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hyperfixating on a fictional woman who went underdeveloped in canon is literally FUN and the 80-90% of fandom people who only do the same for background character men have no idea of the degree to which they are fucking missing out
hour 1 of thinking about an underdeveloped woman: idk it would've been nice if she had more screentime
hour 100 of thinking about an underdeveloped woman: ok but despite having only eight lines of dialogue she is literally THE most interesting nuanced and tragic character in the entire series and these writers had no idea what they even had. how is no one else seeing this it's literally so objectively obvious
TW: Yandere, Yandere Man, blood mention, licking of wounds???, not Proofread
Imagine going to a concert of some famed singer, spending thousands upon thousands for plane tickets and for the commute along the way. This star's been known to always host his concerts on the beach side, he's always had this ocean theme to him.
He's new, yet people call him a rising star. He's knew, yet he was able to captivate millions upon the releass of his first single. People thought he was a one hit wonder, yet he kept releasing, slowly his music started to seep into the radio, to your feed, being used in edits.
There was just something so.. Captivating about him. And his voice, gods his voice, it felt like it echoed whenever he sang. A slow echo-ish voice which rings in your head, like a sense of serenity always falls upon you when his music would play. Everything else felt muffled except for the sound of his haunting voice, very operatic. Maybe he's just that good of a singer?
It honestly made you excited to finally see him live. After so many months of saving and hoping, maybe even spamming his comments along with the other fans, he released a schedule.
He was going on tour, and fortunately for you, one of his destinations was just within your range of travel!
... If that travel included national flights.
Either way, people rumored that his shows were legendary. Captivating, that it would feel like he surrounded you, that his voice is just that good LIVE as it is on recording.
Though there was one issue.
He's late. Very much so.
It's been.. God knows how long since the show was supposed to begin, yet there was no sign of the singer anywhere. The event managera tried their best to soothe the growing impatience of the crowd.
"He'll be right out! "
"We're calling him! "
They would announce from time to time. Honestly, you're starting to think you got scammed. All out here with your merch and shit near the beachside. You didn't want to miss the start of the show, but you're getting a bit impatient with it.
It's getting a bit crowded already and it didn't look like he would come out any time soon, maybe a quick walk on the beach wouldn't be so bad.
The sound of the waves crashing against the sandy beach echo through you. Maybe your trip was a bust, it doesn't seem like the singer's even here anyways. Great. A hotel stay, your travel, and the ticket you've bought, all wasted. Hell, even your vacation day was wasted.
Well, at least you get a relaxing scenery.
You close your eyes, to listening to the sound of the waves, feeling the cold air in your skin.. And the distant humming which pierces through your ears.
Huh?
Your brows furrow, were you growing crazy? It sounded like.. Humming. Singing even, the more you listen to it, the more your body relaxed. It felt like it reverberated within yiur brain, urging you on to listen to the tune. Everything felt muddled, distant and foggg as if everything else didn't matter. Despite the warning signs your brain sends you, despite the imminent danger which triggers within you, you walk. Closer to the sound, following that haunting melodic tune.
The sound of the singing grows louder and louder eith each step you take. It was only until it sounded like it was just right infront of you did your feet come to a halt.
Your eyes open, slowly. Vision blurry from how long it was closed and you were... In a portion of the beach you don't even recognize. It doesn't sound like there's any living life nearby. The sound of cars or the sound of night life, all gone.
Or maybe it was just muddled by the melody which echoed within your mind.
Where did that sound come from?
Your eyes move around the area, it looks like you're in some rocky place of the beach. The waves sound calmer here. Not even birds are nearby, not like you minded. A fucking seagull stole your pretzel earlier and you still held a grudge against the white bastard.
Finally, your eyes settle down onto the lump of fishing nets in front of you. Your brows furrow at it, was this left behind?
Your heart lurches up to your chest, body freezing as you see it shift, almost sitting up. The music fades, stopping and is instead replaced by the sound of panting before the figure droops back down onto the sandy beach side.
Your hear something akin to.. Crying? Whimpering? Little chirps coming from beneath the nets. Your chest feels tight, watching as the creature beneath it begin to sob.
... Sob?
Your brows furrow. Was it human? Animals can't sob. A sense of urgency filling you as you hastily approached the net. Someone's trapped in here. You think. It doesn't feel human, yet.. Whatever. It doesn't matter.
You should stop thinking about it, hands flying out to untangle mess infront if the creature.
It's whimpers growing as it began to move along with you, trying to free itself. The creature freezes at the movement, the sudden movement of the nets before it begins to thrash out under the net.
It felt scared.
"Hold on, stay still-"
Your voice barely cutting through the creature's thrashing. You were able to untangle a portion of the net, freeing it's arm. Immediately you yelp, you couldn't even react when the sharp claws of its.. It's hands? Fins??? Slice through your skin.
You stumble back from the wriggling mass of nets as the freed hand slices through the various other parts of the net, the creature freeing itself from it's restraints.
The nets gets thrown away off of the upper portion of the being once it frees off the half of itself and the sight makes you freeze.
Glowing silver eyes staring at you in anger. Grey skin- or, no, scales reflecting the moonlight as it shined down upon you. Sharo teeth in it's scowled mouth as it eyes locked down onto you. Eyes looking at you, up and down.
It's tense upper body slowly easing as it starts to register you weren't really a threat. You weren't... You didn't look like the people who kept him here.
You see something shift in its eyes as it locks down onto your wound, your bleeding gash as his body eased down, muscles relaxing and it looks like it's body visibly deflated.
A sense of guilt flashes against its eyes.
It didn't mean to-
You stare at it, it stares at you. Slowly, despite your better judgement, you approache the creature.
"It's fine, it's okay. I.. I'm not here to hurt you. See? "
You should be questioning just what the hell were you looking at, but there are other times for that. The creature doesn't react much as you approach it. Hands reaching out to the remaining tangled mess by its lower half.
It lets out a few soft chirps as it slowly, hesitantly turns so that you could get a better hold of the nets which held him in place.
It only took a moment before you finally were able to untangle him, freeing him from his restraints. With a final push of the net off of him, you're greeted with a scaly grey fish tail underneath it. It's long, with large fins by it's ends. Slightly twitching at the feeling of being free.
You couldn't help but stare in awe. Was this...
"A mermaid...? "
The words leave your mouth before you could even stop yourself. You see the creature huff in annoyance. It doesn't look like it appreciates being called one. But still, he doesn't react as you stare down at its tail before slowly bringing your eyes up to meet his.
You wanted to take a closer look at him, the scales which litter his body, his long silky black hair and toned body before reaching his much softer gaze.
"You... "
You softly speak out, but words die in your mouth. Hell, they died in your brain. What were you supposed to say? Hello? Nice to meet you?
... What kind of fish are you?
While you were busy contemplating your next move, the creatures hums softly, an attempt to ease your worries. The sound snaps you out of your dilemma as you turn to see his eyes move to stare at your wound.
"Oh! No, it's fine. I understand you were scared. It doesn't-"
Yet your words were cut off when his hands softly grasps your injured arm, being careful with it claws as it brings your arm closer to his face. Just what was he...?
"Eek! "
You yelp out as you feel the cold slimy feeling of his tongue being dragged through your wound, lapping up at the wound. The blood which trickled down the open injury. You were just about to pull away when you see your skin.
Skin, slowly pulling itself up, as if healing was just.. Fast forwarded like you forwarding past some youtuber's built in ads. Finally, when he pulls away, his gaze moves up to you, letting go of your arm, allowing you to observe it.
It's healed. Like it was never even harmed, no scar, no stinging sensation, just.. Healed.
Your eyes meet again, deeper this time. The longer you stared at him, the farther the world around you felt. You didn't know what happened, you don't even know how it happened. Yet one moment there was still a decent amount of space between you two, and now there was almost none.
Did they lean towards you or did you lean towards them? Before you could contemplate it, you feel the.. You can't rven describe the feeling of their lips against yours. Something inside you shifts, you don't know how but, the moment they pull away from you.. It felt.. Different. You felt different. Like..
... A heavy feeling has just placed itself upon you.
".. Thank you. "
His deep voice echoes througg your mind causing you to jumo back slightly. His expression doesn't change, but there was a slight amusement in his eyes before he turns to go back into the ocean.
You watch, watch as he returns back to the sea. The water slowly Engulfing his form. You stare at the cool waters, watching the moving waves... For what? You can't even remember. Just as you stand up, you realize..
... Where the fuck were you?
"Walk back in a straight line, my dear. You will find your way back to the beach side. "
The same deep voice echoes out through your head, sending shivers down your spine. Your brows furrow, turning back to the ocean one more time. There was nothing that changed, it's still it's calm self with small gentle waves.
Lips curling up into a straight line, you shake your head. You should really get back now. Who know how long you've been out here already? Without any more hesitation, you walk. Following the instructions of the voice, you walk back in a straight line. Towards where you had once came from.
Unaware that a pair of silver eyes watched you from afar, watching with a scalding intensity.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, body worship, smut, oral sex (m & f receiving), mating press position, emotional intimacy, friends to lovers, jealous reader, touch starved Bucky Barnes, first time sex, marking kink, praise kink, reader is lowkey in control, light sub Bucky, consent is sexy ya’ll
word count: 15k
Summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you.
Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you.
(He does. He always has.)
notes – not proofread. there is so much dialogue bc they would not shut up sorry yall they are yappers in love
taglist: @overwintering-soldier @loganficsonly
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
It was always easy, being with Bucky.
Even when the rest of the world was loud — filled with meetings and briefings and training drills that pressed in on your skull like a vice — Bucky had this way of making everything quieter. Not because he was silent. But because he listened. Really listened. Like every word you said had weight.
You weren’t sure when it became routine. Maybe the third time you showed up at his apartment after a mission you weren’t ready to talk about. Or maybe the day you realized his couch molded to your shape better than yours ever had.
But it became yours. The space between you.
And you never took that lightly.
“Hey,” you said gently, that one night after brushing against his arm too fast. Your fingers had grazed his wrist, metal brushing against skin before you even registered the motion. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Still, you stopped. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”
He turned to look at you, brows soft. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do. I know you’re okay with it, but I never want you to feel like you have to be.”
That got him. You saw it in the way his shoulders loosened, in the breath he let out like you’d just lifted something from his chest.
“I am okay with it,” he said, more firmly now. “With you. I don’t…” He hesitated. “It doesn’t feel the same.”
You tilted your head. “As what?”
He looked at his hands. His right flesh one, curled loosely over his thigh. His left — the metal one — twitching once before going still. “As when anyone else touches me. You don’t take. You ask.”
You let the silence stretch for a second. Let it land. Then nodded. “Well,” you said softly, nudging his socked foot with yours, “I’m still gonna keep asking. Even if it’s always yes.”
He huffed something close to a laugh. “Stubborn.”
“Safe,” you corrected.
He smiled at that.
-
It became your rhythm.
You brought takeout and he picked the movie. He told you about his therapy sessions in half-sentences and you waited out the rest with quiet looks. You never pushed. You just made space.
He always sat with enough room between you to let you choose — to cross the distance if you wanted. Sometimes you did. Sometimes you didn’t.
And every time your fingers brushed, you paused. Just long enough to say, Is this okay?
The answer was always yes.
But you knew that didn’t mean always.
So you never assumed.
-
Once, during a late-night rerun marathon, you fell asleep on his shoulder.
It was unintentional — the kind of gradual tilt that happens after hours of half-lidded blinking and the warm weight of familiarity. You didn’t realize it had happened until you stirred from a dream and felt the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.
You tensed, heat blooming in your chest. “Shit—sorry, Buck—”
His voice came immediately, low and steady. “Don’t move.”
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I… I like it,” he said quietly, as though admitting it might scare it off. “Feels nice.”
You froze. Not from discomfort — but from the ache in your chest, the one that pulsed louder every time he let a little more softness slip through the cracks.
You didn’t move. Just curled in a little closer and let him hold you.
He didn’t flinch then, either.
-
Another time, you reached for a door ahead of him and accidentally caught his hand — metal fingers warm from his coffee cup, cool at the joints. You let go instantly.
“Sorry—”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Stop apologizing.”
You looked up, breath stuck in your throat.
“You never treat me like I’m fragile. Like I’ll break. You just… ask. And that’s more than most people ever did.”
You swallowed, pulse fluttering. “I just don’t want to be another hand that takes without checking first.”
“You won’t be,” he said, something softer than affection in his eyes. “You couldn’t.”
And for a second, you thought he might reach for you.
But he didn’t.
He just smiled — quiet and fond — and opened the door for you.
-
Now, sitting on his fire escape at nearly midnight, a blanket draped over both your shoulders, you watch him nurse a mug of chamomile and stare out over Brooklyn like he’s trying to memorize the skyline.
He hasn’t said much tonight. But that’s okay.
He doesn’t have to.
You shift slightly so your knee brushes his. He doesn’t pull away.
You don’t ask this time. You just stay there. Quiet, steady. A little closer than usual. And when he exhales, long and slow like it’s been trapped in him all day, you feel it in your chest too.
You don’t say it yet.
Not I love you.
Not I want to touch you like you’ve never been touched before.
Not I’d give anything to make you feel wanted again.
But maybe soon.
Because tonight, for the first time, he lets his head tip sideways to rest against yours.
And you don’t have to ask.
-
There came a point in the course of your friendship where you stopped asking to touch his hands.
Not because it didn’t matter — but because it had become so easy. So natural. Resting your fingers lightly over his knuckles when you passed him a mug. Brushing your knee against his under the kitchen table while Val rattled on about team dynamics and Bob’s idea for mandatory karaoke. Hooking your pinky around his in the backseat of the SUV on longer missions, where the road hummed like a lullaby and the quiet between you stretched like thread.
The first time you laced your fingers through his and didn’t look for permission, he squeezed gently.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
Somehow, he always knew when it was you.
-
You still asked for new things.
The tipsy night you draped your arm over his shoulders at the bar — your chin balanced on his shoulder, your breath warm on his jaw — you whispered, “Is this okay?” against the shell of his ear, even as the others laughed over a round of shots you hadn’t yet taken.
He just turned his head, cheek brushing yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
Your nose bumped his jaw before you pulled back.
-
That night ended the way so many did lately: half the team crashing at someone’s place, jackets draped over chairs, heels kicked off at the door, someone trying to order food at two in the morning.
You barely remembered whose apartment it even was. Just that Bucky had an arm around your waist as you stumbled through the door together, your laughter tucked into the hollow of his throat.
“Come sleep in the room,” you murmured when he started gathering pillows for the couch.
He shook his head, already fluffing one of them with that quiet determination of his. “Nah. You take the bed. I’ll be fine out here.”
“You’ll be uncomfortable.”
He glanced up, blue eyes steady. “Doesn’t matter.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
He wasn’t pushing you away. He was protecting something. Maybe not you — maybe just the thing between you. The careful line he thought you both needed to toe.
So you nodded. Said, “Okay,” and walked away.
But twenty minutes later, wrapped in (who you now assume to be John’s) too-soft sheets with the pillow still smelling like cologne that wasn’t his, you slipped out.
Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, you padded into the living room.
He was still awake.
The room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV — some old movie playing with the volume barely audible. He looked half asleep, arm curled behind his head, metal hand resting over his chest like a weight he didn’t know how to let go of.
You hovered for a second, heartbeat loud in your throat.
“Can I lay with you?”
He blinked up at you, slow, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then, quietly, he said, “Yeah.”
You crossed the room before you could second guess it.
His arm lifted automatically, and you slid in beside him — no hesitation this time, not from either of you. Your body pressed flush against his, chest to chest, hips aligned. Your thigh slid over his, your hand resting on the curve of his waist.
Your face tucked into his neck, the soft stubble there like static against your skin.
You let your hand find the base of his neck, fingers slipping into the soft hair curling just above the collar of his shirt. He let out a breath you felt more than heard.
Then his arm wrapped around you. Not tentative. Not hesitant. Just… there. Solid and strong and steady.
You could feel the beat of his heart against your ribs, slow and sure. “I couldn’t sleep,” you murmured against his throat.
“I know,” he said.
“You don’t mind?”
His hand skimmed down your back, slow. “You know I don’t,” he said softly, his affection clear in his voice.
You pressed a kiss to the hinge of his jaw — not romantic, not quite — just something soft. Something grateful.
He didn’t move. Just held you closer.
You stayed like that. Curled against his chest, hand in his hair, his breath warm at your temple. You could feel him — every part of him — molded to you like he’d been waiting for this shape, this stillness.
And still, neither of you said what was burning between your ribs.
-
It started during the debrief.
You were sitting across from Bucky at the mission table, nursing a half-busted wrist and trying really hard not to look at Sharon Carter, who was currently standing way too close behind his chair.
Her hand was on his shoulder. Again.
Like it lived there.
Like that was normal.
For the third time already and the mission hadn’t even started.
And Bucky? Not flinching. Not moving. Just sitting there listening to Val give the rundown with that neutral, brooding face he wore when he was pretending not to be extremely aware of how everyone in the room was staring at him.
You stared at your wrap instead. Tugged it a little tighter. Bit your tongue.
But when Sharon laughed at something and squeezed his shoulder like they were old friends, your jaw clenched so hard it nearly cracked.
You didn’t say anything when the debrief ended. Just stood and shouldered your gear, keeping your eyes anywhere but on the hand still curled over Bucky’s shoulder.
Yelena shot you a look. The kind that meant You okay? but also Do you want me to break her fingers? You didn’t answer either question. Just gave her a flat look and walked out of the room.
The flight to the drop point was silent. Tense. You sat on the bench seat across from Bucky again, knees bumping every time the quinjet shuddered in turbulence. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Sharon was next to him.
Not across.
Next to.
Her leg pressed against his like they were in coach and her hand reached out to brace against the edge of his thigh when the jet tilted. You didn’t look, but you saw it. Peripheral vision was a bitch.
She was laughing at something John had said. You didn’t hear the joke. Didn’t care. Just tugged your jacket higher, stared out the window, and tried to remember that you were good at this. That you didn’t need to get tangled in whatever-the-hell-that-was.
But then came the mission.
Simple recon. A split team perimeter sweep while Bucky and Sharon went inside the compound to retrieve the drive.
Because of course they were paired up. Of course Val thought that was a smart choice. Of course your comms were synced with them, so you got to hear every exchanged breath between them as you trailed the outer wall with Ava.
It was mostly quiet.
Mostly.
Until Sharon slipped—some minor tripwire or loose gravel—and there was a soft gasp, followed by, “Careful, soldier.”
And then—
“Thanks,” she said, and your stomach twisted before she even finished the sentence.
“I forget how steady you are.”
Steady. You pressed your back to the concrete wall and pretended the earpiece wasn’t buzzing against your skull.
But then she laughed again, lower this time. “Nice catch,” she murmured, and then—then—the sound of her hand brushing over the strap of his tactical vest, fingers tapping near his wrist, soft.
You clenched your own injured wrist tighter in its wrap.
By the time you all regrouped, the compound was cleared, the drive was secure, and you were pretending you didn’t have fire burning in your throat.
Bucky was first out the gate, expression unreadable. You followed behind, sticking to Ava’s side while John and Bob debated where the second extraction point should’ve been.
And then Sharon came out.
She said something to Bucky—low again—and you didn’t catch the words. Just saw the way she leaned in like it was muscle memory, the way her arms wrapped around his shoulders like they’d done this a hundred times before.
And he—
He let her.
Didn’t hug back. Didn’t even move much. But he let her.
Your heart did something ugly in your chest. Something raw and sharp and stupid.
You turned away before anyone saw your face. Didn’t see if he looked at you.
Didn’t want to.
-
“So, you and Sharon,” you said later, back at his apartment. “That’s a thing now?”
Bucky glanced up from his kitchen sink, utterly unfazed. “What?”
You leaned on the doorway. “You seemed real cozy.”
“Cozy?”
You nodded, lips pursed. “Yeah. Shoulder touches, hand holding, post-mission hugs. Very… comfortable.”
A pause.
Then Bucky huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m just saying,” you continued, arms crossed. “If that’s your new thing, I can adjust my expectations.”
He dried his hands, turned, leaned back against the counter with that signature what am I gonna do with you smirk.
“You jealous, sweetheart?”
Your mouth opened.
“No.”
He tilted his head, grinning. “That’s a lie.”
You rolled your eyes. “I just didn’t realize you were letting everyone rub up on you these days.”
“She just hugged me.”
“She touched your wrist.”
“So do you,” he said simply. “All the time.”
“Yeah, but I ask first.”
He raised a brow. “You think that means you get less access or something?”
“I think I follow the rules.”
He laughed — laughed — and crossed the kitchen toward you.
“Oh, your self made rules?”
“You’re the one with the boundary issues!”
“And you’re the one who made a formal declaration every time you accidentally brushed my arm for the first six months.”
You scowled. “That’s called respect.”
“That’s called putting yourself in a box I never asked you to be in.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
And Bucky — smug bastard that he was — just kept talking. “You think I don’t like when you touch me? You think I haven’t been waiting for you to stop asking since, like, week three?”
You blinked. “You have not.”
“I have,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and amused. “You think Sharon Carter’s little wrist grab meant anything to me when you won’t even sit in my lap without issuing a written statement of consent first?”
You glared. “I don’t need to sit in your lap.”
“You could.”
“I won’t.”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “Because that would be too easy. To just act on what you want.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You stared him down. He stared back, smug and relaxed and infuriatingly good-looking in his henley. Then, softer, he said, “You could touch me whenever you want, you know. I’d never stop you.”
You didn’t reply. Just stepped around him, shoulder brushing his chest — deliberately.
And this time, you didn’t say a word.
-
The air between you hasn’t softened— not really —but it’s no longer sharp. It’s just coiled. Tension curled like a spring between your ribs.
You flop onto his couch dramatically, the same spot you always take, limbs spread like you’re claiming the whole thing. Bucky follows a beat later, settling into the opposite corner with a sigh that’s trying to sound casual. It doesn’t land.
You cross your legs and pointedly don’t look at him. “Just for the record, I’m still mad about the wrist thing.”
He smirks. “Thought you weren’t mad.”
“I’m mad on behalf of consistency,” you say, pouting. “I have to petition to graze your forearm, and Sharon just—”
“Touched my wrist,” he says, deadpan. “Again, your rules are self-inflicted.”
You throw your legs over his lap without looking at him. It’s a bold move — or at least bolder than usual. You don’t ask. You don’t say anything. You just do it.
Bucky doesn’t move.
Doesn’t shift away, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t so much as blink.
You wiggle your toes against the hem of his shirt, feigning distraction as you flick through his TV options like the remote holds the answers to your problems.
“Just so we’re clear,” you mumble, “this doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed either.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.”
“And I’m definitely not touching you because I want to.”
“Of course not.”
“This is about reclaiming my right to spontaneous affection.”
“That’s a noble cause, sweetheart.”
You glance at him, trying not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He shrugs, his palm resting now just behind your knee, thumb lazily brushing your exposed skin. “You pout when you’re flustered. It’s cute.”
“I’m not flustered,” you say, pouting.
He lifts a brow. “You sure?”
You cross your arms and flop back against the cushions, sighing dramatically. “I was trying to protect your boundaries.”
“And I appreciate that,” he says, not missing a beat. “Even if you were mostly doing it to protect yourself.”
You sit up a little. “Excuse me?”
He’s looking at you now, relaxed but focused. “Come on. You’re not mad about Sharon. You’re mad that you want more from me and don’t know how to ask for it.”
That hits harder than you expect. You try to recover with a scoff. “Wow. You get one hug and suddenly you’re what, a therapist?”
“I’m not wrong.”
You shift, eyes narrowing. “I do ask. Every time.”
“Exactly,” he says, voice gentler now. “You always ask. Even when you don’t have to. Especially when you don’t have to. And only ever for small things.”
Your lips press together.
“And that’s not bad,” he goes on. “It’s thoughtful. It’s careful. But it’s not really about me, is it?”
You look at him then— really look.
And you hate how well he knows you. How easy it is for him to see straight through all your dramatic flailing and defensive posturing.
“You think I’m scared?” you ask, quieter now.
“I think you’re brave everywhere except here.”
That lands. Heavy, quiet, true. You sit with it for a long moment, heart hammering louder than the TV.
Then— still trying to pretend you’re unaffected— you lean forward and let your fingers trail deliberately over the inside of his wrist. Just once. Light, but lingering.
He doesn’t move.
You don’t look at him.
“Fine,” you murmur. “Then consider this me being brave.”
His breath hitches— just a little. And his hand turns over, palm up, offering.
An invitation.
You hesitate—because this means something, doesn’t it?—and then your fingers slide into his, slow and warm, lacing together like it’s instinct instead of decision. His palm is bigger, rougher. Familiar. Your thumb finds the space between his knuckles and traces it absentmindedly, trying to act like your whole body isn’t humming with finally.
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just watches your hand in his like it’s an inevitability he’s been waiting on for a while.
You settle back into the couch—sort of. Your legs are still sprawled across his lap, and now, with your hand in his and your hip leaning in, you’re half-twisted toward him. Practically in his lap after all.
Not that he seems to mind.
The tension is quieter now. Not gone, just… lower, darker. Beneath the surface. A ripple instead of a storm.
You try not to look pleased with yourself. Try not to notice the way his fingers tighten when yours start to slip, just slightly. How he pulls them back into place.
You’re just starting to relax into it—let the silence grow easy again—when his phone buzzes.
Bucky sighs, reluctantly shifting to grab it from the coffee table. Your hand remains in his. You think he’ll let go.
He doesn’t.
“Yeah?” he answers, pressing the phone to his ear, still only half-listening.
You can hear Sam on the other end, loud as ever.
“Barnes. We’re heading to this rooftop bar downtown. Sharon picked it. You in or are you too old and tired?”
You lean in closer, still pretending you’re not listening.
Then Sharon’s voice filters through the speaker. “Come on, Buck. You owe me a drink. We decided back in Madripoor— one wrist-holding equals one cocktail, remember?”
Bucky snorts. “That’s not how that works.”
You narrow your eyes. Real slow. Then your hand—still laced with his—tugs. Gently at first, then with more purpose. You use the leverage of your legs over his lap to pull yourself closer, closing what little space remains. You’re angled in now, chest brushing his bicep, hand still holding his like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.
He glances at you, amused.
Your free hand finds the back of his neck, settling at the base of his skull—where the hair is soft, always a little messy when he’s not mission-polished. You toy with it for a moment, let your nails scrape lightly.
Then, without thinking, you curl your fingers and tug. Not hard. But not soft either.
He goes still mid-sentence. “—yeah, I’ll think about—” His voice wobbles.
You don’t say a word. Your fingers relax, smoothing the spot. Innocent. So innocent.
Except you’re not. And he knows it.
He covers the speaker with his hand and looks at you fully now, something sharp and teasing in his eyes. “Really?”
You smile—tight-lipped, unapologetic.
He leans in an inch. Just enough so his breath brushes your cheek. “You good, sweetheart?”
You shrug, petting his neck again. “I’m fine. Just bored.”
He watches you for a second. Something in his jaw flexes. Then he brings the phone back to his ear. “Yeah. I’m out tonight.”
Sam groans audibly through the receiver. “You are so annoying—”
Bucky hangs up mid-rant.
You grin. “Rude.”
He drops the phone onto the table with a dull clack, then shifts back to face you—slow, deliberate. His hand is still wrapped around yours, thumb sweeping absent patterns over your skin.
“I knew you were jealous.”
You pout. “I was not.”
“You pulled my hair.”
“That was an accident.”
“You pulled it during a call.”
You hum. “Timing’s everything.”
He’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, but he’s having fun watching you pretend to be difficult about it. His hand squeezes yours again, firm.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” he says, voice quieter now.
You blink up at him, blinking far too innocently. “I’m being brave.”
He laughs—low, real—and drags your joined hands to his chest.
“Keep going, then.”
You shift so that your legs drape lazily over his lap like it’s the most natural place in the world to be. His hand’s still tangled with yours, resting on his chest, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
He’s looking at you now. Watching. Not speaking.
You like that.
You reach for the collar of his t-shirt with your free hand, tugging it straight even though it’s not wrinkled. Your knuckles skim the line of his throat. He swallows.
You sit back, all faux-casual, and say, “Y’know, you really should go meet Sharon and Sam. They sounded fun.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “You want me to go?”
You hum. “I think it’d be good for you. Socialization. Fresh air. Get your wrist touched again, maybe.”
He scoffs under his breath, like he’s trying not to laugh. You lift your hand from his collar, brushing invisible lint off his shoulder with slow, lingering strokes. Down over his bicep. Across his forearm. Light. Innocent.
Coy as hell.
“I mean, Sharon said you owe her a drink,” you add, cocking your head. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
“You offering to walk me there?” he asks.
“I could.”
“Would you keep touching me like this the whole way?”
You pause. Then press your palm fully against his chest, right over his heart, and say sweetly, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His chest rises beneath your hand. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rougher now.
You pout. “Why?”
“You’re telling me to go with your mouth—”
You smile. “But?”
“But you’re saying don’t you dare fucking move with your hands.”
“Am I?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Your fingers are already gliding back up, this time toward the base of his neck again. The curls there are still soft from the shower, and this time, you don’t tug.
You just play.
Curling, twisting, letting your fingertips rake lightly as you lean in just a little closer. Close enough that your knee presses between his legs now, shifting the air between you.
His breathing slows. Measured. On purpose.
You tilt your head. “Still think I’m scared?”
He studies you for a long second, eyes flicking from your mouth to your hand to the place where your thigh presses against him.
“No,” he says finally. “Not anymore.”
You smile again, pleased, and lean forward enough that your shoulder brushes his. Then, voice soft and teasing, you say, “You sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”
There’s a pause— not from doubt, but from weight. You feel it when he exhales. Deep. Grounded. Hungry.
Then his hand— the one still tangled with yours— squeezes.
Hard.
And he says, “Try me.”
You don’t move right away. Instead, you ease back a fraction, your head tilted slightly as you study him—really study him. His chest rising slower now, like he’s forcing calm. The way his jaw ticks, and his throat works once like he’s already anticipating where this is going.
You shift in his lap—slow, smooth. You let one leg slide over until you’re fully straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, the soft pressure of your body settling into his with delicious closeness.
He doesn’t move, doesn't touch you, but you feel his breath catch. And that’s enough.
You trail your fingers down the line of his collarbone, feather-light. Like you’re memorizing the map of him one centimeter at a time. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, always so still when he wants to be.
“You’re really gonna sit there and let me touch you like this?” you murmur, voice just shy of innocent.
“I said try me,” he says, low and steady. You grin, then bend slightly to press your palms against his chest. One over his heart, the other drifting slowly across to his shoulder, feeling the slope of muscle beneath your fingertips.
“What do you like?” you ask softly.
His brow lifts, surprised. “What?”
Your voice drops a little more. “When someone touches you. What kind of touch do you like?”
He hesitates. Swallows. “You.”
“Not what I asked.”
“You’re the only one I want touching me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Your chest squeezes but you recover quickly, letting your fingers explore again— this time down the slope of his shoulder, then lower, dragging along the length of his bicep with just enough pressure to feel the twitch beneath your hand.
You lean in close, your mouth near his ear now. “So you like when I touch your arms?”
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “That a serious question?”
You run both hands down his arms now, slowly, until you reach his wrists. You toy with the edge of his sleeve, then slide your fingers over the metal of his left arm, slow and reverent.
“You always let me touch this,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Even when no one else could.”
He shivers.
And when you look up, his pupils are blown wide. Still, he’s trying to stay composed. It makes you want to ruin him slowly.
You lift his metal hand, kissing the inside of his wrist, then dragging your nose along the seam of the vibranium like it’s something to worship. Then you switch, taking his flesh hand in both of yours, pressing a kiss into the center of his palm.
His breath stutters.
You tilt your head, eyes locking with his. “You like it when I do that?”
“I like everything you do,” he says hoarsely, almost helplessly.
You smile. “Good.”
Then you start moving. Your hands return to his chest, gliding down his ribcage, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt, slow and testing. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t shift. His hands are still on his thighs, fists curled tight like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.
You smooth your palms up under his shirt, over the plane of his stomach—hard muscle, warm skin, scattered scars. Your thumbs trace the edges of them gently.
“Is it okay that I touch you here?” you whisper, softer now, but purposeful.
He nods once, slow. “Yeah. Just… keep going.”
You do.
You inch higher, not rushed, not greedy. You press your palms flat over his chest, then spread your fingers wide, tracing over his pecs with deliberate intent. He’s bigger than you let yourself notice before—broad and built and so solid, like the world couldn’t move him if it tried.
You pause with your hands still inside his shirt, then pull back to admire the way he’s looking at you.
Like he’s not sure if this is real. Like he’s dying to touch you back and refusing to break his own unspoken rule.
“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur.
He lets out a low, unsteady laugh. “You think I’m not losing my mind right now?”
You grin and rake your fingers down his stomach again—this time with your nails just enough to make him twitch. “You’re not even touching me,” you whisper. “You’re just letting me have you.”
His voice is tight now. “You always had me.”
You go still. The words land deeper than you’re ready for. But you don’t let that stop you.
You lean in, mouth near his again, close enough to breathe the same air. Then your fingers trail down to the waistband of his joggers, just barely brushing it. Not a threat. Not a promise. Just a question waiting for an answer.
He sucks in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes.
Still not touching you. Still letting you lead.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice curling low and sweet like smoke.
His eyes open. Blue and wrecked.
You bring your hands back to his chest and drag your thumbs across his sternum, slow. “Last chance, are you sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”
And for the first time tonight—he doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you. Like he knows exactly what comes next and he’s about to let it happen anyway.
You drag your thumbs across his chest again, and he exhales like it hurts to hold in the words. You lean in, lips close enough to brush his cheek, and say quietly, “If you don’t want more, say so now.”
His head tips back against the couch and he breathes, “I want it.”
That’s all you need.
Your hands move slowly, reverently, slipping under the hem of his shirt again — not just to touch now, but to remove. You edge the fabric up, your fingertips brushing every new inch of skin with quiet precision. He lifts his arms without you asking, silent but pliant.
You pull it over his head and drop it to the floor.
Then you just… look.
His chest is scarred and solid and beautiful. Faint marks along his ribs, older ones that cross the swell of his shoulder and collarbone. His body tells the whole story— every war, every resurrection— and he lets you see it. All of it.
You press your palms to his chest again, but this time you’re not pretending. This is not a test. This is permission accepted. Gratitude given.
Your thumbs graze his sternum. His breath stutters. You lean in. Close enough for your mouth to hover just above his skin.
“Tell me what you like,” you murmur.
His voice is strained. “Anything. Everything. Just—”
You press a soft kiss to the center of his chest. He inhales sharply.
You pause.
“Pressure?” you ask, whispering into his skin. “Too much? Not enough?”
His hand twitches on his thigh, but he doesn’t speak. So you kiss him again. Lower. Slower. Then drag your tongue just a little beneath his ribs.
His hips twitch beneath you.
“I need words, Bucky,” you say sweetly, sitting up slightly. “Harder? Softer?”
His eyes are dark now. Heavy. His voice is raw when he says, “Softer. Just for now.”
You nod. “Okay.”
You adjust your seat, shifting more firmly into his lap, pressing down just enough to keep him honest. His hands don’t move. You know they want to— he’s holding himself still with visible effort— but you’re not asking for that yet.
Instead, you lower your mouth again, this time to the top of his pectoral, and kiss. Soft, slow. Then another. A third, just beside his nipple.
He shivers.
You trail your mouth across to the other side, leaving a series of warm, open-mouthed kisses— not rushed. You’re cataloguing reactions, measuring each breath, each twitch, each slow grind of his hips when you linger too long in one place.
“Do you like it when I kiss here?” you ask, just as your tongue flicks lightly against the edge of one scar beneath his ribs.
He groans softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
You press your cheek to his chest for a moment, just listening to his heartbeat. “Do you want it deeper?”
He nods.
So you part your lips again. Let your teeth scrape lightly this time. You bite, gently, into the meat of his shoulder, just above where the metal begins. Not enough to mark — just enough to make him react.
He does. His hips buck once, shallow. Unintentional.
You pull back, grin small and smug. “I’m just learning,” you say innocently. “Don’t hold it against me if I’m good at it.”
He huffs a broken laugh. “You’re killing me.”
“No,” you murmur, licking lightly at a fresh spot below his collarbone. “I’m touching you like I’ve wanted to.”
And God, it shows.
Your hands move to his sides now, fingers gliding down over his ribs, curving around to his back. You press your palms flat against his spine, feeling the shift of his body under yours, how close to trembling he is.
You lean up again, mouth near his ear now. “Do you want more?”
He breathes, “Yes.”
“More pressure?”
He nods again so you press your mouth to his chest again— harder this time. More tongue, more teeth, dragging your lips across the plane of him with purpose now.
And that’s when his hands move. First just a twitch, like he’s resisting. Then finally—finally—they rise and grip your hips. His touch is firm. Unsteady. Like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t not.
You freeze. Just for a beat.
Then you glance up and meet his eyes. He’s watching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like this is too much, and not enough, and exactly what he wants.
You rest your hands over his. “See?” you whisper. “You’re allowed to touch back.”
His grip tightens slightly and for the first time that night, he pulls you closer.
Your chests brush. Your mouths are inches apart. But neither of you closes the distance.
Not yet.
You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “I’m gonna keep going,” you whisper. “Until you tell me to stop.”
“Don’t,” he breathes, voice thinned out and trembling just beneath the surface.
You pause. One hand still splayed over his ribs, your mouth only a whisper away from his collarbone.
“Don’t… stop?” you murmur. “Or,” your voice softens further, “don’t keep going?”
He opens his eyes, barely, and you can see it there: the war, the want. The sharp edge of hesitation dulling into surrender.
“Don’t stop.”
You nod once. Just enough that he feels it where your forehead still rests against his.
“Okay.”
You start with his neck. Your mouth moves slowly—pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw, then lower, your lips trailing the thrum of his pulse. His skin is warm, faintly salty, and the sound he lets out when your tongue grazes the hollow of his throat is raw.
You work your way down deliberately. Worshipful. Never rushing.
You kiss along the line of his shoulder, across the slope of his chest. Your hand follows the same path, brushing through the light hair scattered across his sternum. It’s soft, unexpected. Your fingers splay across it, and you lean in again—kissing the center of his chest, open-mouthed and slow.
His breath catches when your teeth scrape lightly across one nipple. Then the other.
“Too much?” you ask quietly.
“No,” he whispers, voice strained. “More.”
You kiss lower, dragging your mouth down his stomach, tongue flicking briefly across a scar beneath his ribs. You don’t look up—just feel the way his abdominal muscles shift under your lips, the way he shudders when your hands slide down to his waist.
You reach his happy trail, the soft line of hair leading below the waistband of his joggers, and pause.
You lay your cheek against his stomach for a moment, just breathing him in. His hand, still gripping your hip, tightens—barely.
You smile against his skin. “Would it be okay,” you murmur, “if we moved to the bed?”
His breath catches again.
“I just want to keep touching you,” you add. “That’s all. I want space to lay you out properly.”
Bucky huffs a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re seriously gonna kill me.”
You lift your head. “That a yes?”
He nods, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
You rise first, helping him up carefully, like he might break. He follows you silently down the hall, letting you lead him into the bedroom. You pull back the sheets with one hand and gesture gently to the mattress.
“Lie down for me?”
He doesn’t speak. Just moves.
Slow, deliberate. He lays back against the pillows, arms loose at his sides like he’s still not sure what to do with them. The low lamplight spills over his chest, catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbones. His legs spread slightly, just enough for you to slot between them as you crawl over him, straddling his thighs.
“Better?” you whisper, hovering above him.
He nods, silent.
You sit up and let your hands glide across his chest again. This time you look while you touch. You study the lines of him—the muscle, the soft trail of hair down his abdomen, the scars, the little freckles scattered like secrets. Your thumbs trace the shape of his ribs. One hand follows the line of his obliques.
You lean down again and kiss just above his navel. Then lower, to the crease where stomach becomes hip.
He moans, quiet but broken.
“Tell me if you want anything different,” you whisper.
“Like what?”
You smile. “Softer? Harder? Hands? Mouth? Teeth?”
He groans again, eyes closing. “God.”
You kiss lower. “Do you like this?”
“Yes,” he says instantly.
You press your palm to the curve of his hipbone, fingers sliding over the waistband of his joggers.
You don’t dip beneath.
Not yet.
Instead, your mouth returns to his stomach, teeth grazing lightly just beside his navel. You hear the sound he makes when your lips close over a particularly sensitive spot—feel the way his thighs twitch beneath yours.
You shift up, kissing your way across the V of his hips, then back up the line of his abdomen.
You speak against his skin. “Want it softer?”
He shakes his head. “Harder.”
You nod and scrape your teeth lightly across the flat of his stomach this time, biting just enough to leave warmth in your wake. His hips arch under you.
You smile.
Your hands move up to his chest again, dragging lightly down his sides as your mouth maps out his torso in slow reverence. Every kiss feels sacred. Every brush of your lips is followed by a question.
“Do you like when I use my mouth here?”
He nods.
“Want my hands lower?”
He groans. “Yes.”
But you don’t rush.
You slip your hands down over his hips, fingertips brushing the edge of his waistband again. You watch the muscles in his thighs flex under your weight as your mouth presses soft, open kisses just above the hem.
He’s panting now.
You shift again, just a fraction, and he instinctively bucks up into the friction—his hands grabbing your hips without thinking.
You go still, looking down at him. And his eyes widen, realizing he touched you without asking.
You lean over him, hands braced on either side of his chest.
“Hey,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he breathes.
“I want you to.”
His grip tightens on your hips, grounding himself.
You lower again, your mouth trailing up his stomach, over his chest, back to his throat.
Your tongue flicks over his pulse. “You’re allowed to hold on to me.”
He’s shaking now—subtly, but it’s there. Like you’ve unraveled him stitch by stitch and he’s only just realizing what it feels like to be wanted this much.
“Tell me,” you whisper again, your hands stroking up his sides. “What do you like?”
His voice is barely audible.
“You.”
You pause.
“Stubborn,” you tease. You move your mouth to his neck and press a kiss there slowly, whispering against his skin, “then I’ll give you me.”
He’s beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself together by the threads. His chest is flushed, slick with heat, rising and falling in uneven intervals while you kiss along his throat— slow and tender— like he’s something fragile and holy.
He’s still wearing his joggers, barely, the waistband straining where his cock is pressed tight against the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the need. But he hasn’t asked. Hasn’t begged. Hasn’t moved, not beyond the way his hips twitch when you scrape your teeth across the hollow of his throat.
You ease back, shifting gently from where you’ve straddled his thigh, and settle onto your knees between his legs instead. The change earns a low sound from him— part disappointment, part anticipation.
His thighs part instinctively to make room for you. He’s trembling again.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching for his hands first. You press a kiss to the inside of each wrist, soft and grounding, then lace your fingers with his. “You okay?”
He nods, eyes heavy. “Too good.”
You smile.
“Can I take these off?” you ask, fingertips tracing the edge of his waistband. “Just your pants. Not your boxers.”
He nods again, but this time you wait.
His voice comes rough, strained. “Yes. Please.”
You hook your fingers into the waistband, watching his eyes the whole time, and ease his joggers down. He lifts his hips obediently, letting you pull them over his thighs, then calves, until they’re forgotten on the floor.
The sight of him makes your breath catch.
He’s hard. Straining against the fabric of his black boxer-briefs. There’s a damp spot already darkening the front, and no room left to hide how badly he wants you. You bite your lip.
He groans. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m yours.”
You settle back on your heels, palms sliding up his thighs slowly. “Aren’t you?”
His breath leaves him shaky. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m already—”
You lean in and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. He cuts off with a strangled moan.
You kiss him again, higher. Again. Then drag your teeth lightly over the sensitive skin there and feel him twitch beneath you.
“You like that?”
“Yeah.”
You kiss higher. Then lower. Then switch thighs entirely and mouth at the same spot on the opposite side.
“What about here?”
“Yes.”
You suck a little harder this time, tongue flicking over the bite before you pull away. When you look up, his hands are fisted in the sheets.
You move to his hip, mouthing at the line where his briefs meet skin, and breathe, “Do you like marks?”
His voice breaks on the inhale. “Yeah. I—fuck—I like marks.”
You hum. “Good.”
Because now you start.
You bite softly into the dip above his hipbone and suck there, slow and lingering, until the skin flushes under your mouth. He groans again — head tipping back, thighs tightening under your hands — and you move lower, only to drag your tongue up the length of the mark you just left.
You lift your head. “More?”
“Please.”
You bite into his inner thigh next — harder. And suck. A real mark this time, blooming dark beneath your lips. You feel him jerk when your nails press into the meat of his thigh.
“Can I use teeth again?” you whisper.
“Yes.”
You bite again, then soothe the spot with your tongue. He’s breathing harder now, hands flexing over his stomach like he doesn’t know where to put them.
“Touch me,” you whisper. “If you want to.”
His eyes snap to yours.
“Anywhere,” you add. “Wherever you want.”
One trembling hand lifts and cups the back of your neck. The other settles lightly against your bicep.
“You’re so…” His voice fades off. “You’re so fucking good to me.”
You smile against the mark blooming on his thigh.
You kiss it gently, then move up again — this time dragging your nails lightly up his stomach, over his obliques, following the happy trail with your mouth.
He’s panting now, low and unsteady.
You press a kiss just beneath his navel. “Do you want my mouth here?”
“Yes.”
“Harder or softer?”
He hesitates. “Softer.”
So you kiss lower, slower, gentle but warm, your lips parting slightly, tongue tasting his skin.
“Here?” you whisper, kissing just beside his shaft, where the waistband curves low.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth opens again, and you leave another wet mark there, slow and patient.
His hips twitch.
You press your hands flat against them to keep him still. “I want you to let me,” you murmur. “Don’t help. Not yet.”
He nods, ragged. “Okay.”
You worship him in full now — mouth and hands and tongue, every kiss and bite marked with a question, every answer deepening your resolve to show him what it means to be wanted like this. To be chosen. Loved with reverence, not just hunger.
By the time you’re done, he’s flushed all over. Covered in faint teeth marks and darker bruises. His cock is straining, twitching in his underwear, and his chest is heaving. His knuckles are white where they’re gripping the sheets.
You drag yourself back up, crawl over him slow, weightless. And then, when your faces are close enough to breathe each other in, you whisper, “Bucky?”
He opens his eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
His breath hitches.
You wait.
And then—
“Yeah,” he says, voice broken and reverent. “God, yeah. Please.”
So you kiss him. Soft, slow, patient. Like you have all night. All week. Like you’ll stay right here for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes to show him he’s safe. He’s wanted. That you want him.
Your mouths meet in the warm hush of the bedroom, lamplight casting soft gold against your bare shoulders as you lean into him. The first press of lips is gentle, exploratory. His breath catches in his throat, not quite a moan, not quite a sob.
You tilt your head and kiss him deeper.
He follows your lead — mouth soft, parted, his hands twitching at your sides like he’s trying to keep still and failing.
You shift, climbing further into his lap, settling over his thighs again as you kiss him. His hands rise to your hips, reverent but wanting. His thumbs stroke over the skin just above your waistband, then down to cup the back of your thighs, fingers pressing into the softness there like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
When you break the kiss, it’s only to breathe— to drag your lips down the corner of his mouth, over the stubble along his jaw. You kiss your way slowly across to his throat, and feel his pulse jump when your teeth scrape lightly against the side of it.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He nods hard. “Yes. Yes.”
So you mark him.
You kiss the column of his throat slowly, wet and open-mouthed. You suck gently just beneath his jawline and feel his whole body shudder beneath you.
You lift your head, breathing against his skin. “You like that?”
He lets out a helpless sound. “Too much.”
“More?”
“Please.”
So you give it to him.
You kiss down the side of his neck, leaving a trail of heat. When you find a tender spot above his collarbone, you bite — just enough to make him whimper — and then soothe it with your tongue. You switch to the other side, and he tips his head for you, offering himself without question.
Your hands move up, trailing over his chest again. This time, you press your palms flat over his pecs, then glide them up to his shoulders, feeling the muscle shift under your touch.
“Can I take this off?” you ask softly, tugging the hem of your top.
He nods, breathless. “Yeah. Please.”
You sit back and peel it off slowly, tossing it aside. You’re bare above the waist now, chest rising and falling as you meet his eyes.
His gaze is reverent. Hungry.
He sits up slowly, hands rising to your waist again. His touch is careful but certain. His palms glide up your ribcage, pausing just beneath your breasts. He looks up at you.
“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.
You nod. “Yes.”
He cups your breasts gently, like he can’t believe you’re real. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and the sensation makes your breath catch. You lean into him, fingers sliding into his hair, and kiss him again.
This time, it’s deeper.
Slower. Hotter.
You can feel his cock, hard and straining against his boxers, pressing up against you as you grind down just a little. The noise he makes—choked and low—reverberates through your chest.
His hands move again—one on your breast, one slipping down to your hip, thumb stroking along your side. Then both are on your back, holding you to him as he kisses across your collarbone, up your throat, across your jaw.
You let him. You want him to.
When his lips reach your mouth again, you’re already breathless.
“More?” you whisper.
He nods. “Yes. Always.”
You start working your way down again. Kissing over his chest. His ribs. His stomach. You drag your mouth along the trail of hair below his navel, and his hands fist in the sheets beside him. When your tongue traces the edge of his boxers, his hips lift slightly, involuntary.
You settle on your knees between his legs again, and this time your hands go to the waistband of his underwear. But you don’t pull.
Not yet.
You look up at him. “Can I touch you?”
He’s flushed all over, lips parted, breathing shallow. “Please,” he whispers.
You palm him through the fabric first—slowly. Your fingers curl around the shape of him, tracing the length, the heat of him making you ache with want. You lean in and press your mouth to the head, damp and dark through the cotton, and he gasps.
You kiss him there. Once. Twice.
Then open your mouth and drag your tongue across the ridge of him, slow and wet, through the fabric.
He groans. Loud. One hand comes down to your shoulder, grounding, anchoring.
You look up. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
He shakes his head, wild-eyed. “Don’t stop.”
You smile. Press another kiss to the head. Then run your mouth along his length again, your tongue flattening through the cotton, your hands gripping his thighs.
He’s panting now.
His cock jerks under your touch, straining against the fabric, twitching with every careful flick of your tongue.
You whisper against him, “I could keep doing this all night.”
He moans. “Fuck—do it.”
You kiss the base of him next, then up again, mouth and hands working in sync. You press your tongue flat, then your lips, then bite lightly through the fabric.
His whole body arches. He’s whispering your name now, like a prayer. And when you glance up, he’s looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more sacred in his life.
You smile again, slow and secret. Then you press one last slow kiss to the heat of him through the fabric, and pull back slightly, breathless with restraint.
“Can I take these off now?” you ask, voice hushed but steady, fingertips already curling into the waistband of his boxers.
Bucky lifts his head from the pillow, eyes dark and dazed. “Yeah,” he says, already breathless. “Yeah. Please.”
You slide them down slowly, reverently. He lifts his hips to help you, and when the fabric finally peels away and you see him—fully, finally—your mouth parts.
He’s hard and flushed, already leaking. Thick, long, curved just slightly toward his stomach. Beautiful.
And yours.
You take a breath like you mean to say something casual, a teasing remark maybe, but it doesn’t come out. Something about the way he looks like this—naked and trembling, waiting for your touch—takes all the air from your lungs.
Instead, you look up at him, press a hand to his thigh, and say, softly, honestly, “You’re beautiful.”
His brow creases slightly, like he doesn’t know how to take it. So you say it again, louder this time. “You’re so handsome.”
Your hand curls lightly around the base of his cock, and he lets out a choked breath. You stroke once, slow, from root to tip. He bucks slightly, involuntarily.
“Strong,” you whisper, eyes on his face. “You’re so strong, Buck.”
He swallows hard, lips parted. Your thumb drags gently over the bead of precum at the tip. “And you make me feel so safe.”
That breaks something in him. His eyes squeeze shut, chest rising with a shaky breath. His hand comes down to cup the back of your head, trembling.
You lean in and kiss the head of his cock, soft and open-mouthed, letting your tongue flick lightly along the underside before pulling back.
His hand clenches in your hair.
“I’ve wanted this,” you say, your voice velvet and low. “I’ve wanted you. For so long.”
You pump him again, slow and careful, watching how his face changes with every motion. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this. About tasting you. About having you in my mouth, undone. Because of me.”
He groans—deep and guttural.
“I want you to feel good,” you murmur, kissing down his shaft. “I want you to know how it feels to be worshipped.”
You lick up the length of him now, tongue flat, slow and steady. His hips twitch under your touch, but you steady him with one hand to his thigh.
You look up, lips swollen, breath warm. “You deserve this, Bucky. You deserve everything.”
He’s panting now, absolutely wrecked, one hand still in your hair, the other clenching at the sheets. His muscles are taut with the effort of staying still.
You take him into your mouth. Just the head, at first—wet and warm, your lips sealing around him as you suck, gentle but deliberate.
His hips jump, and a strangled sound rips from his throat. “Jesus—”
You pull back, smile, stroke him with your hand. “Too much?” you ask, but you already know the answer.
“No,” he gasps. “No, please, please, don’t stop.”
You take him deeper this time—inch by inch, working your way down with slow, reverent hunger. Your free hand strokes the base while your mouth works him, careful, never rushing.
He’s moaning now, breath catching on every exhale, fingers trembling against your scalp. You hum around him, soft and soothing, and he nearly sobs.
When you pull back for air, you press kisses along the shaft, open-mouthed and wet. “You taste so good,” you whisper.
His head tips back again, throat taut. “You’re—fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”
You smile against his skin. “Good.”
You suck him back into your mouth, deeper now, cheeks hollowed, tongue working carefully underneath. His cock throbs against your tongue, and his moans fall apart completely.
Still, you keep praising him between strokes—whispered confessions and soft declarations as you work him with your mouth and hand.
“You’re so good for me.”
“I love how you sound when I touch you.”
“Let me take care of you. Just let me.”
He’s gasping your name now, shaking, his voice ragged. “I’m close—if you keep—fuck—”
You pull back and kiss the inside of his thigh. “Not yet,” you murmur. “I’m not done showing you what you deserve.”
Then your mouth is on him again, and his body answers before he can speak. You can feel him trembling. Not just his legs—though they twitch beneath your hands with every roll of your tongue—but everywhere. The long stretch of his stomach, the hollow of his hips, the hand braced in your hair. He’s holding himself back, holding himself still, like any movement might shatter this moment. Like if he lets go, it’ll end too fast. Too good. Too much.
It makes your chest ache.
You lift your head slightly, your hand still stroking him, and look up at him through your lashes. “Bucky,” you whisper. “You don’t have to hold back.”
His eyes, heavy and blown wide with lust, flutter down to meet yours.
“You can move,” you murmur, running your palm over the inside of his thigh, grounding him. “You can fuck my mouth. I want you to.”
He lets out a breathless curse—part disbelief, part surrender.
You lean in again, lips brushing the head of his cock. “Let go for me.”
You don’t have to say it again. His hips shift immediately, tentative at first—testing. He doesn’t thrust, not quite. Just pushes forward, slowly, letting the tip of his cock press past your lips, into the wet heat of your mouth again.
You moan softly around him in encouragement, and that sound alone nearly makes him unravel. You flatten your tongue along the underside, letting him glide in deeper, and his hand tightens in your hair.
“Jesus,” he groans, low and wrecked.
Your hands curl under his thighs, anchoring yourself as he begins to move—shallow at first, his restraint still holding by a thread. You hollow your cheeks, let him feel the gentle suction, the warmth of your mouth molding around him.
You glance up again, needing to see him fall apart. He’s staring down at you like you’re made of starlight and salvation. And so you pull back just far enough to whisper, “You’re so good.”
You kiss the flushed head, then suck it back between your lips with slow reverence. “You’re so fucking handsome.”
Another kiss. A slow stroke of your tongue. “I want to feel you fall apart because of me.”
He whines. Actually whines.
You smile against him. “You’re allowed to want, Bucky. You’re allowed to feel good.”
You guide him in again, relaxing your jaw to take more of him, and this time he doesn’t hold back. His hips roll deeper, more desperate. His breath stutters. Your name slips from his lips in a rasp.
Your hand trails up his thigh to his stomach, palm pressed to the flexing muscle just below his ribs. You can feel everything—every tremor, every breath.
“I’ve wanted this,” you murmur between strokes. “I’ve thought about your cock in my mouth for so long. Thought about you, shaking like this, saying my name like that.”
He’s panting now, lips parted, chest rising in frantic, shallow swells. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice barely a whisper, wrecked.
You nod, never stopping, your lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm, your hand stroking the base with just enough pressure to push him closer.
“Good,” you murmur against his skin. “Let me have it.”
His hips stutter, then jerk.
“Fuck—baby, please—”
And then he’s coming.
With a strangled moan and your name torn from his throat, his whole body tenses beneath your touch. His fingers fist in your hair, not pulling, just clinging to you like he might fly apart if he lets go.
You take everything into your mouth warm, slow, and patient. You don’t let up until his hand loosens in your hair, until he goes still, until the shaking in his thighs gives way to heavy, contented weight.
When you finally pull back, you press a kiss just above his hipbone. Then another, lower. Then one more in the center of his stomach, just where his muscles are still twitching with aftershocks.
He’s sprawled across the mattress now, skin flushed, chest heaving, eyes fluttering open to find you.
You crawl back up over him slowly, resting your weight on your forearms as you hover just above his lips.
He’s still breathless. Still reeling.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
He nods, throat working as he swallows. Then, in a voice that makes your heart clench, he murmurs, “I don’t think anyone’s ever… touched me like that.”
You lean down, press your forehead to his. “I meant every word,” you whisper. “You deserve to be loved like that.”
He’s still breathing like the wind’s been knocked out of him, wide chest rising and falling beneath you as you lay there, tucked into the curve of his body. His arms are warm and heavy around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other tangled loosely in your hair. The taste of him lingers faintly on your tongue, and your body thrums with the weight of everything that just passed between you.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Not because he’s retreating—no. His thumb is rubbing slow, lazy circles against your spine, anchoring you to him.
Then he speaks, voice rough and low in your ear, “I wanted you to do that,” he whispers, like a confession he’s been afraid to say out loud.
You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, blue and honest and unbearably tender.
“I wanted it for so long,” he says again, as if saying it once wasn’t enough. “I didn’t know if you ever would. If you’d ever be brave enough to just… take what you wanted.”
Your heart stutters. He shifts then—slow, easy strength—and rolls you gently beneath him.
The mattress dips with the weight of his body. His knee slips between yours, and his hands come up to cradle your face, like he’s memorizing it. His expression is soft. But his eyes—his eyes—are hungry.
“And now I know,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek. “You want me.”
His lips move to the corner of your mouth.
“You want me.” He says it again, as if trying to rewire a decade of silence and restraint with those three words. And you let him.
“Yes,” you whisper, lifting your chin as he kisses the underside of it. “I do.”
“Say it again.”
Your breath hitches. “I want you.”
He makes a sound deep in his throat—like relief, like disbelief, like desire barely leashed.
Then he kisses you. Slow. Reverent. His lips are soft at first, just a gentle press, an exhale shared between mouths. Then firmer. Deeper. His tongue flicks against yours, and you open to him without hesitation, moaning softly when his body presses flush to yours.
The slow drag of his chest against your bare breasts makes your nipples ache. His mouth devours you gently, then greedily. His hands start to roam—down your arms, your sides, your waist. One slips beneath you to press at the small of your back, arching you up into him. The other cradles your cheek, then slides into your hair, holding you where he wants you.
It’s still slow. But it’s filthy, now, too.
He kisses you like he’s trying to drink you. Like he’s starved. Like he just realized you’re real and here and his, and he’s making up for every year he didn’t get to have this.
When his mouth leaves yours, it drags wetly down your throat. He kisses each pulse point, teeth grazing lightly. His hands settle on your waist, then your hips, fingers spreading wide as he drags your pelvis against his.
He groans, deep and low, when he feels just how wet you are through your panties.
“I wanna return the favor,” he mutters against your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breast before moving down. “Let me make you feel good. Please.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh, still breathless, cheeks flushed. “You probably… probably don’t need to.”
His brows lift as he glances up. “No?”
“I’m…” You bite your lip, embarrassed and squirming a little beneath him. “I’m probably already wet enough for you to just put it in.”
His eyes darken. Burn. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, gaze flicking down. “I can see that.”
And he can. Your panties are soaked, the large wet patch clear under the soft lighting of the bedroom. He groans again, this time half in reverence and half in disbelief, and presses a kiss to your hip, right at the waistband.
“I still want to taste you.”
You shiver.
He slides lower, mouth moving down the slope of your stomach, over the soft dip of your navel, until he’s kneeling between your legs, the expanse of his chest framed by your thighs. His hands stroke up your legs, kneading slowly, kissing every new inch of skin he reveals as he nudges your thighs further apart.
And then he mouths you—through the soaked fabric—long, slow, deliberate licks with his lips and tongue that make your hips roll helplessly into his face.
You gasp, fingers tangling in the sheets. “Bucky…”
He hums, clearly pleased. The warmth of his mouth through the cotton is almost too much already. You rut against him without thinking, grinding down, chasing more.
He doesn’t stop you. Just holds your hips steady, letting you ride it, letting you lose your composure while he licks and kisses and sucks at you through your panties like a man possessed.
Then he stills, pulling back slightly. His fingers brush the elastic at your hips.
“Can I take these off?” he asks, voice ragged, breath fanning against you.
You nod, but he waits. You know why. “Yes,” you say, voice steady. “Please.”
His hands are reverent as he slides them down your legs, dragging the panties with them. You feel exposed, vulnerable, seen. But not in a way that makes you want to hide.
Not with him.
When he lowers his head again, there’s no teasing this time. Just worship. Just Bucky Barnes kissing you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
He groans against you, low and reverent, when he finally has you bare beneath him—laid out in his bed, flushed and trembling, your thighs parted around his shoulders. There’s no pretense anymore. No coy jokes or skirting the edge of want.
There’s just the way he’s looking at you like he’s the one coming undone.
His hands stroke your thighs like he’s trying to memorize their shape. Slow sweeps of his thumbs just above your knees, feathering inward, parting you further without pushing.
You’re already soaked, throbbing, heartbeat in your throat, and he hasn’t even really touched you yet.
“I can’t believe I get to do this,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee. Then again, higher. “I used to think about it sometimes.”
Your eyes fly open.
He’s smiling against your skin—soft, almost shy. “Not in a shitty way. Just… nights when I couldn’t sleep. Nights when I wanted to feel human again. I’d picture you like this. Bare. Open. Letting me take my time.”
Your breath stutters.
His mouth trails higher. To the crease where thigh meets pelvis. He breathes deep and slow, and when he nuzzles in and licks just once—broad and deliberate up your center—you gasp.
He groans again, deeper now. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell so sweet.” He noses closer, “you’re so warm.”
You reach for him instinctively, fingers finding his hair and tangling tight, needing something to ground you.
His hand covers yours. Grounds you. And then he goes back in.
He’s slow at first—so goddamn slow. Open-mouthed kisses along your folds. His tongue traces the length of you, testing, learning. And then he starts using the tip, just barely flicking against your clit. Light and teasing.
You gasp and buck your hips slightly.
“Too much?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak.
“No,” you whisper. “Not enough.”
He chuckles—a quiet, low sound that feels like a vibration against your skin when he presses his mouth back down.
You’re gasping now. Whining. Rolling your hips slowly because you can’t not. And he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t hold you down. He lets you grind against his tongue like it’s your god-given right.
“Tell me what you like,” you manage, breathless. “Want to make you feel good too.”
His voice is rough as gravel when he answers, tongue still moving. “You are. You are, baby.”
That baby breaks something in you.
You moan, hips stuttering. You don’t even realize you’ve said his name until he groans again—muffled by you. His hands tighten on your thighs now, pulling them farther apart, encouraging you to fall apart for him.
He moves his tongue in slow, practiced motions now. Flattened for pressure, then curling in. Every few passes, he closes his lips over your clit and sucks, gentle but deliberate.
You cry out—his name again. A broken, breathy plea.
He pulls back only to whisper, “Harder?”
You nod quickly, flushed and dizzy. “Yes. Please.”
He does. He listens. He adjusts. And it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.
You’re trembling, thighs shaking, whimpering now. Begging. And the worst part—the best part—is that he’s watching you.
His eyes are hooded, half-lidded, but focused on you—on your mouth falling open, on your hands clutching the sheets, on the way you’re coming apart beneath him. Because of him.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs between licks. “Taste so good. So fucking beautiful when you let go.”
You gasp. “Bucky—”
He wraps his arm under your thigh, anchoring you, and his other hand slides up—palm broad, warm—and rests on your belly, grounding you as you shudder.
“Can feel you trying so hard not to fall,” he whispers. “Don’t. Let me have it. Let me see what it looks like when you come just for me, baby.”
And that’s it.
The unraveling is sudden and slow all at once. It feels like falling into warmth, like drowning in light. You cry out for him. Your body bows. Your hands clutch his hair like lifelines. And he doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking, coaxing, worshipping you with his mouth as you break apart—again, and again, and again—until you’re shaking, until you’re sobbing his name into the dark and your thighs are twitching and he finally, finally pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your skin as you come down.
He rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing just as hard as you are.
And when you finally look down at him—flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen—he smiles up at you.
Like he’s the lucky one.
Your hands find his hair again as he starts to crawl back up your body, kissing along your hips, your belly, then higher—just under your ribs, then your breastbone. Not to arouse, not to tease, but to worship. To ground. To say I’m still here, I’m not going anywhere.
When he finally reaches your mouth again, you press into the kiss like it might keep your chest from cracking open. It’s slow and deep, tongue soft, lips gentle. He tastes like you.
Your thighs are still parted, and he settles between them without asking—not because he assumes, but because you guide him there with a quiet tug of your hands. You want him on you. You want to feel the weight of him, the heat of his skin on yours.
Both of you are naked now. Skin to skin, no space between. Your body still shudders a little when he grinds down against you—slow, testing, careful. You moan into his mouth before you can stop it.
“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling back slightly, eyes flicking down where your bodies are pressed. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “You feel good.”
He groans softly at that, nose brushing yours. “You’re soaked.”
You bite your lip. “And you’re hard.”
He laughs, almost nervously. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone beautiful lays me out and makes me see stars.”
Your smile is sleepy and crooked as you cradle his face. “Come here, Bucky.”
He kisses you again, slower now. You wind your arms around his neck, arching your chest to meet his, and he grinds again—this time more deliberately. His cock slides against your heat, dragging through slickness, and your mouth falls open on a soft gasp.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You keep doing that, I won’t last long.”
“You don’t have to last,” you whisper. “You just have to be here. With me.”
He exhales hard—like that cracks something in him.
You reach down between your bodies, slow and deliberate, and wrap your fingers around his cock. He jerks slightly in your hand, hips twitching, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay locked on yours as you guide him down, letting his tip drag through your slick folds.
You don’t line him up just yet.
Instead, you ask, quietly, “Do you want me to?”
He blinks.
You ask again, firmer this time. “Do you want me to put you inside? Want to feel me?”
His lips part. He breathes out your name, reverent. “God, yes.”
You smile then—soft and satisfied—and shift your hips just slightly, just enough.
He slides in.
You both shudder.
It’s slow. Torturously slow. His eyes flutter closed. Yours roll back. You gasp when he presses just an inch deeper.
He’s thick, hot, and so hard it makes your head spin.
You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer, and he groans like he’s coming undone just from the feel of you.
His arms shake as he braces above you, but you take his hands, thread your fingers through his, and guide them up—above your head, pinning them gently to the mattress.
You don’t break eye contact.
He slides in another inch.
You cry out—quiet but unfiltered—and he stills immediately.
“You okay?” he rasps, throat tight.
You nod, breathless. “More.”
He does as you ask. Each inch is a surrender. Each press forward is a prayer. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple as he moves, holding you, grounding you, murmuring “so good,” and “so warm,” and “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
When he’s fully sheathed inside you, you both just breathe. You can feel him shaking. Holding still. Fighting for control. You kiss his throat, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Then you whisper against his skin—
“Move for me, baby.”
So, he starts to move.
It’s cautious at first, like he’s afraid to break something. Like the walls he’s carried for years might still crumble if he gives too much. But you squeeze his hands tighter where they’re laced above your head, and that’s all the permission he needs.
A slow, rolling thrust—deep, steady. Your breath catches. He does it again, just a little more. You moan softly, and his head drops to your shoulder like the sound broke him. “Jesus, sweetheart…”
You tilt your chin and whisper, “You feel so good. You’re perfect.”
His lips brush your neck. “Say it again.”
“You’re perfect.”
His hips jerk forward at that—sharp and helpless—and this time it’s him who groans against your skin, low and ragged. He pulls back, just enough to look at you. The blue of his eyes is darker now, heavy-lidded and heated.
“Is this…” His voice breaks. He tries again. “This angle okay?”
You nod, panting. “Feels amazing.”
He grinds deeper. “This?”
You gasp—too loud to be polite. “Yes.”
He presses a kiss under your ear. “Harder?”
Your fingers dig into his. “Yes.”
He pulls out, just enough to drive back in, harder now, and your body arches into him like it’s instinct. His name stutters out of your throat as the pace builds—still slow, still worshipful, but with more weight, more tension.
“Faster?” he whispers, mouth ghosting over your jaw.
“Mhmm.” You can’t find words anymore. Only the rhythm of your hips chasing his. The wet slide of your bodies. The heat curling low in your belly again.
“Deeper?”
That one makes you whimper. “Please.”
He obeys. He pulls back to his knees, still inside you, hands leaving yours to hook under your thighs, pressing your legs up—bent and spread, your knees tucked to your chest.
The angle of the mating press makes you cry out. You feel so full. So stretched. So utterly his.
“Oh my God,” you gasp.
Bucky moans like he’s in pain. “Fuck, baby—feels so good like this. Can feel all of you.”
You cling to him, one hand gripping his wrist, the other threading into his hair again as he finds a rhythm—slow, deep strokes that hit something devastating every time. Your whole body is trembling now. His is too.
He dips forward again, lips crashing into yours. It’s hungry now. Filthy and reverent all at once. His tongue tangles with yours and he groans into your mouth like it’s the only sound he remembers how to make.
When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go far. He mouths down your jaw, your throat.
Then he sucks hard—just below your ear.
You gasp.
He pulls back, pleased, and rasps, “Mine.”
Your whole body clenches around him. His hips stutter and he chokes on a moan.
“Yours,” you whisper. “Always yours.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding the spot just above where you’re joined, circling—careful at first, then more confidently when your thighs shake in response.
“Right there?” he pants.
You nod desperately. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—!”
He kisses you again, wet and hot, and thrusts deeper, harder, dragging you closer to the edge.
And still, he keeps asking. “Like this?”
“Yes—God, yes!”
“Want me to stay right here?”
“Yes—please—don’t stop—!”
“I won’t,” he groans. “I’ll give you everything. I swear.”
The sound of skin on skin, the slick slide of him, the intimacy of it—his body pressed to yours, his hands holding you open, the burn of that mark on your neck—it’s too much. Your body starts to spiral, tightening, every nerve pulling taut.
He sees it. Feels it. Groans deep in his chest. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
And you do.
You fall apart, gasping his name, your body arching beneath his like you’re being pulled under. Your orgasm crashes through you and doesn’t let up, wave after wave, as he keeps thrusting through it—dragging every last second out of your pleasure.
You barely register the way he’s shaking above you, losing rhythm.
His breath is ragged. His eyes are wild.
“Inside?” he manages. “Can I—? Please?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes—come inside me—want you to!”
He slams deep once more and cries out your name, loud and raw and undone. His body seizes. He throbs inside you, pouring into you, forehead dropping to yours as the world finally stills.
You lay there for a long time, breath tangled with his, arms wrapped around each other.
And when he finally moves—rolling just enough to hold you close—you feel his mouth at your temple.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to have you like this,” he whispers.
You pull his hand to your chest, right over your heart.
“You always did.”
The room is quiet now, the air still humming with the weight of what just happened—what’s still happening, really.
You’re trembling, even in the stillness. Muscles twitching in your legs where he’s still nestled deep inside you, your bodies locked together in the fading rhythm of something neither of you can quite believe was real.
Bucky’s breathing slowly evens out. He drops soft kisses over your jaw, down your cheek, until his mouth hovers by your ear.
“You okay?”
You nod. Or try to. But your thighs are shaking, and your fingers are still curled in his hair, in his hand, like you’re afraid if you let go, the moment will dissolve.
He feels it.
Carefully, reverently, he presses one last kiss to your mouth and shifts, gently slipping out of you. You both gasp, stunned by the sudden loss of contact.
Then—his hands. Warm and calloused and so careful. One on your stomach, grounding you, the other slipping beneath your thighs.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coaxing your legs down from where he’d pinned them so high. “You’ve gotta be cramping up.”
You whimper softly as your hips try to move and he immediately hushes you, already sitting back on his heels.
“I got you,” he says again, as if it’s a promise he’s made a thousand times.
He lowers your legs with almost military precision, but there’s nothing cold about it—he’s so gentle it makes your eyes sting. Once you’re lying flat again, his thumbs start to rub slow, firm circles into your inner thighs, coaxing the ache out of every trembling muscle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, though he sounds more awed than regretful. “Didn’t mean to wreck you.”
You manage a breathless laugh, chest still rising and falling. “You did a little.”
His eyes flick up, pleased. “Yeah?”
You hum. “In the best way.”
He leans over and kisses your belly, right where your skin is flushed. Then another just above your hip. He massages there, too, working out knots you didn’t even realize had formed.
The warmth of his touch, the focus in his gaze, the way he’s still treating you like something precious even after getting everything you gave him—it nearly undoes you.
You reach down and lace your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he crawls back up the bed and settles beside you. You shift into him immediately—naked, tangled, unapologetic. Your leg draped over his, your chest to his chest, your fingers skating lazy circles on his sternum.
He grins at you then, soft and smug, eyes crinkling.
“You know,” he murmurs, “for someone who’s spent all this time treating me like I’d shatter if you breathed wrong, you sure had a lot of confidence tonight.”
You smirk, still playing with the soft hair on his chest. “I had good incentive.”
“Oh?” His brow quirks. “What changed?”
You blink at him, coy. “A certain blonde with her hands all over you.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Gonna have to send her a thank-you gift.” He drawls.
You roll your eyes and smack his chest. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes glittering.
“Kidding.” He drops his voice. “But also… not.”
You press your face into his neck, unable to stop the smile curling against his skin. He’s so warm. He smells like you now, too—skin and sweat and something heavier, muskier, sweet.
“You’re smug,” you mumble.
He shrugs beneath you. “You’re in love with me.”
Your whole body stills. You shift your head just enough to look at him. “Bucky—”
“I know,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You just showed me. Every touch. Every kiss. Every time you asked me what I wanted. How I liked it. Every time you didn’t stop until I told you I wanted more.”
You feel your throat tighten.
He reaches up and cups your cheek. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
You turn into his touch, closing your eyes. Then you whisper it.
“I love you.”
His eyes flutter shut like it physically hits him. He exhales, slow and full. Then he pulls you tighter against his chest, tangling both arms around your back, one hand petting your hair while the other strokes your spine.
“I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and quiet. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Like I said. I didn’t know if you’d ever be brave enough to touch me like that. Didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to let you.”
You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. He shifts, so you’re tucked fully into him, skin to skin, legs tangled, his chin resting atop your head.
He keeps rubbing circles into your back, and your fingers find the soft ends of his hair again.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod against his chest. “Yeah. Better than okay.”
You feel his smile as his lips press to your temple.
The room is quiet again. The only sounds are the subtle rustle of sheets and the deepening rhythm of your breath syncing to his. You feel him drifting—and you let yourself drift too.
Wrapped in the man you love, nothing between you but skin and truth and the promises of everything still to come.
-
You’re warm before you’re awake.
The kind of warmth that isn’t just physical—though that’s there too. The blanket’s half-kicked off the bed. The late morning sun slants through the windows in lazy streaks. You’re wrapped in a cocoon of body heat and muscle, the air still holding the faint, spent scent of sweat and sex and skin. But there’s something else warming you, too.
The feel of him.
His chest beneath your cheek. His arms around your back. The steady thrum of his heart, slow and unbothered, beating against your temple. The scruff of his jaw grazing the top of your head when he shifts, snuffling in a deep inhale.
You blink your eyes open just a little, then immediately shut them again.
Nope.
You’re not ready for this part.
The after-after. The being-seen part. The sunlight and the nakedness and the full realization of just how thoroughly you climbed that man like a tree and left not a single inch of him unkissed. Your mouth aches in ways that have nothing to do with speech.
You feel a deep, steady breath against your scalp, followed by the familiar timbre of his voice—low and sleep-heavy and teasing.
“You’re awake.”
You groan. “No I’m not.”
He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, under your cheek, and straight through you. His hand trails lazily along the curve of your back, fingertips skating your spine.
“Morning,” he murmurs, and then his lips brush your temple. Then your hairline. Then your cheek.
You tense and start to squirm. “Bucky, no—my mouth is gross. We are not kissing.”
He huffs, almost insulted. “You think I give a shit about your breath?”
You try to duck your face away, and he doesn’t let you. He holds your chin, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. You giggle, squeal, try to hide under the blanket. He follows.
“You had your tongue in my mouth last night,” he reminds you, amused.
“And other places,” you mumble, burying your face in the pillow.
His laugh is delighted now. “Exactly.”
You reach behind you and land a lazy smack on his hip, which only earns you a pleased grunt and the unmistakable feeling of him half-hard against your thigh.
You pause, then risk peeking at him.
Bucky’s watching you with the softest expression you’ve ever seen on his face. All fond affection and sleepy wonder, like you’re something he dreamed up and never thought he’d get to keep.
You blink, heart tight, suddenly shy. “What?” you murmur.
He doesn’t answer. Just traces your cheekbone with his knuckle. Then slowly lifts the edge of the blanket to peek underneath it at your bare body, the trail of hickeys running down your sternum, the soft slope of your stomach, the scratch marks you left along his ribs.
He grins.
You cover your face with your hands.
“I swear I didn’t mean to make you look like you lost a fight with a wild animal,” you mutter.
He grins wider, pries your hands away gently. “Oh no, sweetheart,” he says, voice smug. “That’s exactly what I’m telling everyone. ‘She came at me like a feral little thing. I barely made it out alive.’”
You groan. “You’re impossible.”
He shifts onto his back, flexing slightly—stretching like a cat, muscles pulling and flexing, and oh, God, yeah. You definitely did that. His shoulder has a full imprint of your teeth. His neck has your fingerprints. One of his thighs has a faint red mark from where your heel had braced.
He catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. “Admiring your work?”
“Mortified by it,” you correct.
“You’re not.” He rolls back toward you, reaching for your hip again, tugging you across the sheets until your bodies are lined up. “You’re proud of it.”
You don’t answer—just nestle into his chest, cheeks burning.
He brushes a hand through your hair. “I am.”
You pause. “Proud?”
“Yeah.” He nods, then kisses your forehead. “Marked up by you? You think I’m gonna complain that the woman I’m in love with made me feel that good?”
You blink slowly, breath catching in your throat.
He sees it, reads the hesitation, and softens further. “I meant it last night,” he says gently. “I love you. You don’t have to be scared of that.”
“I’m not scared,” you whisper, voice small. “I’m just…”
You trail off, but he nods.
“I know,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
There’s a silence. It’s comfortable, easy. But full, too—like there’s still more to say. You settle back into his arms and let the sunlight soak into your skin.
After a while, your fingers start to wander again—brushing along his stomach, the edges of the marks you left. You glance down. Trace one gently with your fingertip.
He watches you. Then his hand comes up to your jaw and turns your face toward his.
He kisses you. Slowly. Softly. Morning breath be damned. It’s warm and lazy and perfect. The kind of kiss that means stay. The kind that says I’m not going anywhere.
When it ends, you rest your forehead against his.
“We have to get up eventually,” you murmur.
He hums. “Eventually.”
But neither of you move.
Because why would you?
You have everything you want. Right here. In your arms. Covered in your marks.
A/n written on my phone. Do not copy, rewrite, translate or repost my work.
****
Bucky believes there are only a few things and people in his life worth protecting.
And you are at the top of his list.
His life changed when he met you. So used to violence and death that accompanied his work, he was unprepared for the light, love and softness you would bring in his world.
Before you he was convinced he would spend the rest of his life with women who only cared about his wealth, status or reputation. An endless array of meaningless dalliances that were only going for passing the time until the next encounter.
Bucky is an intelligent man, and he recognizes treasure unlike your ex boyfriend.
Things were going well, you were happy and in turn he was happy.
Until your ex tried to come back in your life.
Bucky suspected something had happened in your past relationship, you were too hesitant with him at first. He swore you sometimes flinched if someone was too loud or moved too quickly towards you.
He kept his observations private, sharing them with his most trusted men. Ordering them to be mindful-careful- around you. The unspoken threats he made more terrifying than his spoken ones. He changed his own brash behavior to make you feel more at ease around him.
He made sure you knew your worth, telling you every day how much he loved you. Showing you through his actions. Showering you in affection, attention and gifts.
And you blossomed. No longer shy, nervous or afraid.
He had never been more proud.
No other accomplishment compared to when you fully trusted him and gave him your heart.
Summary: Bucky is willing to do whatever it takes to get you back. “But I know what I want, and I’ll do anything to get you back. You want me to beg, I’ll beg, you want me down on my knees, I’ll get down on my knees”
Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 2.2K
Warnings: Smut, implied violence, bad dates, overstimulation, choking kink, praise kink, fingering, mirror sex. Exes to lovers.
A/N: Sinday drabble #1. Beta’d by the wonderful @cwbucky and @lunarbuck. Line dividers by @maysdigitalarts
This is, without a doubt, the worst date you’ve been on. The restaurant itself is stunning, the romantic family-owned spot is only a few miles from your home, and you’ve been dying for a chance to eat here again.
The waiter, Peter, has been fantastic. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had such delicious, decadent food, you’re amazed to see the menu has all your favorite foods. The music coming from the live band is phenomenal, you almost want to join the other couples on the dance floor.
Almost.
Everything should be perfect, your first date at your dream restaurant. It would be if you weren’t sitting across from the most obnoxious, self-centered man you’ve ever met. Lance.
You should have known when he walked in ahead of you, leaving you to pay for the cab he used to pick you up. Then he was short with the hostess, and the way he’s been treating poor Peter is embarrassing. You’ve already made a mental note to leave him a huge tip as an apology.
The interior of the palace was just as ridiculously lavish as the outside. Thalassa led Una through wide, twisting corridors decorated in every shade of blue imaginable. She had barely any time to digest what she was looking at, before something else caught her eye instead. Beautiful cobalt satin hung from the ceilings, billowing in the light breeze. At one point, they passed through a hallway with statues of tall, slender insect fae - each wearing their own variation of a crown.
"The Nectarium's past kings," Thalassa said, as if sensing Una's unasked questions. "Someday, King Heracles will have his own statue too."
Una felt a flash of disappointment that she quickly stifled. She still had no clue as to what King Heracles was like; not even a glimpse of what he looked like.
She realised, as Thalassa came to a stop outside of an enormous pair of double doors, that she was about to find out.
The two fae standing guard wore identical armour to Thalassa, except theirs was a deep navy rather than the bright gold and royal blue Thalassa wore. They nodded and stepped aside; allowing the doors to sweep open and reveal a beautiful throne room.
More of those billowing drapes hung from every available surface - the ceilings and the walls, clinging to the staircase that led to the throne. They fell in such a way that led straight to the throne itself, which sat on a raised platform lined by miniature blossom trees.
Sitting on the throne, adorned in heavy armour, was the tallest man that Una had ever seen. Thalassa and the other guards that Una had seen had all been slender despite their armour, poised with a kind of ethereal elegance in ever movement; but King Heracles was big and bulky, with enormous shoulders and a thick, stocky waist. The spiralling horns jutting from his forehead made him look even more huge, and it was impossible to know his true height.
"Your Majesty," Thalassa spoke as she strode forward, nudging Una forwards too. "I have brought your bride. Una Cailbhin, I believe her name is."
King Heracles rose from his throne; and as Una came to stop at the bottom of the raised platform, she saw him fully for the first time. Pitch black hair tumbled over his shoulders in thick waves, some sections pinned back with clasps that looked like tiny wings. He didn't have a crown like the kings in the hall of statues, but rather slender, delicate gold jewellery draped across his horns. It was joined to a circlet around his head, resting just below those horns.
"Lady Una," he said, and his voice echoed throughout the otherwise silent throne room. "I hope your journey wasn't too difficult. It can be... uncomfortable to travel by portal for the first time."
Una parted her lips to speak, but her mouth was dry and the words wouldn't come. King Heracles was nothing like the willowy, effortlessly beautiful fae she had come to expect from the stories - or even from what she had seen of Thalassa and the others. He was hefty and rugged, but there was a softness to his expression that made her shiver.
If she had no choice but to be wed, she decided, there were worse choices in the world.
You're twelve when you hear your mother yelling outside.
"Get out!"
You scamper into the backyard to see her shooing the scrawniest werefox you've ever seen away from the chicken coop. He's got egg yolk clinging to his chin. His sunset orange ears are pinned to his head as he deftly dodges your mother's flailing dishcloth and leaps over the fence, disappearing into the brush.
"But Ma!" You wail, "he's cute and hungry!"
"Such creatures are a pestilence. Besides, dear, you can't keep him as a pet. He'll grow just as big as you, and he's no true animal."
You pout for the rest of the week, but she doesn't budge, like any sensible mother. The little werefox had a den nearby, you figure, so you set out to find it, taking two eggs from the coop. His den isn't hard to find. You've seen fox dens before he looks like he hasn't learned how to create a proper and safe den. As you step on the crunchy leaves surrounding his home, his head pops out of his den like a jack-in-the-box and he stares at you.
"Hello," you say, tromping forward without much thought to your safety. "I brought you eggs!"
He cocks his head to the side. You put the eggs on a leaf close to him and watch him snap them up, crunching on the shells and licking his lips.
"Can you speak?" You ask him next.
He watched you silently, ears swiveling. You glimpse a worn, scruffy collar around his neck and reach out to hold the tag. He squirms and shivers, but lets you have a look.
"Harcourt? That's such a fancy name," you laugh.
"I was a circus pet," he blurts out, eyes widening like he can't believe he just spoke. "I-I ran away!"
"Well, nice to meet you," you say and give him a big hug, breathing in the dusty scent of his fur. "We're going to be best friends!"
So, that's how you made your unlikely friend. Nine years later, he's still runty and lanky, although he's almost as tall as you if he stands. You're still very good friends, even if he is a stubborn little shit and refuses to leave his den most of the time.
"I'm going to stop bringing you food," you tease one hazy afternoon as you watch him scarf down the ham and cheese sandwich you brought him.
"Then I'll steal your eggs," he says, licking his muzzle and then licking the taste of ham from your fingers, his sharp teeth nipping lightly at your skin.
"You already do that. You're lucky the hens are laying a surplus, otherwise, my mother would notice."
"I trade for the eggs though," he protests.
"The baskets of fruit that appear on our doorstep? I'm pretty sure you steal from the neighbor's orchard," you snicker.
He narrows his golden eyes at you and huffs.
"Never mind me, stolen fruit tastes sweeter." You tuck up your skirts and get on your hands and knees and crawl into his den uninvited, because you know he won't mind. "Oh, you enlarged it! And you took my advice and got some bedding- is that my spare quilt?!"
"Stop fussing already," he grumbles, squeezing in after you. "You don't need it. It gets cold out here."
"But you could have asked. Wait a second... No wonder I couldn't find these panties. You took these two!"
You burst into laughter and nudge him playfully with your foot. "You didn't even try to hide them. Shameless."
"You're not mad?" Harcourt curls up in a ball and tucks his nose into his tail, peering at you.
"No, but why did you take them?"
"They smelled good and they make me feel funny."
You slap a hand over your face. "Oh my god, it's almost like you grew up in the wild by yourself... Oh right, you did."
"What? Did I say something wrong?" He asks, perking his head up.
"Er, so what do you do with my panties? Just drape them over your nose and go to sleep?"
"First I chew on them."
"So I can see," you raise your eyebrows at the holes in your undergarments and drop them on the ground.
"I think there's something you're not telling me," Harcourt says.
"Definitely. You'll figure it out when your first mating season comes around," you reply and lie back against the quilt, staring up at the dirt ceiling.
A couple of roots are bared to the gaze. You learned long ago that it was best to keep your eyes closed in his den, otherwise, you'd get dirt in your eyes. You close your eyes now and Harcourt scoots closer, plopping his head on your stomach. You run your fingers through his fur, which is always silky now thanks to the brush you gifted him.
"Do humans have a mating season too?" He asks.
"Not really. But we are expected to pair off with another human and have babies. My mom has been talking about it since I turned eighteen. She's worried that I'm getting too old."
"Are you?" Harcourt sniffs. "You smell young to me."
"I have no idea what you mean, silly. I'm only twenty-one and I think there's plenty of time yet. I don't fancy any of the men in town because they're forceful with what they want. At this point, I need a stick to beat them off with."
"I can guard you," Harcourt offers.
"Oh no, don't do that. If you think my mother is bad, then you're not prepared for the men in town. Some of them might try to shoot you."
"Hmmm, it's why I stay away from humans," Harcourt murmurs sleepily. "They all want to shoot me or cage me up."
"A pity," you murmur back.
You end up dozing off with your hand still in his fur. Harcourt sleeps like he's still a kit, draping his body over you, then curling up at your side, and then nuzzling into his tail, constantly moving. You think nothing of it until you're completely woken up by his tongue rasping over your skin.
"Oi, I took a bath this week. I don't need another one," you grumble sleepily.
He purrs deep in his throat and licks your arm again, his body caged around you like he's a motherly cat.
"Hey," you cry in proper protest as he moves on to your hair. "Stop it."
"You always smell so nice," he purrs. "You smell nicer than your panties."
You huff out a laugh. "You're clueless, you overgrown fox-child. Release me, if I don't head home now, my mother will send someone to find me."
"Fine," he grumbles. "Don't take so long to visit next time."
"I won't," you promise as you scramble out of his den, shaking leaves and dirt out of your hair and clothes.
You look frightfully dirty and sneak back to your house and up the stairs to change before your mother catches you. For the next few days, you're incredibly busy. The harvest is in and all your time is spent preserving, canning, salting, drying, and pickling. You leave a few gifts tucked in a secret corner of the coop for Harcourt. The nights are becoming warm and the crickets sing. You wonder when the mating season begins for foxes, and when you'll see any more of them.
You know they're there, but they just don't live so close to human towns. In that way, Harcourt is a bit of an anomaly.
The next morning, you're taking in the morning eggs when you notice something strange. The chickens are milling around their coop, staring at something underneath. You crouch down to have a look and come face to face with a slender female werefox. She's crammed into the tiny space, which doesn't look very comfortable.
"Hi," you say. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know," she replies, and with a grunt of effort, she crawls out. "I was hiding from a male. I did not want to mate with him and he chased me all the way here. He did not dare to come close to the house so I have been hiding here until he goes away."
She lifts her muzzle and sniffs the air. "He is gone now," she says in satisfaction.
Her golden eyes fall on you and she says,
"I do not scare you, human?"
"No, I have a werefox friend who lives nearby."
"Yes, the lonely one. I have scented him around your house," she says. "He must like you to guard your property like this."
"I guess," you smile and glance back at your house. "I can't promise my mother will be happy to see you here, though."
"I need a place to sleep and a reliable male to den with. This fox friend of yours, he is good?" She asks.
"I would say so, yes."
"Then take me to him," she says, placing the soft pads of her paws against your arm and squeezing. "I would rather choose a male than be forced to pick one."
"I understand how you feel. Let me put the eggs away, then I'll join you."
Together you take the secluded path through the forest. Your new werefox acquaintance flits around you like a butterfly, listening for danger and cocking her head to the sound of rabbits or squirrels. You've never seen a female werefox before and you can't help looking at her breasts. The six of them are much more obvious than they would be on a male werefox, with rosy pronounced nipples like she's already had a litter or two.
When you get close to Harcourt's den, she bumps into you and stops you with a paw on your arm.
"Be aware he is in a rut," she says. "He may bite us and chase us."
"This is his first one," you say. "Does that make it any better?"
"No," she said. "He might not even realize who you are. He will want to mate with you."
"But that's what you're here for," you say quickly. "Let me look at him."
"I will wait." She grabs your cheeks and holds your face still, rubbing her muzzle against your neck and giving you a little lick. "I cannot promise what he will do to you when he scents me on your skin," she says. "Be cautious."
You trudge towards the den and stop a few feet away from the entrance.
"Harcourt?" You call out.
The growl you receive in response is immediate and none too friendly.
"Someone is in a mood," you mumble.
You crouch and crawl into the den, praying he doesn't bite your face off. Harcourt is curled up in an aggravated ball, his nose pushed into his fluffy tail for comfort. He glares at you.
"Are you okay?" You ask, looking him over.
He looks scrawnier than usual like he hasn't been hunting.
"No," he growls. "You didn't come and visit me."
"I'm sorry, there's been so much work to do in the house that I couldn't find any time to steal away," you sigh. "You didn't come for any of the gifts I left you."
"I can't. I'm miserable," Harcourt huffs. "I'm hot all over and I'm leaking everywhere and I've wanted to bite you and do things I cannot fathom. I was afraid I'd hurt you."
"Oh," you smile. "You're precious."
"I don't know what is happening to me!" He snaps, his ears pinning back. "And I ask that you leave me be until I am myself again."
"I can't do that," you say. "If you don't get any help you're going to be like this for a long time."
Harcourt blinks and uncurls his slender body, tail whisking against the quilt.
"You mean, it's never going away?"
He looks mournfully down at himself, at his pink cock that has poked out of its sheath and rubs against his belly, plastering the fur there with precum.
"No," he whispers. "But I can't stay like this! I can't sleep, I can't hunt, I can't even groom myself properly because it hurts."
He turns to look at you with dilated pupils. "You have to help me," he whimpers.
Before you can answer, the female werefox crawls into the den, and Harcourt freaks out, hissing and ducking behind you.
"Woah, calm down, she's with me," you say.
"I come in peace, little one," she says. "You're much younger than I thought you would be. Inexperienced. My name is Nitaki."
She looks around the den and wrinkles her muzzle.
"Get out of my den," Harcourt huffs. "Leave me alone."
She crawls forward, brushing her muzzle against your cheek. "The human is a friend to you?" She hums.
"She's mine," he snaps.
"Um," you begin, but neither of them pays attention to you as they face each other with wrinkled noses and bared teeth.
Nitaki stares him down imperiously until he gives up and looks away with a whimper. Whining your name, he attempts to scoot back to your side, but she blocks him off.
"I want only one thing from you. To end this cycle of heat."
"I-I don't know how," Harcourt says anxiously, nostrils flaring as he takes in the cacophony of scents from both females, so different and yet so alike.
It makes him disoriented and dizzy.
"I will teach you," she says, prowling closer.
He leans away, even snapping when she gets too close. Frustrated at his rejection, she spins around and locks her eyes on you.
"It is your human female you truly want, is it not?"
Harcourt's pupils widen more than you had thought they could. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his sides heave.
"Yes..." He says.
"Um, that's not-" You begin, but Nitaki flicks her ears and holds out a paw to you.
"Join us," she urges. "And we can all get what we want."
"But I..."
"Please?" Harcourt says, his claws digging into the quilt as his cock throbs against his belly. "I want you."
You're still hesitating when Nitaki pounces on Harcourt, knocking him onto his back. He growls and tries to push her off. But the Nitaki is stronger than him, a true alpha female. She keeps him down and ignores his squirming, leaning down and placing her teeth around his neck. He goes still immediately and his eyes roll wildly as he whimpers.
"What are you doing?" You ask.
"I want him to submit to me," she mumbles against his fur. "I do not have patience for teaching."
Once she's satisfied that Harcourt is subdued, she rolls off of him and gets on her hands and knees, displaying herself for him. Perhaps her pheromones finally penetrate his dumb skull or he finally realizes what he's meant to do. Either way, he crawls up to her, sniffing the air. He growls and bares his teeth, fumbling at her hips. She flicks her tail out of the way and shuffles her knees open wider, waiting.
You can see how wet she is.
"Human, help him," Nitaki commands. "Are we shall be here for the rest of the day."
Silently, you move over. Harcourt jumps a mile when you take his cock in your hand. It's different from a man's, pink and slippery and with a slightly flared head. It looks huge, throbbing menacingly in your palm. Harcourt whimpers, and his body trembles. You guide him to the female werewolf and feel her lubrication wet your fingers as you press him in.
It doesn't go exactly as you had imagined. Nitaki is content to drive her hips against him and does most of the work while he shivers and clutches her hips. When he cums, it startles him most of all. He tries to pull out, but she grabs his paws and pulls him against her back, unrelenting. He gives up and leans heavily against her, panting.
Finally, she pulls away and shakes herself off. Harcourt slumps onto the quilt, dazed. His cock is still throbbing and leaking cum lazily.
"Good luck with your little runt," Nitaki says to you. "I have what I needed."
With that, she scrambles out of the den and leaves the two of you to your own devices.
"Harcourt? Are you okay?" You lean over him.
His eyes open and he grunts. "I want to do it again," he says. "But with you this time."
─────────────── · · · · ✦
So stressed right now, ngl. Reblog/like if you want me to write part two of this crazy shit!
WARNING - The following fic contains: dark themes, stalking, obsessive/protective behavior from Bucky, Bucky is semi delusional/mentally unstable, fluff (in the end), reader is a bit naive, post-CATWS, Bucky on the run, fluff.
Summary: you discover someone has been watching you, - but like a guardian angel or a viscous stalker? You’re about to find out.
“I know what you’re doing.” You called out to the man hiding in the shadows. “Leave me the hell alone.”
For weeks you had noticed something off with your daily routine. You felt watched, - like someone had their eyes following your every movement as you went about your days.
It was about a week in where you caught a man walking the same route as yours a distance behind you. It wasn’t the first time you had been followed, - in fact you could have sworn you were followed by three men a while back but they disappeared after a second glance. This guy was someone else entirely though.
You had never seen him before, and while it could have been merely a coincidence that he was taking the same routes you take on a daily, that reassurance was quickly crossed out when you started to test him, - to see if while you stood still he’d walk right past. But he never did. When you stopped or slowed your tempo, so did he. When you walked a different route, so did he.
It was beyond creepy, and it didn’t help that he was dressed basic with his cap hiding his face and a brown jacket. Only thing that made him different from other men was his longer dark brown hair and his taller figure. Not many men in town were quite as tall as him, which made you feel even more threatened.
As you became more aware of him, you stopped taking afternoon strolls and tried your best to be in crowds to feel safer. It didn’t work much as he never seemed to loose track of you though. Walking into your favorite cafe didn’t stop him from waiting around the area to continue his stalking as soon as you got out. You didn’t think he could have a job with how much time he was occupying following you from work to back home.
You thought of going to the police, but in this town in particular there was little to no such luck of getting actual help from the police, let alone a stalker case where the guy in question could argue he’s just walking around by his right to do so. So, it left you with two options; either hope for the best of not getting murdered (or worse) by your stalker or confront him.
The 5th week was your last straw, and you decided to go with the confrontation as you were standing outside of your apartment, eying directly at the man who had done nothing but walk after you.
The man was stunned when he heard you, not leaving his spot, - as if he couldn’t believe he was caught. When your eyes at him told otherwise, he left the corner of the next block building, slowly walking towards you.
He mumbled, “I’m sorry, I was just…”
“Stop following me or I’ll call the police.” You interrupted with a harsher tone.
This seemed to make the man agitated, and he reached out his hands in surrender. “No, please! Don’t! I have a perfect explanation for it all. Hear me out, - I won’t get any closer to you.” He offers reassurance, not making you any less scared but he sounded convincing enough to give him a chance of explaining himself.
First thought that came to mind was he could possibly be working for secret service, or something like that. Crimes had been on the rise in this part of town, and there had been rumors of FBI lurking around to check after illegal activity. But what could you have possibly done to make yourself seem suspicious?
“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you think. I promise, I would never. The reason why I’ve been following you all this time is to protect you, Y/N.”
How does he know my name? You had to wonder. “Protect me?” You repeated his answer in question. “What’s that supposed to mean? From what? Who are you?” You added questions, emphasizing the last one.
The man swallows before he answers, “My name is James but friends in my past used to call me Bucky, - I think. And I’m protecting you cause…there are a lot of terrible people around than you realize. People who would want to hurt you. I knew the moment I saw you that I was meant to protect you from those people.”
He thinks his name is that of what he told? Trying to protect me from terrible people? His answers confused you even more. He must be on something, and it freaked you out knowing you were dealing with a crazy person. “Y-You should seek medical attention. I don’t think you’re in your right state of mind -!”
“You don’t understand!” He interrupted you and broke out. “You’re the only thing, - person, who brings consistency to my life. Me using hours and nights looking after you, to make sure you leave for work and come home safe gives me a purpose. I… - I have nothing left to live for.”
Your lips fall a little, sad as you had only heard those lines in fiction used typically of that one hopeless character clinging to the last branch of hope before it all falls for them. Why did you have to be so sympathetic? You had no idea who this man was. One thing for sure, he was a fucking stalker.
You should call the police as you speak, but you don’t want to.
Why didn’t you want to? Why weren’t you running into your apartment and locking the front door? Why did you want to get a closer look at him?
“Sir, I…”
“Call me Bucky. Please.”
“Bucky, listen…I don’t know your life story, but this isn’t healthy. This is obsessive. We don’t even - you don’t even know me!”
“I know enough to like you.” He argued. “I know you like animals, - you sometimes trail off from your main path home over to the park to watch the dogs play there. You order any sweets at the cafe but only if there’s strawberry or vanilla in it, - strawberry milkshake, vanilla shortcake, - you name it. I know you’re a good person, always opening the door for the elderly by the library and voluntarily help stack books by the shelves. I have caught you smiling when you read romance novels. Those seem to be your favorite genre. You live alone, no siblings or parents in the picture that I know of. You’ve always been…alone, for as long as I’ve been watching after you. That makes the two of us in a sense.”
Why did he have to call you out like that? Sure, it was nothing but the truth. You didn’t have people you could call friends at work, and you had long ago lost contact with your friends from college. Also, you did in fact have no siblings but you did have parents - you just weren’t on speaking terms at the moment.
You were alone as one could possibly be.
You didn’t know what you could add to what he had said as it was mostly true, but you didn’t need to as Bucky continued, “First time I laid my eyes on you…three men walked behind you in that lonesome street in the evening. I know you saw them cause you turned around once. They had knives in their pockets, and one of them had a rope. I was only a small distance away when I heard them say ‘let’s get her’. So, as you made the corner, I beat them up, one by one. Because like I said, I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt you. You don’t deserve that at all. You deserve to be safe. That is why it’s you. It may sound dumb but I believe it was fate. I feel at peace when I know you’re okay, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that. He doesn’t allow peace in my mind, but he seems to make you an exception.”
You’re simply taken away by what you had been told. So your gut instincts were right, - you were followed then too, except apparently they hadn’t just disappeared. Your stalker took care of them.
Bucky let you process in silence till you started to get closer to him as you asked him all of a sudden, “Are you armed?”
“No…- well, I do have this…” Bucky reveals as he removes his jacket carefully, showing the metal arm he has forcibly attached to him. Your mouth parts a little, your eyes widening at the sight before you turn to look at the ground.
“You don’t have a place to stay?” You ask.
He shook his head with a sigh. “No. But I’m used to it.”
You look up again, offering the unexpected, “Come. I have an extra mattress in my apartment. You can use that while we figure out your situation.”
Bucky looked up at you in awe, beyond shocked of what you had just suggested. If it wasn’t dead quiet at this time of hour, he would have assumed he heard you wrong. “But why? I thought you said that…”
“I have heard of you, you know. That metal arm of yours with the red star…you have been around for quite some time, yet you haven’t aged. My uncle who worked for the military knew about you as he was a witness at the Hotel Inessa where an assassin with a metal arm just like yours committed a massacre. Ever since that day he used the next years connecting the dots to previous cases, and he told me all about it once. That was before…he got taken out within the base. No one knew for what particular reason but I always knew. And what do I know, he was right. You’re real. You’re the winter soldier.” You conclude, putting Bucky on the spot as he realized just how small the world was.
The odds of someone outside of government officials knowing of his past was unlikely, yet here he was, the one person he found purpose with knew about it. He didn’t like it. She must think I’m a monster, - rightfully so, he thought. “I don’t know what to say…I-“
“You didn’t kill him.” You cut him off, “Person of interest was described to have two human arms. He was presumably a Russian spy within the base and took it upon himself to take out my uncle before more came out about what he knew.”
He shrugs, “Still…it doesn’t make sense why you would allow me into your home, - now knowing what I’ve done, what I was controlled to do. It was still me. So again I ask…why?”
“Because, I need answers,” you reasoned. “And knowing what I’ve learned about you, you would have taken me out a long time ago if you had plans to do so. And it’s clear to me that you’re a bit out of it but from what I understand, seeking psychiatrical help is out of the question for you. So let’s help each other. You’ve been in hiding, right?”
Bucky nodded again, “They’re still after me, you know. I can’t drag you into my mess.”
“Well, you have been good at hiding so far, and if something happens you’ll protect me, right? Like you’ve done all this time.” You remind him.
He smiled shyly as he let out a quiet ‘yeah’. He was sure he would keep doing that with his life.
With that, you let him into your place, not aware that this was only the beginning of a heartfelt relationship with the ex-winter soldier himself, - one that would bond the two of you for eternity.
N/A: I know this was short but there might be a part two for this if I’m feeling up for it! Let me know what you liked and if you’d like a next part.
I am so happy you all loved these two so here is more from this AU. I had the story half in mind but wasn’t sure if people would feel it, once again, LMK if you want more!
Warnings: fluffffff, single mom reader, crappy ex, Mob Bucky is a whole ass warning
-
You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee, sun pouring in the giant room, your body still aching from the night before but the peaceful rest proved to be helpful. You smiled at the steaming cup that sat by your bedside table, picking up the hand drawn card that was placed beside it; giant heart coloured red was in the middle with the words Get Well Soon decorated in bold letters. You grinned, opening the card to read your sons hand writing.
Dear mommy,
Get well soon. Uncle Bucky says he took good care of you and that you’ll arrest him once you’re all better. He bought me a kinder egg. He seems nice. Maybe give him a running head start.
Love and kisses and cuddles,
Jordan
PS: Can we stay a little longer? Peter is still trying to beat me in Mario Kart
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: Rule number one in your relation - never try to leave Bucky.
WARNINGS: Violence; Toxic Relationship.
AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.
--
His metal fingers squeeze hard against your throat, his hold unwavering even with your nails weakly clawing at him. Your eyes roll, your body desperate for air.
Bucky clicks his tongue, faking a pout.
“Aw, my baby can’t breathe?” he mocks you, but you can’t bring yourself to care about his tone. Not when your lungs are painfully burning, strength leaving your body at an alarming pace.
“Maybe you should have thought about that before trying to rat out on me, babe. I don’t appreciate my girl being sneaky around my back.” he growls, all hints of mockery now gone.
His grip tightens and you cough, the lack of air hitting cryptic levels as you start to hyperventilate.
Bucky reaches closer, nuzzling your nose with his in an almost endearing gesture, one that contrasts with the evil position he has you in.
“Never again, okay? You’re not pulling that type of shit ever again, understood?” his voice is dead serious, ignoring how you struggle. You can barely say a word but Bucky somehow understands your submission, finally releasing you.
You fall on the ground with your body completely limp, your throat burning as precious air finally fills it.
“You better not repeat this again.” he orders, darkness looming over his face as he looks at you.
“Cause next time, you won’t get off the hook so easily.”
Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.
Warning: smut - fingering
A/N: slowly and surely. we’re getting close to the mating chapter!!!
Bucky couldn’t make it to your class today. He was called in for work early to supervise some trial runs. Despite you being so understanding and supportive of Bucky, he still felt like he was failing you. Even though you had a smile on his face and made him promise to come by after he gets off of work, he still couldn’t help that he was disappointing you, and he hated that.
Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.
A/N: Yes, THE Lance Tucker.
Bucky didn’t like that you were on your suppressants again. He loved the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and vanilla coming off you. But he also knew that you needed it for your safety, which is top priority above all else. Fuck whatever he wants. He just wants you safe. But occasionally, he’ll get a real whiff of you and it’ll just render him speechless and frozen.
“Bucky? Helloooo?” you’re waving your hand in front of his face.
Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.
🦅 Summary: As a nightmare doesn’t ease up, you have no choice but to take the plunge and try to wake Bucky.
Warnings: Descriptions of sexual assault, violence, forced knotting and claiming/marking, trauma, bond breaking, angst, injured reader, near death experience, lots of emotions, smut
Word count: 1,725
You were well accustomed to Bucky's screams in the night. Although they were a regular occurrence, they still made your bones shiver and forced you to clamp your hands over your ears to try and block them out. You usually held your breath until you heard Steve barge into his room to calm him down, but you still found yourself sleepless in the hours remaining until dawn.
Part of you wanted to run for the hills. Part of you wanted to slide into his bed and wrap your arms around him, pulling him against your chest and whisper sweet nothings into his messy hair. That part was bigger, but it was also more terrifying. Because even though every part of your anatomy gagged for the only alpha you had only truly wanted, you were also shit scared of him. Not of the Winter Solider, which most people were, but of him. Of Bucky. Of the rejection you'd know you'd have to face if he knew how you felt. Because even though you knew he wasn't actually your alpha, and you knew he would never be interested, you weren't sure you could survive actually hearing him say it. Which was the reason why you kept your distance and protected your sanity.
But tonight was different. Steve was on a mission, accompanied by Sam, Natasha and Tony. That meant only you and Bucky were sleeping on your floor of the compound, with Bruce and Clint a level below and Thor away in Asgard. So when those petrifying sounds ricocheted through your skull, you knew you were the only one to hear them. Which meant you had no choice. You had to go to him.
Your legs were trembling beneath you as you inched towards your bedroom door, opening it as quietly as possible and shuffling through without lifting your socked feet off the floor. Your chest felt like it was about to explode as your heart boomed with such ferocity and you had to keep reminding yourself to breathe as you fumbled your way towards his room. You chewed on your lip as you rested a hand on the doorknob, bracing yourself what you might be about to enter into. You knew that sometimes Bruce had to come and sedate him, and there were even times when both Steve and Bucky had emerged the next morning with busted up faces from having a physical fight. Sure, you were a well trained agent who never usually shied away from a fight, but this was different. You knew you'd never be able to hurt Bucky, even if he was the Winter Solider. Put in that situation, in the situation you were in now, you were just a vulnerable omega who couldn't even stand her own ground.
Another shrieking cry jolted you out of your thoughts and you whimpered involuntarily. This was not the cry of a violent man, but that of someone in extreme pain. Without hesitation, you flung the door open and ran in, taking barely a second to survey the layout of the foreign room before you were at the beside. Bucky was still asleep, his eyes screwed shut as he grimaced and panted. Sweat coated his forehead, his hair sticking to it as well as the pillow that had started to slide up against the headboard as he tossed and turned.
"Bucky-" you could barely hear yourself over the sound of the blood coursing through your veins, which meant he certainly hadn't. You cleared your throat, barely trusting yourself to try again, before speaking up. "Bucky!" This time you leant forward, shaking his damp shoulders to try and bring him back to reality. "Bucky its okay, you're okay. C'mon, wake up for me, you're okay", you brushed the hair from his face, cupping his cheek. You were pushing back the panic that was forming at the proximity you were to him and you instead used it to your advantage, touching him in the ways you had only dreamed in order to bring him out of his own.
Just as you were about to consider that this was a losing battle, Bucky froze. His eyes flew open and you let go of his face, stumbling backwards in shock. "Bucky, I-". Suddenly you were back where you started, a trembling mess whose instinct was to drop to her knees and submit to her alpha. He sat up straight, staring straight at you as his chest heaved with uneven breaths.
"Y/N?" He tilted his head slightly and squinted in the darkness as you tried to sustain a whimper. Your stomach was churning and you clamped your legs together as you willed the slick to retract.
"Are you okay?" you whispered with a gulp. He nodded, relaxing slightly as he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"Yeah. Thank you."
You nodded and started to glance around the room, unable to look at him any longer. You had awoken your alpha from his precious slumber without his permission, and although you knew that was the right thing to have done, your hormones were saying otherwise.
"Are you okay?" You were surprised to hear the words come out of Bucky's own mouth, but as you glanced over at him and noticed his flaring nostrils, you hung your head in shame. He could clearly smell the panic that was overtaking your body and you probably reeked of omega right now. Sure, you'd never explicitly hidden your status from your colleagues, but you kept it private, dealing with your heats yourself and using your suppressants discreetly. You chewed on your lip once again, this time tasting blood as you nodded and tried to compose yourself. With a sigh, Bucky pulled back the bedsheets and beckoned for you to come forward.
"C'mon, you can't just stand there. I feel terrible and you need to relax. Hell, so do I. Come here, will you."
You were frozen on the spot, not entirely sure what he was asking. He sensed that, closing his eyes for a second as he snorted under his breath.
"Omega. Come and sit with me."
Well now you had no choice. You practically flew off the floor and under the covers, welcoming Bucky's flesh arm as it snaked around your back and you curled up into his shoulder.
"Sorry," you mumbled without looking up.
"Don't be," you felt Bucky's stubble brush against your cheek as he shook his head. "I forgot how scary a tormented alpha can be. Let alone a tormented alpha who used to be a brainwashed assassin. You should have just let me ride it out."
"I couldn't do that," you rushed out, already starting to relax and feel more comforted than you had in a long time. His scent was intoxicating, and although he still smelt of fearful memories, it was still comforting to you because it was distinctly him.
You lay like that in silence for a while longer until at some point, you drifted into oblivion. It was a dreamless sleep, wrapped in your alpha like you'd always wanted.
Until it wasn't. While you might have been calmed, Bucky was not. He hadn't fully come out of the nightmare, and he had hoped that having you against him would help that. Admittedly he was ashamed the omega he'd been pinning for since coming to live at the compound had to see him in that state, but he couldn't pretend that having her in his bed was a completely knew kind of comfort. Except Bucky hadn't shared a bed with another in over 40 years, so when he inevitably slipped back into that same nightmare, the feeling of a warm body against his disorientated him. It was strange and it was not supposed to be there. The only reason it could be there was if it was going to harm him.
Your eyes flew open the second the cold metal squeezed your windpipe. You wanted to call for Bucky, but it was no use; the creature hovering above you was not him. Yes, it was his body, but his mind was asleep, and the pieces that still remained of the Winter Soldier had pushed forward to the surface. You tried to claw at his hands, at his face, at anything but it was no use. He was a pent-up alpha assassin, fuelled by an artificial super serum. You were no match.
As you wined through his grasp, the nightmare-frenzied Bucky started to take in the girl beneath him. The omega beneath him. She wasn't here to murder him; she was here to test him. Maybe she was a gift, or maybe she was a slave. Either way, she smelt amazing, and his body was yearning for her. His toes curled as he reached down and freed his throbbing penis, letting it rub against her bare legs.
You cried out as you suddenly realised what was going on. He wanted you. Not in the way that you wanted him, but he wanted to take you. To have you. To violate you. You tried to break free as much as possible, weakly kicking against him and pulling at his hair, but it was no use. Although he was no longer choking you, his metal hand remained stern around your neck to hold you in place, applying just enough pressure to halt any cries that tried to escape. His flesh hand meanwhile was pawing at you, squeezing your nipples hard before fisting your vagina. What only hours ago had been crying out for him was now locked up and trying desperately to reject his efforts, which only made him try harder.
"Bucky, please" you mumbled but it was no use - he was gone. This was not your Bucky. Your Bucky would hate himself for this. Your Bucky would certainly never want to look at you again after this. Just as you started to drift away, to blur out what was going on and sink into nothingness, you felt the full force of his penis lurch into you and you had no choice but to succumb to his thrusts. It wasn't until after he had ridden you so hard you bled that he let his knot pop and he sunk his teeth into the tear-soaked gland just below your jawline. Only then did you fully collapse into the darkness.
“Not again,” Bucky Barnes, the kingpin of Brooklyn grumbles. “Steve, can you take care of that needy omega. I bet she will come here and crawl onto my lap.”
“Buck, that’s the waitress,” Steve shakes his head when you walk toward his friend to take his order. “See, she’s wearing the new uniform.”
“That’s a black dress and,” a deep guttural noise leaves the alpha’s throat when you step closer. “Heels. She doesn’t look like a waitress.”
