riding him hard now, your hair flying around your face, your breasts bouncing with the force of the movement. The scent of sex was thick, a heady mix of your sweetness and his raw, masculine musk.
Bucky let out a guttural, animalistic sound, his chest heaving against yours. He wasn't close to finishing yet; he was savoring the torture of your tight, wet heat. He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark with a terrifying level of lust as he watched your face contort with pleasure.
"Look at you," he panted, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs smearing the tears of pleasure from your cheeks. "My favorite little tenant. Screaming my name while I'm buried deep inside you. You think you're gonna be able to look me in the eye tomorrow morning?"
You couldn't even answer. Another wave of pleasure was building, tighter and sharper than the last. Your internal muscles began to seize around him, milking his length with desperate, involuntary pulses. You threw your head back, your throat exposed and covered in the dark marks he’d left, as you prepared to shatter for the second time that night.
The pressure inside you was unbearable, a coiled spring of pure electricity that Bucky was winding tighter with every brutal, upward thrust. Your vision went white as your walls clamped down on him, milking his thick, veined length with desperate, rhythmic spasms. You screamed his name, the sound tearing from your lungs as you collapsed against his chest, your body vibrating with the force of a second, even more violent climax.
Bucky didn't slow down for a heartbeat. He thrived on your undone state, his hands moving from your waist to the back of your neck, pulling you in so he could bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. He began to suck and bite at the sensitive skin there, adding to the map of dark, bruised hickeys already blooming across your collarbone and throat. The sharp sting of his teeth combined with the over-sensitized heat of your orgasm made you sob into his ear.
"That's it, sweetheart," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that you felt deep in your chest. "Give it all to me. Soak me in it."
He gripped your hips and lifted you slightly, just enough to change the angle so he could ram himself deeper into your cervix. You were a sobbing, vocal mess, your fingers tangled in his hair as you tried to keep up with the pace he was setting. Every time you bottomed out on him, a wet, squelching sound filled the room, the scent of your combined fluids heavy and intoxicating.
"Bucky—please—I can’t—it’s too much," you whimpered, your head rolling back.
"It’s exactly enough," he countered, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he moved down to mark the other side of your neck, his tongue laving the skin before he sucked hard enough to leave a permanent reminder of the night.
Suddenly, he gripped your waist with a strength that left no room for argument. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted you off his lap. Before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back in the center of the bed. The mattress bounced under your weight, and before you could even spread your legs, Bucky was there, looming over you like a shadow.
He grabbed your ankles and shoved your knees up toward your chest, exposing your soaking, swollen entrance to the cool air for only a second before he dived back in. He didn't ease into it this time; he drove his entire length home in one heavy, punishing stroke that knocked the wind out of you.
"F-fuck!" you cried out, your hands clutching the bedsheets until the fabric threatened to tear.
He was relentless now, his hands pinning your wrists above your head as he began to jackhammer into you. This was the raw, unbridled power of the man who had been pining for you for months—just a man claiming what he felt was his. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours as he continued to pepper your chest and neck with rough, bruising kisses, his mouth never staying in one place for long.
"Look at me," he commanded, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "I want you to remember this every time you see me in the hall. Every time you walk past my door. You’re mine now. You hear me?"
You could only nod, your voice gone as you surrendered to the rhythmic, wet slapping of his skin against yours. You were reaching another peak, your body tightening around him as he pushed himself faster and faster, his own composure finally beginning to fracture as he prepared to settle the debt for good.
The mattress groaned under the rhythmic, violent force of his weight as Bucky drove himself into you with a primal, unrelenting focus. Your legs were draped over his broad shoulders now, exposing every inch of your dripping, swollen heat to his predatory gaze. With every heavy, wet thud of his hips against yours, you felt the air leave your lungs in a high-pitched, broken keen. He was hitting your cervix with every deep, punishing shove, sending shocks of pure, unadulterated pleasure through your spine that made your toes curl and your fingers claw at the sweat-slicked sheets.
"You’re so tight," Bucky hissed, his voice a raw, jagged rasp of a man who had reached his breaking point. He leaned down, his massive frame pinning you into the mattress as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't just kiss you; he was devouring you, his teeth grazing your pulse point before he sucked a fresh, dark-purple bruise into your skin. He moved to your collarbone, then your chest, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, stinging hickeys that marked you as his property from the waist up.
Your head tossed from side to side, your hair a tangled mess across the pillows. "Bucky—please—I’m gonna—" You couldn't even finish the thought before another wave of climax began to build, tighter and more demanding than anything you’d felt before. Your internal muscles were seizing around his girth, milking him with desperate, involuntary pulses that made his own breath hitch in a strangled groan.
The friction was creating a slick, slapping sound that filled the room, the scent of your combined fluids thick enough to taste. You felt the dryness of your throat and the heat of your skin, and a sudden, depraved craving hit you. You looked up at him, your eyes blown out and pleading. "Bucky," you whimpered, your voice a desperate, gravelly thread. "Please... spit in my mouth. I want to taste you. Please, sir."
A dark, dangerous look crossed his face—a flash of pure, dominant satisfaction. He didn't hesitate. He hovered directly over you, his eyes locked onto yours, and let a thick, warm string of his saliva pool between his lips before letting it drop directly into your waiting, open mouth. You swallowed it greedily, the intimacy of it sending a fresh jolt of arousal straight to your clit.
"Good girl," he growled, the words vibrating through your chest as he suddenly increased the pace. He was jackhammering into you now, his hands moving to your throat, not to squeeze, but to hold you steady as he claimed every inch of your body.
He moved his mouth back to your skin, his tongue laving a spot on your shoulder before he sucked hard, creating yet another bruised mark over your racing heart. You were screaming now, your voice raw and vocal, pleading for him to never stop, for him to fill you up, for him to take everything you had to give. The power dynamic had dissolved into something purely carnal; there was no landlord, no tenant—only the wet, heavy friction of two bodies colliding in the dark.
"I've got you," Bucky rasped, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic as he felt his own climax nearing the surface. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go." He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, his teeth sinking in just enough to make you sob with pleasure as he prepared to finally break.
The room was a symphony of carnal sounds—the wet, rhythmic slapping of Bucky’s heavy thighs against yours and the desperate, high-pitched keening coming from the back of your throat. His teeth were still sunk into the skin of your shoulder, his jaw locked as he pumped into you with a raw, primal force. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, larger and harder than you thought possible, hitting your cervix with a blunt rhythm that made your entire world tilt.
"Bucky—Bucky, please!" you sobbed, your head thrashing against the pillow. Your hands moved frantically over his back, your nails digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders, leaving red tracks that matched the marks he was leaving on you.
He finally pulled his teeth away, only to immediately latch onto the sensitive skin of your throat. He sucked with a desperate, bruising hunger, claiming the last bit of untouched skin on your neck. You could feel the heat of the hickey forming, a deep, dark purple brand that would tell everyone exactly how your night was spent. He moved his mouth to your ear, his breath a scorching, ragged mess. "Tell me," he growled, his thrusts becoming even more violent. "Tell me you're my good little girl. Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," you screamed, your voice cracking as a third, soul-shattering orgasm began to rip through you. "I'm yours, Bucky! Please, fuck, finish in me! Fill me up!"
The request seemed to be his final undoing. Bucky’s entire body corded with tension, his muscles jumping under your fingertips. He let out a low, guttural roar that sounded more like an animal than a man, his hips snapping forward in one final, deep lunge that buried him to the very root. He stayed there, pinned against you, his chest crushing yours as he finally broke.
You felt it immediately—the hot, thick jets of his cum hitting your walls with such force it felt like he was branding you from the inside out. He pumped into you again and again, his cock twitching and pulsing as he poured every ounce of his months-long pining into you. You cried out, your internal muscles clamping down on him in a desperate attempt to milk every last drop of his release.
Bucky’s face was buried in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in one last, lingering nip before he slumped his full weight onto you, completely spent. He was still throbbing inside you, the slick mess of his cum beginning to leak out and coat your thighs. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the raw, heavy musk of a man who had finally claimed what he wanted.
For several long minutes, the only sound was your synchronized, heavy breathing. Bucky slowly lifted his head, his blue eyes dark and hazy as he looked down at the masterpiece of bruises and hickeys he’d painted across your chest and neck. He reached up, his thumb tracing the newest mark on your shoulder, a dark smirk tugging at his lips.
"Rent's paid in full," he whispered, his voice still a gravelly wreck. He leaned down and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead. "But don't think you're going anywhere. I think I’m going to need a few more payments before the month is over."
Bucky didn't pull out immediately. He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy forehead resting against yours as his breathing slowly transitioned from jagged gasps back to a low, steady rumble. Every time his heart thudded against your chest, you felt a corresponding pulse from his cock, still twitching weakly within your over-sensitized walls. The room was heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and the unmistakable, musk-heavy aroma of his release.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he began to withdraw. The sound was wet and carnal—a soft, suctioning slide that made your toes curl as the air hit your internal heat. A thick, creamy mixture of his cum and your own slick juices began to leak out, trailing down your inner thighs and soaking into the mattress. Bucky watched it with a dark, possessive pride, his hand sliding down to catch a stray drip before he smeared it back over your hip.
"Clean yourself up, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
He stood up, his massive, muscular frame silhouetted against the dim light of the bedroom. He didn't look tired; he looked revitalized, like he’d finally claimed the prize he’d been eyeing for months. He reached for his boxers, pulling them up over his thick thighs, but as he moved to grab his pants from the floor, his eyes landed on the small, lacy pile of your discarded laundry.
He reached down and hooked a finger into the waistband of your panties—the ones you’d stripped off with such desperate haste earlier. You watched, breathless and still dazed from the climax, as he brought the delicate fabric to his face. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing for a second as he took in the scent of your arousal and the lingering tang of his own musk.
A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face. He didn't drop them. Instead, he balled the fabric up and shoved it deep into the pocket of his leather jacket.
"Bucky?" you whispered, your voice a raspy thread. "What are you doing?"
He leaned over the bed, pinning you down with one last, heavy look that promised this was only the beginning. He reached out and traced the darkest hickey on your collarbone—a deep, bruised mark that would take a week to fade.
"Collateral," he rumbled, his thumb pressing firmly into the mark. "I need something to keep me company until I come back for the next payment. And trust me, I'll be back tomorrow night to check on my investment."
He straightened up, zipped his jacket, and headed for the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder at your shivering, marked form. "Don't bother locking the door, princess. I still have the master key."
With a soft click of the latch, he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet apartment with nothing but the cooling sheets, a body covered in his marks, and the knowledge that your "sweet" landlord was never going to let you go.
ʀᴜꜱʜ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: frat boy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader (college au) ᴡᴄ: 4035 ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: situationship!!!, underage drinking, underage smoking, bucky being a flirt, suggestive, making out, jealous!bucky, (small) age difference (reader is 20, bucky just turned 21), possessive!bucky, house party!!! ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky barnes is the last person a cheerleader should fall for. unfortunately for you, he seems to disagree. ᴀ/ɴ— is this a build up so i can post smut without feeling icky? yes, yes it is !! (also this is not proofread.. its also 1am currently as i write..)
The bass of the music was vibrating through the floorboards of the Sigma house so hard you could feel it in your teeth. It was Rush Week, which meant the house was packed with way too many freshmen trying to look cool and way too many seniors trying to hold onto their youth.
You smoothed down your cheer skirt, the pleated fabric feeling a bit too short as you leaned against the sticky kitchen counter. You were twenty—still technically a year away from legal freedom—but with your uniform and a borrowed ID, nobody was checking.
"You look like you're thinking about leaving," a low, raspy voice rumbled right into your ear.
You didn't even have to turn around to know it was him. Bucky Barnes. The man was a walking red flag wrapped in a blue fraternity sweatshirt, with a backward baseball cap casting a shadow over eyes that were currently tracking a drop of condensation sliding down your neck. He had turned twenty-one two weeks ago, and he’d been making sure everyone knew it by buying rounds he didn't need.
"I was thinking about how much I hate the smell of this house, Barnes," you lied, finally turning to face him.
Bucky didn't buy it. He never did. He stepped into your space, one hand coming up to rest on the counter right next to your hip, effectively pinning you against the wood. He smelled like clove cigarettes and something dangerously clean.
"Funny," he murmured, leaning down so his lips were brushing the shell of your ear. "Because you've been here for three hours, and you haven't taken your eyes off me once."
"You have a big ego."
"I have a big everything, sweetheart. Don't start a fight you don't want to finish."
He reached out, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it down just enough to expose the glimmer of your teeth. The possessive tilt of his head changed the vibe instantly. He wasn't just flirting anymore; he was marking territory.
Earlier in the night, he’d seen you talking to a linebacker from the rival school, and the look on his face had been pure, unadulterated ice. Bucky didn't do "labels," or so he claimed in the daylight, but the second another man breathed your air, he became the most territorial person on campus.
"I saw you with that guy by the kegs," Bucky said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding dangerous and low. "What was his name? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care."
"He was just asking for directions, Bucky. Relax."
"He was looking at you like you were a snack, and you were smiling back." He leaned in closer, his chest brushing against yours. "I don’t like people touching what’s mine. Even if 'mine' likes to pretend she’s independent."
"I'm not yours," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Bucky leaned down, his nose grazing yours as he took the red cup from your hand and set it behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Keep telling yourself that," he rasped, his hand sliding from the counter to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. "But we both know where you're sleeping tonight. And it sure as hell isn't the sorority house."
The air in the kitchen was getting too thin, too hot, and way too loud. Bucky didn’t wait for an answer—he just kept his hand firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of bodies. People bumped into him, but he didn't even flinch; he just kept his eyes on the hallway, his jaw set in that stubborn line that meant he was done sharing you with the room.
"Bucky, people are looking," you breathed, tripping slightly over a stray shoe in the hall.
He caught you effortlessly, his fingers digging into your waist for a split second before he smoothed them out. "Let 'em look. They already know."
He led you up the creaky wooden stairs where the music became a dull thud beneath your feet. The second floor was a different world—darker, smelling more of laundry detergent and old wood. He didn't stop until he reached the door at the very end of the hall. He kicked it open, pulled you inside, and shut it with a definitive click of the lock.
The silence of the room was jarring. It was just the low hum of a desk fan and the moonlight filtering through the window, hitting the messy stacks of textbooks on his desk.
Bucky didn't turn on the light. He just leaned back against the door, watching you in the shadows. He reached up, slowly pulling his cap off and tossing it onto the bed, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead.
"You're being quiet now," he challenged, his voice echoing in the small space.
"I'm waiting to see what your problem is," you said, crossing your arms, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way the silence between you felt heavy and electric.
"My problem?" He took a slow step toward you, then another, until the tips of his sneakers were touching yours. He was so much taller without the chaos of the crowd around you. "My problem is that I spent two hours downstairs watching you laugh at things that weren't my jokes."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your neck before his fingers finally brushed against the stray hairs that had fallen out of your ponytail.
"I don't like being sidelined," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Especially not by you."
"We aren't a 'we', Bucky. You're the one who said that back in September."
Bucky flinched, just a tiny bit, before his expression hardened. He moved faster than you could track, his hands grabbing your waist and lifting you up until you were sitting on the edge of his high dresser. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
He stepped between your knees, leaning in until your foreheads pressed together. "I say a lot of stupid things when I'm trying to be the guy everyone expects me to be."
His breath was warm against your lips, and for the first time all night, the cocky frat-boy mask slipped. He looked frustrated, desperate, and completely focused on you.
"But I’m pretty sure the guy who spent all week checking his phone to see if you texted isn't 'independent,'" he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Are you going to keep punishing me for September, or are you going to kiss me?"
The silence in the room stretched thin, the only sound the distant, muffled throb of a bassline through the floorboards. You stared at him, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. The bravado he’d carried downstairs—the "king of the party" energy—had evaporated, replaced by something much more raw and grounding.
"I’m not punishing you," you whispered, your heart doing a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I’m just trying to keep my head above water."
Bucky didn't move away. If anything, he pressed closer, his weight shifting until you felt the solid heat of him between your knees. His hands moved from your waist to the wood of the dresser, flanking your legs, trapping you in his orbit.
"You're doing a hell of a job," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. "Because I'm the one who feels like he's drowning."
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He leaned in, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted like a long-overdue confession. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry and frantic, full of the frustration of the last few hours of watching you from across a crowded room. His hands slid up from the dresser to your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you right to the edge of the wood until there wasn't a single inch of air left between you.
You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The messy strands were soft, contrasting with the tension in his shoulders.
Bucky pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours as he spoke, his voice wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Right now. If you don't want this... if you want to go back down there and talk to that guy... tell me."
"I don't want to go back down there," you admitted, your voice trembling.
A dark, satisfied smirk flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Good. Because I'm not letting you leave this room looking like that."
"Looking like what?"
"Like someone else has a chance," he rasped.
He moved his kisses to the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that made your toes curl. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady as he mapped out every inch of your skin. It was more than a hookup, more than a situationship moment; it felt like he was trying to memorize you.
He shifted, lifting you slightly so he could hike himself up onto the dresser with you, his legs tangling with yours as he pushed aside a stack of mail and a stray textbook without a second thought. The wood creaked under the weight, but neither of you cared.
"September was a mistake," he whispered against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through you. "I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Okay?"
The friction of his sweatshirt against your palms felt like the only thing keeping you grounded as the room blurred into a haze of moonlight and adrenaline. Bucky’s confession hung in the air, thick and heavy, but the restless energy of the house below seemed to claw at the floorboards, reminding you that the night was still in full swing.
"You’re an idiot," you agreed, your voice breathy as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "But you’re an idiot who’s currently hiding in a dark room while your roommates are probably wondering where their best recruiter went."
Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long second as if trying to bottle the quiet before the chaos. "They can wonder. I’ve done enough 'recruiting' for one night."
"We need a drink," you said, gently pushing against his shoulders. "A real one. Not whatever mystery juice they’re serving in the kitchen."
He let out a sharp huff of laughter, his hands finally loosening their iron grip on your waist, though he didn't let go entirely. "You’re right. I’ve got better stuff hidden in the pantry downstairs behind the industrial-sized boxes of cereal. But if we go back down there, you’re staying within arm's reach. I mean it."
"Possessive much?" you teased, sliding off the dresser. Your skirt swished around your thighs, and you felt the sudden chill of the room the moment his heat left you.
"Always," he muttered, reaching for his cap on the bed and tugging it back on, low over his eyes. He looked like the version of Bucky Barnes the rest of the campus knew again—guarded, effortlessly cool, and a little bit dangerous—but the way he reached out to lace his fingers through yours told a different story.
The walk back down the stairs was a sensory assault. The temperature rose ten degrees with every step, the air thick with the scent of sweat and expensive perfume. As you hit the landing, the music shifted into a heavy, rhythmic beat that seemed to pulse in time with the flickering LED strips taped along the ceiling.
Bucky didn't let go of your hand. He carved a path through the crowd like a prowling wolf, his shoulders squared as he navigated the sea of swaying bodies. You saw a few of his fraternity brothers shout his name, raising their cups in a silent toast, but Bucky only gave them a curt nod, his focus entirely on the kitchen doorway.
Once inside the kitchen, the chaos was even more concentrated. A group of guys were cheering over a game of cards at the table, and someone had spilled a drink near the fridge, making the floor dangerously slick. Bucky navigated you toward the narrow pantry door, shielding you from a pair of stumbling freshmen with his body.
"Stay here," he commanded, though it was softened by the way he squeezed your hand before letting go.
He ducked into the cramped pantry, his tall frame disappearing behind shelves of bulk-buy snacks. You leaned against the doorframe, watching the party from a slight distance. For a moment, you felt the weight of someone’s gaze on you. Across the room, the same guy from earlier—the one who had sparked Bucky’s silent fury—was leaning against the counter, watching you with a curious, lopsided grin.
Before he could even think about walking over, Bucky emerged from the pantry, clutching a glass bottle of expensive bourbon that definitely hadn't been bought with house funds. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to feel the shift in the room. He stepped back into your space, his arm immediately hooking around your waist, drawing you flush against his side.
He didn't say a word to the guy across the room. He didn't have to. He just uncapped the bottle with his thumb, took a slow pull, and then offered it to you, his eyes dark and daring.
"Change of plans," he murmured, his voice cutting through the roar of the music as he leaned down to whisper against your temple. "We’re grabbing this, we’re grabbing a bag of those salt and vinegar chips you like, and we’re going to the roof. I’m done sharing the air in this kitchen."
You took a sip of the bourbon—it was smooth, burning a trail of liquid fire down your throat—and looked up at him. "The roof? Isn't that technically off-limits during Rush?"
Bucky’s smirk returned, the one that made him look like he owned every square inch of the block. "Sweetheart, I'm the one with the key."
The air on the roof was a shock to the system—crisp, cold, and smelling like the faint hint of rain instead of the humid, beer-soaked chaos below. Bucky kicked the heavy metal door shut behind you, and suddenly the thumping bass of the party felt like it was miles away, reduced to a dull vibration beneath your sneakers.
"Way better," he exhaled, the sound getting lost in the wind.
He didn't head for the ledge. Instead, he led you toward a shadowed corner where a few mismatched lawn chairs and a tattered outdoor sofa had been shoved against a brick chimney. It was the house's worst-kept secret, the place where the brothers went when the "frat persona" got too heavy to carry.
Bucky sat back on the low sofa, his long legs stretching out in front of him. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, glass jar and a pre-rolled joint.
"Thought you might need to take the edge off," he said, his voice finally losing that sharp, defensive edge it had in the kitchen.
He flicked a silver lighter, the flame illuminating the rugged lines of his face for a split second before he took a slow, practiced pull. He held it for a beat, his eyes fluttering shut, before exhaling a thick cloud of sweet, skunky smoke into the night air.
He offered it to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. "Careful. It’s the good stuff. Sam brought it back from his trip last weekend."
You took a hit, the familiar, herbal heat blooming in your chest and instantly softening the jagged edges of the night's tension. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder. Up here, under the pale glow of the moon, the whole "cheerleader and frat star" thing felt like a costume you’d both finally taken off.
"You were a real jerk tonight, you know," you murmured, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the dark.
Bucky let out a low, dry chuckle, his arm winding around your shoulders to pull you closer into his side. "I know. I saw him talking to you and I just... I saw red. I hate the way guys look at you like you're something they can just have."
"And you don't look at me like that?"
He took the joint back from you, taking another hit before looking down at you. His eyes were already starting to glaze over with a heavy, relaxed haze, but the intensity in them hadn't faded.
"No," he said softly, blowing the smoke away from your face. "I look at you like you’re the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this place. There’s a difference."
He leaned down, his lips grazing your temple. He smelled like woodsmoke and that specific, earthy scent of the weed, a combination that felt more like 'him' than the cologne he wore for the parties.
"I don't want to be the guy who just shows up at your door at 2:00 AM anymore," he admitted, his voice rough and honest. He reached into the bag of chips he’d managed to snag, offering you one with a faint, lopsided grin. "Even if I am currently the guy hiding on a roof with a bottle of bourbon and a joint."
You laughed, the sound light and airy as the high started to settle in, making the stars look a little brighter and Bucky's shoulder feel a little softer. "Well, you're a work in progress, Barnes."
"Yeah," he whispered, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your arm. "But I'm your work in progress. Right?"
The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, cushioned by the slow-moving smoke and the way the bourbon was starting to hum in your veins. Bucky watched you, his eyes searching yours for an answer, his thumb still tracing those slow, grounding circles on your skin.
"Yeah," you finally whispered, reaching up to tug at the collar of his hoodie. "You’re my work in progress."
The tension in his jaw finally snapped. He leaned down, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of sweet herbs and expensive whiskey. It wasn't the frantic, territorial kiss from the kitchen; this was a slow burn, a claim made in the quiet of the night where no one was watching.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shaky breath. "Good. Because I was about two minutes away from losing it downstairs. I don't think I could've handled seeing you walk out that door tonight."
He took another pull from the joint, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dark, before handing it back to you. "Stay up here a while? The party’s not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure the guys think I went on a 'mission' anyway."
"A mission?" you asked, leaning your head back against the brick of the chimney, feeling the cool air hit your face as you exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the moon.
"Yeah," Bucky chuckled, his arm tightening around you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through his chest. "Usually means I’m out getting more supplies. But tonight... my mission is just making sure you don't decide you're too good for a guy who lives in a house that smells like old gym socks."
"The socks are a lot," you teased, turning your head to nip at his jawline. "But the rooftop access is a decent perk."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your entire body. He reached for the bottle of bourbon, taking a small swig before setting it carefully between his boots. Then, he shifted, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your skirt bunched up around your hips.
The change in position made the world tilt for a second, the high making everything feel fluid and warm. Bucky’s hands settled firmly on your waist, his fingers splayed wide against your skin.
"You're dangerously high, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that made your stomach flip.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," you countered, sliding your hands up to cup his face.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to let you know he wasn't going anywhere. "Stay right there then. I’ve got you."
The wind picked up, whistling around the chimney, but you barely felt the chill. The heat radiating off Bucky was enough to keep the entire rooftop warm. He reached out to take the last of the joint from your fingers, stubbing it out against the brick before tossing the remains into the darkness.
"You’re staring," he whispered, his voice thick and honey-slow.
"You’re easy to look at," you murmured back, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble. The high had settled into a heavy, sweet languor in your limbs, making every touch feel like it was amplified, echoing through your skin.
Bucky’s hands slid from your waist, moving down to the tops of your thighs. His touch was firm, grounding you as the world hummed around you. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes hooded and dark with a look that wasn't about the party or the frat or the drama downstairs. It was just about you.
"I’m done with the rooftop," he rasped against your lips. "I’m done with the noise."
He stood up, keeping his hands locked underneath you so you didn't have to put your feet back on the cold gravel. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you back toward the heavy metal door.
The walk back down the stairs was a blur of shadows and muffled music. He didn't stop in the hallway this time. He didn't look at anyone. He shouldered through his bedroom door, kicking it shut and turning the lock with a finality that made your breath hitch.
The room was still dark, but the air felt charged, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering heat of the bourbon. Bucky set you down on the edge of the mattress, but he didn't pull away. He stayed between your knees, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a surprising tenderness.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, giving you that one last out he knew you didn't want.
You didn't answer with words. You reached for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upward until he got the message, helping him pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere into the dark. In the pale moonlight, the muscles of his shoulders looked like they were carved from stone, tense and waiting.
"Bucky," you breathed, reaching out to pull him back down to you.
He let out a low, guttural sound, his weight following you down as you reclined into the pillows. "I've been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the house tonight," he confessed, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your throat, his hands already moving with a practiced, impatient hunger.
As the bed creaked beneath you and the last remnants of the party faded into the background, the "work in progress" felt a lot more like a masterpiece. Outside, the world was still loud and chaotic, but inside the four walls of his room, the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of his heart against yours and the way he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.
ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: husband!bucky barnes x fem!reader ᴡᴄ: 2553 ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: girldad!bucky, fluff, pregnant!reader, literally its all just cuteness ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky has his 2 favorite girls with him, he doesnt need anything else ᴀ/ɴ— bucky is such a girldad. alsooo first post!! i decided to start with fluff before going into smut ! 𑣲⋆
The sunlight in the Brooklyn brownstone was thick and honey-colored, catching on the stray dust motes dancing over the living room rug. Bucky was sitting on the floor, his back against the velvet sofa, looking every bit the man who had traded a century of war for the quiet chaos of fatherhood. He was still the same Bucky Barnes—the broad shoulders, the heavy, watchful gaze, and the deliberate way he moved—but the jagged edges had been sanded down by years of peace and the steady rhythm of a life he never thought he’d get to keep.
Clara, barely three years old and a whirlwind of mismatched socks and messy curls, was currently treating his prosthetic arm like a high-end salon station. She had a pile of colorful, plastic butterfly clips scattered between her knees, and she was concentrating with a ferocity that mirrored her father’s own focus.
"Steady, doll," Bucky murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that lacked any of its old bite. He kept his metal arm perfectly still, resting his palm flat on the rug so she could reach the plates of his forearm.
"Don't move, Daddy. I'm making you pretty," Clara insisted, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth. She snapped a neon pink clip onto the edge of the vibranium, the tiny plastic click echoing in the quiet room.
Bucky caught your eye from across the room where you were tucked into the armchair. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew he was being absolutely played by a toddler and didn't mind one bit. His gaze dropped momentarily to the curve of your stomach, visible beneath your soft shirt, and his expression softened into something so profoundly tender it was almost ache-inducing.
"I think I’m plenty pretty already, Clara," Bucky teased, though he didn't pull away when she reached for a glittery purple clip.
"No," she sighed, exasperated in the way only a toddler can be. "You need more. For the baby."
Bucky’s hand—the warm, human one—reached out to steady Clara as she leaned a bit too far forward. His touch was light, seasoned by a lifetime of knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep something from breaking. He wasn't the kind of dad who did "baby talk"; he spoke to her with a grounded, calm respect, treating her like the most important person in the room.
"The baby can't see the clips yet, Peanut," he reminded her gently.
"But she knows!" Clara insisted, patting his metal shoulder before turning her attention back to her handiwork.
Bucky let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning his head back against the cushions. He looked content, his frame relaxed in a way that had taken years to achieve. In this light, with his daughter decorating his arm and his wife resting nearby, the Winter Soldier felt like a ghost from a different lifetime. Here, he was just Bucky—the man who made sure the house was warm, the man who read bedtime stories with a tired but devoted patience, and the man who was currently becoming a very shiny, very decorated canvas for his favorite girl.
Bucky shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Clara's "workstation" as she started trying to weave a stray ribbon through his thumb joint. His gaze drifted back to you, settling on the way you were resting your hand over the baby. There was a quiet, heavy groundedness to him—the kind of presence that made the whole room feel sturdier just because he was in it.
"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice dropping into that private, intimate register meant only for you. "You okay? Need another pillow?"
Before you could answer, Clara stood up, admiring the metallic arm now covered in a chaotic array of neon plastic and silk bows. "All done! Daddy is a princess."
Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at his daughter with a perfectly deadpan expression. "A princess, huh? Do I get a crown, or is the butterfly clip on my wrist enough for the royal title?"
"You need a wand," Clara decided, already scouting the room for a suitable substitute.
Bucky caught your hand as you moved to get up, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle but firm pressure. "Stay put," he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. "I've got the wand-finding under control."
He stood up with a slow, fluid grace, the clips on his arm jingling slightly. He didn't look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man who finally had something worth protecting. He scooped Clara up into the crook of his human arm, settled her against his hip, and leaned over to press a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.
"Go back to your book," he said softly, his eyes reflecting the late afternoon sun. "The princess and his advisor are going to go find a wand in the kitchen. Probably one that looks suspiciously like a wooden spoon."
Clara giggled, burying her face in his neck, and Bucky's smile was small, private, and entirely whole as he carried her out of the room.
The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic clatter of Bucky opening drawers, his movements steady and purposeful even as Clara directed him with the authority of a tiny commander. You followed the sound, leaning against the doorframe while folding your arms over the top of your stomach.
"I don’t know, Clara," you teased, watching Bucky hold up a silicone spatula with a look of extreme skepticism. "A princess usually has something with a bit more... sparkle. That looks like it's for pancakes."
Bucky turned his head, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes as he took in your expression. "Listen to your mother, Clara. The Queen has spoken. This is a culinary tool, not a magical one."
Clara huffed, squirming down from his hip to begin her own frantic search through the lower cabinets. Bucky took the opportunity to close the distance between you. He didn't say much—he never needed many words to get his point across—but he stepped into your space, his presence warm and grounding. He reached out with his human hand, his palm coming to rest gently over the curve of your belly. He waited, his breath hitching just a fraction, until he felt that familiar, sharp little kick against his skin.
"She’s active today," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that always felt like a secret shared between just the two of you. "Must have heard us talking about her."
"She’s probably just protesting the 'princess' title," you joked, though you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long breath. "She’s been doing gymnastics in there since breakfast."
Bucky’s thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your shirt. His focus was entirely on you, his brow furrowed in that characteristic way that showed he was checking in, cataloging your comfort the same way he used to catalog threats. He wasn't hovering, but he was there, a constant and unwavering anchor.
"Are you tired?" he asked, his gaze searching yours. "I can take Clara to the park for an hour. Give you some actual quiet."
"And leave you alone with a toddler who thinks your arm is a jewelry box?" You laughed, reaching up to adjust one of the butterfly clips that was hanging precariously from his wrist. "I think I'd rather stay and watch the chaos. Besides, you're doing a great job, Your Highness."
Bucky caught your hand, holding it against his chest for a second. The metal of his other arm was still adorned with pink and purple plastic, a stark contrast to the man who had survived more wars than he cared to count.
"I found it!" Clara shrieked, emerging from the pantry with a long, wooden pasta spoon. She brandished it toward Bucky's knees. "Daddy, kneel! I have to make you magic."
Bucky looked from the spoon to you, a resigned but soft smile playing on his lips. "Duty calls," he sighed, though he didn't move to let go of your hand just yet. He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips—one that tasted like home and the promise of a future he was finally allowed to keep. "Don't get up. I'll handle the knighting ceremony."
He moved away, dropping to one knee on the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bowing his head as Clara tapped the wooden spoon against his shoulders with all the solemnity of a true coronation.
Bucky took the "blow" of the wooden spoon to his shoulder with more grace than he’d ever taken a hit in the field. He kept his head bowed as Clara moved the "wand" to his other side with a look of extreme concentration.
"I dub thee... Princess Daddy," Clara announced, tapping him firmly on the head.
Bucky let out a small, huffing sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh. He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think that’s a promotion," he said, shifting his weight to sit back on his heels. "Though I’m not sure the guys at the gym would agree."
"I think it suits you," you said, leaning against the counter and rubbing a hand over the small of your back. "The pink butterfly clips really bring out your eyes."
He stood up, the metal plates of his arm shifting with a faint, familiar whirr. He reached out to scoop Clara up before she could find another household object to turn into a weapon. "Alright, Princess Daddy is retiring for the afternoon. I think it’s time for someone to have a snack and then maybe a nap."
"No nap!" Clara protested, though she was already leaning her head against his shoulder, her energy finally starting to flag.
"We’ll see about that," Bucky murmured. He turned back to you, his expression shifting from playful to that quiet, observant intensity he saved just for you. He noticed the way you were shifting your weight. "Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring her back in once she’s settled with some apple slices."
"I can help, Bucky, I'm just pregnant, not incapacitated," you reminded him with a small smile.
"I know what you are," he replied, his voice softening as he stepped closer, the toddler a solid weight in his arms. He used his free hand to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But I've got this. Let me take care of my girls, okay?"
There was no arguing with that look—the one that said he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. You nodded, giving his arm a quick squeeze—avoiding the neon clips—and headed back toward the living room, leaving him to navigate the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and his favorite little girl in the other.
A few minutes later, the quiet of the living room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s boots on the hardwood. He emerged from the kitchen, having successfully navigated the snack transition. Clara was trailing behind him, clutching a small bowl of apple slices like it was a prize, her focus now diverted to a picture book she’d left on the coffee table.
Bucky sank onto the sofa beside you, his presence like a warm weighted blanket. He let out a long, grounded exhale, his metal arm—still sporting a few stubborn butterfly clips—resting behind your shoulders on the cushions.
"She’s finally slowing down," he noted, watching Clara flip through pages with a look of intense concentration. "I think the knighting ceremony took a lot out of her."
"It's a lot of responsibility being the Royal Advisor," you joked, shifting your position to rest your head on his shoulder. "You handled it well, though. I think your form was excellent."
Bucky’s hand dropped to your arm, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I’ve had a lot of practice taking orders. At least these ones come with snacks."
You let out a soft laugh, feeling the baby give a gentle nudge against your side. "I was talking to Natasha earlier," you mentioned, your voice trailing off into a comfortable hum. "She called while you were in the middle of the 'hair salon' session. She said she’s dropping by tomorrow with some more baby clothes she found. Apparently, she’s convinced this one is going to be just as much of a handful as Clara."
Bucky’s lips quirked into a real, albeit tired, smile at the mention of his friend. "Natasha just likes having an excuse to teach Clara how to pick locks with hairpins. I’m still finding bobby pins in the floorboards from her last visit."
"She calls it 'essential life skills,'" you reminded him, tilting your head up to look at him. "And you know she’s probably right. Between the two of you, these girls are going to be the most over-protected, highly-skilled toddlers in Brooklyn."
Bucky didn't argue. He just pulled you a little closer, his gaze softening as it moved from Clara back to you. The weight of the world felt very far away from this living room. "As long as they're safe," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. "They can learn whatever skills Nat wants to teach them. But for now, I think I'd settle for them just staying this small for a little bit longer."
You smiled, leaning into the solid warmth of his chest. "I don't know, Bucky. I think Nat is just excited to have more 'recruits.' She already told me she’s bringing over a tiny leather jacket that matches hers."
Bucky groaned, though the sound was fond. "A leather jacket. Great. She’ll be wanting a motorcycle next." He looked over at Clara, who had finally abandoned her book in favor of leaning her head against his knee, her eyelashes fluttering as sleep started to win the battle.
"She’s almost out," you whispered, watching the way he instinctively adjusted his posture so she’d be more comfortable.
"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his metal arm—the one still decorated with Clara’s clips—and then at your stomach, where the baby was finally settling down for a nap of her own. "I used to think the quiet was the hardest part of being back. The silence felt... heavy."
He shifted his human hand to cover yours, his skin warm and slightly calloused. "But this? This isn't that kind of quiet. This is the first time in a hundred years I feel like I can actually hear myself think."
You squeezed his hand. "And what are you thinking, Sergeant Barnes?"
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, grounding second. "That I'm a very lucky man," he murmured. "Even with the pink hair clips."
He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in the scent of the house—old books, apple slices, and the soft, clean smell of a home that was finally, truly his. The war was over, the Winter Soldier was a memory, and Bucky Barnes was exactly where he was supposed to be: right here with his girls.