ken. 24. bucky barnes enthusiast. occasionally write nonsense for people on the internet. please read my rules and protection policy before proceeding!
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pairing: avenger!bucky barnes x avengers fem!reader | word count: 2.2k
warnings: none, this is pure fluff
summary: Bucky’s name’s been cleared for almost a year now, and you can’t help but notice that his room is completely bare, aside from the bed and desk that came with it, and you—being you—decide that this simply won’t do.
dt: my sweet, sexy, beautiful friend @heldbybarnes 🩷 all our talk of whimsy inspired this very random idea
masterlist
“Where is your whimsy Bucky? Where are your trinkets?”
“My what?” Bucky blinks up at you from his spot on the bed.
“Your whimsy!”
“Doll, I don’t—”
“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have ONE trinket? This is unacceptable.”
It’s the first time you’d seen Bucky’s room—having come to lend him a book when you noticed there was not a single sign that the room was occupied, aside from the slightly crumpled sheets and the wrappers from his protein bars in the bin beside him. You stand in the doorway with your hands on your hips, entirely exasperated at the sight before you.
In the year he'd known you, Bucky had become used to your dramatics—exclaiming like someone had taken the thing you love most when your favourite cereal was finished or groaning loudly like your whole day was ruined at the training time being moved by thirty minutes.
“Bucky, you don’t even have a lamp— what do you—?” You sigh, moving further into the room. His bed is pushed into one corner of the room and your eyes catch on the single blanket laid out on the floor. The walls are completely bare, the shelves sit empty and the overhead light casts a harsh glow over the room, making it look less like a bedroom and more like a lab.
Bucky tenses—a tiny shift that no-one else would have noticed but you’d spent every day with Bucky since he arrived at the tower. You’d taken the time to learn him. To understand him in a way no-one else did.
You knew the distant look he’d get when he was stuck in a memory. You knew when he needed space and when he needed you to push back. You knew the permanent crease he held between his brows, and you especially knew the way it’d soften and turn into smile lines when you’d make him laugh.
Your voice softens then.
“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”
“M’used to it doll.”
Your heart tugs painfully at that. The thought of him alone and cold in a room—a cell more like, with nothing but his memories for company.
You look at him then, eyes focused on his—the soft, uncertain look peeking out between his usual stares. You move closer to him, taking his hand in yours and he pulls away slightly. You know the hesitation doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it—crave it really. Just that his body is still learning touch. Still learning what’s safe. Still learning you.
“Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”
Bucky inhales sharply, looking anywhere but you, getting uncomfortable in that way he usually does when you read him too easily, when you say things others are too afraid to.
You don’t let it throw you—instead tugging on his hand gently, bringing his focus back to you.
“Let’s go shopping. There’s a few thrift stores close to here I like to go to that I think you might like.”
“Doll, I really don’t want to…” His voice trails off as he notices the look on your face—soft and half-pleading, and he sighs, running a hand down his face before brushing his hair back and standing with a grumble.
“Fine, let’s go, you can take me to ONE thrift store and we’re just goin’ to have a quick—”
Bucky’s still rambling on but you’ve stopped listening, already jumping up and down in excitement, tugging at his hand and squealing.
“—and we’re not stoppin’ for coffee either.”
~ 25 mins later ~
You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.
God, the effect you have on him.
Bucky takes it all in—the vastness of the store taking him by surprise.
The sides of the store are lined in bookshelves, carrying everything from children’s books, knitting patterns, vintage magazines, novels with the covers worn back, old records, cds, dvds, cassettes and board games.
There’s rows and rows of old tables, scattered with various items—a doll from the 1950s, jewellery stands filled with bangles, necklaces and bracelets, the soft light from the various lamps around the room glinting off the jewels.
Bucky turns to you, brow furrowed.
“M’not buying anything, you know that right?”
“That’s okay, we can just have a look.” You shrug, moving further into the store, trying your best to not scare him off now that he’d agreed to come.
Bucky gives a solemn nod, like it’s decided, already zoning out as he carelessly rustles through the items on the table closest to him. You dawdle along the clothes racks, eyeing out a jacket that looks about your size.
Of course, you’re not in full thrifting mode, still carefully keeping an eye on Bucky as he takes maybe three more steps into the store—arms crossed over his chest, feigning disinterest as something on the shelf clearly catches his eye.
He looks over at you, and you give him a small smile, nodding towards the shelves with encouragement. He softens ever so slightly, arms uncrossing and wandering into the store. You smile into your coffee when you see him pick up an elephant carved from wood and place it back down.
“Doll, come over here.” Bucky’s a few tables down from you, gesturing you over to him.
He’s holding a brooch in his hand—nothing too fancy—a small blue and green floral thing. You raise your eyebrows at him, questioning.
“This brooch— it um—” Bucky looks at you, eyes welling with tears as he tries hard to control his wavering voice.
“—it looks exactly like one my ma used to wear. Same design. Same colors— I—”
He turns it over in his hand, studying every detail. The tiny glass beads, the tarnished gold metal, the pin slightly bent out of shape at the back. You place your hand on his upper arm, smiling up at him.
“Get it.”
Bucky turns to you, startled—almost like he forgot you were there—lost in the memory of his mother’s hands gently working the brooch, pinning it to her dress on Sunday mornings.
He shakes his head as if to shake off the memory, placing the pin back down and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“What? No—I don’t— I don’t need it, I was just saying—” He’s already turning away when you squeeze his arm, bringing his attention to you.
“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”
The words hit him somewhere deeper than just this moment.
He nods slowly before picking the brooch back up, flipping it in his metal hand a few more times, thumb brushing over the top and hands it to you wordlessly.
You smile, placing it gently into your basket, careful not to break it and give him a solemn nod.
He returns it with a smile.
It’s easier after that.
He notices a few old records with names he recognises and tucks them away with a smile. An old record player, a copy of The Hobbit, vintage magazines, knitting patterns that reminded him of his mom.
He calls you over to him again when he finds a lego set of a working helicopter and your heart warms at the excitement in his voice.
You pick up a couple things for him too—fairy lights, a desk lamp, another lego set and a couple more records you think he might like.
Bucky’s flipping through a photo album when you approach him. You can’t help but smile when you see the photo he’s looking at. It’s in black and white — two teenagers eating ice-cream, the boy smiling at the girl and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. It’s dated June 4th 1937.
“Do you think we would have been friends if we met back then?”
Bucky looks at you—really looks at you and you don’t fully understand the look in his eyes. But it’s the same one he gives you when you bring him coffee in the morning. Or the one he gives when you’re on a mission—loud bangs, debris flying and you turn to him before anyone else.
“I think—I think I’d be lucky to find you in any lifetime.”
Your heart skips a beat, face warming at his words and you have to bite down on your lip to stop your eyes from welling with tears.
“Me too Buck, me too.”
“Ready to go?” You swing your basket on your wrist, nodding your head in the direction of the checkout.
Bucky nods and follows, still looking back at the armchairs along the wall and you make a mental note to bring him back another time.
“What’s that book?”
“Oh I don’t know, some rom-com.”
You nod, tilting your head slightly, narrowing your eyes at the title.
The Love Hypothesis
Not something you thought he’d pick but you’re not about to question what he’s buying when he’s finally letting himself buy things.
He sighs before you get a chance to let a word out, opening the front cover of the book and showing you the small hand-written inscription.
Becca’s ♡
“Your sister?”
“I know it’s not hers but I—” He trails off, letting out a shaky breath.
“I know Buck.” You place your hand on his arm, warm and reassuring and he gives you a small smile before avoiding your eyes.
“Alright, let’s go pay for our stuff then.”
“You can just leave the bags there.” Bucky nods towards his desk, placing the record player and the burgers you’d picked up on the way on the table.
“Okay…orrr I could help you set everything up. We could have a movie night. Eat our burgers.” You suggest softly, not expecting the slow nod he gives.
You smile up at him, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him setting up the record player on his desk, moving it side to side until he’s happy with the positioning.
The two of you move around the room in perfect tandem—Bucky setting the books and records on the shelves, you making a small display of the lego sets and placing the brooch carefully in front.
You turn to ask Bucky how he likes it and stop mid-breath, biting your lip and trying not to laugh at the 6 foot super soldier fumbling with fairy lights—swearing under his breath, one end of the wire tangled around his metal arm.
“Here, let me.” You giggle softly, reaching for the wire, untangling it from his arm.
“Something funny?”
“No,” you lie, voice entirely too amused, still holding back a laugh.
You pull on the end, draping it across the back of his bed when Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and this time you can’t help the laugh that escapes.
Bucky turns to you, glaring, but there’s no real bite to it, and soon he’s laughing too, running a hand down his face like the day had worn him out.
He glances over at you—cross-legged on his bed, grinning up at him, the glow from the fairy lights framing your face.
Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.
The air in the room grows thicker and you can almost hear your heartbeat outside of your chest—Bucky’s eyes boring into yours—so bright and blue and beautiful.
“Thank you for today doll, I’m—”
He pauses to look around the room, his heart so full it aches.
You care.
Not just about if he’s eaten or if he’s been keeping up with his medical checks and his therapy, not just about how he was on a mission or if he might be injured. But about him and whether or not he’s happy—if he feels at home.
Bucky hadn’t felt home in over 80 years, but here—with you smiling at him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be—he feels like maybe he could.
“Of course Buck.”
He’s still looking around the room in disbelief. It’s then you realise the reason he never put anything in his room. He didn’t believe he’d be staying here, that this would last, that he could have a home here—because when you’ve spent your life running, and all you’ve known is survival, how do you accept softness and stability without it feeling like a threat?
You stand slowly, taking his hand in yours and press your forehead to his gently. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, taking a shaky breath.
“Doll, I don’t know if I’m—”
“S’okay Buck. Don’t need to be. M’not going anywhere.”
He gives you a soft look like he doesn’t fully believe it, but like he might start to soon.
You pull his arms around your waist, not breaking eye contact. His fingers flex against the small of your back, still unsure—almost like he’s expecting you to pull away. You wrap your arms gently around his shoulders, placing your head onto his shoulder. Softly but not hesitant—never hesitant. You feel his body shudder slightly, a subtle tense of muscles before he leans into it—into you.
And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.
taglist: @daydreamgoddess14 @matchaenthusiast1111 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @skxawngg @heldbybarnes @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @thisismysafeescape @mandoloriancookie @vmprektty @daddysbitchybaby @punkrockrr @buckysdecaflove @kileyking @singulartoast @love-stucky (if you'd like to be added, please leave a comment on this post)
if bucky barnes was mine i would pull a little mermaid on his ass so quickly… i got gadgets and gizmos of plenty, i’ve got whozits and whatsits galore!!
warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, power imbalance (superhuman strength), morally gray reader, obsession/possession themes, manipulation, guilt kink vibes, furniture destruction (workout bench), rough sex (consensual), overstimulation, praise + control dynamics
summary: clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. you agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and clark loses control. he thinks you’re saving him. you’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.
a/n: biggest shoutout to @tw1sters for allowing me, a virgin chud of a clark girlie, into her stellar event. further shoutout to the wonderful @sparklingsin for this sexy ass banner. i'm still salivating. if this fic sucks it was not my fault (yes it was tf?) i wrote this in a fever dream for bucky and made it into a clark fic during a time of weakness. enjoy my frens
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The first time Clark Kent says it out loud, it’s in a voice so careful it barely disturbs the air between you.
“I need help.”
You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands are clenched behind his back—like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will alone. You pretend you don’t notice the way he keeps his weight distributed, controlled, as if he’s afraid the wrong shift might crack the concrete under his boots. You pretend you don’t notice the faint tremor under all that restraint.
Because if you look too closely, you’ll give yourself away.
And you can’t afford that.
Not when you’re already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.
Superman learns to be gentle.And you’re the only one he trusts enough to teach him.
The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.
A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.
And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:
“Every time I’ve tried,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “someone gets hurt.”
It’s not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new way—because he isn’t talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. He’s talking about physics. He’s talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.
He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like he’s forcing down something sharp.
“I can’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to be… normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go without… without being afraid of what I’ll do.”
You nod like you’re a professional. Like your pulse isn’t kicking against your ribs.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?” you say.
He looks at you then, properly—blue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.
“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”
Practice.
Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.
You should say no.
You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who won’t get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.
Instead you ask, “Why me?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
Then, softly, “You didn’t flinch.”
A beat.
“You didn’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”
Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.
“You looked at me like I’m a person.”
You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.
Because the truth is uglier than that.
You didn’t flinch because you’re not afraid of him.
You’re hungry for him.
And you’ve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.
He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.
It’s underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.
There’s a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.
Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who don’t want to accidentally kill anyone.
Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says.
You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. It’s been used. Punished. Tested.
“You’re trusting me with a lot,” you murmur.
He nods once, sharp. “I have to.”
There’s something about that—about his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safe—that makes you want to bite.
Not him. Not yet.
Just… the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he can’t do without.
You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.
His gaze flicks to each item like he’s cataloguing weapons.
“You came prepared,” he says quietly.
You shrug, like you’re casual. Like you didn’t spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.
“This is training,” you say. “Training needs structure.”
His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
It’s the question that matters.
Consent isn’t just a checkbox with someone like him; it’s the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.
You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of him—sun-warm, steady, impossible.
“I need you to be honest,” you say. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.”
His jaw tightens. “I will.”
“I need you to listen,” you continue, voice even. “To my words. To my body. To what I say and what I don’t.”
His eyes track your mouth like it’s the most important thing in the room.
“And I need you to understand something,” you add, and let your gaze hold his until he can’t look away.
“This only works if you let me lead.”
His breath catches—just a little, but you see it.
“I can do that,” he says, like it’s a vow.
You smile faintly.
“Good,” you murmur. “Then we start slow.”
Slow is a lie you tell him so he’ll agree.
Slow is the way you get your hands on him.
You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.
You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.
He stills like a statue.
“Breathe,” you remind him.
He inhales. Exhales.
You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.
His throat works. “Hurting you.”
“That’s the big picture,” you say gently. “I mean right now. In this moment.”
He hesitates.
Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”
Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.
You tilt your head. “Is that what’s happened before?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s bracing against memory.
“Yes,” he admits. “Not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. “But I lose track. I forget. Everything feels too—too good and then—”
He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.
You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.
“Then we build a system,” you say. “We make it so you don’t have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.”
His eyes open, blue and raw.
“You’ll tell me to stop,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And if I can’t—”
“Then we use tools.” You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. “We use limits that aren’t negotiable in the moment.”
His gaze drops to them. He swallows.
“Do you want that?” you ask.
It matters that he chooses it.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.
“Good,” you say. “Stand up.”
He does immediately.
You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.
He tenses for a second—instinct, not refusal—and you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.
“Clark,” you say softly.
He stills.
“I’m going to cuff you,” you tell him. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because you don’t trust yourself.”
His breath shudders.
“Okay,” he whispers.
You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the bench’s anchor points. He tests them automatically—gentle pressure. The bench doesn’t budge.
His eyes flick to you, uncertain.
“You’re stuck,” you say, voice calm. “And that’s the point.”
Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.
You step around him to face him again.
“Say your safe word,” you instruct.
He frowns. “We need one?”
“Yes,” you say, and don’t let him argue. “Pick something you won’t say by accident.”
His lips part. He thinks.
“Starling,” he says finally.
A strange choice. A soft one.
You nod. “Starling means everything stops immediately. No questions.”
He nods too, solemn.
Then you touch him.
Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.
He inhales like he’s been starving.
“Tell me where you hold the most tension,” you murmur.
“My shoulders,” he says, voice strained.
You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.
“Good,” you say. “We start by making you feel good without making you lose control.”
He lets out a shaky laugh.
“That seems… unlikely,” he admits.
You smile, slow.
“That’s why you hired me.”
You take your time undressing him, not because you’re kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.
Patience. Control. Listening.
His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks he’s in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.
You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.
“Sensitive?” you ask.
“Everywhere,” he admits. “I… I feel things strongly.”
You hum, pleased.
His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.
When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.
His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.
You don’t touch it yet.
Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish.
You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.
His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.
“Okay,” you say softly, hands on his shoulders. “Rule one: you don’t move unless I tell you.”
His eyes widen. “I—”
“Do you understand?” you press.
He swallows hard. “Yes.”
“Good,” you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He trembles.
You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.
He sucks in air like he’s drowning.
“Still,” you remind.
He goes rigid, fighting himself.
You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.
He looks at you like you’re about to save him.
“Tell me if you’re okay,” you say.
“I’m okay,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Are you?”
You smile.
“I’m better than okay.”
And then you sink down onto him.
He makes a sound that doesn’t belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.
It’s too broken, too needy—like something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.
You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.
For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.
Almost.
His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like he’s gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.
You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.
“Good,” you murmur. “That’s good control.”
His laugh is breathless. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.
He goes taut.
Your teeth graze his skin—just a hint—and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.
“Still,” you warn.
He obeys.
You should be proud.
Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to push—just to see what happens when he breaks.
You pull back, meet his gaze.
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
His eyes are bright, desperate. “You.”
“That’s not specific enough,” you tease.
He swallows.
“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”
You tilt your head. “And what happens when you do?”
His jaw clenches, shame flashing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why we’re here,” you say softly, and then, like kindness, “We’ll do it in steps.”
But the truth is you’ve already decided.
You don’t want to fix him.
You want to be the line he crosses and can’t uncross.
You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like he’s trying to memorize it—like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.
“Clark,” you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.
“Yes?”
“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.
You smile at that. File it away.
Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.
“I’m going to let you move,” you say. “But you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.”
His breath is ragged. “I will.”
“If I say slow down, you slow down.”
“Yes.”
“If I say ‘Starling,’ everything ends.”
He nods hard.
You hold his gaze another beat, as if you’re making sure he means it.
Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:
“Okay.”
“Move.”
The change is instant.
Clark’s hips drive up like he’s been shot out of a cannon—and then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.
He looks at you like he’s waiting for punishment.
You moan instead.
“Good,” you gasp. “Yes—like that, but slower.”
He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.
Almost.
The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.
“You feel—” he chokes, eyes wild. “You feel so good.”
“I know,” you pant. “Stay with me.”
He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.
It’s still controlled, still careful—until you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.
His thrust stutters.
You feel the edge of him slipping.
And you—god help you—you lean into it.
“Clark,” you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Don’t hold back from me,” you say, soft as a sin. “I can take it.”
He freezes.
“That’s—” he starts, panic flickering. “That’s not—”
“You hired me because everyone else got hurt,” you whisper, lips close to his. “Let me be different.”
It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.
But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.
His control wavers.
He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”
You nod, slow. “Yes.”
You are sure of one thing only:
You want him ruined.
You want him addicted.
You want him looking at you like the only safe place he’s ever had.
You shift again, and he groans like he’s in pain.
His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.
“Slower,” you tell him, testing.
He slows—barely.
“Good,” you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.
“That’s it,” you whisper. “Use me.”
A sound rips out of him—too raw, too broken.
His hips drive up harder.
The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasn’t meant to exist.
You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.
He looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.
“I’m going to—” he gasps, panic rising. “I’m going to lose it.”
“Then lose it,” you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.
He tries to stop. You feel it—the way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.
But you keep moving.
You keep coaxing.
You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.
“Good,” you moan. “So good, Clark—God, you’re perfect—just like that—”
His restraint snaps.
Clark’s thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.
The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.
The entire frame dips.
Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.
You yelp, startled, but his hands—still cuffed, still restrained—flex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like he’s lost the ability to think.
“Clark!” you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.
He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound that’s more animal than man.
“I can’t stop,” he chokes.
You should say Starling.
You should end it.
Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.
Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.
The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.
Your body takes it because you told him it could.
Because you wanted this.
Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.
His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, even as he keeps moving. “Please—tell me to stop.”
You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.
“Look at me,” you demand.
He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.
“You’re not hurting me,” you lie—because you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.
“You’re making me come,” you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.
His thrusts turn feral.
The bench finally gives up completely.
Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.
Clark freezes instantly—panic flashing so hard it’s almost blinding.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Are you—”
You grab his face with both hands.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” you snap, voice shaking.
He stills, eyes wide.
“I’m here,” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m here.”
You’re still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them—he’s too focused on you, on the fact that you’re breathing.
“Move,” you tell him, softer now. “Finish.”
His throat works. “I—”
“Clark,” you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. “You can. I’m right here.”
He exhales like surrender.
Then he starts again—slower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.
His eyes never leave your face.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he begs.
“It hurts,” you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.
His whole body locks. “Starling?”
You swallow, pulse racing.
You could stop.
You should stop.
Instead you shake your head.
“It hurts because you’re real,” you whisper. “Because you’re—because you’re you.”
His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.
You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.
When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like you’re holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.
“Good,” you whisper shakily, breathless. “Good—there, just like that—”
He loses himself again, but this time it’s not violent.
It’s desperate.
He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he can’t believe he’s allowed to feel this.
When it’s over, he goes still—shaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he can’t take what he wants unless someone gives it.
You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.
Slowly, he opens his eyes.
They’re wet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately. “The bench—I—”
You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.
“It’s just a bench,” you say.
His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”
“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.
He looks past you at the wreckage—steel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.
“I shouldn’t have—”
You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.
It’s not gentle.
It’s a claim.
He kisses you back like he’s starving.
When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.
“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again, firmer this time. “You scared yourself. There’s a difference.”
He swallows. “I lost control.”
“You listened when I told you to slow down,” you remind him. “You asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.”
His breath shudders. “Because I thought I’d killed you.”
You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.
“But I’m here,” you say. “And you’re here. And you’re not alone in this.”
Something shifts in him at those words—something that looks suspiciously like hope.
And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.
He stares at you like you’re a miracle.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
You could tell him the truth right then.
That you didn’t come here to fix him.
That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldn’t forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because you’re a saint, but because you’re selfish enough to want the weight of him.
Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, “We can keep training.”
His eyes widen, earnest. “You’ll come back?”
You lean in, mouth close to his ear.
“That depends,” you murmur.
“On what?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.
“On whether you can handle the fact that I’m not doing this for free,” you say.
His brow furrows. “You named a price.”
You hum. “Not that kind of payment.”
He blinks—confused, vulnerable.
You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.
“When you start to trust me,” you whisper against his mouth, “you don’t get to decide you’re better off without me.”
His breath catches.
It’s an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.
He should flinch.
He doesn’t.
He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.
“I don’t want to be without you,” he admits, voice shaking.
The words land in your chest like a trophy.
Good.
You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.
His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesn’t trust them.
Then he cups your face with both palms—so gentle it’s almost reverent.
“I thought I couldn’t have this,” he whispers. “I thought it would always be—dangerous.”
You swallow, throat tight.
“It is dangerous,” you say honestly.
His eyes flicker. “Then why—why would you—”
Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.
Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.
Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he can’t walk away from.
You don’t say any of that.
You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.
“Because you’re worth the risk,” you lie, and watch his face soften like you’ve given him everything.
He kisses your knuckles, careful.
Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.
“I’m going to have to replace that,” he says, voice hoarse.
You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.
“Consider it progress,” you say.
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—relief and awe mixed together.
Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.
“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, as if he’s afraid to name it.
“Can’t what?” you ask softly.
He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits. “Even before—before tonight. I—”
He laughs once, bitter at himself.
“I thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.”
You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.
“And now?” you ask.
His eyes burn into yours.
“Now I think I’ve been starving,” he says.
You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.
Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like he’s afraid to break you even with a touch.
You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.
“Then eat,” you whisper.
His hands slide to your waist, shaking.
“Are you sure?” he asks again, like it’s his religion now.
You smile.
“Yes,” you say, and mean it in the worst way.
Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.
And maybe it is.
But it’s also the beginning of something else—something messier, darker, more tangled.
A need he’ll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.
A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.
You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happens—the instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.
You pull back and cup his face.
“Look at me,” you say.
He does immediately.
“You’re not a monster,” you tell him.
His eyes shimmer.
“And you’re not alone,” you add, softer. “Not anymore.”
He exhales like a man being forgiven.
Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.
Because this is the part he doesn’t understand yet:
You’re not here to save him from himself.
You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.
Bucky, who is OBSESSED with biting the reader when they're having sex😩 like, this man is feral. Also he's never had this urge before, but the reader is chubby and squishy it's physically impossible for him to not dig his teeth into her soft skin. At first he is hesitant, he doesn't wanna scare her, but figures she likes it too after a few trials, and now it's mandatory when they have sex. Like anywhere. They both love it equally.
Bucky Barnes had always prided himself on control.
Even after the serum, after the decades of violence etched into his bones, he kept his edges sharp and leashed. Sex with you had been no different at first—intense, reverent, a careful worship of every curve and dip of your body.
You were soft in all the ways that made his mouth water, your thighs thick enough to bruise his hips when you wrapped them around him, your belly a warm, yielding pillow under his palm. He loved sinking his fingers into you. Loved the way your flesh gave and bounced back.
But biting?
That urge had never been there before.
Until it was.
The first time it happened, you were riding him slowly in the dim lamplight of your shared apartment, your hips rolling in that lazy rhythm that drove him insane. Sweat slicked your skin, making the soft underside of your breast glisten as you arched above him.
Bucky’s metal hand anchored your waist while his flesh fingers dug into the generous swell of your ass, guiding you down onto him again and again. You felt so good—tight, wet, perfect—and when you leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavy and full right in front of his face, something in him snapped.
He latched onto the side of one breast without thinking, teeth sinking into the give of you.
Not hard enough to break skin, but firm.
A low, guttural growl vibrated against your flesh as he bit down.
You gasped, hips stuttering.
For a split second, Bucky froze, horror flooding him.
What the fuck was that?
He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, lips already forming an apology.
“Shit—baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
But you were looking down at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, pupils blown wide. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him right back.
“Do it again,” you whispered.
“Harder.”
That was all it took.
---
Months later, biting wasn’t just a sometimes thing.
It was mandatory.
Foreplay. During. After.
Anywhere his mouth could reach, he marked you.
And you craved it just as fiercely.
Tonight was no exception.
You’d barely made it through the door after a long day before Bucky had you pinned against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His hands roamed greedily, squeezing the soft rolls at your sides, kneading your hips before sliding beneath your shirt.
“Missed you,” he growled against your lips.
“Missed this.”
He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tugging your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. Your thighs jiggled with the movement, and Bucky groaned like a man starved.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered later, eyes dark and wild as they traveled over you. “You’re so fucking soft.”
By the time he carried you to the bedroom, your skin was already decorated with the evidence of his affection.
The mattress bounced beneath your weight when he set you down, stripping quickly before crawling over you.
He didn't rush.
Not really.
Because as much as Bucky loved having you beneath him, he loved worshipping you even more.
Every inch.
Every curve.
Every soft place he could touch.
Every place he could leave his mark.
“Bucky, please,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist.
His answering smile was dark.
“Gonna take care of you, doll.”
The rest of the night blurred into tangled sheets, breathless laughter, desperate kisses, and the familiar ache of being wanted so completely.
Not tolerated.
Not settled for.
Wanted.
Consumed.
Adored.
Bucky always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and somehow that feeling never got old.
If anything, it only made you love him more.
---
Afterward, you both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap beneath the blankets.
Bucky pulled you against his chest, his hands gentle now as they traced the constellation of marks scattered across your skin. Some were already darkening into bruises. Others were barely visible.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
The question always surprised you. Even after all this time, some part of him still worried.
You laughed softly and turned in his arms.
“Never.”
His expression immediately relaxed.
“I love it when you lose control like that,” you admitted, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Makes me feel wanted.”
His eyes softened.
“You are wanted.”
The words came without hesitation.
“I can’t get enough of you.”
Your heart squeexed because you could see he meant every word.
“Your body,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”
You laughed.
“Perfect?”
“Perfect.”
“Even when I steal all the blankets?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave cups everywhere?”
“Yes.”
“When I—”
“Yes.”
He cut you off with a grin.
“Still perfect.”
You smiled and tucked yourself closer against him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The apartment sat quiet around you, safe and warm.
Eventually, Bucky shifted lower against the mattress, burying his face against your chest with a satisfied sigh.
“Comfortable?” you teased.
“Very.”
“You planning on moving?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair.
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out.
One arm wrapped around your waist. One hand resting possessively against your side.
You watched him for a moment before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Bucky Barnes had spent most of his life fighting.
Surviving.
Holding himself together through sheer force of will.
But here? With you?
He could finally let go.
And judging by the way he slept curled around you, he never intended to leave.
If you are taking requests can we get a fic of Bucky thinking he’s ready for the toddler stage because he’s a super soldier but his daughter is a break for freedom kid who runs like the law is after her whenever the opportunity arises. Bucky turns around for a second and she’s running like she’s trying for the olympics, he lets go of her hand and she’s chasing a duck under a hedge having the time of her life while he tries to understand how a child can escape him.
Bucky Barnes has lived about 8 lifetimes and survived hell nobody can comprehend. So when you hand him your daughter’s tiny jacket and say, “You’ve got park duty today,” he just smirks like this is the easiest mission he’s ever been assigned.
“It’s a toddler,” he says, confident, already crouching to help her shove her arms into the sleeves. “How hard can it be?”
You don’t even bother answering. You just kiss your little girl’s head, then his cheek, and walk away with a suspicious sort of calm that should’ve tipped him off.
Because Bucky is prepared.
He’s done research. He’s read articles. He’s even asked Sam, who laughed so hard he had to sit down before offering any advice. Bucky doesn’t get it. He has enhanced strength, enhanced speed, enhanced reflexes. There is quite literally no version of this where he loses control of the situation.
Your daughter—small, sweet, curls bouncing, shoes that light up when she stomps—grins up at him like she knows something he doesn’t.
“Ready, Sergeant?” he teases, holding out his hand.
She takes it. For exactly twelve seconds.
The park is calm when they get there. Kids on swings, parents on benches, a couple dogs trotting around. Bucky does a quick scan out of habit, cataloging exits, possible hazards, anything that might pose a threat. Everything is under control.
He looks down at her. She’s staring at a group of ducks by the pond, eyes wide, completely transfixed.
“Those are ducks,” he explains, because apparently that’s what parenting is. “They’re—”
She lets go of his hand.
It’s subtle at first. Just a shift. A tiny tug of her fingers slipping free.
Bucky barely registers it.
And then she’s gone.
Not gone gone—but running.
Running like her life depends on it. Like she’s been training for this exact moment since birth. Her little legs pump with terrifying efficiency, light-up shoes flashing like warning signals as she makes a beeline straight for the ducks.
“Hey—hey!” Bucky calls, startled for half a second before instinct kicks in and he's moving fast.
He's faster than any normal person is; however, your daughter is faster.
Or maybe not technically faster, but unpredictable. Chaotic. She zigzags with absolutely no pattern, giggling as the ducks scatter, her delighted squeal carrying across the park. Bucky adjusts his path, calculating angles, intercept points—
She ducks under a hedge.
A hedge.
Bucky skids to a stop at the edge of it, staring down like it personally offended him.
“How—” he mutters, blinking.
There is no logical reason for this. The opening is small. The hedge is dense. He is a super soldier.
And yet his toddler has just disappeared into shrubbery like a fugitive.
On the other side, her laughter rings out, bright and unbothered.
“Quack quack!” she yells, chasing after a very confused duck.
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, crouching down to peer through the leaves. He can see flashes of her jacket, those blinking shoes, the absolute chaos of her tiny form barreling forward without a single ounce of hesitation.
“Doll,” he calls, attempting calm. “We do not chase wildlife.”
She shrieks in delight.
Not listening.
Of course she’s not listening.
Why would she listen?
Bucky drags a hand down his face, then stands, quickly moving around the hedge to cut her off on the other side. This time, he’s ready. He positions himself perfectly, steps wide, arms out—
She runs straight past him.
Not even a pause. Not even a glance. Just pure, unfiltered toddler rebellion as she darts in a completely new direction, laughter bubbling out of her like this is the greatest game ever invented.
Bucky turns, stunned.
“What the hell,” he breathes, before taking off after her again.
It becomes a cycle.
She runs.
He catches up.
She slips away.
He recalculates.
At one point, he manages to grab the back of her jacket—victory, finally—but she twists in his grip with the determination of someone who has never known defeat, dropping to the ground and wriggling free like a tiny, giggling escape artist.
“Absolutely not,” he says, half exasperated, half impressed.
She’s already back on her feet, sprinting toward a new target—this time a squirrel.
Bucky stares at the sky for a brief moment, like he’s asking for strength.
“This is not a fair fight,” he mutters.
Because it isn’t.
Not when she has no fear, no strategy, no concern for consequences. Just joy. Just curiosity. Just the overwhelming need to run and explore and chase anything that moves.
Eventually—eventually—he catches her properly.
It takes a well-timed scoop, a quick lift that brings her up into his arms mid-run. She squeals, kicking her legs, still laughing like she hasn’t just put him through tactical warfare.
“Got you,” he pants, holding her close.
She beams at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“Again!” she demands, like this was all just a game he willingly participated in.
Bucky stares at her.
Then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he presses a kiss to her hair.
“You are unbelievable,” he tells her, voice soft despite the exhaustion creeping in. “I fought trained assassins with less trouble than you.”
She pats his cheek, entirely unconcerned.
“Dada slow,” she says, with absolute confidence.
Bucky barks out a laugh, loud and helpless, pulling her closer as he starts the walk back home.
“Yeah,” he admits, adjusting her on his hip. “Guess I am.”
Wthen she leans her head against his shoulder, finally still for more than three seconds, he can’t help the small, fond smile that tugs at his lips.
bucky barnes is soooo loud in bed he can’t help it…after decades of nothing he’s just super sensitive and needy. can definitely picture him trying to pull you away multiple times a day to have sex. love him sm.
im so sorry this turned into a stucky moment too😭
--------
Bucky Barnes was a man of few words outside the bedroom—quiet, calculated, the Winter Soldier’s ghost still lingering in his silences.
But in bed he was so loud.
Desperate, broken-open sounds that spillled from him like he’d been holding them in for decades.
Which, of course, he had.
It started innocently enough that first morning back at the safehouse.
You and Steve had barely finished coffee when Bucky’s hand found your waist, tugging you back against his chest with that needy little whine already building in his throat.
“Missed you,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck.
But the way his hips rolled forward, hard and insistent against your ass, said more than words ever could.
Steve raised an eyebrow from across the kitchen, smirking, but didn’t stop him.
None of you could ever really stop Bucky when the hunger hit.
Within minutes, he had you both in the bedroom, clothes half-shoved aside because he couldn’t wait.
You ended up on your back with Bucky between your thighs, Steve’s hand tangled in Bucky’s hair, guiding him down.
The first slide of Bucky’s cock into you dragged a shattered moan from deep in his chest—raw, helpless, loud.
His head dropped to your shoulder, metal arm braced beside your head as he rocked forward again, another broken sound tearing free.
“F-fuck—so warm,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Missed this. Missed you squeezing me like that—ahh—”
He was already trembling, oversensitive from years of nothing but cold and silence.
Every thrust punched another cry out of him: high, needy whimpers when you clenched around him, guttural groans when Steve leaned down to bite at his shoulder.
Bucky tried to muffle himself against your neck, but it was useless.
He couldn’t stay quiet.
Not when you felt this good.
Not when Steve’s fingers joined the rhythm, pressing into him from behind and making Bucky’s whole body jerk.
You loved it.
Loved how he fell apart so easily now, how the Soldier’s control shattered the second pleasure touched him.
You rolled your hips up to meet him and Bucky sobbed, hips stuttering.
“Too much—please—don’t sop, don’t—”
Steve chuckled low, voice rough with affection.
“Easy, Buck. We’ve got you.”
By the time he came the first time—shaking, loud, spilling deep inside you with a wrecked shout that echoed off the walls—Bucky was already trying to catch his breath for round two.
He didn’t get it.
You and Steve traded a look and gently pinned him down instead, taking turns drawing more of those delicious sounds from him until he was a sweaty, oversensitive mess between you.
That was just breakfast.
By lunch, he was pulling you into the hallway closet like a man possessed.
“Just need a minute,” he lied, voice already breathy as he dropped to his knees.
His mouth was hot and eager, tongue working you open while he moaned around you like you were the one doing him a favor.
Every little hum and whimper vibrated through you until you were gripping his hair and coming with his name on your lips.
Bucky followed seconds later, untouched, grinding against your leg with a muffled cry.
Steve found you both there, flushed and half-dressed, and simply shook his head fondly before dragging you to the couch for round three.
Bucky rode him slow and filthy, head thrown back, moans pouring out unrestrained—Steve’s name, yours, curses in at least three languages.
The neighbors probably hated you.
None of you cared.
Afternoon found him cornering you in the laundry room while Steve was on a quick supply run.
Bucky bent you over the humming dryer, metal hand gentle on your hip even as his thrusts grew frantic.
“Can’t—fuck—can’t help it,” he panted against your ear, voice cracking on every other word. “Been empty for so long. Need you. Need to feel you—oh god—right there—”
He came so hard he nearly collapsed, legs shaking, loud enough that Steve heard him from the driveway and came running—only to join in the second he realized what was happening.
Evening blurred into night.
Dinner was abandoned halfway through when Bucky pulled you into his lap at the table, grinding you down with soft, desperate noises.
You ended up on the floor, Steve fucking into Bucky from behind while Bucky buried his face between your thighs, moaning and licking and whimpering the whole time.
Every time you praised him—
“Such a good boy, Buck, so loud for us, let us hear you.”
—he’d shudder and get even louder, until the room was filled with the wet sounds of sex and Bucky’s broken, beautiful cries.
Later, when the three of you finally collapsed into bed, tangled and sticky and sated (for now), Bucky curled between you like he belonged there.
His voice was hoarse from use, but he still whispered, almost shyly,
“Didn’t mean to be so… much.”
You kissed his temple, Steve’s hand stroking down his back.
“We love you like this,” you murmured. “Needy. Loud. Ours.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, a tiny needy sound escaping before he could stop it.
His cock twitched against your thigh, already half-hard again.
“Give us ten minutes,” Steve teased, grinning.
Bucky groaned, hiding his flushed face in your chest, but his hips rolled forward anyway.
“Can’t help itt,” he mumbled, voice muffled and already thickening with want. “Missed feeling alive.”
You smiled into his hair, fingers threading through Steve’s where they met over Bucky’s waist.
The Soldier had decades of silence to make up for.
Lucky for him, you and Steve were more than happy to let him be as loud as he needed multiple times a day, every day, for as long as it took.
prompt: “i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.” with bucky?
It’s not supposed to happen like this.
Bucky has planned it for weeks. Maybe longer, if he’s being honest, because the idea has been sitting in his chest, heavy and certain, long before he ever worked up the nerve to do something about it.
He has the ring. He has the speech. He has a whole stupid list in his head of things he’s supposed to say—how much he loves you, how you make him feel human again, how you’ve carved a home out of a man who never thought he deserved one.
He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.
He’s got it.
He has it.
Until he doesn’t.
---
You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.
“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”
You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.
So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.
Always does.
---
He stops when you reach the spot.
It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.
Just your place.
The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.
It matters.
That’s why he picked it.
You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything in his head just—
Gone.
Completely blank.
He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.
But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.
All he’s left with is feeling.
And it’s too big.
Too much.
His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.
Drops.
Right there.
One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.
Your eyes go wide.
“Bucky—?”
His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.
Because you’re staring at him.
Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
And he's panicking.
Not about the answer. Never about that.
Just—about getting it right.
About saying it right.
About making sure you know.
And he can’t find the words.
Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.
So what comes out is—
“Please.”
It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.
Your face does something soft, something almost startled.
He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.
“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.
“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”
And it’s all there anyway.
Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.
Please stay.
Please choose me.
Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.
Please don’t let this be something I lose.
Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.
“Bucky…”
He looks terrified.
Not of you.
Of losing you.
And that’s what does it.
That’s what breaks you open completely.
You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”
His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.
“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”
His breath stutters.
“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.
You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.
“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
The relief that hits him is immediate.
His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.
“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”
You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I practiced.”
You snort. “Did you really?”
He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”
He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”
You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. “Just ‘please.’”
The worst part about agreeing to laser tag with the Avengers isn’t the neon vests or the fact that Sam will absolutely never let anyone forget a loss.
It’s that Bucky Barnes takes everything like it’s a covert op.
The place is dimly lit and smells faintly like carpet cleaner and adrenaline. Black lights flash over murals of alien planets and space marines that look vaguely like off-brand versions of you guys. Kids sprint past shrieking, plastic blasters clutched in sticky hands, and somewhere a fog machine wheezes dramatically.
You adjust the vest over your chest, glancing at the name glowing across your screen. “Starlight?” you deadpan. “Really?”
Nat smirks from where she’s tightening her straps. “You could’ve picked worse.”
Across the staging room, Bucky stands ramrod straight while a teenager explains the rules like he’s briefing a squad before deployment.
“No running,” the kid says for the third time.
Bucky nods once. “Copy.”
Steve leans over to you. “He’s been like this since we walked in.”
“Of course he has.”
The teams are split up—Sam, Nat, and you versus Steve, Bucky, and Wanda. The moment the doors slide open and the music kicks in, Bucky disappears into the maze of glowing walls like a ghost.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sam mutters. “He’s flanking already.”
The arena pulses with blue and purple light. Fog drifts low over the floor. You barely take three steps before a red beam clips your vest.
“BUCKY!” you shout.
From somewhere above—because of course there are elevated platforms—his voice echoes back, amused and maddeningly calm. “Should’ve checked your corners, doll.”
You squint up at the grated catwalk where his silhouette is barely visible. He gives you a tiny, mocking salute before vanishing again.
“Oh, it’s on,” you mutter.
For the next five minutes, it’s chaos. Sam trash talks at full volume. Nat moves like a shadow, tagging Steve twice in rapid succession before melting into the maze. Wanda uses her powers just enough to “accidentally” misdirect people, claiming plausible deniability the whole time.
But Bucky?
Bucky is a menace.
You catch glimpses of him between glowing barriers—dark hair, metal arm glinting under black light, that focused crease between his brows. He moves like this is real. Tactical. Efficient. You watch him wait until Sam is distracted before stepping out, tagging him three times in quick succession, then disappearing again without a sound.
“Is he smiling?” you whisper to Nat.
She peeks around the corner. “Oh, he’s absolutely smiling.”
You finally manage to corner him near the center base. It’s narrow there, walls tight and blinking red. He steps out in front of you before you can pivot away, blocking your escape.
“Got you,” he murmurs.
You lift your blaster, but he’s faster. Three sharp beeps. Your vest vibrates and powers down.
He doesn’t step back.
Under the black lights, his eyes look impossibly blue. The edges of his mouth curve just slightly, like he’s proud of himself.
“This is unfair,” you say, breathless from sprinting.
“Is it?” he tilts his head. “You’ve tagged me twice.”
“By accident.”
“Still counts.”
The music pulses around you, loud and ridiculous, but in this narrow corridor it suddenly feels quieter. Closer.
He leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You’re predictable,” he adds softly.
You scoff. “I am not.”
“You always go left when you panic.”
“I do not panic.”
“Just did.”
Your mouth opens to argue—then Sam barrels into the corridor, yelling something about revenge, and the moment shatters. Bucky slips past you smoothly, tagging Sam mid-sentence before vanishing again.
“You let him distract you!” Sam accuses.
“You’re loud!” you fire back.
When the round ends, Steve’s team wins by an embarrassing margin.
Sam demands a rematch immediately.
The second game is worse.
Because this time, Bucky decides to stick close to you.
At first you think it’s coincidence. You turn a corner—there he is. You duck behind a barrier—he’s suddenly at your shoulder. Every time someone lines you up for a shot, a red beam hits them first.
“You following me?” you hiss.
“Protecting my investment,” he replies coolly.
“I’m on the other team.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t keep you from getting annihilated.”
“You’re literally annihilating me.”
He shrugs. “Collateral.”
You try to shake him, weaving through the maze, doubling back, even hiding behind a fake asteroid prop. He finds you every time.
At one point, he gently grabs the back of your vest and pulls you flat against the wall just as a volley of beams lights up the space where you were standing.
Your back presses to his chest. His metal arm braces beside your head. The scent of his cologne—clean, subtle—cuts through the fog machine haze.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs near your ear.
Your pulse jumps. “You’re cheating.”
“I’m talented.”
“You’re insufferable.”
His laugh is quiet, warm against your skin. “You love it.”
You do not dignify that with a response.
Instead, you pivot, lift your blaster, and tag him square in the chest before darting away.
He stares at his blinking vest in disbelief.
“You little—”
You grin over your shoulder. “Should’ve checked your corners, Barnes.”
For the rest of the match, it becomes personal.
He hunts you with single-minded focus. You become equally determined not to be caught. You tag Steve twice. You and Nat coordinate an ambush on Wanda. Sam sacrifices himself dramatically so you can make a break for the base.
And then it’s just you and Bucky again.
Final seconds ticking down.
You circle each other in the center platform, lights flashing red like a countdown. He moves left. You mirror him. Both of you grinning now, competitive fire sparking in your eyes.
“Call a truce?” he offers lightly.
“Never.”
He lunges.
You both fire.
The scoreboard flashes.
Tie.
The buzzer sounds.
Outside the arena, everyone’s loud and sweaty and arguing over stats. Sam insists the machines were biased. Steve looks proud of everyone like this was a moral victory somehow. Nat is already planning next week’s rematch.
bucky slowly realizing he can’t live without y/n? it creeps up on him so subtly he doesn’t even realize it, but suddenly his day doesn’t start until u walk into the room? or he can only concentrate once he knows ur safe? he doesn’t know when exactly u became his entire world and he’s a bit terrified of it bcuz of how easily he could lose u
There’s no lightning bolt, no cinematic swell of music, no single moment where Bucky Barnes wakes up and thinks, I can’t live without her.
It creeps in quietly. Patiently. Like dawn bleeding into the sky before you even realize the sun is up.
At first, it’s small things.
He notices that his coffee tastes better when you’re in the kitchen with him. Not because you add anything to it—he still drinks it black—but because you’re there, humming softly while you dig through the fridge, stealing sips from his mug when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to see. Pretends not to wait for it.
But on mornings you sleep in? He finds himself standing at the counter longer than necessary, mug cooling in his metal hand, listening for your footsteps in the hall.
His day doesn’t feel like it’s started until you appear.
He tells himself it’s coincidence.
It isn’t.
He realizes it again during missions.
There was a time when Bucky could compartmentalize anything. He could put emotions in a locked box, shove it to the back of his mind, and focus solely on the objective. Clean. Efficient. Detached.
Now?
Now he checks his phone before every briefing.
Just to make sure you texted back.
Just to make sure you’re safe.
He doesn’t relax until he sees your name on the screen—some mundane message about groceries or a picture of the stray cat you’re trying to befriend. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out.
Only then can he concentrate.
Sam notices it before he does.
“You’re distracted,” Sam mutters one afternoon while they’re reviewing intel.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Bucky bristles automatically, jaw tightening. But when Sam raises a brow and glances pointedly at the phone in Bucky’s hand, Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.
He sets it down. Pushes it away.
He doesn’t pick it up again.
Not for fifteen whole minutes.
And then he checks it anyway.
It’s subtle at first, the way you become the axis his world turns on.
He starts timing his workouts so he’s home when you are. Starts grocery shopping for things you like without thinking about it. Starts leaving a light on if you’re coming back late because he doesn’t like the idea of you walking into a dark apartment.
He tells himself it’s just… consideration.
He doesn’t realize it’s devotion.
The first time it truly hits him is on a random Friday.
You’re late.
You said you’d be home by six.
It’s 6:17.
And Bucky is pacing.
He hates that he’s pacing.
His chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt in years—like something is pressing down on his ribs from the inside. He checks his phone. No new messages. He considers calling you, then stops himself. He doesn’t want to be overbearing.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
You’re—
The lock clicks.
You walk in, shaking rain from your jacket, muttering about traffic and a flat tire and how your phone died halfway through the tow.
You barely get two steps inside before he’s in front of you.
“You okay?” His voice is rough, sharper than he means it to be. His hands hover at your shoulders like he’s afraid to grab you too tightly.
You blink at him. “Yeah? Buck, I’m fine.”
But he doesn’t breathe properly until he pulls you into his chest and feels the steady rhythm of your heart beneath his palm.
And that’s when it settles in.
The realization.
It’s quiet and terrifying and absolute.
His world doesn’t function right without you in it.
He doesn’t know when it happened.
He doesn’t know the exact moment you became the first thing he looks for in every room, the person his mind reaches for when things go wrong, the calm in the storm of his thoughts.
He just knows that somewhere along the way, you stopped being a part of his life and became the center of it.
And that scares the hell out of him.
Because Bucky Barnes knows loss.
He knows how easily things can be ripped away.
He knows what it’s like to wake up in a world where everything you love is gone.
The thought of that happening with you?
It makes him feel hollow.
He starts watching you differently after that; much more aware.
Of how you laugh when you’re half-asleep. Of how you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Of the way your hand always finds his without looking.
He memorizes you.
Like if he learns every detail, he’ll somehow be able to keep you.
One night, you catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, smiling softly from where you’re curled against him on the couch.
He hesitates.
He doesn’t do vulnerable easily.
But this feels too big to swallow.
“I don’t remember when it happened,” he says quietly.
“When what happened?”
“When you became… everything.”
You go still.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, metal cool against your warm skin.
“My day doesn’t start until I see you,” he admits. “I can’t focus unless I know you’re safe. If you’re late, I feel like I can’t breathe.” His jaw tightens. “And that’s— that’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” you whisper.
“For me.” He swallows. “Because I know how easy it is to lose things. I know how fragile good things are. And you…” His voice falters just slightly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But I can promise I’m here right now. And I choose you. Every day.”
The tightness in his chest eases, just a fraction.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you close like he’s grounding himself in something solid.
He may not know when you became his entire world.
He may never pinpoint the exact moment.
But he knows if loving you means being terrified of losing you, he’ll take that fear.
@matthieujehanno: Thanks again @imsebastianstan ! And congrats for your new movie with @renatereinsve, by @cristian_mungiu @fjordthefilm Video for the @carltoncannes
Have you seen those videos of people wearing clothes from the 40s/50s out in public??
What would Bucky do if he’s out one day and sees a fine thang walk by in 1940s attire?
Love you long time! You the bestestestest! 💕
OH MY GOD YESSSS!
-------
You don’t think much of it when you get dressed.
It’s just a dress. A pretty one, sure—soft fabric that cinches your waist just right, skirt flaring gently when you turn, the kind of silhouette that feels like it belongs to another time. You’d found it tucked into the back of a vintage shop, all delicate seams and careful tailoring, something that looks like it’s lived a life before you ever slipped it on.
You pair it with low heels, swipe on a little lipstick—nothing dramatic, just enough—and twist your hair up in a way you’d seen in an old photo once.
You feel… good.
That’s all it is.
---
Bucky notices you before he realizes why.
He’s halfway down the street, mind somewhere else entirely—groceries in one hand, the steady hum of the city grounding him in the present—when something pulls his attention like a thread snagging.
It’s not logical. Not at first.
Just a flicker of movement. The sway of fabric. The unmistakable silhouette of something—
Familiar.
His steps slow. His head turns. And then he sees you. But he doesn't just see you, he stares.
Because for one disorienting, breath-stealing second, the world tilts.
The city noise fades. The cars, the chatter, the glow of modern life—all of it dulls into the background as his brain scrambles to reconcile what he’s looking at.
You walk past him like you belong somewhere else entirely.
Like you stepped out of a memory he didn’t realize he still carried so vividly.
The dress. The shoes. The way your hair is pinned just so. Even the way you move—there’s a softness to it, a rhythm that feels pulled straight from the 40s, like something he used to see on crowded sidewalks in Brooklyn, back when everything smelled like cigarette smoke and fresh bread and possibility.
And you—
God, you.
You’re smiling to yourself about something, completely unaware of the effect you’re having, completely unaware that you’ve just knocked the air out of a hundred-year-old soldier.
Bucky stops walking entirely.
He just stands there.
Staring.
Because you look like something he lost.
And something he never thought he’d get to see again.
And also—very abruptly, very viscerally—like the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t hear him.
You keep walking.
And that’s what snaps him out of it.
Because no—no, absolutely not, he is not letting you just walk away like that.
He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly drops his groceries.
“Hey—!”
It comes out rougher than he intends. Louder, too.
You turn.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything fully clicks into place, because now he can see your face clearly—modern, present, undeniably you—paired with something that looks like it belongs in his past.
It hits him right in the chest.
Hard.
You blink at him, a little surprised, but not alarmed.
“Yeah?”
Your voice is normal. Casual. Grounding.
It helps.
A little.
Bucky drags a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but he’s still looking at you like you’ve just walked out of a time machine.
“Uh—” he starts, then stops.
Great. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly, the motion making the soft curls near your temple shift just enough to make his brain short-circuit again.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Where’d you get that?” he blurts out.
Your eyes flick down to your dress, then back up to him, amused.
“This?” you ask. “Vintage shop.”
Of course.
Of course it is.
He lets out a quiet huff of disbelief, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to clear it.
“You—” he gestures vaguely at you, like words are failing him completely. “You look like—”
He cuts himself off.
Because what was he going to say?
You look like every girl I ever noticed in 1943?
You look like something I used to dream about and never thought I’d see again?
You look like you don’t belong here and I don’t know how to deal with that?
Instead, he settles on something far less coherent.
“—you look incredible,” he finishes, a little quieter.
You blink.
Then smile.
And it’s not a shy smile, not really—it’s pleased. Warm. A little teasing, even.
“Thank you,” you say. “That was a lot of buildup for a simple compliment.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “Kinda threw me off.”
“I can tell.”
There’s something about the way you say it—llike you’re trying to figure him out—that makes him straighten slightly.
Because now he’s noticing other things.
The way you’re looking at him.
The way you haven’t brushed him off or hurried away.
The way you’re still here.
And suddenly, the disorientation gives way to something else entirely.
Interest.
“Didn’t mean to yell at you on the street,” he adds, a little more composed now. “Just—haven’t seen that in a while.”
You hum softly.
“I figured,” you say. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and surprised.
“Felt like it,” he admits.
There’s a beat of silence before you shift your weight, the skirt of your dress swaying gently with the movement, and he definitely notices that.
“So,” you say, glancing at the bag in his hand. “Did I interrupt something, or—?”
He looks down at his groveries like he forgot they existed.
Then back at you.
And makes a decision.
Fast.
“Nah,” he says, easy. “Can wait.”
Your brow lifts slightly.
“Groceries can wait?”
“For this?” he shrugs. “Yeah.”
Your lips press together like you’re trying not to smile too much.
“Bold.”
“Honest,” he corrects.
Another pause.
Then, softer, more intetional—
“Walk with me?”
He doesn’t know why he asks it like that.
Doesn’t know why it feels important.
Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s the way you feel like something out of time. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, something from his past doesn’t hurt to look at.
You glance down the street, then back at him.
“Okay,” you say.
Just like that.
Simple.
Easy.
When you fall into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his for half a second, Bucky realizes something quietly, steadily, and with surprising certainty.
You don’t look like the past.
Not really.
You just make him feel like maybe it wasn’t all lost.
